The Tomorrow File (71 page)

liquid? Remove the original file card. Sign a letter to R. Sam Bigelow stating that
my
visual inspection had verified the original deposit of 416HBL-CW3.

And when the BPS snoops, alerted by the smashed 5 cc flask in the hand of the stopping Arthur Raddo, decided to check personally on all amounts of
Clostridium botulinum
issued to research Gruppen in 1988, how would I explain its absence from my pharmacology library? And my official letter stating it was intact and untouched?

Strangely, my first reaction was admiration. I remembered what Art Roach had said after I had explained how we had broken his arm in order to share him.

“That was
beautiful
,” he had breathed.

So was this. Beautiful.

Then I felt sick.

From an address to an international convention of neurobiologists held in Chicago, Illinois, on May 3, 1999:

“There is no precedent in history for what is happening. Those who look to the Mechanical Revolution 6f the Nineteenth Century or the Technological Revolution of the Twentieth Century for aid in coping with our problems will look in vain.

“For the Biological Revolution of the Twenty-first Century is unique in human experience. It deals not with materials, equipment, and tools—not with
things
—but with objects, members of the species
Homo sapiens.
It is revealing to us not only how to change objects already in existence, but how to alter our own evolution. To change both for the better, I hasten to add, so we might more easily deal with and plan for the radically transformed society that tomorrow will inexorably bring.

“As neurobiologists, you know there is nothing absolute in human nature. Nothing that cannot be manipulated for the greater health of the individual and the greater good of society. What are these alterations in the corpus we must seek if we are to insure the physical and mental health of citizens of the Twenty-first Century? Suppose we start with the brain, and consider what neurobiological manipulations may be of benefit to the gene pool of the future. . .

And so forth. And so forth. Kaka.

Worst of all, I didn’t even have the consoling presence of Samantha Slater’s wormish corpus in my hotel room. At the last moment, Joe Wellington had revised the travel scenario.

“Sorry, Nick,” he said, “but I need Samantha here in D.C.-ville. HR-316 is coming up for a vote next week; it’s no time to scatter the troops.”

It was downputting, but l couldn’t stamp my foot and pout. After all, it
was
for the DCS. As I boarded the jet for Chicago, a slender em in a checkered cap bumped into me. As I entered the hotel lobby in Chicago, a plump em in a checkered cap jostled me.

A less mentally healthy object might have suffered an onslaught of paranoia. First Joe Wellington’s squelch of my amour propre. Then what might have been a tail by a confederation of checkered-capped enemies. All this on top of the disappearance of the 5 cc flask from my pharmacology library.

That was
no irrational suspicion. The bottle was gone, and I was responsible for it. I had glossed it as best I could by filling that accusing gap in Position R, Stack 4, Bin 3, Room G, with an identical 5 cc flask of pure glycerol. But it was literally a stopgap measure. Temporarily, until R. Sam Bigelow’s noses came to check volume and analyze contents. Before that happened, I would be able to discover who was manipulating me, and for what purpose. I hoped.

After Chicago, the PR safari moved on to Minneapolis, Omaha, Denver. In the last city, I spent a day at the DIVRAD Field Office with Tom Lee, reviewing his logistic plan for moving Project Phoenix to Hospice No. 4 in Alexandria, Virginia. He had projected well. I made a few minor alterations—more to assert my authority than from any real need for change; a server’s plans are
never
totally operative—and then gave him the go for the move.

On to Oklahoma City, New Orleans, Memphis. Speeches, colloquies, interviews, symposia.. My only pleasure was in writing and mailing a letter, every day, to Louise Rawlins Tucker. Addressed to her. Intended for the eyes of Grace Wingate. I wrote, I suppose, many foolish things .But they gave me much joy. I had never bef ore known the happiness of stripping oneself naked in words. Surprisingly therapeutic.

And eventually, back to Washington, D. C., May 26, 1999. On

the day I returned, the subcommittee of the House Government Operations Committee passed HR-316 with but one dissenting vote. I was in time for a sedate orgy at the home of Penelope Mapes to celebrate our initial victory. I had hoped Chief Director Michael Wingate, and wife, might be present. They were not. But Louise Rawlins Tucker was.

“How is she?” I asked.

“She’s lonely,” she said.

“She got my letters?”

“Of course.”

I looked at her with admiration. She was taking a dreadful chance. She turned back to me then. Smile fading. Eyes hardening. Not an ef I’d care to cross.

“I told you,” she said. I could scarcely hear. “Hurt her, and I’ll—”

“I know, I know,” I said hurriedly. “I believe you. I have no wish to hurt her. I told you that. And I told her. If something goes wrong, the CD will save her. But you must save yourself.”

“And you?”

“I’ll worry about it when the time comes. If it does.”

“It’ll be too late then,” she said. Suddenly, embarrassingly, her eyes filled with tears.

I stared at that dragoon of an ef. The big, blotchy face. Like seeing a rhino cry. I couldn’t compute it.

“When may I see her?” I asked softly.

“Tomorrow. Noon. My home.”

“I thank you,” I said. And moved away.

I left the party while Paul and Mary Bergstrom were still there. Carefully computed. I went back to our Chevy Chase home. Directly to Paul’s bedroom. His desk was unlocked. After five minutes’ search, I found the membership list of the Washington, D. C., chapter of the Beists. I was startled by their rapid growth: more than five thousand names. I scanned Arthur Raddo’s address until I was certain I had it. A scurvy neighborhood on Sixth Street.

I located, with difficulty, two lovable liters of natural California pinot noir. I carried them both to the safe house. One for us; one to be left behind for that stern obso ef who was risking too much for our joy.

The door was opened to my third ring. For the briefest of microseconds I was panicked by the sight of a stranger. But no, it was Grace Wingate. Wearing the same middy, blue scarf, pleated skirt, white plastivas sneakers she had worn to the Beist meeting the first night we met. What had delayed recognition was a heavy wig of russet hair. Drawn back, braided into a single plait that hung down her back. Thick and long as an em’s arm.

She laughed delightedly at my astonishment. Whirled to exhibit. The pigtail flung out and struck me lightly across the face. I caught it. Held it to my lips. Thick hair. Strong. Scented.

“What on earth?” I said.

“It’s real human hair,” she said eagerly. “Not synthetic. From France, I think. Or Bulgaria. Some place like that. Do you like it, Nick?”

I pulled that live hawser in, hand over hand, until her back was j against me. Tightly. I moved the woven plait so that it curved over her shoulder, hung down her front. I reached around to clasp it there.

“Wanton!” I whispered in her ear.

She glanced back at me. Mischievous.

“Yes, I am,” she said. “With you.”

It was a creamy noon. Breeze hinting of summer heat. Altocumulus high in a pellucid sky. On such a day, why should I glance about casually at the windows of strangers, overlooking our garden, our secret place, and wonder where hypersensitive parabolic microphones might be emplaced?

We sat on a curving bench in the arbor. The poor, peeling lattice that seemed fated to know July as bare and forlorn as it had endured December. The entire garden had that feel: gentle decay and soft sadness. All colors muted. All scents fragile. Even a cricket’s chirp faint and hesitant.

After some initial chatter, she seemed to sense my reverie, and was quiet. Then she leaned close, back half-turned so that I might caress her glossy plait.

“You do like it,” she murmured. “Nick? Don’t you?”

“Oh, yes. Very much.”

“More than my own hair?”

“Not more than,” I said. “But as much as.”

She giggled softly. “I can never catch you out.”

“I’ve had a lot of experience,” I said, i I left off stroking that rope of vibrant hair. How could hair, as nerveless as a fingernail, so pulse with life and seem responsive to a touch? I slid a hand beneath her loose middy. Up. Stroked, with timorous fingers, her naked back.

“Oh,” she said.

I sat without moving. Regarding with wonder my wandering hand. It was not I, but my scampish fingers that searched, smoothed, probed. It was not I, I swear. That vagrant hand had its own mind, and would have its way. I felt it palm her cool, quivering flesh. Arch to scrape nails from arm to torso. Then, sneaky hand, it shifted furtively to circle her. Pull her closer. Until sly fingertips could touch her bare breasts. And stealthily search out a nipple soft and yielding as a bud. My wayward hand stopped there.

After a few minutes—my hand and I motionless—she turned to glance at me.

“Nick?” she said.

I was silent.

She moved away to face me. The lifeless hand fell limp from beneath her blouse.

“You look so strange,” she said.

“Do I?” I said. “I feel strange. Something strange is happening to me.”

I stood up. Shakily. Leaving my wine glass on the slatted bench. I wandered about that shoddy garden. Kicking gently at doomed plants. They would never make it. Never. I went back to sit beside her, take her two hands in mine.

“Do you believe I love you?” I said. “Love you more than any object or thing in this world? Do you believe that?”

“Yes,” she said. Gravely. “I do believe that.”

“You scanned my letters. You must know how I feel about you. The fantasies.”

“They were beautiful,” she said softly.

“I could only hint. Imply. I didn’t want to compromise you, or Louise, by writing a complete scenario. You compute?”

“Oh, yes.”

“It seemed to me that if we could use each other, I might very well stop with profit. I imagined how it could happen. Many times. In great detail. Scents. Tastes. The touch of you. A wildness.”

“Don’t you think I’ve thought the same? Many times? Mad dreams.”

“I know, I know. And yet . . . and yet, a while ago, when I touched your sweet breast, I knew suddenly it would be a defeat. For me. For you. For our love.”

“A defeat? Nick, I—I’m not sure I understand.”

“You think I do?” I burst out. Almost angrily. “It doesn’t scan. I know it doesn’t. I know you bought that lovely wig for me. I was so excited when I felt it. And when I touched your body, I thought: It will be
now.
This afternoon. We will do it now. I can’t tell you what that was. Rapture.”

“And then?”

“A cold fist clamping around my heart. That using each other would defeat us. Our love. What is it, Grace? Tell me. Do you know? I love you more, now, at this moment, than ever before. But why should I feel this? That using will ruin us. What we are to each other.”

“You feel it will—will
soil
us?”

“I don’t know.” I groaned. “I just don’t know. I’ve used hundreds. Efs and ems. You know that. I told you that. I’ve done things you might think perverse. I never felt defiled. Or that I was corrupting my user. I never felt guilt. Never! But then—but then. . .

“But then?” she prompted.

“But then I’ve never loved before. I thought it was an obso vulgarity. Now, loving, I think I want it to be new. All new. Oh, I must sound a choice idiot! I’m sorry, Grace. I wish I could analyze exactly what I felt and could explain it to you. All I know is that it’s important to me. The most important thing in my life. Can you tell me? Please! Tell me what it is.”

She put her arms about me. I put mine about her. Mouths close without kissing. The moment stretched without breaking.

If she had demanded we use each other immediately, I would have obeyed. And been potent, I knew. Exhibited my expertise, taken profit and given it. But I was right: It would have been a defeat. I think she sensed it, too. For we had never been closer than on that magic afternoon, in that secret garden. Realizing that everything that had gone before was preliminary. Now we were exploring a frightening realm. Where intimacy was so profound that it was mixed with fear of the unknown.

From that day on, my life became trichotomous. All the tangled skeins twisted into three strands. The strands braided into one rope. Like Grace’s glossy plait. There were a few stray tendrils: the campaign for the Department of Creative Science, and so forth. But my main concerns devolved into: My relations with Grace Wingate and the shattering self-analysis that demanded; the rowen of the botulism outbreak in GPA-11 and the missing flask of 416HBL-CW3 from the GPA-1 pharmlab; and Operation Lewisohn, the most complex administrative project I had ever ruled. A hundred talented servers to be directed and managed in such a manner as to ensure that minimal 30 percent success possibility I had predicted to the CD.

When the entire staff had gathered in the Lewisohn Building in Hospice No. 4,1 convened the first general assembly in Operating Theater D. Staff sat on the tiers of polished benches that rose high above the actual operating area. They were behind glass walls that were attached to the ceiling. I stood in the arena. Speaking to them via a PA system.

As per orders, they were all wearing the color-coded paper gowns and caps of their groups. Green for surgeons and anesthesiologists. Blue for Leo Bernstein and his servers. Brown for the Project Phoenix Team. Gray for Phoebe Huntzinger’s computerniks. White for nurses. Red for the Production Team. Purple for Operation Directors. These colors had not been picked by whim; they had been selected with the aid of the psychoneurology miniteam from Houston. They had advised that red and purple represented high authority to most objects. A centuries-old conditioned reflex. The miniteam itself, present to administer Ultimate Pleasure injections and placebos to the Operation Lewisohn staff, and to analyze the results, wore zipsuits.