Free Counterfeit World by Daniel F. Galouye Page A

swiveled around to face the window.
    “Don’t think much of him myself, son. I doubt he’s a good influence on either the party or the country.”
    That took me by surprise. “And I suppose you’re going to do something about it?”
    He scanned the ceiling and said intensely, “I rather think I am—with your help, of course.”
    He aimed a full minute’s worth of silence at me. When I didn’t react, he went on:
    “Hall, I think you’re observant enough to know I’m a man of no small ambitions. And I’m proud of my drive and industry. How would you like to see those same qualities applied to the administrative affairs of this country?”
    “Under a one-party system?” I asked cautiously.
    “One party or ten parties—who gives a damn? What we want is the most capable national leadership available! Can you think of a bigger financial empire than the one I’ve created? Is there anyone more logically qualified to sit in the White House?”
    When his expression questioned my patient smile, I explained, “I can’t picture you displacing characters like Hartson.”
    “Won’t be difficult,” he assured. “Not with the simulator calling the shots. When we program our electromathematical community on a politically-oriented basis, one Horace P. Siskin is going to be a prominent ID unit. Not an exact replica, perhaps. Maybe we’ll brush up on the image a bit.”
    He paused in reflection. “At any rate, I want it so that when we consult Simulacron-3 for political advice, the Siskin image will assert itself as the ideal candidate type.”
    I only stared at him. He could do it. I saw that his plan would succeed if only because it was so bold—and logical. Now I was more thankful than ever that I had decided to string along with Reactions so I might be in position to do something about the alliance between Siskin and the party.
    Dorothy Ford broke in over the intercom. “There are two men out here from the Association of Reaction Monitors who—”
    The door opened as the CRMs, indignant and impatient, ushered themselves in.
    “You Hall?” one of them demanded.
    When I nodded, the other stormed, “Well, you can tell Siskin—”
    “Tell him yourself.” I gestured toward the chair.
    Siskin swiveled around to face them. “Yes?”
    The pair were uniformly surprised.
    “We represent ARM,” the first said. “And here it is, without trimmings: Either you stop work on this simulator thing or we’ll call a walkout by every reaction monitor in the city!”
    Siskin started to brush off the threat with a laugh. But instead a grim cast claimed his face. It wasn’t difficult to guess why. One-fourth of all employment was accountable, in one way or another, to the opinion polling concerns. And maximum profit for the Establishment depended upon full employment. Siskin, of course, could withstand the assault by falling back on his reserves. But within a week’s time there wouldn’t be a businessman or housewife who wouldn’t be lined up solidly with ARM. Eventual destruction of the Association was, indeed, part of the Establishment’s strategy, but not until the financial empire had braced itself for the repercussions.
    Not waiting for his answer, the pair strode out. “Well,” I said, somewhat amused, “what do we do now?”
    Siskin smiled. “I don’t know what you’re going to do. But I’m going to find a handful of strings and start pulling them.”
    Two days later I made myself comfortable on another couch in the peephole department and let Whitney lower a different type of transfer helmet on my head. There was no banter this time, since he had sensed my impatience.
    I watched him throw the surveillance circuit switch.
    The projection came off smoothly. One second I was reclining on leather upholstery, the next, I was standing in an analog videophone booth. Since it wasn’t an empathy coupling, I wasn’t imprisoned in the back of some ID unit’s mind. Instead, I was there— —in a pseudo-physical