The Tomorrow File (58 page)

“Oh? What is it?”

“I’ll keep an eye on what you write about the DCS before I decide whether to give it to you.”

“Jesus Christ,” he said disgustedly. “You’re learning fast.”

“I learned that at my father’s knee.”

“Which reminds me,” he said. “My little girl has been pushing me to buy her one of your father’s new Die-Dee Dolls.”

He didn’t have to say more.

“Don’t spend the love, " I told him. “I’ll have one sent out to you from the factory. You should get it in time for Christmas.” “Thanks, Nick,” he said gratefully. “I appreciate that.”

I knew he would. One of the Government Operations Committee Representatives left early for another party. He took Maya Leighton along with him. I knew
he’d
appreciate
that.
Politics is objects. But so, it may surprise you, is science. In many respects. Winning a research grant, manipulating the race to be “first,” earning credit for a discovery, or scamming your team leader—all are not too unlike getting a piece of legislation through the US Congress. The stakes may be higher in Washington, that’s all.

After the final guests straggled away, Sady Nagle and Joe Wellington joined Paul and me for a final coffee and postmortem. We agreed the housewarming had been a success. An effective kickoff for the DCS campaign.

“I wish the Chief Director had been here,” Paul fretted. “It would have made it more important.”

Nagle and Wellington laughed.

“Sonny,” Sady said, “believe me, he’s got more important things to worry about. He’s given you a chance. What more do you want?”

“He’s testing the water,” Wellington explained. “If he sees the DCS is going, he’ll link himself more closely. If it doesn’t look good, he’ll pull clear. He has his personal image to consider. You heard what he said: He can’t afford too many failures.”

“This isn’t going to fail,” Paul said coldly. “I guarantee that.” After Sady and Joe departed—kisses all around; Washington had adopted many of the conventions of show biz—Paul and I lingered over a bottle of natural brandy we had
not
served our guests. “What’s bothering you?” I asked him.

He looked at me thoughtfully.

“I must never forget how perceptive you are of my moods,” he said.

“That’s right, Paul,” I said lazily. “You must never forget that. So what’s bothering you?”

“Sady Nagle is an obso. You know that.”

“And?”

“She’s never had any memory conditioning.”

“Paul, she's Deputy
Chief Director for Domestic Affairs. The
Chief's political expert.
She’s supposed to know more about what keeps the country ticking over than anyone else.”

“You know how she keeps her records?”

“How?”

“On file cards. Would you believe it? A card for every Congressman, for every governor, for every magnamayor and minimayor in the country. One for every big poi and little poi. Superlawyers and superbankers. Judges and wardheelers. Business execs, labor barons, college presidents, and professors with clout. Prime TV and newspaper factors. In other words, the Establishment. Movers and shakers. She’s got them all. Thousands and thousands of file cards. With name, address, phone number, date of birth, brief physical description, political affiliation, voting record, marital status, conditioning, personal likes and dislikes, if any. And so forth. Then she’s got a cross-file on dates. She sends out birthday cards, I anniversary cards, condolence cards. To the pols and to their parents, spouses, children, grandchildren. It’s incredible!”

“Seems to serve.” I shrugged. “She’s on top of the political scene. The Chief Director depends on her.”

“But that card file’s so
obso,"
Paul said angrily. “Nick, do you know how Judidat functions?”

“Judidat? Is that the legal outfit?”

“It’s a legal service. Available to attorneys. At a lovable fee, of course. Suppose an object is indicted for homicide. Or any other crime. The defense attorney retains Judidat. They come into the community where the alleged crime was committed. They do a public opinion poll in depth. Heavy motivational analysis. Every- | thing goes into a computer, and they get a complete personality profile of objects whose sympathy is with the accused. Say the PP show white, em, under thirty, limited conditioning, strong parental influence, conservative politics, deep religious leanings, under-sexed, whatever. All right, now the defense attorney knows what to look for in the voir dire. He tries to get a jury as close as possible to the Judidat profile. Then, after the jury is selected, Judidat moves in closer to construct life histories and psychological profiles of the individual jurors. Into the computer again. Out comes an analysis that dictates the thrust of the defense attorney’s arguments, what questions to ask, what areas to avoid, what triggers to pull. How, in fact, to manipulate the jury. Judidat’s attainment rate runs around ninety-plus.”

“Paul, what
is
this?”

He was smiling at me. A sly smile. Almost ferrety.

“Nick, I want to bring one of Phoebe Huntzinger’s whiz kids down from GPA-1 to study Sady Nagle’s silly file card operation. And then to design software to get the whole thing on tape. Setup a political Judidat process so we can run Congress through a computer and get the most effective arguments for the DCS, what areas to avoid, what triggers to pull. We’ll start with Congress, but eventually we’ll include everyone in Sady's file. The entire Establishment! The whole power structure! Think what that could mean to us—-and the Chief Director too, of course. Instant analysis of the viability of proposed legislation. Accurate percentile predictions of success. What buttons to push for maximum response.’’

“You think Sady will lend her file cards to your computernik?” “No way. Not voluntarily. She sleeps on them. But you and I know there are ways. ...”

“Forget it,” I said loudly. “Too much risk. Alienate Sady and we’re stopped. Just forget it. It’s for the Tomorrow File.”

“The Tomorrow File?” he said furiously. “This is for today. Right
now.
We can’t wait. Nick, we can get the whole thing set up on a computer in GPA-1. Top security. Crash priority. We can have it serving in time to give us the answers on this DCS project.” “No.” I shook my head. “Absolutely not. It would obsolete Sady Nagle completely and probably get Wingate questioning our motives and solutions again. We narcotized him the first time around. Something like this would revive all his suspicions. Put it in the Tomorrow File.”

“For God’s sake, Nick!” he shouted. “We’ve got to start moving the Tomorrow File to actuality. You said so yourself. You said it’s not just a Christmas list; it’s a plan of action!”

“But you’re moving too fast. You’ll clever us both right into Cooperation Rooms. Being drained. Forget it!”

He didn’t accept it easily. An ugly pout twisted his mouth. He jumped to his feet. Slammed palms together. The sharp crack of something breaking irretrievably. Then he put his hands on his hips, stalked angrily about the room. He didn’t look at me. Finally he stood with his back to me. I heard him take several deep breaths.

“All right,” he said. Controlled voice. “All right. We’ll do it your way. I’ll put it in the Tomorrow File.”

“Good. That’s best, Paul. Really it is.”

“Are you going to tell the Chief Director about the UP project?” he asked suddenly.

He caught me by surprise. I couldn’t compute his sudden jink.

“Why . . . no. I hadn’t planned to. We having nothing to show him, Paul. Not yet. It’s just a concept.”

“But it’s a political drug.”

“Sure; if it authenticates. But what’s the point of telling him now?”

“Just a thought,” he said casually. “I’m going to bed.”

A week before Christmas, 1998, I drove down to Washington from GPA-1 in my official sedan. I was carrying gifts for Paul, Mary Bergstrom, Maya Leighton, and Seth Lucas. And a liter of natural bourbon for Joe Wellington, a jeweled owl’s head brooch for Sady Nagle, a natural silk scarf for Penelope Mapes. I also had a gift for Grace Wingate: giant hoop earrings of hammered silver. But still undecided if I might risk the giving.

I had not endured the aggravating traffic jams' on the New York-Washington freeway merely to celebrate the birth of Christ in the Nation’s Capital. A meeting of the D. C. Beists was scheduled for the evening of my arrival. Hopefully, it would provide an opportunity for my first meeting with Grace Wingate since the Chief Director’s reception for DIROB.

Paul had transferred his membership from the New York chapter of the Beists to the Washington organization. He suggested, in view of our new ranks and close identification with the Department of Creative Science legislation, it might be discreet to wear civilian clothes to the meeting. I concurred. I slipped the tissue-wrapped silver earrings into the pocket of my tweed jacket and carried a vodka-and-Smack into Paul’s bedroom while he finished dressing.

I sprawled on his chaise lounge and watched him fuss with butterfly bowties in front of a wardrobe mirror.

“Polka dot or paisley?” he asked.

“Paisley,” I said. “More festive. Is this going to be a Christmas party?”

“Something like that,” he said. “We’re all supposed to bring something. I had a cake delivered. We have a place of our own now. Did I tell you that?”

“No. You didn’t. ”

“Oh, yes. A meeting hall over a delicatessen. You can get heartburn on the elevator. With a uninest and a small room for administration. I’m secretary-treasurer.”

“Congratulations. ’ ’

“Thank you. More than two hundred members, and growing. I think I can make something of it.”

“Why?”

“It’s a giggle.”

“Paul.”

He turned to stare at me. How he had changed in the past few months! Now he looked like a young Napoleon: broad brow, brooding eyes, sweet lips, a darkling cast to his expression. Withal, a cold, firm resolve in those effeminate features.

“I know you think it a giggle,” he said.

“But
you
don’t?” I asked.

After our blast over computerizing Sady Nagle’s card file, I thought our relationship had regained its former tenor: open, candid, easy.

“Oh, I suppose it’s a laugh now,” he said. “Like all religions. But I see something in it.”

“And what is that?”

“Primus: Beism is not only
not
antiscience, but whatever codified beliefs it expresses advocate increased scientific research and social change. Secundus: A new society might do worse than encourage a state religion. As a kind of emotional spine. A new patriotism.”

“Oh-ho,” I said. “Pope Paul.”

“The first.” He grinned.

The new Beist meeting hall was simply a large, square, dusty room with a stage at one end, elevated two steps above the floor. It was almost filled when we arrived. The number of Beists surprised me. I had a fleeting impression of having left pregnant rats in a cage and returning a few nights later to find the cage crowded and swarming.

Paul left me to claim one of the cane-backed chairs on the rostrum. Reserved for the governing board. The last time I had attended a Beist meeting, the movement seemed unstructured, with no desire for rulers. I wondered what role Paul had played in this nascent power pattern.

I glanced about casually. I could not see Grace Wingate.

The meeting was called to order with the banging of a gavel. We all found places on those hellishly uncomfortable chairs. Joanne Wilensky, as dreary and acned as before, welcomed members and newcomers. She called on a chapter officer to make a membership report.

This ef, wearing the zipsuit of a PS-3, read a short statement. There were now Beist chapters in fourteen towns and cities. Total national membership was estimated at close to three thousand. I was astounded. It seemed to me very rapid growth for such a rinkydink cult.

Then Secretary-Treasurer Paul Bumford was called on to make his report. It was a remarkable performance. Without notes, he delivered a concise, number-filled account of his office. He spoke for almost ten minutes. Without hesitation or stumble. His memory conditioning was obviously successful.

Even more surprising to me was what he said. The Washington, D.C., chapter of the Beists now had a bank balance exceeding ten thousand new dollars. Paul said that since the only existent office equipment was an obso typewriter (donated), he strongly urged that the sum of three thousand new dollars be approved for the purchase of a new electric typewriter, a mimeograph machine, stationery, and the requisite office supplies. His suggestion was put in the form of a motion and overwhelmingly adopted.

The evening’s speaker was then introduced. He was Arthur Raddo. A young em with lank blond hair falling untidily over his forehead. Enormous eyes with a fervid stare. Flat lips he licked constantly. Wearing a wrinkled, soiled zipsuit of a PS-5. His physical appearance gave the impression of limp ineffectuality. But his voice was unexpectedly loud, passionate. Still, I was certain he was a frail.

He said that up to that point in time, the Beists had been content with rather vague canons and implied scripture. What was needed, Raddo proclaimed, was a start on structuring the Beists’ beliefs, to put them into written form, in a sort of Bible to which all members might voluntarily submit and adhere.

In addition, he said, such written prescriptions would serve as a basis for proselyting. For the time had passed when Beism could be content with the casual addition of the bored and curious and lonely to its membership rolls. The time had come to move actively to build numbers, require discipline, exercise power.

If Beists were sincere about the evolution of the human species into a single superrace, he said, then they must devise a program to purify the blood. That was the phrase he used: “purify the blood. ” But he never defined it, and I could only assume he actually meant to improve the gene pool. Although he never concretized how this was to be done. “Purify the blood!” he kept shouting. “Purify the blood!” 

“We cannot stand still and talk and hope,” he concluded. “We must sacrifice ourselves if the future is truly to belong to us. To the single, divine human race.”