The Tomorrow File (11 page)

Assuming a minimum of 10 percent voluntary acceptance of GAS, it was estimated that, even after payment of the benefits, the savings to the government would be almost two
billion
new dollars annually. I could scarcely believe it. But the report stated: “Computer printout available if desired.”

I made two Instox copies on my office machine. The original report, initialed, would be microfilmed and filed. On one copy I wrote “Original thinking. F&F,” initialed it, and marked it for return to the Gerontology Team leader. The “F&F” was Division shorthand for “File and Forget.”

The second Instox copy I put in my pocket, then drew it out to red-pencil every reference to “Government-Assisted Suicide.” I was writing in “Government-Assisted Peace” when Paul Bumford came in. The other offices were dark; everyone else had left.

“You’ve got to eat,” he said.

“I suppose so,” I said. I rubbed my eyes. “What time is it?”

“After 1900.”

“I’ve got to come back. Pick me up here and we’ll go to Angela’s together. Will that give you enough time?”

“Plenty.”

“Here’s something for the Tomorrow File.”

I handed him the corrected report on Government-Assisted Peace. He scanned it rapidly.

“Nick, it’s good.”

“I know.”

“Not for action now?”

“No way. Talk to that ef who worked it up. Creative thinking there. She could be your second secretary.”

He grinned. “For that I’ll buy you dinner.
La Bonne Vie?”
“I suppose so.”

“You eat and I’ll talk. I’ve got a lot to tell you.”

He ate, too, of course, but he did have a lot to tell me. We sat at a comer table, Paul spoke in a low voice, his lips close to my ear. He finished his recital.

“You don’t seem very surprised,” he said, disappointed. “I’m not. Angela’s original tape was the input. She said not to inform DIROB.”

“Oh. I had forgotten that.”

“I hadn’t.”

“Do you trust her?”

“Yes, I trust her. In this.”

“She’s
such
a bitch.”

“I know. But I think she’s onto something here. It could benefit us. Let me do the talking tonight. Pick up your cues from me.” “Nick, I always do.”

“Play it very tight. Don’t volunteer
anything.”

“Where thou goeth, there goeth I,” he said.

We left and separated. He headed for the gate. I went back to my office. I had completed the Immediate stack. Logically, I should have started on the Soon. But there was a file in Later I wanted to scan.

When a server in PS was sent to a Rehabilitation & Reconditioning Hospice ‘ ‘for psychiatric observation for. reasons of public security,” and had signed an Informed Consent Statement, the first task given him was to write a report or dictate a tape detailing his activities during the past year, two years, five—for as long a time as his interrogators believed would be of value.

In this account, the object sometimes revealed names, places, dates that were frequently useful to AssDepDirSec, or BPS or UIA, in uncovering others who harbored antisocial tendencies. The object was usually assisted with memory-intensifying drugs, hypnosis, electric stimulation of the hippocampus, etc. The journal the object produced invariably made fascinating scanning.

It was particularly fascinating in this case, since the object had been a genetic biologist attached to the Denver Field Office of my Division. He and his wife had been principals in a criminal trial that had created headlines in the nation’s facsimile newspapers and was the subject of endless TV gabble shows. It was popularly known as “The Horse Triangle Murder Case.”

The couple wanted to breed, desperately. Since both were Naturals, with good genetic ratings (hers was an A; his a B), they had no trouble obtaining a license. But the em’s sperm proved sterile. No amount of hormonal or enzymatic therapy was successful. It may have been a genetic variance. In any event, the ef opted for artificial insemination, wanting to experience—according to the subsequent testimony of her friends—the “glory of birth,” whatever that may be. The em opted for artificial enovulation, but his wife refused to carry another woman’s fertilized egg.

Their arguments on this decision became rancorous. Neighbors testified that on at least two occasions peace officers had to be called to calm the squabbling couple. Finally, apparently, the husband surrendered and agreed to artificial insemination. Since he ruled the local sperm bank, and was entitled to the discount allowed all government servers, he provided the sperm injection, and even immunosuppressive drugs which, he assured his wife, “were necessary to prevent rejection of the sperm.” Ridiculous. In any event, the ef became pregnant.

In the fifth month of pregnancy, it became obvious to the ef’s obstetrician that he was not dealing with a normal fetus. X-ray and internal telescopic TV examination proved the ef had been impregnated with equine sperm. The immunosuppressive drugs had served well, as they usually do. The wife underwent surgery for removal of the equine fetus, but suffered a massive hemorrhage on the operating table. She stopped. The husband was charged with premeditated murder, but local authorities surrendered him to us. Not without a lot of arm-twisting.

The journal of the object dictated in the R&R Hospice had no political significance. It implicated no one else. It was merely the confession of an em, of good intelligence, who wanted to breed but was unable. In simple language, the object recounted his emotions, his motives, what compelled him to do what he had done. The

object was obviously jerked, but his account had a curious human logic all its own. It was almost convincing.

I was sitting there, still staring at the file, though I had long since finished scanning it, when Paul Bumford returned.

“You said you had some new iproniazid in your office?” I said. “When did I say that?”

“The night I flew out to the West Coast.”

“My God, Nick, don’t you ever forget
anything
?”

“I wish I could.”

We stopped at his office, and I popped two, dry. Then we walked over to the apartment complex. I asked Paul for the computer printout and he handed it over. A short list. Twenty-nine names with their service title and BIN’s. All members of the Department of Bliss. I folded the printout and slid it into the inside breast pocket of my zipsuit.

“I just flashed the Section’s contact in Oakland,” Paul said. ‘ ‘That’s what I’ve been doing. It was my third call. I thought it best to flash from outside the compound, from a commercial pay station.”

“That’s wise.”

“Angela’s beachhouse south of San Francisco is owned by the Samatin Foundation. It’s a small outfit. About ten million new dollars’ endowment.”

“What do they do?”

“Give grants for the study of exotic disorders—frambesia, beriberi, tsutsugamushi fever, icthyosis. Things of that sort.” “Where does their love come from?”

“I thought you’d never ask. Mostly from Walker & Clarke Chemicals and from Pace Pharmaceuticals and from Twenty-first Century Electronics.”

_ “Oh-ho,” I said.

“Oh-ho, indeed.” He nodded. “Dear Angela is on the suck. That’s why she gave you that quick stop on Project Supersense at the conference. She’s going to peddle the concept.”

“She wouldn’t dare.”

“Want to bet?”

“No.” I looked at him curiously. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“A profit.” He laughed. “I think I have a talent for it. Devious motives, complex plotting, smart guesses, and shrewd digging.

When you get to be DEPDIRSAT, I want to be your AssDep-DirSec.”

“You have it,” I said, the iproniazid beginning to serve. “Let’s go get it started.”

Angela met us at the door and led us into the huge living room. She offered a box of cigarettes. Bold, a good brand of
Cannabis indica
with crimson filters. They were legal. I declined, but she and Paul Bumford lighted up.

“Well, Nick?” she said. The cigarette bobbed. “What have you got?”

I narrated our retrieval of the corpus, the autopsy, and what was revealed by the tissue slides. I described the apartment. Frank Lawson Harris had probably been stopped, I told her, by inhaling a platelet-associated 5-HT nerve gas contained in a six-hour Somnorific. She was a molecular biologist; I didn’t have to spell it out for her.

“There were other Somnorifics in the medicine cabinet?”'she asked.

“Yes. All six-hour. All checked out normal.”

‘ ‘How did the assassin get him to take the one that stopped him?’ ’

“Offered it to him in person, pretending it came from the medicine cabinet. Or, if the killer wasn’t there, by simple manipulation. Five Somnorifics in the medicine cabinet. Four of them against the back, neatly lined up. The fifth one, the lethal one, out in front, at the edge of the shelf, by itself. If you wanted to sleep, which one would you take? But I think the killer was there and handed the fiddled Somnorific to Harris personally.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Otherwise the killer would have had to return to the apartment to retrieve the used inhaler. We didn’t find it. Neither did the Peace Department. But the killer forgot the crumpled seal.”

“All right. Go on.”

I described Paul’s efforts in gathering IMP samples at the murder scene. The stopped em’s sample had been coded and run through the computer in a blind test. It checked out: it was the IMP of HARRIS, Frank Lawson, PS-5, Hdqtrs Stf SECSAT, AINM-B-70973-GPA-1-M76774.

I then explained our inferential postulation of a blond ef at the scene, how her IMP sample was completed as far as possible and compared with the computerized records to determine duplication of inheritable IMP factors.

“Clever,” Angela said. “Whose idea was that?”

“Mine,” I said. “Paul did the workup. We’ve bred a list of twenty-nine possibles.”

“Let me see,” she said, holding out her hand.

“No,” I said.

She looked at me a moment, then leaned forward to stub out her cigarette slowly.

“No?” Angela Berri repeated, looking at me suddenly.

“Not until you tell us what this is all about. Paul and I are risking R&R on this. We need to know more.”

She leaned back on the sofa, turned slightly sideways, slumped. Her long green hair fell across her face.

“Oh, Nick,” she said. “Don’t you trust me?”

I turned to Paul Bumford.

“Are you catching this?” I asked him. “Great performance. A lesser talent would have pulled the zipper lower and wiped away an imaginary tear.”

Paul grinned. Angela straightened up on the sofa, took a sip of wine, lighted another Bold.

“How many doctorates do you have now, Nick?” she asked casually.

“What difference does it make? It’s like collecting medals. The best soldiers have none.”

“What if I tell you nothing?” she said.

“We’ll have to take what we have to DIROB and hope for the best. We have evidence that we acted under orders.”

“Nick, you must learn not to give people ultimatums.”

“I never do. I’m not giving you an ultimatum; I’m giving you a choice.”

“A fine distinction.”

“A distinction nevertheless. Well?”

“Come out on the terrace. It’s not too chilly. Bring the wine.” I heard a small sound from Paul, an exhaled sigh. We followed her out onto the wide terrace. It extended around three sides of the penthouse and overlooked the brightly lit compound. But the terrace was not lighted. We sat on pillowed garden furniture in a dark corner.

“You heard the reports of Phoebe Huntzinger and Burton Klein at the conference today,” she started. “Nick, you said it doesn’t compute. It doesn’t. I became aware of the conflict about six months ago. Phoebe’s computer said the Satrat was going up,

slowly but steadily. Klein reported increased terrorism against scientific installations. Actually, the national terrorism rate is much worse than he stated this afternoon. I see departmental reports; you don’t because you have no need to know.”

She didn’t either, but I made no comment.

“So either Huntzinger or Klein was giving me inoperative input,” Angela went on. “I knew it wasn’t Klein because of those departmental reports on assassinations, bombings, sabotage, and so forth. Most of it is pillowed; the public isn’t even aware of it. But it
does
exist, and it
is
serious. That left the Satrat.”

“Phoebe Huntzinger?” Paul burst out, disbelieving.

Angela shook her head.

“Not Phoebe. I’ll swear she’s clean. It’s her computer. It’s being fiddled. And very cleverly. Not electronically.”

“GIGO,” I said. “Garbage in, garbage out.”

“Exactly.” Angela nodded. “All the Satrat input comes from about a dozen public polling organizations, commercial and academic. They’ve been infiltrated. The tapes they supply to Phoebe’s computer are inoperative.”

We were silent. I pondered the enormity of what was being done, if Angela was correct. The Satisfaction Rate was the temperature, pulse, cardiac rate, and EEG of the nation, all the life signs computerized into one important index. We were in trouble—if Angela was correct.

“How did you decide Phoebe’s computer was being fiddled?” I asked her. I knew, but wanted to lead into another question.

“If Phoebe’s Division was clean, and I was certain it was, there was no other possibility.”

“All right. Assuming it was exterior sabotage, why didn’t you call in Burton Klein and dump the problem in his lap? He’s Security Chief.”

“He had his hands full with the bombings. And I had to consider the possibility that, somehow, he was involved.”

She spoke a little more rapidly when she was lying. Many people do, thinking fluency proves probity.

“Besides,” she went on, “I had no evidence. Just suspicions. So I handled it myself. I placed undercover agents in four of the public opinion testing organizations we have under contract. Each agent reported to a control I trusted who reported only to me. Results were nil until about three weeks ago. Then Harris, assigned to Pub-Op, told his control that he was onto something. Someone, rather. An ef who lived in GPA-1 and worked at Pub-Op as an analyst of essay-type questionnaires. But she had access to the coding and taping room, and had a Master’s in computer technology. She had the capability to fiddle their Satrat tapes.”