The Real Thing

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.