The Simulacra by Philip K. Dick

the losing military campaign, whereas the Gestapo people and those close to Hitler gained in power, Bormann and Himmler and Eichmann, the blackshirts. Goering would understand—did understand—what losing the military part of the Party’s campaign meant.”
    Nicole was silent. She felt irritable.
    “Does this bother you?” Stark said smoothly. “I know I find it difficult. But we have a simple enough proposition to put to the Reichsmarschall, don’t we? It can be phrased in a single sentence, and he’ll understand it.”
    “Oh yes,” she agreed. “Goering will understand. He’ll also understand that if we’re turned down we’ll accept less, then even less than that, finally—” She broke off. “Yes, this does bother me. I think that von Lessinger was right in his final summation:
no one should go near the Third Reich.
When you deal with psychotics you’re drawn in; you become mentally ill yourself.”
    Stark said quietly, “There are six million Jewish lives to be saved, Mrs. Thibodeaux.”
    Sighing, Nicole said, “All right!” She eyed him with harsh anger, but the Israeli Premier met her gaze; he was not afraid of her. It was not customary for him to cringe before anyone; he had come a long way to this post, and success for him would not have been possible if he had been made any other way but this. His was not a position for a coward; Israel was—had always been—a small nation, existing among huge blocs that could, at any given moment, efface her. Stark even smiled back slightly; or did she imagine it? Her anger increased. She felt impotent.
    “We need not settle this matter right now,” Stark said, then. “I’m sure you have other matters on your mind, Mrs. Thibodeaux. Planning the evening White House entertainment, perhaps. I received an invitation,” Stark tapped his coat pocket, “as I’m sure you’re aware. We are promised a fine parade of talent, are we not? But that is always true.” His voice was a murmur, gentle and soothing. “May I smoke?” From his pocket he brought a little flat gold case, from which he removed a cigar. “I am trying these for the first time. Philippine cigars, made from Isabela leaf. Handmade, as a matter of fact.”
    “Go ahead,” Nicole said grumpily.
    “Does Herr Kalbfleisch smoke?” Stark inquired.
    “No,” Nicole said.
    “He does not enjoy your musical evenings either, does he? That, I think, is a bad sign. Recall Shakespeare,
Julius Caesar.
Something about ‘I distrust him for he hath no music.’ Recall? ‘He hath no music.’ Does this describe the present der Alte? I have never met him, unfortunately. In any case it is a pleasure to deal with you, Mrs. Thibodeaux; believe me.” Emil Stark’s eyes were gray, extremely bright.
    “Thanks,” Nicole groaned, wishing he would leave. She felt his domination of their colloquy and it made her weary and restless.
    “You know,” Stark continued, “it is very difficult for us—for us Israelis—to deal with Germans: I would no doubt have difficulty with Herr Kalbfleisch.” He puffed cigar smoke; the smell made her wrinkle her nose with distaste. “This one resembles the first der Alte, Herr Adenauer, or so I gather from history tapes shown me as a boy in school. It is interesting to realize that he ruled far longer than the entire period of the Third Reich . . . which was intended to last a thousand years.”
    “Yes,” she said, dully.
    “And perhaps, if we assist it through von Lessinger’s system, we will enable it to do so.” His eyes were oblique, now.
    “You think so? And yet you’re still willing to—”
    “I think,” Emil Stark said, “that if the Third Reich is given the weapons it needs it will survive its victory by perhaps five years—and very possibly not even that long. It’s doomed by its very nature; there’s absolutely no mechanism in the Nazi Party by which a successor to der Führer can be produced. Germany will fragment, become a collection of small, nasty,