Free The Simulacra by Philip K. Dick

Maury. In any case both of them had adopted this attitude. Their simulacra—the adult ones—disapproved of this; their cold, logical appraisal of reality stood in sharp contrast, and Chic always felt a little naked, a little embarrassed, before the simulacra; he knew he should set a better example for them.
    “If you bought a jalopy and emigrated to Mars,” the adult male said, “we could be the famnexdo for you.”
    “I wouldn’t need any family next door,” Chic said, “if I emigrated to Mars. I’d go to get away from people.”
    “We’d make a very good family next door to you,” the female said.
    “Look,” Chic said, “you don’t have to lecture me about your virtues. I know more about you than you do yourselves.” And for good reason. Their presumption, their earnest sincerity, amused but also irked him. As next door neighbors this group of sims would be something of a nuisance, he reflected. Still, that was what emigrants wanted, in fact needed, out in the sparsely-populated colonial regions. He could appreciate that; after all, it was Frauenzimmer Associates’ business to understand.
    A man, when he emigrated, could buy neighbors, buy the simulated presence of life, the sound and motion of human activity—or at least its mechanical near-substitute—to bolster his morale in the new environment of unfamiliar stimuli and perhaps, god forbid, no stimuli at all. And in addition to this primary psychological gain there was a practical secondary advantage as well. The famnexdo group of simulacra developed the parcel of land, tilled it and planted it, irrigated it, made it fertile, highly productive. And the yield went to the human settler because the famnexdo group, legally speaking, occupied the peripheral portions of his land. The famnexdo were actually not next door at all; they were part of their owner’s entourage. Communication with them was in essence a circular dialogue with oneself; the famnexdo, if they were functioning properly, picked up the covert hopes and dreams of the settler and detailed them back in an articulated fashion. Therapeutically, this was helpful, although from a cultural standpoint it was a trifle sterile.
    The adult male said respectfully, “Here is Mr. Frauenzimmer now.”
    Glancing up, Chic saw the office door swing slowly open; carefully carrying his cup of coffee and doughnut, Maury appeared.
    “Listen, buddy,” Maury said in a hoarse voice. He was a short, round, perspiring man, like a reflection in a bad mirror. His legs had an inferior look, as if they just barely managed to support him; he teetered as he moved forward. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I guess I got to fire you.”
    Chic stared at him.
    “I can’t make it any longer,” Maury said. Gripping the handle of his coffee cup with his blunt, work-stained fingers he searched for a place to set it and the doughnut down, among the papers and manuals littering the surface of the desk.
    “I’ll be darned,” Chic said. In his ears his voice sounded weak.
    “You knew it was coming.” Maury’s voice had become a bleak croak. “We both did. What else can I do? We haven’t turned over a major order in weeks. I’m not blaming you. Understand that. Look at this famnexdo group hanging around here—just hanging. We should have been able to unload them long before now.” Getting out his immense Irish linen handkerchief, Maury mopped his forehead. “I’m sorry, Chic.” He eyed his employee anxiously.
    The adult male simulacrum said, “This is indeed a distressing exchange.”
    “I feel the same way,” its mate added.
    Glaring at them, Maury spluttered, “Tough. I mean, mind your own darn business. Who asked for your artificial, contrived opinion?”
    Chic murmured, “Leave them alone.” He was stunned at the news; emotionally, he had been caught totally by surprise, despite his intellectual forebodings.
    “If Mr. Strikerock goes,” the adult male simulacrum stated, “we go with him.”
    Sourly,