"You're deliberately putting me on the spot."

"I want you to visit the place where you will most likely see Mr. Barrows and Miss Pris."

Evidently I had no choice. "All right, we'll go." I began to look up and down the street for a taxi, feeling bitter.

An enormous crowd had turned out to hear the legendary Earl Grant; we were barely able to squeeze in. However, there was no sign of Pris and Sam Barrows. We seated ourselves at the bar, ordered drinks, and watched from there. They probably won't show up, I said to myself. I felt a little better. One chance in a thousand .

"He sings beautifully," the simulacrum said, between numbers.

"Yeah."

"The Negro has music in his bones."

I glanced at it. Was it being sarcastic? That banal remark, that cliche--but it had a serious expression on its face. In its time, perhaps, the remark had not meant what it did now. So many years had gone by.

"I recall," the simulacrum said, "my trips to New Orleans when a boy. I first experienced the Negro and his pitiable condition, then. It was in, I believe, 1826. I was astonished at the Spanish nature of that city; it was totally different from the America I had grown up in."

"That was when Denton Offcutt engaged you? That peddler?"

"You are well-apprised of my early life." It seemed puzzled at my knowledge.

"Hell," I said, "I looked it up. In 1835 Ann Rutledge died. In 1841--" I broke off. Why had I mentioned that? I could have kicked myself around the block. The simulacrum's face, even in the gloom of the bar, showed pain and deep, pervasive shock. "I'm sorry," I said.

Meantime, thank god, Grant had begun another number. It was a mild, sorrowful blues, however. Feeling increasingly nervous, I waved the bartender over and ordered myself a double Scotch.

Broodingly, the simulacrum sat hunched over, its legs drawn up so that it could place its feet on the rungs of the barstool. After Earl Grant had finished singing it remained silent, as if unaware of its surroundings. Its face was blank and downcast.

"I'm sorry to have depressed you," I said to it; I was beginning to worry about it.

"It is not your fault; these moods come upon me. I am, do you know, grossly superstitious. Is that a fault? In any case I cannot prevent it; it is a part of me." Its words emerged haltingly, as if with vast effort; as if, I thought, it could hardly find the energy in it to speak.

"Have another drink," I said, and then I discovered that it had not touched its first and only drink.

The simulacrum mutely shook its head no.

"Listen," I said, "let's get out of here and on the rocket flight; let's get back to Boise." I jumped from my stool. "_Come on_."

The simulacrum remained where it was.

"Don't get so down in the dumps. I should have realized-- blues singing affects everyone that way."

"It is not the colored man's singing," the simulacrum said. "It is my own self. Don't blame him for it, Louis, nor yourself. On the flight here I saw down onto the wild forests and thought to myself of my early days and the travels of my family and especially of the death of my mother and our trip to Illinois by oxen."

"For chrissakes, this place is too gloomy; let's take a cab to the Sea-Tac Airport and--" I broke off.

Pris and Sam had entered the room; a waitress was showing them to a reserved table.

Seeing them the simulacrum smiled. "Well, Louis, I should have heeded you. Now it is too late, I fear."

I stood rigid by my barstool.

16

In a low voice in my ear the Lincoln simulacrum said, "Louis, you must climb back up on your stool."

Nodding, I clumsily got back up. Pris--she glowed. Stunning in one of the new Total Glimpse dresses... her hair had been cut much shorter and brushed back and she wore a peculiar eyeshadow which made her eyes seem huge and black. Barrows, with his pool-ball shaved head and jovial, jerky manner, appeared the same as always; business-like and brisk, grinning, he accepted the menu and began ordering.

"She is astonishingly lovely," the simulacrum said to me. "Yes," I said. Around us the men seated at the bar--and the women too--had paused to give her the once-over. I couldn't blame them.

"You must take action," the simulacrum said to me. "You cannot leave now, I fear, and you cannot stay as you are. I will go over to their table and tell them that you have an appointment with Mrs. Devorac later in the evening, and that is all I can do for you; the rest, Louis, is on your shoulders." It stepped long-legged from the stool and made its way from the bar before I could stop it.

It reached Barrows' table and bent down, resting its hand on Barrows' shoulder, and spoke to him.

At once Barrows twisted to face me. Pris also turned; her dark cold eyes glittered.

The Lincoln returned to the bar. "Go over to them, Louis." Automatically I got down and threaded my way among the tables, over to Barrows and Pris. They stared. Probably they believed I had my .38 with me, but I did not; it was back at the motel. I said, "Sam, you're finished. I've got all the dope ready for Silvia." I examined my wristwatch. "Too bad for you, but it's too late for you now; you had your chance and you muffed it."

"Sit down, Rosen."

I seated myself at their table.

The waitress brought martinis for Barrows and Pris.

"We've built our first simulacrum," Barrows said.

"Oh? Who's it of?"

"George Washington, the Father of Our Country."

I said, "It's a shame to see your empire crumbling in ruins."

"I don't get what you mean but I'm glad I ran into you," Barrows said. "It's an opportunity to thrash out a few misunderstandings." To Pris he said, "I'm sorry to discuss business, dear, but it's good luck to run across Louis here; do you mind?"

"Yes I mind. If he doesn't leave, you and I are finished." Barrows said, "You get so violent, dear. This is a minor point but an interesting one that I'd like to settle with Rosen here. If you're so dissatisfied I can send you home in a cab."

In her flat, remote tone Pris said, "I'm not going to be sent off. If you try to get rid of me you'll find yourself in the bucket so fast it'll make your head spin."

We both regarded her. Beyond the beautiful dress, hairdo and make-up it was the same old Pris.

"I think I will send you home," Barrows said.

"No," she said.

Barrows beckoned to the waitress. "Will you have a cab--"

"You screwed me before witnesses," Pris said.

Blanching, Barrows waved the waitress away. "Now look." His hands were trembling. "Do you want to sit and have the vichyssoise and be quiet? Can you be quiet?"

"I'll say what I want, when I want."

"What witnesses?" Barrows managed to smile. "Dave Blunk? Colleen Nild?" His smile strengthened. "Go on, dear."

"You're a dirty aging middle-aged man who likes to peep up girls' skirts," Pris said. "You ought to be behind bars." Her voice, although not loud, was so distinct that several people at nearby tables turned their heads. "You put it in me once too often," Pris said. "And I can tell you this: it's a wonder you can get it up at all. It's so little and flaccid. You're just too old and flaccid, you old fairy."

Barrows winced, grinned twistedly. "Anything else?"

"No," Pris said. "You have all those people bought so they won't be witnesses against you."

"Anything else?"

She shook her head, panting.

Turning to me Barrows said, "Now. Go ahead." He seemed still to have his poise. It was amazing; he could endure anything.

I said, "Shall I contact Mrs. Devorac or not? It's up to you."