The Tomorrow File (84 page)

There was no other explanation for that brief question. “/
know,”
the Chief Director had said, in effect, “and now you know that I know.”

I experienced, I admit, an initial terror. But other objects had stopped, and so should I, and so shall you. I consoled myself with that, as best I might, and resolved to act in such a manner as not to tarnish my conception of who and what I was. If self-esteem had betrayed me into seeking revenge on Angela Berri, and led to my downfall, then self-esteem would, at least, enable me to stop with as much courage and dignity possible under the dismal circumstances.

My evening meal was brought and placed on the table.

“Proveal,” the guard reported. “Propots and some kind of white slimy stuff for dessert. Looks good.”

“Thank you, Princess,” I said.

The steel door clanged shut behind her. I didn’t even rise to inspect the plastic tray with its plastic plates of plastic food. I lay on my back, watching the light fade. The darkness move in. Then I computed a problem that had to be faced.

If the Chief Director knew of my love for his wife, knew I had told her of my service on the Morse Committee, then our meetings in the safe place, in our secret garden, had been shared. Or she had betrayed me. One or the other.

It was possible, of course, that she had been forced to speak. But I didn’t think it likely that Michael Wingate would do that to his wife. No, she had either spoken voluntarily, or our love had been shared, recorded, made a matter of dossiers and investigative projects. Even in that empty, deserted garden, sharing would not have been especially difficult.

She would not betray me. Could not. I knew her too well to believe that. Still. . . . The worm gnawed.

I reviewed again those intimate conversations that had been such an awesome revelation. That had introduced me to the glory of opening myself, totally, to another object, and of entering into her. The two of us one as we explored an unknown world. It was an experience of which I had never known I was capable. Had never known existed. As if I might leap from a high place and discover I could fly. As breathless and shocking and deliriously pleasurable as that.

It was quite dark outside, the illumination in my room at its lowest setting, when I came to a conclusion that almost syncoped me with its simplicity. Its purity. Whether our meetings had been shared or Grace had betrayed me was actually of no consequence. Nothing that had been done—for whatever reason—could take from me the exaltation of our love. I did not regret it. That was the operative factor: I did not regret it.

I would never know if she had betrayed me. Never. Even if our love had lasted a millennium. If we had a hundred, a thousand, a million intimate meetings. Even if we had used each other. I would never have learned her sufficiently to know if she was or was not capable of treachery.

For she was, essentially, finally, unknowable. I recognized that now. Unknowable. She was, and I am, and you are.

What will we do when the mystery is gone?

The office of the Director of the Department of Creative Science was a long box of a room. Conference area at one end. Desk, chairs, communication equipment at the other. One of the two ems in the room, wearing the gold zipsuit of a PS-1, sat in a swivel chair behind the desk. The other em, red zipsuited, stood facing him.

On the wall, behind the Director’s desk, a plastic overlay graph was framed and illuminated with its own little lamp. In grease pencil markings of three colors, it was clearly shown that the Satrat and production of the Ultimate Pleasure injection were ascending curves, following almost identical percentage increases. As these two lines rose, a contrary curve, descending, marked the plunging terrorism rate.

The Director switched a tape deck to Fast Rewind. The two ems waited patiently until the empty reel filled up and the machine clicked off. Then the Director removed the full reel and placed it carefully in a cardboard carton alongside his desk. The legend on the carton: “Good-Cheer Skinless & Boneless Portuguese Sardines.” It contained a vast number of tape reels.

“That should do it,” the Director said. “You’re certain this is the original?”

“I’m certain,” the officer said.

“No copy has been made?”

“No copy,” the officer said. “I know better than that.”

“I hope you do,” the Director laughed. “I’ll prepare the transcription personally for the Chief Director. What about the Informed Consent Statement?”

“Signed, sealed, and delivered,” the officer said. “Original to the Chief Prosecutor. Copies to BPS and to our files.” 

“Good. How did you get him to sign it? Drugs? Hypnosis? Shock therapy?”

“Yawl won’t believe this,” Art Roach said, “but we didn’t have to use anything. He really did sign it voluntarily. He was happy to sign it.”

“Oh?” Paul Bumford said. “That’s interesting.”

END