The Tomorrow File (28 page)

He told me—at length. I had heard the story before: Hyman R. Lewisohn was destroying his sanity.

“Insulting, is he?” I asked. Knowing the answer.

“Insulting? Nick,
that
I could take. But he’s obscene. Yesterday he threw a full bedpan at the morning nurse. His language and habits are filthy. The only way I can get anyone to attend him is to bribe them with extra threedays. We had to put him in restraint to clean him up, and then he complained to the Chief Director who ordered me never to do that again. He pulls out his tubes, spits out his pills, urinates on the floor. Nick, he’s a beast.”

"I know, I know,” I said. “Luke, you’ ve got a megaproblem; no doubt about it. How is he responding to treatment?”

“Not good. Want to go to marrow transplant?”

“No. Not yet. It’ll incapacitate him for too long. Have you ever used the BCG vaccine with irradiated tumor cells?”

“A few times. Nick, it just postpones the inevitable. I think we’d do better to go to the marrow now.”

“Tell you what. Suppose I come down next week and we’ll talk about it. Maybe I can persuade him to stop acting like a depraved child.”

“Oh, God, would you do that? It would be a big help.”

“I’ll flash you on Monday and we’ll set a time. Don’t tell him I’m coming. But alert your team; I’ll want a colloquy.”

I switched off and looked at my next week’s schedule. That would be an all-day consultation. Lewisohn was suffering from acute myelogenous leukemia. There were several methods, of treatment; if one didn’t serve, you tried another. You hoped the patient would hang on until you found something effective.

Ellen Dawes came in for the morning ration of real coffee. She was her usual smiling, pleasant, unflappable self; a good way to start a hectic day.

When Angela Berri had moved to Washington, she had taken two of her four secretaries with her. That left me two short. I brought Ellen with me. Now I was one down. Paul Bumford, with the addition of Maya Leighton, had his appropriate three. But of course, I had wall-to-wall plasticarp while his, in my former office, ended twelve inches from the baseboard. Also, I had a private nest, a small kitchen, and windows on three sides.

I had an 0930 meeting scheduled with Frances and Frank von Liszte the twin Assistant Deputy Directors of the Division of Law & Enforcement. I went over to their conference room, at their request, since they wanted to make a presentation that involved big charts, graphs, visual aids, etc. Also, they wanted the top objects of their staff to be present. As I had expected, the meeting dealt with the legal problems of inheritance generated by the Biological Revolution.

At that point in time, we had developed fourteen methods of mammalian reproduction, seven of which had been used successfully on human objects:

1.    Artificial insemination

2.    Artificial enovulation

3.    Parthenogenesis

4.    Fertilization
in vitro,
the fetus brought to “birth” in an artificial placenta

5.    Auto-adultery (resulting only in ef offspring)

6.    Embryonic cloning

7.    Sexual intercourse

This list, of course, did not include embryonic or gonadal transplants, which posed similar legal problems.

In artificial insemination, did the child inherit from the mother’s husband or from her donor? Could the husband sue for divorce on the grounds of adultery—even if he had agreed to the impregnation but changed his mind later?

In artificial enovulation, did the child inherit from the ef who bore it, from the ef who donated the fertilized egg, from the em who provided the sperm, or from the husband of the ef who bore the child?

In cloning, where as many as twenty identical offspring had been produced from a single embryo, did all progeny inherit equally?

I had heard all these problems discussed before, endlessly. But in that morning’s conference, new input was added. The von Liszts, after a great deal of research, had come up with reasonably firm statistics on the number of objects in the US bred by methods other than using. They also displayed charts showing computerized projective curves on the number of such objects to be expected in five, ten, twenty-five, and fifty years. It was brain-boggling.

“Well,” I sighed, after the presentation, “what solution do you suggest—or was this just a preview of my future migraine?”

I derived a lot of profit from Frances and Frank von Liszt. They were attractive twins with their infantile complexions, flaxen hair, light blue eyes, young profiles. I could believe the rumor that they used each other. Why not?

Now, speaking alternately, they explained what they proposed. They were getting nowhere with bar associations. The debates on recommended legislation were futile. What the von Liszts suggested was an official government “position paper” that would at least give a basis for logical and informed discussion by interested jurists.

I questioned them and their staff closely. Did a child born of electrical parthenogenesis have
any
legal father other than a dry cell? If clones were brought to “birth” at different times, either in an artificial placenta or by implant, would the one born first be the senior, inheriting from the natural father?

It was a lively discussion. I enjoyed it. I had no law degree, but I knew molecular genetics better than they. I finally approved of their plan to draw up a preliminary government position paper. I also suggested they give some thought to a discussion with academics of the government’s Science Academy with a view to creating a new field of Biological Jurisprudence: objects conditioned in genetics
and
law.

I went back to my office, not optimistic that their proposed position paper would ever be allowed distribution to the civilian bar associations for which it was intended. Too controversial. And if it was distributed, would it help clarify the issues? The kaka would continue, perhaps even intensified.

Paul Bumford was waiting for me. I took him into my inner office and closed the door.

“All set for tonight?” I asked.

“Yes. We’ll be up about 2100.”

“No fancy dress. Just an informal get-together.”

I was speaking to the suspected sharer as much as to him. He computed.

“Another thing, Paul,” I said. “Please get out a Telex to all the Hospices asking how many parabiosis volunteers each can furnish for a leukemic victim. Don’t mention Lewisohn by name. The less publicity on this the better.”

“You’re going to parabiosis?”

“Not immediately. Just preparing. Anything else?”

“No, that’s all. Walk me to the elevator?”

“Sure.”

In the crowded corridor, a zipsuited throng was noisily waiting for high-speed elevators to take them down to the building cafeteria.

“San Diego,” Paul murmured. “Hawkley, Goldfarb and Bensen. Got that?”

“Yes.”

“Hawkley is the only senior partner still alive. Sam Gershorn says he’s one year younger than God. But he has some smart junior partners.”

“Good. Can you come up early tonight? Just you. About 2030. The efs at 2100.”

“Uh-huh. Important?”

“No. Just talk. For the Tomorrow File.”

“Fine. I’ll fix it. See you at 2030.”

As DEPDIRSAT, I carried weight at the motor pool. I had first choice of the Section limousine, a huge, black, diesel-powered Mercedes-Benz. Reserved for my exclusive use was an electronically powered two-door Chevrolet. I took the small sedan and drove up to Canal Street, to one of the public flasher stations scattered around the city. I wore a light raincoat over my zipsuit.

I sat in a small booth and after about five minutes of spelling the names for Information operators, I finally got through to Hawkley, Goldfarb & Bensen in San Diego. I made certain my raincoat was zipped up to the neck; my uniform wasn’t visible.

A plumpish, matronly secretary came on.

“Hawkley, Goldfarb and Bensen,” she said, in a surprisingly deep, emish voice. “May I serve you?”

“Could I speak to Mr. Hawkley, please? My name is Nicholas Flair. I’m calling from New York.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Hawkley isn’t in today. Could you speak to someone else?”

“To Mr. Hawkley’s secretary, please. I’d like to make an appointment to meet with Mr. Hawkley.”

“Just a moment, please, Mr. Flair. I’ll see if she’s in.”

She went off-screen. A full-color reproduction of one of Van Gogh’s self-portraits unexpectedly took her place. And I was treated to a symphonic rendition of Bach’s
Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring.
It was a new device introduced about a year previously. When a commercial operator had to hold a call, she switched on a gadget that simultaneously showed an “ageless painting” and played “immortal music.” So the caller wouldn’t get bored waiting. I wondered how long it would be before there were similar gadgets showing illustrations from the Kama Sutra and playing “Gimme Head Blues.”

When Van Gogh disappeared, and Bach was cut off in midstrain, the ef who appeared was very young, very blond, very— “Yes, Mr. Flair?” She dimpled. “I am Mr. Hawkley’s private secretary. May I serve you?”

“I’m calling from New York,” I repeated. “I’m coming out to San Diego next week and would like to make an appointment to meet with Mr. Hawkley to discuss possible investments in real estate and industrial properties in the San Diego area.”

“And may I ask who referred you to us, Mr. Flair?”

“You may ask, but I won’t answer. It’s not important.”

She didn’t seem shocked, or even surprised by my answer. She was making no notes. I suspected our conversation was being taped. “Would Tuesday afternoon at 1500 be satisfactory, Mr. Flair?” “Fine. I’ll be there.”

“In case Mr. Hawkley is unable to keep the appointment, how may I get in touch with you, sir?”

“Unfortunately, I’ll be out of town and unavailable,” I said. “But I’ll check with you Tuesday morning to confirm the appointment.”

I stopped at a government grogshop in the neighborhood and picked up four bottles of Bordeaux. The clerk swore—“On my mother’s grave”—the wine had been made from real grapes. I didn’t believe him for a minute. In the early 1980’s the multinational cartels had started buying up French vineyards. The prices of natural wines and brandies went so high that the only things left for most objects to drink came out of oil wells.

In my office, I had Ellen Dawes get through to Phoebe Huntzinger at our Denver Field Office. It took almost fifteen minutes to locate Phoebe in Denver’s Computer Room. When she came on screen, she was wearing white paper coveralls. She looked her usual cool, imperturbable self.

“Nick,” she said. “How are you? Checking up on me?”

“Of course,” I said. “I thought you might have taken off for Rio. How are you, Phoebe? Any luck?”

“A little. We’ve tuned the laser and boosted the amplification. The signal is stronger now, sharper, but preliminary tests still don’t show much more than they did before.”

“Still no conceptions?”

“No. Just sensations and inconclusive tests on simple words like ‘Go.’ ‘Come.’ ‘Walk.’ ‘Run.’ Things like that. Then we tried emotive words: ‘Cry.’ ‘Shout.’ ‘Frown.’ ‘Scream.’ ‘Smile.’ And so forth. A little progress there.”

“Fine. I think you’re on the right track. Who's the Team Leader?”

“An em named Stanley. That’s his last name. Peter Stanley. Know him?”

“No. Good?”

“Well. . . .He’s enthusiastic’.”

“That helps. Is he around now?”

“Just went out for coffee, Nick. Anything I can do?” “Phoebe, the problem there may not be the technology. It may be in the experimental objects. When Stanley gets back, suggest he try hallucinogens on the objects prior to test. Especially lysergic acid diethylamide. If it intensifies sensation the way the freaks claim, it may get a conception through to the computer.”

“Wild idea,” she said.

“Worth trying. Probably nothing, but you never can tell. If he’s short on hallucinogenic drugs, tell him to requisition more. I’ll approve.”

“I’ll tell him, Nick. It’s nice out here. I profit from it.” “Don’t stay too long. You might not come back.”

I was assigned a private serving em from the Maintenance Department to keep my penthouse in order. He was ordered to serve six hours a day, four days a week. I suspected he served about ten hours a week and watched TV the remainder of the time. It was cushy duty. Knowing the customs of the lower Public Service ranks, I supposed he had paid his ruler something for the assignment. In any event, my apartment was kept reasonably clean. I could detect no pilferage or search of my personal effects, so I was satisfied.

The em, a bearded obso, was just going off duty when I arrived home. I gave him one of the bottles of wine I had purchased and told him not to come in on Saturday until after 1200. He asked no questions; the wine was answer enough.

I undressed, slid into bed, napped until 1900. Then I rose, showered, pulled on a fresh summer-weight zipsuit. I wore no underwear. I switched on a music cassette—Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons
—opened one of the bottles of Bordeaux, and sampled it. It might not have been produced from grapes, but a clever chemist had compounded it; it was light, dry, with good body and bouquet. Only the acrid aftertaste betrayed its test-tube origins. I tried a drop or two on a plastowel. The stain washed out immediately. That was encouraging. I once performed a similar test with a “genuine grape Burgundy.” Not only was the stain indelible, but two hours later there was a hole in the towel.

The air conditioning had been turned on full all day; the apartment was almost painfully cold. I stepped out onto the terrace, sliding the thermopane door closed behind me. I wandered around to the west side. The setting sun looked like a human ovum.

It was a hot July evening, the atmosphere supersaturated, the air smelling distinctly of sulphur. There had been an inversion layer over much of GPA-1 for the past two days; objects doing outdoor service wore masks over nose and mouth, glared at the murky sky with red-rimmed eyes. I went back into the chilled interior thankfully. It might smell of Freon, but it was better than breathing smoke, ash, soot, hydrogen chloride, carbon monoxide, sulphur dioxide, and air that had been filtered through too many lungs before it was my turn.