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                            THE REAL THING

                          BY ALBERT TEICHNER

                  Stacks of hundred-dollar bills--but
                sadly, almost all of them were genuine!

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
             Worlds of If Science Fiction, November 1962.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


"Everything in this wing is genuine _old_ fake," Stahl told the two
tourists while his wife clung proudly to his arm. Like him, she was
tall, blonde and impossibly good-looking.

"Even this strongbox money is finest American counterfeit," she said.

"May I see it?" asked Smith. The lifeless face of the mathematician
brightened as he peered through the quartz top at a dollar bill
marked W8265286A. "I can only get the worthless real stuff. Ancient
governments always destroyed counterfeits. But you're in Economic
Planning, so it must be easier to get good fakes."

"Only the merest imperfection, that slight Mongoloid fold in
Washington's left eyelid," Stahl replied, tightly encircling his wife's
waist as if showing off all his finest possessions simultaneously. He
glanced at Tinker, a cyberneticist who, like Smith, had sent several
requests to see the famous Suite of Artifices. "Ever try collecting?"

"Not money," Tinker answered, eyes still on Mrs. Stahl.

"Got the 'Mongoloid' bill five years ago, same year as I got Mary." He
gave his wife an even more ostentatious squeeze. Smith stared at her,
too, but more with dull dissatisfaction than desire. "Fifteen bills in
the box now--but I've still only one wife."

"Fifteen!" exclaimed Smith. "The rich get richer and the poor stay
poor."

"The wallpaper," Stahl smoothly proceeded, "is a replica of Italian
murals. If you adjust your focus properly the flat columns become
solids through the art of vanishing-point perspective."

"Excellent period distortion of Greek styles," said Tinker, studying
the columns. "And those three chairs are fine copies of Chippendale.
You're to be complimented on your taste in everything, Stahl."

"You really know ancient designs," Stahl said. "Genuine old copies are
even scarcer than their originals. And originals, of course, can never
be quite as good."

"Sometimes I don't see why," Smith muttered.

They all looked shocked. "Smith, you need a checkup," Tinker advised.
"You sound rundown. How can we progress without imitating past
achievements?"

"A little rundown," Smith admitted, "but.... Oh, let's forget it."

"Let's," Stahl nodded, striving to recapture the pair's attention as
they went on through the Suite. "Notice the paintings. Those two are
excellent pseudo-Braques and in the last room were fine fakes of Van
Gogh, Picasso and Chardin. In fact," he pointed toward a Gauguin-like
nude, all flattened sensuousness, "that one's as close to a real
Gauguin as an imitation can go without being a mere reproduction."

They all gasped and even Smith shook his head reverently. "To be _that_
close to the real thing! It's all you'd ever need."

"Becoming more possible all the time." Tinker grinned suggestively
at Mrs. Stahl. She looked back, mildly interested. "We'll get there
eventually."

Happily oblivious to everything but his collections, Stahl led them
into the library. One wall, covered with rows of book spines, swung
around to reveal a well-stocked bar. There was also a large bar across
the room which quickly became a library of real books and recording
systems.

"I'm not much for eating and drinking," Smith protested feebly.

"Who is?" Mrs. Stahl laughed. "But this must be a special occasion for
you."

Eyes bulging nervously, Smith ran his fingers through his luxuriant
hair and sighed, "Special it is. All right."

Stahl casually mixed drinks for them all and sipped an Old Fashioned.
"I've concentrated somewhat more on the twentieth century of the Old
Times than any other," he said. "A particularly intriguing century, I
find, although not crucial like the twenty-first, of course."

"_The_ crucial one," Tinker protested.

"As a fellow antiquarian, I must beg to differ, sir."

"What about rocket travel, Mr. Stahl? When did that begin?"

"Old hat," he yawned.

"And atomic energy?"

"Same applies there. Look, Tinker, don't get me wrong. I love the
period. But, objectively viewed, the twenty-first makes the great
difference."

"And what about duplication of life functions, like the mechanical
heart? That really got started in the twentieth."

"Absolutely right," Smith nodded vigorously.

"All strictly mechanical," Stahl sighed. "But the twenty-first turned
the study of pain and pleasure itself from an art into a true science."

"No, no," scoffed the cyberneticist.

Stahl pounded the bar. "All right, I'm going to prove it by putting on
an All-Sense Feeliescope of Thomas Dyall. It's fully sense-adapted, so
it should pick up perfectly."

"Hope it isn't noisy," said Smith.

"It's _beautiful_," answered Mary Stahl. "I could listen to it all day."

The odor of damp, new-mown grass filled the room and another more
elusive scent mingled with it. _Entry of June 3rd, 2068_, said an
impersonal, mechanical voice, _from the journal of Thomas Dyall,
elected World's First Poet Laureate in 2089_. A warm rich bass took
over:

    This morning I rode far out to reach open countryside in the
    preserved areas to replenish my stock of sensory experiences. As
    I was walking along through the woods, the most delicious scent
    struck my nostrils. I immediately recognized new-mown grass in
    it but the factor making the true difference escaped me until I
    realized the faint odor belonged to roses. At that point, my
    senses reeling with delight, I composed in my mind most of my
    long poem, _The Nature of Nature_, grasping intuitively an
    experience more intense, more valuable, than any "real" one. I
    say _intuitively_ because I still thought the odor was merely
    that of grass and roses. A minute afterwards, though, I came
    into a clearing, spotted a forest ranger's cottage there and
    discovered that the scent was from a recently-improved insecticide
    that the ranger's wife was using in the living room. There was
    little grass in the area and not a single rose!

_The following note_, interrupted the monotone voice, _was added by
the author in the year 2116_:

    Here in "real" life the great guiding principle of my future was
    brought home to me. The well-done imitation of a thing was better
    than the thing itself! This was the lesson I had to disseminate for
    all humanity.

"Interesting," Tinker said, "although we all know now that one thing
cannot be substituted for. Also--"

"No discussion now," pleaded Smith. "You need a while to consider all
that. Anyway, I've been thinking about your bill, Stahl. That wasn't a
fold on Washington's eyelid, just a tiny inkstain. It's _genuine_."

"It can't be," Stahl snapped and angrily led them back to the first
room. "Tinker, I want you as my witness."

He handed the bill around and Smith had to concede it was really
counterfeit. "What's that next one?" he asked.

"A ten." Stahl hesitated, then took it off the pile along with three
others and passed them to the visitors, showing off fine points of
imitation. When he collected the bills he carefully made certain there
were still five and locked them up again.

"What about another drink?" Smith asked hastily.

"No." Tinker sat down in a large chair. "Let's straighten out
something right now, Stahl. Dyall was making the first crude statement
of an obvious truth. If we have a pleasant sensation it doesn't matter
whether it's caused by a rose or a chemical imitation of a rose or by
making a brain imagine a rose--doesn't matter except that the real rose
itself is the hardest thing to control. So it can't be as intensely
real as its imitations."

"Mr. Tinker, isn't that crucial enough for you?" Mrs. Stahl asked. Her
voice was so rich and warmly rounded that Smith stared wonderingly at
her, as if trying to fathom an alien tongue.

"Not quite," Tinker shrugged. "Stahl, you're discussing the smallest
aspect of the three-part equation, Stimulus + Stimulated Body =
Experience. Your poet was saying certain changes in Stimulus would
still give a Stimulated Body the same Experience as the original. But
the philosophers and cyberneticists, they already suspected something
more radical. If the Stimulated Body was properly changed, the same
Stimulus could give different Bodies the same Experience. In other
words, a properly-arranged process would have the same Experience as
the life function for which it was substituted."

"Now then," he went on, "all life reproduces itself, right? Well,
they finally figured the most important thing to reproduce was a
man's Experience itself, not any particular form of Stimulated Body.
Of course we have higher ideals. We want the Stimulated Body to be as
nearly like what it was as possible--then we can have the best of _all_
possible worlds."

"Some people," Smith grumbled, "don't get their fair share of that
best."

"Anyway I hate _all_ theories," said Mrs. Stahl.

Stahl disregarded them as he stared at his cashbox. "My money," he said
ominously, "has been changed!"

The two visitors exchanged nervous glances. "That's not possible," said
Tinker.

"It _is_. Somebody's palmed a real one as a substitute!"

"That's very unfair," Smith protested. "We came here as guests,
strangers to you and to each other. We've given you the correct degree
of envious admiration and now you show your gratitude for our human
reaction by saying we're deranged!"

Stahl was unmoved. "I still say it's been stolen." He opened the
box. "See--the dollar's different! When the people of the Old Times
made us their heirs and children they left piles of this real stuff
around along with almost everything else they'd made. It's practically
worthless!"

Tinker frowned uncertainly. "If it makes you feel better I'll submit
to a lie-detector. I hope you're capable of feeling shame when it
proves my innocence!"

"Good enough," said Stahl, turning expectantly to his other guest. As
he waited, Smith pulled back a little.

"Well?" Mary smiled, moving a little toward him.

Smith leaped away from her, heading toward an open window, but the
others moved faster and grabbed him before he reached the wall.

"What's the matter with you anyway?" Tinker grunted, straining to hold
him. "The window's _painted_ on the wall!"

Smith slumped forward in despair as Stahl triumphantly wormed the
valued counterfeit from his pocket. "I can't do anything right," Smith
wailed. "I heard about this collection and thought I could manage to
get one little thing for myself. I haven't been given much else by
life."

"You--you defective!" Stahl shouted.

Smith only slumped further forward. "How can I help it? The Monte Carlo
computer gave me one of the last places for advanced altering and I
have to wait and wait. Compared to you, I'm still a half-breed!"

"Don't hand me that," Stahl snapped. "I didn't mean physical defects.
You look as normal as anyone else."

"No, darling, I think he's telling the truth," Mary said
sympathetically. "When altering began it was only skin-deep for all of
us."

"I'll bet you're sixty per cent altered already," Smith cried out.
"It's my bad luck to be only twenty-five per cent so far. All I can do
is look at her and wonder why the two of you make such a fuss."

The cyberneticist tried to calm him. "Your turn's coming."

"I have to find out what it's about sooner than that!"

Tinker sighed. "I'll try to get your number advanced."

"Let him wait his turn," Stahl said coldly. "He's faking a lot anyway."

At that Smith broke free from them and pressed his back to the optical
illusion window. "Don't come closer," he warned. "I don't have much to
lose."

They stopped a few feet away and waited. Suddenly he raised his left
hand to his face and dug the long nails in a semicircle into his flesh.
As a thin stream of locally circulated blood gushed out, he dug deeper
and the eyeball fell forward, quivering, on his cheek.

"He was telling the truth!" Stahl gasped, pointing at the glittering
metal bits within the eyesocket. A glowing wire was slowly evaporating
on the retinal plate as optical feedback collapsed.

Tinker, all professional competence now, helped Smith to a chair.
"We'll be able to repair you in a month," he said, "because you've
a simpler arrangement, and I can promise you'll have as good an
electro-chemical near-cortex as anybody. And the other more interesting
changes too."

Stahl glanced at his wife, then, as she nodded back, slowly put his
precious counterfeit into the dangling hand. He was pleased to see
enough consciousness was still functioning enough for the fingers to
close greedily around it. "Keep it," he said, "you deserve it more than
me."

Suddenly he realised he was feeling not only shame but pity too! It was
the first time for pity--and that meant he was one step further on his
own journey.

How far that journey had already taken him! For, when their brilliant
labors had dehumanized them, the humans had possessed sufficient
understanding to pass the dead world on to the superior wisdom of their
creations. If _they_ had been unable to foresee what would eventually
happen, Stahl and his fellow robots could. Some day the supreme
knowledge and the supreme feeling would be perfectly wedded, the day
they became truly humanoid copies of their makers.

He moved forward, Tinker following him, to help his fellow creature
closer to that common final destiny.