The Tomorrow File (16 page)

'“Into the apartment below?”

“It goes through the floor. That’s as far as I could trace it. I left it there.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Give my best to Angela Berri,” he said. “The dear lady.”

I met Lydia, on time, at an east-side Italian restaurant. The place was half-empty. With the love they charged, that was understandable. But they knew me. I
think
the wine they served me was made from grapes.

“You must be very wealthy. ” Lydia smiled, studying the menu.

“Not on my rank-rate,” I said. “But occasionally I have to get out and unwind.”

“Let off pressure?”

“Exactly. How about the veal?
And
peppers.
And
spaghetti.
And
a bottle of red wine.”

Frank Lawson Harris’ last meal. Her expression didn’t change.

“Sounds marvelous,” she said.

She looked quite profitable. Not tooty—but then she didn’t have the body for it. Wide shoulders, heavy bosom, thick hips. She was smart enough to wear a loose, flowing shift. It tightened across her nipples, then draped straight to her knees. Seductive without being obvious.

Her face was broad, too. High, clear brow. Wide cheekbones. Rather Slavic. Her neck was soft, almost puffy. Her eyes were large, slightly protuberant. I wondered if she might not be suffering from occult hyperthyroidism. Probably not. Her mind was certainly not dulled, and I could detect no signs of irritability. She seemed as serene and self-possessed as ever. A very pleasant ef.

I asked her questions about her service as we dined. She was quite open about it. She was currently analyzing and coding essay answers to the question: “Do you approve of, disapprove of, or have no opinion on televised transvestite beauty pageants?”

“Did objects know what a transvestite is?” I asked.

“Interviewers were instructed to explain only when asked. Most of them knew. Even children. Some of the replies we received were hilarious.”

She quoted some of the essays. I didn’t think they were particularly hilarious. But I smiled or laughed each time she paused expectantly in her recital.

“What do
you
think about them?” she asked suddenly. “And televised bullfights and executions?”

I shrugged.

“Why does the government allow it?” she demanded.

For the first time I caught a glimpse of an anger behind her placidity. In bed she was a wanton. Now I saw a hint of an emotional (if not intellectual) passion that might equal the physical.

“The government allow it?” I laughed. “Lydia, you are naive. The government
encourages
it!”

“But
why?'

“For very practical reasons. Psychological studies have proved that violence and sex on TV act as a catharsis, a visual safety valve for hostility and aggression.”

“I don’t believe that,” she said sharply.

“In any event, it’s not the main reason why—”

I was silent then while the waitress removed our emptied dinner plates. She brought us a pot of espresso (mostly chicory) and, proudly, fresh apples (two). They were huge, bright, red. And mealy and tasteless. But Lydia appeared to be delighted with hers. I watched her large, strong teeth chonk into the fruit. When she swallowed, her entire soft throat convulsed. It was oddly exciting to watch.

“What is the main reason that the government encourages permissiveness on TV?” she asked finally.

“Well, in the media industry there are two main cartels: print media and electronic media. They claim to be complementary. In a few insignificant ways they are. But actually they are quite competitive, especially in obtaining advertising revenues. Now the government cannot license print media. The last time they tried it, in 1990, the result was catastrophic.

“But the government does have some ways of manipulating the electronic media. This they can do legally since all radio and television stations must be licensed by a government agency. It’s easier to influence an industry whose very existence depends on official grant. And for that reason, it’s vital to the government that the electronic media grow while the print media decrease in importance. So the government encourages permissiveness on TV. People who once could only scan sex scenes in books and magazines, can now view it—in three dimensions and color. Thus the electronic media attract larger audiences. Thus their advertising revenue increases. Thus they grow stronger, make more love, and the need for TV station owners to retain their licenses becomes even more imperative. Thus stronger government control of their editorial policies. That’s why you see fornication and bullfights and executions on your home set. Do you follow all that?”

She seemed shocked. I thought what I had explained was obvious to everyone.

“I can’t believe it,” she said.

“Believe it. It’s operative.”

“But don’t you—you personally—object to government control of media? Any media, in any form?”

“I’m just an em following orders,” I said. “What can I do?” We finished our coffee in silence. She opened her purse, then paused to look at me.

“Do you mind if I touch up my makeup?” she asked innocently. “I know I shouldn’t do it at the table.”

In some ways she was delightful. Almost as ingenuous as Millie. “Please do.” I laughed. “I might even touch up mine.” “You don’t wear much.”

“No, not much. A friend of mine has been after me to use eye shadow.”

“Oh, no,” she said quickly. “Please don’t do that.”

I watched her apply lip rouge.

“Beautiful color,” I said. “What is it?”

“The color is called Passion Flower. Does that jerk you? The lip rouge is Amour Now.”

"That
jerks me,” I said. “Amour now or later?”

She tried to smile mysteriously, but she was too open and honest to bring it off. We both laughed and left the restaurant hand in hand. It had been a profitable dinner.

We went to a nude performance of
Swan Lake
at Lincoln Center. The audience seemed to enjoy it—oohing and ahing whenever the em star performed a
grand fete
—but I found the whole thing absurd. I think Lydia did, too. At least, she made no objection when we left before it ended. We stopped at a federal grogshop where I bought a lovable bottle of cherry liqueur which the manager assured me was made from real cherries. I also bought Lydia a national lottery ticket. She laughed happily.

“If I win I’ll give you half,” she vowed.

‘ ‘ Good. An ef in my Division won a thousand a few weeks ago. ’ ’ “I want to win a million."

“I hope you do. What will you do with it—after you give me my half?”

“I’ll buy a farm,” she said dreamily. “Somewhere far off. Lonely and deserted. I’ll buy animals—dogs and horses and cows and chickens and cats. And I’ll raise my own food. I’ll have a little lake, and I’ll swim every morning. I’ll listen to the wind and watch the stars.”

I think she was serious. But of course there were no places like that anymore.

We went back to her home by taxi. The cabs had changed; they were electric now. The drivers hadn’t changed; still choleric and unpleasant as ever. We also had to endure a Cab-Alert installation that flashed color slides at ten-second intervals and, by recorded messages, advised us what to do about wet armpits, bowel irregularity, and a breath that wilted flowers.

Lydia had an apartment that reflected her personality: unassertive, pleasing, calm. I had to keep reminding myself this was the ef who provided Harris with a going-away present: the fiddled Somnorific.

“Sit over there,” she said casually, motioning toward the slipcovered armchair in the living room. “It’s the most comfortable chair I have. Would you like this cherry stuff in Smack or on ice—or how?”

“Just straight,” I said. “And just a small glass. It’s sure to be sweet.”

Obediently, I sat down in the armchair. She was right—it was comfortable. While she was in the kitchen, I ran my fingertips lightly over the slipcover on both sides. Leon Mansfield had been right, too; it was amateurish; I felt the bump of the mike. When she came in from the kitchen, I was leaning back, relaxed, my mouth close to the concealed bug.

“Cheers,” I said, lifting the plasticup she handed me.

She pulled a hassock across the floor and sat at a lower level, near my knees.

“But you don’t seem so cheerful tonight,” she said. “Depressed?”

“A little.”

“Your service?”

‘ ‘I guess so. It’s been bothering me for some time now. Recently it’s become worse.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Want to, but can’t.”

“Security classification?”

“Yes.”

“I won’t repeat it.”

That was a giggle. She wouldn’t have to.

“Oh, Lydia, it’s not that I don’t trust you. I know you wouldn’t do or say anything to endanger me. Or your father.”

That startled her, but she recovered quickly.

“I can’t believe you and Daddy would do anything wrong,” she said.

“Depends on your definition of wrong, doesn’t it? Tell me this: Is it wrong to refuse to obey the legal order of your ruler when you feel, in your heart of hearts, that the order you are given is immoral?”

She was silent, staring at me.

“Nick, I can’t make a decision like that for you.”

“I know you can’t. I’m not asking you to. It’s all mine.” “But maybe it would help if you talked it out.“

I shrugged.

“I doubt it, Lydia. I’ve been over and over it, again and again. I’ve considered every possible argument, for and against. And I just don’t know what to do.”

“Nick, for God’s sake, what wit?”

I sighed. “Well... I might as well tell you. But don’t—please, please, don’t—breathe a word of this to anyone. It involves behavior control. Or, as it was once euphemistically called, ‘behavior modification. ’ But I’m talking about behavior control by chemical means, not by psychological conditioning.”

“You mean by giving an object a pill or injection?”

‘ ‘I wish it was that simple. But it’s not a single object I’m talking about; it’s an entire population. Look, the principle is an obso one. More than seventy years ago we started putting traces of iodine in table salt. It practically eliminated goiter in this country. ”

I paused to see if she reacted. If she, as I suspected, might be a victim of hypothyroidism. But she showed nothing but fascinated interest.

“Then we put chlorine in our water to make it potable,” I continued. “Then fluoride—all chemicals.”

“But they’re like—like medicine!”

“Right. No one but the ignorant could possibly object. But we established the principle of involuntary ingestion of chemicals by government decree. All right, now take this situation: We have a prison riot. The warden and several guards have been seized as hostages; the prisoners threaten to kill them. They’re destroying the prison. We can go in with armored tanks and flechette guns. Sure, a lot of objects will be stopped, but the riot will be over. Now every prison in the country is supplied water from a central source, pipe or tank. Wouldn’t it make more sense to put tranquilizers or hypnotics in the drinking water to subdue the entire prison population without loss of life? Wouldn’t you opt for that?”

“Yesss,” she said. “I guess I would.”

“What about Harlem, or Watts, or any other ghetto being torn apart by a race riot? Rather than an armed confrontation, wouldn’t you prefer that the riots be calmed by adding say, a soporific, to their water supply? Only for as long as it took to end the riot? Then the authorities could discuss the issues involved with objects not inflamed by blood lust or an uncontrollable urge to burn, baby, burn. Wouldn’t you opt for the drug?”

“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “Now it’s getting complicated. I might approve if it meant saving lives.”

“It would,” I assured her. “But it’s become more difficult than you imagine. Because now we have a whole arsenal of drugs that affect behavior. We can make an object as fierce as a tiger or as mild as a kitten. And not only a single object, mind you, but by adding the chemical to food or the water supply, we can manipulate populations—in prisons, schools, towns, cities, nations, the world.”

“You’re talking about chemical warfare.”

“Not necessarily. I’m talking about behavior control—although I admit the fine line between that and chemwar gets finer each day.' ’ “But you said you had a particular problem?”

“I do. About a year ago—well ... a little less than that—an African nation was admitted to statehood in the US. We can do a lot for them—socially, economically, medically, culturally. But they have one tribe, about ten thousand objects, who are national fanatics and oppose US statehood. These objects are primitives— unbelievably cruel, without conscience, burning and looting and stopping. They can cause absolute chaos in a young state trying to pull itself up from the mud of ignorance and poverty. The other objects in the state number about four million. They want nothing but a peaceful existence, a chance to improve their standard of living and educate their children. Should the ten thousand rebels be allowed to thwart that desire? Most of the dissidents live in one very restricted area. Most of them draw their drinking water from one lake. We could calm them all tomorrow by sending planes over the lake to drop a few centiliters of a clear liquid. That would be a temporary solution. We could make it a permanent solution simply by substituting a different chemical. You understand?”

“Oh, yes. Oh, yes. I understand.”

“But if we poisoned the lot, the international outcry would be—well, just something we don’t want. So a decision has been made at the highest possible levels of our government. It will be a two-part program. First, the rebels’ water supply will be treated with tranquilizers and antiaggression drugs. That will take care of the immediate problem. The long-range cure—if you can call it that—is to stop the tribe. Our prosterility drugs are not as dependable as they might be, so it was decided to take advantage of a genetic deficiency from which the rebels already suffer naturally. ’ ’ “Which is?”

“Sickle-cell anemia. We’ve practically wiped it out in this country. Genetic manipulation led to an oral drug. In developing the inhibitor, we also learned how to synthesize a stimulator. We can stop the entire rebel tribe in one generation. Long enough to forestall any international accusation of genocide, and short enough not to endanger the social and economic development of the state. I have been ordered to work up the technology: drugs required, •amounts, preferred methods of delivery, and so forth. And that, Miss Ferguson, is my problem. Now give me advice.”