The Tomorrow File (21 page)

“If my phrases sound obso to you, forgive me. But there are no new words or better words available. A society of personal liberty, freedom, justice, equality. A diversified society of individual choice, not decree by the Public Service. Does that satisfy you?” “Dr. Wiley,” I said earnestly. “I believe you are sincere. And the other objects in this room are sincere. But sincerity isn’t enough. Can you give me evidence—any evidence at all—that what you’ve told me is operative?”

Again they looked at one another, heads swiveling.

“We’ve gone this far. . . .” Martha Wiley said.

“Dr. Flair,” Tod DeTilly said, “you know about the recent wave of bombings, assassinations, kidnappings, and sabotage against scientific research facilities?”

“I’ve heard of them,” I said cautiously.

“I’ll bet you have.” He laughed. “Not all of them were made public. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“I will name a few that were
not
made public,” he said. “The only way we could know about them is by having planned them and carried them out. Will that convince you?”

“Yes.”

“In your Denver Field office, a hundred aborted fetuses destroyed. A cancer-sensitive strain of rats poisoned in Dallas. A cyclotron sabotaged in Illinois. A neurosurgeon assassinated at Berkeley. Is that sufficient—or do you want more?”

“That’s sufficient,” I said. “I’m convinced.”

“Well then,” Dr. Wiley said genially, “now that we have delivered our secrets to you, let’s return to the secrets we want you to deliver. I have already mentioned the photographs or films of Fred. In addition, we have prepared a little list. Martha?”

She took a paper from her purse, unfolded it, rose to hand it to me. I scanned it swiftly. I was genuinely shocked, and let if show. I looked up at Wiley, feeling a sour smile stretch my face.

“It’appears you have infiltrated my Division,” I said.

“Oh, yes.” He nodded. “We have objects everywhere.” Again I scanned the list. All the material they wanted—letters, reports, statistical studies, tapes, films—all concerned classified projects. Some had a higher priority than others, but none were known to outsiders—supposedly.

“Very technical material,” I commented. “Quite specialized. “ “I believe we will be able to compute it, Dr. Flair.”

“I’m sure you will,” I acknowledged. “But if this is the sort of thing you’re looking for, why on earth do you want a photo of Fred? What possible good will that do you?”

“Surely you’re not as obtuse as that, Dr. Flair?” he said. ‘‘Media exploitation. ’’

“Oh-ho,” I said. “You’ve decided to go public?”

He laughed.

“A nice way of putting it,” he said. “Yes, our national leader-, ship has decided the time is ripe to bring our activities to the attention of the public. To publish our aims. To make an appeal for public support. The reproduction of Fred’s photograph and films in facsimile newspapers and on TV will show even the most indifferent citizen exactly what the government is doing, and show it in shockingly dramatic fashion. The secret material we are asking you to furnish will provide added ammunition. It will be a two-part program of public enlightenment and education: What we are against and what we are for.”

I scanned again the list I held in my hand.

“I can’t simply walk out of the compound carrying all this,” I said. “If you have members inside, you must be aware of our security precautions.” *

“Oh, sure,” Vernon DeTilly said, grinning cheerfully. “Your problem is getting the material out of the files—right?”

“That’s not the big problem,” I said. “I could manage that—at great risk. But how do I get it out of the gate? Every package is opened and searched. I am required to open my purse and empty my pockets every time I pass through, no matter how many times a day. X-rays. Metal detectors. Ultrasonic detectors. Odor analysis. The instrumentation is extremely effective.” “Microfilms?” Tod DeTilly suggested. “Or microdots?”

“In what kind of carrier?” I asked. “And by what means— swallowing? No, thanks. Not this mass of material.”

“Broadcast?” Vernon DeTilly said. “To a mobile receiver parked outside the fence?”

“Impossible. We are constantly monitored electronically. They’d be on me in seconds.”

“Mail?” Henry Hammond asked.

“Packages fluoroscoped,” I said. “Letters opened on a random basis.”

“Isn’t restricted material
ever
taken out of the compound?” Lydia Ferguson asked faintly, then blushed at having ventured to speak in this august assemblage.

“Of course.” I nodded. “But then you need a pass signed by your ruler. In my case, that would be Angela Berri, DEPDIRSAT. In addition, the gate guard is required to flash the ruler signing the pass to verify its authenticity.”

“A problem,” Dr. Wiley agreed. “It will be difficult, I know. But we have great faith in your intelligence, creativity, and talent at synthesizing an informed judgment.”

“What you’re saying,” I told him, “is that I have no choice.” “That is correct, Nick,” he said gently. “You have no choice.” “How do I contact you?”

Wiley looked at Hammond.

“I’ll be in the city next week,” Hammond said to me. “Alice is staying out here, but you can flash me at our apartment.”

“By Monday,” Dr. Thomas J. Wiley said.

“Monday?” I was incredulous. “You’re only giving me two days to come up with a viable plan?”

“I told you,” he said. “We have great faith in your talent.”

I drove Lydia Ferguson back to New York through the gathering twilight. It was a trip made in morose silence.

“I’m sorry, Nick,” she said once.

I didn’t answer.

“I suppose you hate me,” she said sometime later.

I didn’t answer.

But then, the lights of Manhattan glowing across the river, I thawed.

“No,” I told her, “I don’t hate you. I know you did it from a deep belief.” 

“Oh, yes.” She sighed. “A deep,
deep
belief.”

She put her head on my shoulder, hugged my arm. We drove up to her door that way.

She asked me to come up. If I hesitated, it was because I feared she might want me to listen to all her rationalizations of her deep, deep belief. I had had enough histrionics for one day. But her motives were simpler.

“Please?” she said, touching me.

When we were naked in her bed, she teased my body with hot fingers.

“You’re so profitable, Nick,” she murmured. “You’ve used a lot of efs, haven’t you?”

“No,” I said, “you’re the first. You routed my maidenhead.”

She laughed.

“And ems?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“I’ve never tried it,” she said.

“With ems?”

“Don’t be silly.” she giggled. “You know what I mean.”

“I’m bisexual, ’ ’ I admitted. ‘ ‘By intellectual choice and physical predilection. I think most objects are, admittedly or not. The sexual preferences of obsos were conditioned by biological necessity and hence by society. Neither prevail today. Efs can procreate without sperm. The preservation of the species is no more vital than its limitations. Now we can indulge our operative natures, which are androgynous.”

“What does all that mean?” she asked.

“That I like to use both efs and ems.”

“Oh, yes,” she breathed. “Use me.”

Perhaps her betrayal of me, via the tape on the African incident, excited her, empowered her. She was aggressive, bold, a leader now, not a follower. Even while taking profit from her strong attack, I puzzled her motives—and mine. Once again it came back to mastery and surrender, but on a primitive level.

Even with my ears pressed flat between her sweated thighs, I pondered if what we felt was not operative on a social and political, perhaps even a philosophical level. It would not be the first time that physical spurs had a counterpart in moral and mental passions. Indeed, some obso thinkers believed it all one: a finite quantity of “life force, ’ ’ dammed in the gonads, sure to break out in the cortex. It was interesting.

I resolved to move Paul Bumford’s suggestion of an Ultimate Pleasure pill, the UP, from the Tomorrow File to an active project. It would require an immense amount of service: analysis by neurophysiologists of the physical nature of the orgasm, analysis by neuropsychologists of the emotive factors involved, and finally synthesis by specialists who, to my knowledge, did not yet exist: neurometaphysicians. It might be necessary to condition an entirely new breed of scientific investigators before the problem of the UP could be solved. Difficult. Arduous. But I hardly dared envision the reward. Simply the world and all.

Later—for months—I was to wonder to what extent the events of the following week were due to planning or due to chance. But that kind of deliberation is fruitless, of course. You become immobilized in a thicket of determination, free will, and accident. A lot of kaka. Every object must make a choice between speculation and action. I had opted for action. I was willing to endure the consequences of that choice.

One curious consequence—I confess frankly—was a haunting suspicion that the satisfaction I felt in Lydia’s bed that Saturday night sprang from a subconscious realization that I was using a doomed ef. But I didn’t wish to compute that thought further.

Sunday:

In the morning I picked up a packet of Instaroids from Leon Mansfield at the Seventh Avenue Mess Hall. They were good, clear photos of the four visitors and the license plates of their cars. I delivered the packet to Angela Berri. By evening, she had obtained the home addresses of the four. I believe she served through Lieutenant Oliver of the New York Peace Department. It wasn’t important; we never employed the input.

At our evening conference, I addressed Angela and Paul for almost an hour, describing the Saturday meeting at Hammonds’ Point. I used the actual words of the participants as much as possible.

“So,” I concluded, “that is what happened. We have no physical evidence of their complicity. I have the list they gave me—the restricted material they want. But the list itself proves nothing. Common bond paper. Smudged fingerprints. A dicto-typeprinter we might identify, if we ever find the machine. They are intelligent, wary objects.”

“Is Dr. Wiley the leader?” Angela asked.

“Of them? Yes. But I think his authority is limited. He spoke of ‘our national leadership’ in a tone that leads me to suspect he is not a member. If Paul’s analysis is operative, if their activities are organized on a Geo-Political Area structure, then I’d guess Wiley is director of GPA-1. But he may be only their recruiting chief.” “Suggestions?” Paul said.

“When I saw that escape tunnel leading to the river bank, I thought it would be simple and obvious. Mansfield could plant incriminating material in there, from the river exit. I’d arrange a meeting with all of them. We’d alert Burton Klein and his bully boys and take the lot. We’d have them cold. But then Henry Hammond said his wife would be out there all week. We can’t have Mansfield prowling around. Too much risk. We can forget the tunnel.”

“I agree.” Angela nodded.

“I need a solution by tomorrow,” I said. “The deadline. Here’s a scenario—a little complex, but I think it will serve. I call Hammond tomorrow. I will obtain the material requested and deliver on X day at Y hour. His question: How will you get it through the gate? My answer: I will bribe the gate guard. That simple. I have fiddled the whole security setup by bribing the key object. His question: How much? My answer: Fifty thousand new dollars. Hammond will then say he has to check with his rulers—that probably means Wiley—and flash me back. All right so far?”

“With me,” Angela nodded.

“Me, too,” Paul said.

“All right,” I went on. “Hammond flashes me back. Now it begins to get cute.' His rulers are interested. But can I trust the guard? Meaning, can they trust me? They suspect I may want the love for myself. Or perhaps that fifty thousand will be for the guard, but it will just be the down payment on a blackmail plan that will go on fend on. Hammond is a loon. I can manipulate him, implant the possibility of blackmail in our first conversation. I agree that the guard may prove to be too greedy. So I suggest that when I deliver the material, I bring the guard with me. They take still photos or tape

of the guard receiving the payoff. Then they’ve got him hooked. He can’t blackmail; he’s implicated. They’re home free—they think. ” “Who plays the guard?’’ Angela asked.

“I will,” Paul said.

“No good.” I shook my head. “They’re inside, in my Division. They might have a file on you. It’s got to be an object they know nothing about. A low-rank object. Angela, you’ve got to draw an em from Burton Klein.”

“No,” she said definitely. “Not yet. He’ll have to be called in eventually, when we take them, but not yet.”

She rose and paced about my apartment, hugging her elbows. What an ef! Tight and tough as a tungsten coil. A brain that, by nature or conditioning, targeted instinctively. And the power she exuded! Not because of her rank. Put her on a factory assembly line and it would still be there. I wanted very much to be using her at that moment.

“Leon Mansfield,” she said decisively. “He’ll do. We’ll dress him up in a gate guard’s zipsuit. What the hell is it? Brown? Tan? Nick, will Mansfield do?”

“No,” I said. “He’s got to be in Public Service. That’s the whole point of having them photograph the payoff. Evidence of attempted bribery of a Public Service employee to obtain restricted documents.”

“We can sign Mansfield on as a temporary consultant,” she said. Now it was my turn to pace about, pondering.

“It might serve.” I nodded. “I think so. Obviously, they won’t have a line on him. They won’t be able to check out his Public Service record. If the meet is soon enough, it will go. Yes, I think we can fiddle it. All right. I set up the meet. I bring the evidence. Mansfield plays the gate guard. They take photos of him accepting the love, photos we’ll use later to prove bribery. Then Klein moves in. Timing. It’s all timing.”

“Yes—timing,” Angela agreed. “But we can structure all that. Paul?”

“Nothing wrong I can compute,” he said slowly. “Nick, do they carry weapons?”