The Tomorrow File (22 page)

“They didn’t on Saturday,” I said. “I’m sure of that. Wiley said they had a trip to make, another visit. They wouldn’t risk a random stop-and-search on the road. These objects are not simpletons.” “All right,” Angela said. “Let’s go ahead with it.”

“After I have it set up,” I said. “I’ll brief Mansfield. Then I’ll brief Burton Klein.”

“But at the very last minute,” Angela warned. “His Division may be infiltrated, too.”

She thought of everything.

Monday:

0945. I flashed Dr. Henry Hammond from a station outside the compound. I told him I thought I could diddle a gate guard. But the object had a Grade D genetic rating, and I wasn’t sure I could trust him. If the guard cooperated, it would be from cupidity, not from a desire to overthrow the US Government. Hammond said he would have to “consult my rulers.” I gave him my apartment code.

1745. Hammond flashed me back. He said his rulers approved of the plan, “in principle,”’ but needed to know the gate guard’s name and how much love he wanted. I told him the guard was Leon Mansfield, and he’d probably want 50,000 new dollars.

2330. Hammond flashed me again and said his rulers instructed me to offer Mansfield 25,000 new dollars.

Tuesday:

0930.1 flashed Hammond and said the guard would take 35,000, but no less. He said he’d relay the message.

1840. Hammond flashed me at my apartment and said the 35,000 was acceptable. But could I compute any way to ensure the future silence of Mansfield other than stopping him, since his rulers avoided personal violence whenever possible. A giggle, that. I answered by saying that the most obvious solution would be to make the payoff before witnesses, in an isolated place where the transaction could be photographed. Like Hammonds’ Point. He said he’d get back to me.

Wednesday:

0830. A call from Hammond to my apartment. He was off camera. He said his rulers approved of the plan. I was to bring the material requested to his summer place on Saturday, at 2030 precisely. I was to be accompanied by the bribed guard, Leon Mansfield. No one else. At that time, 35,000 new dollars would be turned over to Mansfield and the deal would be filmed. I said that was just dandy. I was almost certain they meant to stop Mansfield and reclaim their funds.

I was about to leave for my office, thinking of how to brief

AssDepDirSec Burton Klein on what would be expected of him, when my flasher chimed again. My father came on screen. He didn’t look well.

“Nick,” he said, “Mother’s ill.” His voice was unsteady. “Bad?”

“Yes. I think so. She’s in bed. I don’t know. Bradford is here. He says she’s just going. She won’t eat.”

“Can he get some fluid into her?”

“He says it’ll have to be under sedation.”

“She wants to die.”

“Nick, make her live.”

“How? We can strap her into machines. Shove tubes into her veins. Keep her heart pumping. Is that what you want?”

“No,” he said. “You?”

“No,” I said. “Let her go with will.”

“I remember how it was at first,” he said. “When we—”

He stopped suddenly. The brute wept. I waited patiently. “Ahh,” he said, “memory is a curse.”

“Is it?” I said. “Put Bradford on.”

“I can’t,” he said. “He’s upstairs with her. He said about two weeks. Maybe more. Nick, I’ve got to go.”

“Go?”

“Our plant in Connecticut. There’s been a tragedy. We’ve lost a whole run of Poo-Poo Dolls. They’re falling apart on the shelves. Something went wrong.”

“Yes,” I said.

“I stand to lose half a million.”

“Yes,” I said. “When do you want me?”

“As soon as possible.”

I couldn’t get a government hypersonic to Detroit. The regular flight had been suspended since six months previously, when a courier plane letting down over Lake Erie had swamped a pleasure boat with the sonic boom. Six objects had drowned. “The investigation is continuing. ...”

‘ ‘I’ll get a commercial flight from Kennedy, ’ ’ I told my father’s flickering image. “I’ll be there at 1223.”

“I’ll hold my jet until you come in,” he said. “I’ll have the copter there to take you to Grosse Pointe.”

We switched off. I moved precisely. I flashed my own office. One of my secretaries was in. I told him to book me on commercial

Flight 128 to Detroit, leaving at 1058. I told him to requisition a Section copter to get me to Kennedy. I flashed Paul Bumford’s office. He wasn’t in yet. I left a message: I was leaving on a threeday; he was to call Angela Berri for details. I flashed Angela’s apartment. Her serving ef came on. She said her ruler was showering. I told her to get Angela to the flasher. Angela came on, wet, hair dripping, a big pink plastowel wrapped around her.

“What, Nick?”

“My mother is ill. I’ve got to take my threeday now.”

“Take as long as you need.”

“Can’t. The meet is on for this Saturday.”

“It’s set?” she asked, coming alive.

“Definitely. Less than an hour ago Hammond flashed me. It’s Saturday night at 2030. I’m to be at Hammonds’ Point with Mansfield and the things they want. Paul will contact you. Have him pack the classified material in a bag, a box, a carton—anything. A transmitter at the bottom. Are you tracking?”

“Yes.”

“Burton Klein will receive. The code is—listen carefully—the code is, ‘That’s everything you wanted.’ Repeat.”

“That’s everything you wanted.”

“Correct. Then Klein moves in—fast. I’ll be back by noon on Saturday. I’ll pick up the carton and Mansfield and drive up to Hammonds’ Point. Any problems so far?”

“Nooo,” she said slowly.

“Angela, you’ll have to brief Klein and Mansfield. Will you do that?”

“Of course,” she said briskly.

“The important point is the timing. Klein will have to be in position before I get there. Show him the Instaroids and map of the site. And Mansfield will have to be rehearsed on his role.” “I compute,” she said. “Not to worry. Everything will be set by the time you get back. Nick, I’m sorry about your mother.”

I was about to switch off when suddenly she held up her palm. “Nick,” she said, “will Lydia Ferguson be there? On Saturday?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Is it important?”

“Yes,” she said. “We want to take as many of them as possible. Especially Lydia. To tie them in with stopping Harris.”

That made sense to me. I looked at my digiwatch.

“I’ll flash Hammond,” I said. “I’ll arrange it.”

“Good service, Nick,” she said.

I took another few minutes to call Hammond. I explained I had to go out of town on personal affairs, but I would return in plenty of time for the Saturday meeting. I asked him if he’d drive Lydia Ferguson up to Hammonds’ Point. I’d meet her there and drive her back to the city Saturday night.

“Of course, Nick m’boy,” he said genially. “Of course.”

I had time to scan two files on the flight to Detroit. The first originated in the Culture Section of the Department of Bliss. It dealt with the problem of televised executions. Ratings were down. Although not stated in the memo, it was in the state’s interest—as I previously explained—to keep TV viewing audiences at optimum levels.

Capital punishment had been legislated in 1979, but only for federal crimes. Originally, these included treason, espionage, military desertion, kidnappings in which the victim was stopped, bombings or hi-jackings of interstate carriers, and assassination of government servers.

Over the years, the list of capital crimes had been enlarged to include all kidnappings, all homicides, threats and acts of terrorism against the state, use of and trafficking in restricted drugs, forgery of federal specie (including BIN cards), acts of public terrorism, defiling the US flag, willful political dissent with the intent of overthrowing the government, and “slanderous and/or libelous actions taken against public servers.”

The guilty were executed by electric chair. Not only was it a popular TV special, but it was believed that TV exposure of capital punishment had a socially beneficial effect on those contemplating similar crimes.

In any event, ratings were off. The CULSEC memo asked for suggestions for more “visually stimulating” methods of execution that might regain the lost audience. The answers seemed obvious to me. Hanging, garrotting, or even the revival of the guillotine would certainly prove more visually stimulating. And when these methods palled, as I supposed they eventually would, there was always drawing and quartering.

I scrawled quick notes on the border of the memo. One of my secretaries would transcribe them into acceptable officialese.

The second file, a thick one, was labeled “Hyman R. Lewisohn. ’ ’ It concerned the health of the em who, more than any other object, was the source of innovative ideas for the social, political, and economic progress of the US.

Lewisohn’s genius had come to the attention of the government in a curious manner. Early in 1973, at a diplomatic reception in Teheran, an aide of the economic counselor to the US Embassy had been chatting with the Shah.

“That was quite an article by your Professor Lewisohn,” the Shah mentioned.

“Ah yes, Excellency,” the aide said, as smoothly as he could. “Remarkable.”

The Shah looked at him closely, then smiled.

“Yes,” he said. “Quite remarkable!”

An hour later a coded cablegram went to Washington:
rush URGENT RECENT ARTICLE PROFESSOR LEWISOHN.

The article and the author were finally tracked down. Hyman R. Lewisohn was an obscure professor of economics at an obscure Midwestern liberal arts college. His article had been contributed ($25 honorarium) to an obscure monthly trade journal of the petroleum industry.

Working with only a primitive desktop computer, Lewisohn had proved, quite simply, that petroleum was too valuable to be burned as fuel. His theory was based on estimates of the finite quantity of petroleum in the world. He then computed the future cash value of heating oils, kerosene, gasoline, lubricants, naphtha, and similar products versus the future cash value of plastics, chemicals, drugs, dyes, fertilizers, and—a pure conception at the time—synthetic protein.

Lewisohn was offered a US Government post. He refused. The rank-rate was doubled. Again he refused. An Undersecretary of State was sent out to talk to him. It must have been a bewildering interview for the public server.

Hyman R. Lewisohn was the orphan of immigrant German Jews.

He was a victim of achondroplasia, with the enormous bulging forehead common in such cases. In addition, he had a crop of coarse red hair, paid absolutely no attention to his grooming or even to his personal cleanliness, and deliberately discouraged personal relationships by a rude and offensive manner. This included expectorating on the floor, loudly deriding the opinions of others, lewd gestures, and so forth. But he had one thing going for him: He was a genius.

Eventually, he stated his terms for public service. He was to be paid 100,000 new dollars annually. Living and working quarters were to be provided, with a relatively small, compact, versatile computer. His expenses for periodicals were to be paid, including the obso romantic novels to which he was addicted. The government agreed immediately, making the most lovable bargain since the purchase of Alaska. We had bought the power of Lewisohn’s creativity.

And now that power was stopping. The file I scanned contained the most recent contingency plan from the Chief Resident at Rehabilitation & Reconditioning Hospice No. 4, near Alexandria, Virginia. It was not encouraging. The obso em was not responding to treatment. Bone marrow transplant was recommended. I realized I had to go down there myself and scan him. His continued existence was—well, essential. That was all I could say.

When I came down the ramp at the Detroit airport, I was met by the blue-haired copter pilot. She was wearing her Chinese red zipsuit with the embroidered “flAlRToys” across one breast. The other disembarking ems looked at her voraciously.

“I’m supposed to guide you,” she said archly.

“Oh? Where?”

“To the private plane area. Your father’s over there, waiting at his jet. And the copter’s parked there.”

My father was standing at the cabin door of the sleek twin-jet. There were three objects with him. One em was Ben Baker, his production manager, carrying a plastic box. The other two were assistants, one ef, one em. Introductions were made. We all stroked palms.

“Thanks, Nick,” my father said. “I knew I could depend on you.”

“How’s Mother?”

“No change. Ben, show him.”

Baker took the lid off the box he was carrying, held it out to me. I bent over to look. The stench drove me back.

“Jesus Christ!“ I cried. “What
is
it?”

“What is it?” my father repeated bitterly. “When it left our Connecticut factory five weeks ago it was a perfect Poo-Poo Doll. Something happened.”

“Something sure as hell did,” I agreed.

The mess in the box was putrescent. It stank. The plastic body of the doll had deteriorated, decayed almost to the point of liquidity. The rot had discolored the dress, stained the hair, even corrupted the little plastiglass eyes. It was a small corpus. Fetid.

“Ben,” I said, “what caused it?”

“I wish I knew,” he said miserably. “That’s the most automated toy production line in the world. Computerized quality control. Bells go off if anything isn’t just perfect. Automatic temperature and fluidity controls. Foolproof. Fail-safe. But we lost a whole run.”

The ef assistant spoke up.

“Everything since that run has been perfect,” she said. “We’ve done heavy analysis. They look fine.”

“How long did the bad run last?” I asked.

“A week,” Ben Baker said. “Actually a little less than six days. Before, the dolls were fine. After, the dolls were fine. But during? Murder!”

“We can’t let it happen again,” my "father said furiously. “Never!”

On that happy note we separated. I watched my father’s jet take off. Then I took the copter to Grosse Pointe. The ef pilot didn’t stop chirping.

“What’s your name?” I interrupted once.

“Beryl,” she said. And started up again.

We landed on the front lawn. I handed my case over to a sad-faced Charles and went immediately to my mother’s bedroom on the second floor. Shades and drapes were drawn. But enough late Afternoon light came through to pearl the room. Mrs. McPherson was seated woodenly at my mother’s bedside. I went over to the bed, picked up the feather hand, tried to find a pulse.