Free We Can Build You by Philip K. Dick Page A

remarks.”
    “’Off the cuff,’” it echoed.
    “Without preparation.”
    “But this, sir, came from much preparation. For I have been gravely worried about Miss Frauenzimmer.”
    “Me, too,” I said.
    “And now, sir, I would be obliged if you would tell me about Mr. Barrows. I understand he has expressed an interest in me.”
    “Maybe I can get you the
Look
article. Actually I’ve never met him; I talked to his secretary recently, and I have a letter from him—”
    “May I see the letter?”
    “I’ll bring it around tomorrow.”
    “Was it your impression, too, that Mr. Barrows is interested in me?” The Stanton eyed me intently.
    “I—guess so.”
    “You seem hesitant.”
    “You ought to talk to him yourself.”
    “Perhaps I will.” The Stanton reflected, scratching the side of its nose with its finger. “I will ask either Mr. Rock or Miss Frauenzimmer to convey me there and assist me in meeting tête-à-tête Mr. Barrows.” It nodded to itself, evidently having made its decision.

7
    Now that the Stanton had decided to visit Sam K. Barrows it was obvious that only the question of time remained. Even I could see the inevitability of it.
    And at the same time, the Abraham Lincoln simulacrum neared completion. Maury set the next weekend for the date of the first test of the totality of the components. All the hardware would be in the case, mounted and ready to function.
    The Lincoln container, when Pris and Maury brought it into the office, flabbergasted me. Even in its inert stage, lacking its working parts, it was so lifelike as to seem ready at any moment to rise into its day’s activity. Pris and Maury, with Bob Bundy’s help, carried the long thing downstairs to the shop; I trailed along and watched while they laid it out on the workbench.
    To Pris I said, “I have to hand it to you.”
    Standing with her hands in her coat pockets, she somberly supervised. Her eyes seemed dark, deeper set; her skin was quite noticeably pale—she had on no make-up, and I guessed that she had been up all hours every night, finishing her task. It seemed to me, too, that she had lost weight; now sheappeared actually thin. She wore a striped cotton t-shirt and blue jeans under her coat, and apparently she did not even need to wear a bra. She had on her low-heeled leather slippers and her hair had been tied back and held with a ribbon.
    “Hi,” she murmured, rocking back and forth on her heels and biting her lip as she watched Bundy and Maury lower the Lincoln onto the bench.
    “You did a swell job,” I said.
    “Louis,” Pris said, “take me out of here; take me somewhere and buy me a cup of coffee, or let’s just walk.” She started toward the door and after a moment of hesitation I followed.
    Together, we strolled along the sidewalk, Pris staring down and kicking a pebble ahead of her.
    “The first one was nothing,” she said, “compared to this. Stan ton is just another person and yet even so it was almost too much for us. I have a book at home with every picture taken of Lincoln. I’ve studied them until I know his face better than my own.” She kicked her pebble into the gutter. “It’s amazing how good those old photographs were. They used glass plates and the subject had to sit without moving. They had special chairs they built, to prop the subject’s head so it wouldn’t wobble. Louis.” At the curb she halted. “Can he really come to life?”
    “I dunno, Pris.”
    “It’s all self-deception. We can’t really restore life to something that’s dead.”
    “Is that what you’re doing? Is that how you think of it? If you put it like that I agree. Sounds like you’re too deep in it emotionally. You better back away and get perspective.”
    “You mean we’re just making an imitation that walks and talks like the real thing. The spirit isn’t there, just the appearance.”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “Did you ever go to a Catholic mass, Louis?”
    “Naw.”
    “They believe the bread and