The Tomorrow File (73 page)

“I’m sure he was,” I said. Desperately. “But he must have gone out occasionally. Some place in the neighborhood?”

“Well . . .” she said. Needles suddenly still. Head cocked to one side. “Let me think. ... He did. Yes, he did go out. Something Greek. He would go to something Greek.”

“A Greek restaurant?”

“Oh, no. I don’t think so. More like a private club. Where he could meet his friends in a nice atmosphere.”

“But with a Greek name?”

“Yes, I think so. He mentioned it once, and I asked him what it meant, and he said it was a Greek god.”

“A Greek god? Bacchus? Zeus? Apollo? Poseidon? Adonis? Pluto?”

“Adonis,” she said triumphantly. “Yes, that’s it. Adonis.” 

“You’re sure?”

“Oh my, yes. Adonis. I remember very well now. That was the private club Arthur went to. He met his friends there.” 

“Frequently? Once a week? Or twice? More?”

“Oh.. . .” She considered. The needles twirling again. “I’d say at least once a week. I remember it now because he usually went when
The Twenty-six Best Positions
came on. Like tonight. ‘Mother,’ he’d say, ‘it’s
your
program.’ ”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Raddo,” I said. Rising. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“And when will the crew be around?” she asked.

“The crew?”

“The camera crew to tape the interview with me.”

“Soon, Mrs. Raddo. Quite soon. You’ll be hearing from us.” 

“Isn’t that nice!” she said happily.

I was halfway down that dim hallway when she called me back. Knitting needles and wool clutched on her lap.

“Yes, Mrs. Raddo?” I said.

“There was one friend,” she said slowly. “I never met him, of course. Personally, I mean. But in the last few months he called Arthur several times and they spoke on the phone. I don’t have a flasher. Though I’d dearly love one. But do you know how much—"

“Mrs. Raddo,” I said, “did Arthur mention his name? His friend’s name? While he was speaking to him on the phone?” 

“Well, not his last name,” she said. “I never heard Arthur mention his last name, and I never asked. But he did use his friend’s first name.”

“And what was that?” I said.

“Nick,” she said.

I heard the rumble of muffled drums.

During the month of June, rehearsals for Operation Lewisohn progressed, and increased in complexity. The subject was kept animate on parabiotic therapy and massive injections of steroidal stimulants. This protocol resulted, I knew, in a false set of vital signs. His color might be rosy, blood pressure stabilized, respiration normal. But he was, for the purposes of the US Government, a vegetable. Incapable of serving. A temporary condition. I hoped.

Our basic scenario underwent constant, almost daily revision. For instance, in the cold outline of the original script, the Surgery Team, having finished their task, would move out and Leo Bernstein’s Team would move in. Impossible. We had to phase out the surgeons, one by one, as we phased in the hematologists. This called for neat cooperation, microsecond precision.

We were still spending four hours a day on walkthroughs and timing. The confusion had lessened; there was no more pushing, shoving, stumbling.

When the entire staff of Operation Lewisohn were not engaged in the endless drills or sleeping exhaustedly in the unisex barracks, they were practicing their disciplines. I was especially interested in and concerned with the activities of the Surgery Team. Assigned an operation that had never before been performed.

The ST was under the rule of Chief Surgeon Dr. George Berk. A tall, slender ex-soccer star from HMS. He ran a tight ship. When he said “Go,” his servers went. When he said “No-go,” they froze. He had the macho to enforce his edicts. I didn’t like to recall how young he was. Made me realize I was one year away from being an obso. Even his mustache was more luxuriant than mine.

To assist Dr. Berk and his staff, I had purchased two beautifully designed and engineered humanoids from a medical equipment manufacturer in Dachau, West Germany. They were custom-made, patterned on Hyman R. Lewisohn’s exact measurements (taken while he was heavily sedated). Even to the proportions of his ears and the length of his penis.

The dummies were covered with Grade D Juskin, which closely approximated Lewisohn’s coarse epidermis. Within was a plas-titubular circulatory system through which a bloodlike fluid was pumped by an atomic-powered “heart.” The mannequin also “breathed”: the chest rose and fell. When skin was cut, the humanoid “bled.” Interior organs were of various plastics: solid, sponge, glass, rubber, etc. The models had been designed to cry out when “pain” was inflicted (a cut, punch, pressure) unless a specially formularized anesthetic was first administered. This was simply a gas that temporarily neutralized the “voice-making” machinery.

The mannequins were marvels of engineering. The two replicas of Hyman R. Lewisohn had cost the US Government 100,000 new dollars each. But parts not destroyed in surgical practice could be returned to the West German factory for credit against future purchases.

The manufactured Hyman R. Lewisohns proved of invaluable assistance to the Surgery Team. They were able to plan their own surgical schedule, estimate volume of blood loss, practice on an inanimate object that reacted much as would their eventual subject.

It was, I admit, an eerie experience when I first saw the two Lewisohn replicas. Lying naked, side by side, on a wide operating table in the Surgical Team lab. We had sent over photos, hair and nail clippings, under ultrasecret precautions, and the results were astounding. There was the dwarf corpus, bulging brow, thin fringe of reddish hair, brutal features, thick lips. Had the reproductions snarled obscenities at me, I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised.

If the Lewisohn copies shook me, they shattered Maya Leighton. She was not horrified by them. 
"
Fascinated” is the operative word.

Maya had been serving as my Executive Assistant during those early stages of Operation Lewisohn. Like Paul Bumford and Mary Bergstrom, her attitude had gradually changed from cold cooperation to hopeful enthusiasm. In Maya’s case, the sight of those two ‘ ‘breathing” reproductions of Hyman R. Lewisohn ended whatever final doubts she might have in the value of the project.

“What is it?” I asked her. Wanting to know why the sight of those two mechanical objects had so affected her.

She shook her head. “Exciting,” she said. Almost in awe. I still didn’t know. Then.

The Surgical Team busied themselves with the mannequins. Meanwhile, Leo Bernstein’s Team had been serving with live “volunteers.” I had set an arbitrary limit of three stoppages. But after what he learned from the research project at Hospice No. 17 in Little Rock, Arkansas—the development of synthetic blood— Leo’s practice on human subjects resulted in only one stoppage. And that, he suspected, was due to an allergic reaction. He stated confidently that he was ready to go. Knowing Leo, I believed that was operative.

So it all slowly came together. The equipment of Project Phoenix in Denver was airlifted down, set up in Operating Theater D. The direct-wire link with Phoebe Huntzinger’s huge computers in GPA-1 was established and tested. We ran endless game-plans, gradually pushing our own electronic equipment to the ult. Problems arose. Were solved. Defects were discovered. Replaced. Backup equipment was readied (standby generators, a secondary commercial wire link, etc.). The machines were taken as far as we could stress them. That left the objects. The pressures were enormous.

Perhaps Grace Wingate kept me rational. Or, at least, kept me from becoming monomaniac. I know I came from my clandestine meetings with her purged and refreshed. For instance. . . .

A soft, rainy afternoon in early June. Too wet for our secret garden. We stayed in Louise Rawlins Tucker’s great empty house. Curled up in each other’s arms on a sagging sofa. Watching the rain fall. Listening to the old house creak. I had brought her a set of antique Greek worry beads. Amber. Strung on a silken cord. We were handling the polished spheres between us. Fondling them. They were warmed by our touch.

She said—what did she say?—oh, yes, she said that our decision not to use each other would lead to a love that would be "new . . . all new. ” Then I laughed softly. I told her she was quoting me, my first speech on the subject, word for word. Then she reminded me that, a few moments previously, I had been speaking about devotion, and had quoted her, almost word for word. Then we both laughed. Hugging each other tighter.

Because you see, we were adapting to each other. More than that, assimilating each other. Words, emotions, thoughts, attitudes, philosophies. We really were becoming one.

Later, she said, “Nick, do you believe in telepathy?”

I had sudden, total recall of Paul and me. A long time ago. In bed together. Exchanging slips of paper. ESP. Had we communicated?

“Telepathy?” I said, “.Ambivalent, I guess. Why do you ask?”

“A book I read,” she said. “Years and years ago. I think it was in my mother’s library. I remembered it last night. For some reason.”

“A book?” I said. “What kind of a book?”

“A novel. An obso romantic novel. I must have been quite young when I read it. Twelve? Fourteen? Around then.”

“It must have impressed you,” I said. “What was it about?”" 

“I don’t recall all the details, dear. But it was about an ef and an em in love. Deeply in love. One of them stops. I think it was her. It might have been him. It makes no difference. The partner who had stopped returned from beyond the grave. They used each other. The live one and the stopped one. The novel said that their love was so strong, so mighty, that it conquered stopping. Nick, do you believe that is possible?”

I looked at her. Conscious my face was twisting.

“You’re crying,” she said. In wonderment.

“No, no,” I said. “Well. Perhaps. A little. I’d like to believe it, Grace. It’s very moving.”

“But do you believe it?”

“I don’t know. Just don’t know. Do you? Believe it?” 

“Yes,” she said firmly. “I believe it. And that is exactly what I shall do. Or, if you go first, what you must do. Promise, Nick?” 

“I promise,” I said. Did I groan? “And if we both stop? Together?”

“We’ll find a way,” she said confidently.

We stared at each other. So close our eyelashes were brushing. At that proximity, all focus is lost. Pupils become worlds. One falls, swimming. A sweet dizziness. It was, I thought, a kind of parabiosis. Two linked by a vital look. But a two-way flow. A merging.

The exhilaration! An ecstasy to so surrender. It was passing the point of no return, not caring. The freedom! Spirit ballooning. Everything “new ... all new,” and we might come home to a fresh world.

Any wonder that I left her, each time, “purged and refreshed”? Nothing significant but her. Our love. I cannot say why.

We left Louise’s home separately, of course. I departed first. Rode the Metro link into Washington. I went directly to the Executive Office Building where I had a two-hour confabulation with Joe Wellington and his top staffers. Including the serpentine Samantha Slater.

Subject was my third and final PR gig that would take me through the Far West. Conventions, universities, think tanks, laboratories, computer installations, etc. We assumed HR-316 would be approved by the full House Government Operations Committee. The shove was to bring it to floor vote before the summer recess.

After the meeting, I walked slowly toward the Hill. Delaying my return to Hospice No. 4 as long as possible. The Mall was tom up, bordered with construction trailers and heavy equipment.

It was to be the Capital’s celebration of the advent of the Twenty-first Century. A series of houses was being erected in a long line from the General Grant statue to the Washington Monument. They were intended to demonstrate the progress of American homes from 1700 to 2000. One home for every fifty years. Beginning with a log cabin and ending with a plastic modular structure. The theme: “You never lived so good!”

I was surprised by the rapid progress of construction. But most of the obso homes were authentic, borrowed from museums, historical societies, national monuments, etc. Disassembled, trucked to the Mall site, and put back together again. The 1850 home, an antebellum Mississippi slave shanty, was already complete. It stood in a small field of plastirub cotton plants. Looking unbearably forlorn. I watched activities on the Mall for almost an hour. Servers were fitting stained glass windows into the walls of the 1900 home: a Victorian bordello from Chicago.

Then I went back to Operation Lewisohn.

We had tried to anticipate every possible contingency. Including such dire emergencies as fire, explosion (terrorist bombing), power failure, and so forth. But, as frequently happens in planning of such complexity, we had overlooked an obvious and imperative need. It was Paul Bumford who brought the matter to the attention of the Executive Staff.

“Look,” he said, “assuming the operation is a total success, a direct-wire link is established with the computer installation at GPA-1, the Project Phoenix scanners are serving perfectly, and Leo Bernstein is delivering everything he’s promised. Then what?” 

“What?” someone said.

“Then what?” Paul repeated. “We haven’t planned a permanent installation,” he explained patiently. “Where do we move Lewisohn? Where does he
live?
What measures should be taken for his privacy and protection?”

They all looked to me. Waiting. I admit it was my failure. I should have foreseen the problem and solved it. I computed then as rapidly as I could. But all the solutions I plotted had obvious drawbacks.

“I’d prefer he not be moved,” I said slowly. “Too much risk. The ideal siting would be underground, but. . . .”

“Let’s do this,” Paul said briskly. “Leave him
in situ
at the conclusion of the operation. Theater D offers a lot of advantages. Plenty of walk-around space. Facilities for sterile observation. And I so forth. After a reasonable survival period, we call in architects. There are several possibilities. The entire Operating Theater could gradually be lowered underground if the proper preparations were made.”