That seems to be it, John Isidore thought, still clutching the limp box of margarine. Maybe she'll change her mind and let me call her Pris.

七

That seems to be it, John Isidore thought, still clutching the box of limp margarine. Maybe she'll change her mind and let me call her Pris. If I could bring back a canned vegetable from before the war, she might make a dinner.

But she probably can't cook, he suddenly thought. Okay, I'll do it. I'll prepare dinner for both of us. I can teach her so that she can cook when she wants to in the future. Once I teach her, she'll probably want to do it. As far as I know, most women, even as young as her, enjoy cooking. This is instinctive.

He climbed the gray stairs to his room.

She has been away from the world for too long, he thought as he put on his white overalls. Even if he rushes again, he will definitely be late, and Mr. Slott will definitely be angry. But so what? For example, she had never heard of her old friend Buster. This is impossible. Buster was the most important man alive, except, of course, Wilbur Mercer...but Mercer, he thought, was not human. He is an archetypal entity from the stars, superimposed on our culture with a universal template. At least that's what I've heard others say, like Mr. Slott. And Mr. Hannibal Slott knows it all.

She said her name was inconsistent, which was odd, he thought. She may need help. How can I help her? he asked himself. A person with special disabilities and a chicken head, what do I know? I couldn't get married, I couldn't immigrate, and I would eventually die from radioactive fallout. I have nothing to offer.

is dressed and ready to go. He left the room and climbed to the roof. His beat-up old speedster was waiting for him there.

An hour later, he had already driven the company's truck to pick up the first broken animal of the day, an electronic cat. It was lying in the dustproof plastic cage in the back of the car, gasping for air. You almost thought it was a real cat.

Isidore drove to Van Ness Pet Hospital. This small company with a fancy fake name is struggling to survive in the brutally competitive fake animal repair industry.

The cat groaned in pain.

Wow, Isidore exclaimed. It sounds like it's really going to die. Maybe the ten-year-old battery inside it had shorted out and all the wiring was burned out. This is a big job. Milt Borogrove, the mechanic at Van Ness Pet Hospital, has his hands full. I should give the cat owner an estimate, Isidore thought gloomily. The guy just handed me the cat, said it broke last night, and rushed off to work. Anyway, the brief conversation ended suddenly. The cat owner blasts off into the air in a latest model of beautiful flying car. That person becomes a new customer.

Isidore said to the cat, "Can you make it to the store?" The cat continued to huff and puff. "I'll recharge your batteries on the way." Isidore decided. He lowered the truck to the nearest roof and parked it, leaving the engine on. Then he climbed into the back and opened the dustproof plastic cage. The carrier, his own white overalls, and the name of the hospital on the car made him look exactly like a real veterinarian treating real animals.

Some electronic mechanism is humming beneath its almost unrealistic gray skin. Foam blew out of its mouth, the fake eyes of the video head were dull, and the metal claws were stuck alternately. He had always found it incredible, the "disease" circuitry built into these fake animals. The thing in his hand, if one of its major components went wrong, the whole thing appeared - not broken - but really sick. At least it can fool me, Isidore thought, fumbling under the fake belly hair for the hidden control panel (the control panels on these little animals are always very small) and the quick-charging port. But I couldn't find it. He didn't have much time to take his time looking, this guy was about to completely collapse. If it's a short, then the current is busy burning the circuit inside, and maybe I should remove one of the battery wires. This way, the machine will shut down, but no more damage will be caused. Once in the shop, Milt could reconnect the battery.

He traced its false spine deftly.The battery wire should be near there. Damn, the workmanship of this thing is so exquisite, it's just amazing. Even if I look carefully, I can't find where the battery cable is. Must be a Wheelwright Carpenter product. That brand is expensive, but seems to be worth the money.

He gave up. The fake cat has stopped moving. Obviously, if the short circuit is the cause of the disease, the internal power supply system and the power unit have been completely burned out. What a big loss, he thought pessimistically. The guy obviously didn't clean and lubricate it three times a year, otherwise it wouldn't be like this. Maybe this time I can teach him a lesson.

He climbed back into the driver's seat, put the wheels back into climb gear, took off again, and continued flying to the repair shop.

No matter what, he no longer had to endure the nerve-wracking gasps, and he could relax a little. Funny, he thought, even though I knew it was a fake animal with a broken power plant and power supply, I still got a knot in my stomach when I heard its fake voice. I wish, he thought miserably, that I could find another job. If I had passed the IQ test, I wouldn't have been assigned to this humiliating job that came with emotional torture. However, Milt Borogrove and their boss Hannibal Slott never worried about the fake pain of fake animals. So maybe it's me, John Isidore thought to himself. Perhaps, when you're further back on the evolutionary ladder - like me, sinking into the mire of the disabled in the grave world - well, it's best not to think about it any further. Nothing frustrates him more than comparing his current intelligence with his previous intelligence. Every day he loses a little bit of his intelligence, a little bit of his energy. Like thousands of other people with special disabilities on the earth, he slowly disappeared into ashes and slowly turned into a living Kippi.

In order to get rid of his loneliness, he turned on the radio in the car and tuned in the program of his old friend Buster. The content of the audio version is different from that of the TV version, but it also lasts for twenty-three warm hours every day...The remaining hour consists of a religious ceremony before stopping the broadcast, followed by ten minutes of silence, and then a religious ceremony before starting the broadcast.

"-Welcome back to our show," said old friend Buster, "Let's see, Amanda, it was two days ago since we last interviewed you. Have you started shooting any new movies, honey?"

"Oh, I was supposed to shoot yesterday, but they wanted me to start at seven-" "Seven o'clock in the morning?" Buster interjected.

"Yeah, that's right, Buster, seven in the morning." Amanda Warner laughed. Her laugh was so famous that it was as widely imitated as Buster's voice. Amanda Warner and several other beautiful and elegant ladies with standard cone breasts from some unheard of countries, as well as a few so-called comedians from the countryside, formed the permanent guest list of Buster's show. Women like Amanda Warner have never made a movie and never acted. They just live their wacky, gorgeous lives on Buster's timeless show. Isidore once calculated that Amanda appeared on the show for as many as seven hours a week.

Where did old friend Buster find so much time to record voice and video programs? Isidore pondered. How does Amanda Warner find so much time to do a show every two days, month after month, year after year? How come they have so much to say? And never repeat it. At least he didn't think it was repeated. Their comments are always so witty and fresh that they don't need to be rehearsed. Amanda, her long hair is flowing, her eyes are shining, and her teeth are shining. She never gives in, never tires, and never falls short in a spat with the sarcastic Buster. The program of old friend Buster is broadcast live to the world through the satellite , and is also broadcast to various colonial planets. They even tried sending signals to Proxima Centauri, because the human colonization team might be able to go that far. They would definitely be happy if the Sarandar 3 spacecraft really flew to its destination and found that their old friend Buster's show was waiting for them there.

But there was one thing about his old friend Buster that annoyed John Isidore. Buster often taunts the soundbox in subtle twists. Again and again. In fact, he's scoffing right now.

"I've never been stoned," Buster babbled to Amanda Warner, "and if I go hiking, I'll take two bottles of Budweiser." The studio audience roared with laughter, and Isidore heard sporadic applause. "I will broadcast that carefully crafted news from the top of the mountain, and the news will start in ten hours!"

"And me, honey!" Amanda shouted, "Take me with you! If someone throws a stone at you, I will protect you!" The audience laughed again. John Isidore was distraught, a helpless anger slowly creeping up the back of his neck. Why does old friend Buster always make fun of Mercerism? No one else seems to mind Mercerism, even the United Nations endorses it. Even the police in the United States and the Soviet Union publicly claimed that Mercerism could reduce crime rates because citizens would be more sympathetic to the suffering of others. United Nations Secretary-General Titus Corning has also repeatedly declared that humans need more empathy . Maybe Buster was jealous, Isidore guessed. Of course, this would explain his rivalry with Wilbur Mercer. But what is the fight for?

competes for our minds, Isidore decided. They fight each other to control our minds. On one side was the sound box, on the other was Buster's crude jokes and laughter. I'm going to talk to Hannibal Slott, he decided. Ask him if this is the case. He always knew the answer.

After parking the car on the roof of Van Ness Pet Hospital, he quickly carried the plastic cage downstairs and came to Hannibal Sloat's office. The fake cat in the cage was motionless. As he entered, Mr. Slott looked up from a spare parts inventory sheet. His wrinkled, gray face rippled like muddy water being stirred up. Hannibal Slott is too old to immigrate. Although he is not a specially disabled person, he can only slowly die of old age on the earth. Over the years, radioactive fallout has eroded his skin, darkening his complexion and darkening his thoughts. His appearance became more and more haggard, his legs became more and more slender, and his steps became more and more unsteady. He sees the world through a pair of dusty glasses. For some reason, Slott never cleans his glasses, like he's given up completely. He took in the fallout, which had also begun its work long ago, slowly burying him. The dust had blurred his vision and, for the remaining years of his life, would slowly overwhelm his other senses until all that was left was that bird-like sound. Eventually, even this bird-like sound will disappear.

"What's in your hand?" Mr. Slott asked.

"The cat with a short circuit in the power supply system." Isidore placed the cage next to the documents on the boss's desk. "Why show it to me?" Slott ordered, "Take it to the workshop and show it to Milt." However, out of conditioned reflex, he opened the cage and took out the fake animal. He was also a repairman, a very good repairman.

Isidore said: "I think my old friends Buster and Mercerism are fighting for control of our hearts."

"If that's the case," Slott said, examining the cat, "Buster has the upper hand."

"He has the upper hand now," Isidore said, "but he will lose in the end."

Slott raised his head and stared at him. "Why?"

"Because Wilbur Mercer is always new over time. He is immortal. When he reaches the top of the mountain, he will be knocked back down the mountain and sink to the tomb world, but he will eventually climb up again. We also come up with him. Therefore, we are also immortal." He felt that he said it very well. He stuttered a lot around Sloat.

Slott said: "Like Mercer, Buster is immortal. No difference." "How could he be immortal? He's human."

"I don't know," Slott said, "but that's it. Of course, they never admit it." "Is this the secret of good friend Buster's ability to produce forty-six hours a day?"

"Exactly," Slott said.

"So, Amanda Warner and those other women on the show?" "They're not dead either."

" Are they all super life forms from other galaxies? "

" I have never understood this. said Mr. Slott, still examining the cat. He took off his dusty spectacles and examined the half-open mouth with his naked eye. "Not as easy as Wilbur Mercer." His voice was so low that it was almost inaudible. Then, suddenly, he cursed and continued for almost a full minute. "This cat," he said at last, "isn't fake." I know this day will come sooner or later. It's dead. "He stared down at the cat corpse and began to curse again.

Milt Bologrov, a strong man with rough skin, appeared at the door of the office, wearing a dirty blue canvas apron. "What's wrong? " he asked. As soon as he walked into the office, he saw the cat and picked it up casually.

"This chicken head -" Sloter said, "I brought it back. "He had never said the word chicken head to Isidore's face before.

"If it's still alive," Milt said, "we can take it to a real veterinarian. I don’t know how much it’s worth. Who has the Sydney Catalog? "

" Can you...your...your...insurance compensate...compensate...? "Isidore asked Mr. Slote. His legs began to shake, and the room in front of him began to change color, a dark brown dotted with many green spots.

"Yes. Slott finally half shouted, "I'm sad that I wasted a life." We have lost another living animal. Can't you see it's alive, Isidore? Didn't you notice the difference here? "

"I thought," Isidore said reluctantly, "that this was a well-made fake, so sophisticated that it fooled me. I mean, it looked alive, so real-"

"I don't think Isidore could tell the difference. Milt said gently, "To him, these are all alive, even the fake animals are alive." He may have also tried to save it. He asked Isidore: "What have you tried?" Recharge its battery, or find the source of the short circuit? "

" has been tried...all...all. "Isidore admitted.

"It is probably too sick and cannot be saved. "Milt said, "Don't blame the chicken head, Han. He's right about one thing, fake animals now look too real, especially those newer models with built-in disease circuitry. Also, live animals can die, which is one of the risks of raising animals. We're just not used to it because we only deal with fake animals. "

" is such a fucking waste. "Slott said.

"According to the teachings of Mercer," Isidore pointed out, "all life will return. Moving...moving...animals also have a complete...complete...complete cycle. I mean, we all climb and die with Mercer..."

"Tell that to a cat owner. "Mr. Slott said.

Isidore was not sure whether the boss was serious. "You mean, I have to say it? But video calls are always something you have to deal with. "He has an inexplicable fear of video calls and feels that talking to strangers is almost impossible. Of course Mr. Slott knows this.

"Don't push him. Milt said, "I'll do it." He reached for the phone. "What's his number?" "

" is in my pocket. Isidore rummaged through the many pockets of his overalls. Slott said, "I want Chicken Head to make the call himself." "

"I can't...no...can't make video calls," Isidore protested, his heart pounding, "because I'm covered in hair, ugly, dirty, hunchbacked, and my teeth are crooked and ugly gray. Also, I'm afraid of the radiation from the phone. I will die. "

Milt smiled and said to Slott: "I think if I felt the same as him, I wouldn't dare to make a video call. Okay, Isidore, if you don't give me the cat owner's number, I can't call you. In that case, it's up to you to fight. "He extended his hand cordially.

"Chicken head calls," Slott said. "If you don't call, you'll be fired."He didn't look at Isidore or Milt, but looked straight ahead blankly.

"Oh, come on. " Milt protested.

Isidore said: "I don't... don't... don't like you calling... calling me chicken head. I mean, dust... dust... dust has a big effect on... on... on your body too. Although your brain is not...not...unaffected, unlike mine...me. "I'm fired from

, he realized. I can't make this call. At this moment, he suddenly remembered that the cat owner had gone to work and no one was home. "I guess...guess I can call him. "He said, finally taking out the label with the number.

"Did you see it? Mr. Slott said to Milt, "He can do it when he has to." "

Isidore sat in front of the video phone, picked up the phone, and started dialing.

"Yes," Milt said, "but you shouldn't force him. And he's right, dust affects you too. You're almost blind. In another two years, you won’t even be able to hear it. "

Slott said: "You can't escape, Borogrove. Your skin is the color of shit. "

A face appeared on the screen. It was a Central European woman with a careful look on her face. She wore her hair in a tight bun. "Hello? "She said.

"Mrs... Mrs. Pearson? " Isidore said, a sense of fear welling up in his body. He didn't expect that the cat owner had a wife, and of course she was at home. "I need to tell you, your M... M... M... M... M... M..." He stopped and massaged the twitching muscles on his face, "Your cat -"

"Oh, yes, you took Horace away. Mrs. Pearson said, "Is it pneumonia?" Mr. Pearson feels like pneumonia.

Isidore said: "Your cat is dead." "Ah, no!" God! "

" We will give you a new cat. "We have insurance," he said. "He glanced at Mr. Slott. He seemed to agree. "The boss of our company, Hannibal Slott," he said hurriedly, "will personally-"

"No," Slott said, "we will write them a check. Prices according to Sydney Catalog. "

" - will personally choose a cat to replace for you. "Isidore found that he still kept talking. He couldn't stand this conversation at first, but he couldn't take it back once he started. What he said had a strong internal logic and could not be stopped halfway. He could only stop slowly where he wanted to stop. Mr. Slott and Milt Bologrov looked at him in stunned silence. "Tell us what kind of cat you want. Color, gender, subcategories, e.g., Manx, Persian, , Abyssinian, - "

" Horace is dead. " said Mrs. Pearson.

" He had pneumonia," said Isidore. " He died on the way to the hospital. Our senior attending physician, Dr. Hannibal Slott, thought there was no way he could be saved. But we'll get you a new cat, isn't that lucky, Mrs. Pearson? Right?

Mrs. Pearson said with tears in her eyes: "But there is only one Horace." He used to - when he was a kitten - he used to stand there, staring up at us, as if asking a question. We never figured out what the problem was. Maybe now he knows the answer. New tears came up again, "I guess we will know the answer one day."

Isidore suddenly felt blessed, "How about we give you a perfect electronic replica?" We could have Wheelwright Carpenter hand-make us an animatronic cat, exactly like the original cat in every detail—"

" Oh, that's disgusting. Mrs. Pearson protested, "What are you talking about?" Don't tell my husband this. If you dare to say a word, Ed will definitely go crazy. He loved Horace more than any other cat he had ever had. He has been raising cats since he was a child. "

Milt took the phone from Isidore and said to the woman: "We can write you a check based on the price of the "Sini Catalog".Or, as Mr. Isidore suggests, help pick out a new cat. We are sorry that your cat has died. But, as Mr. Isidore pointed out, the cat had pneumonia, and pneumonia is almost always fatal. " His professional tone was neither sullen nor angry. Of the three people at Van Ness Pet Hospital, Milt had the best phone communication skills.

"I can't tell my husband. "Mrs. Pearson said.

"Okay, ma'am," Milt said, smiling slightly, "we'll tell him. Can you give me his company phone number? " He reached for the pen and pad. Mr. Slott handed him the pen and paper.

"Wait a minute," said Mrs. Pearson, seeming to perk up suddenly. "Maybe that gentleman was right. Maybe I should ask you to make an electronic replacement for Horace, but can't tell Ed that. Can it be made exactly like the real thing so that my husband can’t tell the difference? "

Milt said suspiciously: "We can make it if you want it. But based on our experience, that will never fool the original owner, and at best it can fool casual bystanders, such as neighbors. You think, once you get up close and personal with fake animals -"

"Ed didn't have that much close contact with Horace, even though he loved Horace. All of Horace's personal needs are taken care of by me, like the sandbox and all. I think I'd like to try a fake cat. If that doesn't work, please help us find a real cat to replace Horace. I just don't want my husband to know because if he finds out, he might not be able to survive. That was why he didn't want to get close to Horace. He is afraid. When Horace fell ill—pneumonia, as you call it—Ed was too panicked to face it. That's why it took us so long to call you. It's been too long...I knew this before you called me. I should have known. She nodded and controlled her tears, "How long will it take?" "

Milt did the math. "We can do it within ten days. Then we will deliver it to your door while your husband is at work during the day. "He ended the discussion, said goodbye, and hung up the phone. "He can definitely see that. "It only takes five seconds," he said to Mr. Slott. But that was her request. "

"Anyone who has a real animal to love at home," Sloat said grimly, "will have a nervous breakdown someday. Fortunately we usually don't have to deal with real animals. You know, real veterinary hospitals make these calls every day. "He looked at Isidore thoughtfully. "It seems you are not so stupid sometimes, Isidore. The phone call just now was handled well, although in the end it was up to Milt to take over. "

" He did a good job. Milt said, "Man, that phone call was tough." "He picked up the dead Horace. "I'll take this to the workshop. Han, you call Wheelwright Carpenter and have their guys come over and measure and take pictures. I wouldn't let them take the cat back into their store. I got to compare the original and the reproduction myself. "

"I still want Isidore to tell them," Mr. Slott decided, "that he started it. If he could handle Mrs. Pearson, he should be able to handle Wheelwright Carpenter. "

Milt said to Isidore: "Just don't let them take the original. He held up Horace. "They must want the original, because it will make their job a lot easier." You must not give in. "

" Well," Isidore blinked, "Okay. Maybe I should call them now before the body rots. Dead bodies rot, right? "He became elated.