The Tomorrow File (27 page)

“Lewisohn’s condition. He shows no improvement. I'm trying to foresee every eventuality.”

The next day, about 1400, I flashed the copter pad. I asked if Phoebe Huntzinger was there, They told me she had taken off for Kennedy about an hour previously. I thanked them and switched • -off.

I went over to her office. Her Executive Assistant was a sluggish em with the unlikely name of Pomfret Wingate. Known as Pommy. He was the organizer and director of the Section’s little-theater group. They called themselves the Masque & Mirth Society. Atrocious players.

I chatted with Pommy a few minutes. Or rather, I listened to Pommy chat, describing the Society’s coming season that would include a nude performance of
King Lear.

Finally I mentioned casually that I was serving on the budget and wanted to scan a list of contractors and suppliers the Section had dealt with for the past five years.

“Surely, Mr. Flair,” he said. “But it won’t include anything over fifty thousand new dollars. Those reels were sent to Washington. DIROB’s orders.”

‘‘I know,’ ’ I said. “I just want to scan the small fry so I can make an informed estimate of expenses for the coming year. Could you get that for me?”

“Surely, Mr. Flair,” he said.

I sat at Phoebe Huntzinger’s cleared desk, running reels through her viewing machine. I made heavy notes in case anyone looked in and wondered what I was doing.

I was looking for a regular supplier who specialized in one___

particular product, who was not located on the East Coast, and who operated with a limited physical plant and few servers. I found three possibles.

I finished in an hour, returned the reels to Pommy, thanked him profusely.

“Surely, Mr. Flair,” he said. “Don’t forget the nude
King Lear
on October tenth.”

“Who’s playing Lear?” I asked.

“I am.” He giggled. “Nothing but a beard!”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said.

I took the list back to my office and sat computing the three candidates. I looked them up in a thick
Directory of Contractors and Suppliers,
an indepsec publication of the Department of Bliss. One of the three was eliminated immediately. It was too large; it was publicly owned. A second I set aside because of its sole product: electronic prosthetic devices for the armless and legless. I couldn’t see any logical justification for a sudden increase in its sales.

The third supplier listed was small, located in San Diego, California. It specialized in hallucinogenic drugs: mescaline, cannabis, bufotenin, lysergic acid diethylamide, etc. Its sales to SATSEC had averaged about 30,000 new dollars annually over the past five years. The directory stated it was a privately owned corporation, employed twenty-four servers, had a good credit rating, owned a somewhat obso physical plant valued at approximately

200,000 new dollars. There was no record of any government prosecution or even investigation of illegal trafficking, mislabeling, or unexplained loss of inventory. Unusual for a company producing hallucinogens.

The name was Scilla Pharmaceuticals, Inc. I wasn’t sure I could afford it, assuming they were open to a tender. I spent the evening computing my personal finances.

Over the years, my mother and father had each given me 50,000 new dollars, the legal gift limit. It was tax-exempt and would reduce taxes on their estates when they stopped. And although I had never lived frugally, I had managed to save a small proportion of my rank-rate, lecture fees, love from writing assignments, etc.

I kept my cash balance in the American National Bank to a necessary minimum. Most of my assets were in common stocks of publicly held corporations. About 50 percent was invested in Hair Toys, my father’s company. I trusted his acumen. The other half was almost all in drug manufacturers. I usually knew, weeks or months in advance, when a pharmaceutical company was close to the solution of a difficult research problem, and might announce a new commercial product shortly.

In 1979, all stock exchanges in the US had been merged into one, the Consolidated Stock Exchange, CSE. For a monthly leasing fee, they provided an electronic push-button device, slightly smaller than a shoebox, that tied in with your flasher line. Simply by punching out the symbol of your stock, the current price was shown on a small screen.

That evening I ran my list of love affairs through the stock scanner (popularly known as the “suicide machine”). The total came to a little more than 150,000 new dollars. A few miscellaneous investments in insurance policies, government, and municipal bonds, etc., plus my ANB balance, brought my total to almost 200,000 new dollars. It would, I judged, be sufficient, either converted into cash or as collateral for a loan.

I flashed Paul Bumford. He came on screen in a dressing gown, holding an official record I recognized as a directory of DIVRAD objects serving in Field Offices. He was still learning.

“Paul,” I said, “you’ve been serving too hard. Come on up for a few minutes.”

“Nick, I really better—”

“It’s a lovely night,” I said. “But wear a sweater or jacket. We’ll sit out on the terrace and have a drink.”

He stared at me a moment. Then he computed.

“Ten minutes,” he said.

“Fine,” I said lightly. “See you then.”

The last few months had mutated him. He was no longer pudgy. The girlish flush was gone from his skin. The face was thinner, harder. His whole bearing was more confident. He carried himself with an almost authoritative arrogance. Serving as administrator of so many objects had done that.

We took our vodka-and-Smacks out onto the terrace. It was a gorgeously mild night, but at that height the wind had an edge. We sat in the shadowed comer where, not too long ago, we had plotted with Angela Berri. My penthouse was swept electronically once a week. But that meant nothing. The sweeper might be reporting directly to Angela Berri. Or to Art Roach.

I went through it as briefly as I could. It wasn’t even apian. It was a plan for a plan. I blocked it out for him, suggesting what might be done, alternative approaches, what we might hope from luck and chance. I finished.

“Well?” I asked.

“Complex,” he said.

“Richly complex,” I agreed. “But only in the details. The overall design is elegant. Almost pretty. I gather you’re not interested.”

He leaned forward, hands clenched between his knees. He almost hissed. I was startled by the venom in his face.

“You think I haven’t been computing this?” he demanded. Voice low and intense. “Every minute. Waking and sleeping. Ways. Means. Methods. Plots. Plans. Including inviting her out to lunch, saying, ‘Oh, Angela, look at that woman in the funny hat,’ and then slipping a bomb in her drink.”

“I know,” I said sympathetically. “But that’s stupidity.”

“I
know
it is,” he said passionately. “I knew it when I thought it. But I thought it, Nick, I actually
thought
it. Your way is best.” “You’re sure?”

“I can’t better it. Dangerous. For both of us. But the possibility of success is there. Jesus, Nick, you’ve got to be so
careful.”
“Not only me,” I said. “You, too. Then you’re in?” “Whatever you ask,” he said.

I leaned forward. He leaned forward. We kissed. Then we leaned back. Both of us took a deep breath. Knowing we had crossed a line. “What’s first?” he asked.

“That lawyer in Oakland—the one who discovered who owns Angela’s beachhouse. What’s his name?”

“Sam Gershorn.”

“Flash him tomorrow. From outside the compound. Tell him you have an obso friend who’s retiring and thinking about the San Diego area. Ask Gershorn if he can recommend an attorney in the San Diego area who handles investments, especially industrial properties and real estate.”

“I’ll do it tomorrow.”

We started to rise from our chairs, then Bumford settled back. He touched his lips with two pressed forefingers.

“What input do you have on Art Roach?” he asked.

“Not much. Subjective reactions. Not a profitable em. Potentially violent.”

“Yes. I’ve been making a few cautious inquiries. Here and there. He used around the Section a lot. All efs. A stallion. And not nice. Rough.”

“Psychopathic?”

“Probably. Sado. He put one ef into a hospice. About a year ago.

“I didn’t hear anything about that.”

“Angela glossed it.”

“She did?” I pondered that tidbit. “Yes, that makes sense. That’s how she knew Burton Klein was investigating her. Roach was her em inside DIVSEC. She bought him by covering up his assault. I told you: She doesn’t see problems, she sees opportunities.”

“He’s a danger, Nick. As much as she is.”

“I know.”

“We should get a control on him.”

Paul was right. I computed the problem, then forced myself to compute the opportunity. It would be difficult, with Art Roach stationed in Washington. But it could be fiddled.

“You’re not going to like it, Paul,” I said.

“I told you, whatever you ask.”

“Your new secretary. Maya Leighton.”

“What about her?”

“Bisexual?”

“Possibly. I think so. Why?”

“Is she using Mary Bergstrom?”

“I doubt it. Maybe. I don’t know. Is it important?”

“Very. We can’t afford to alienate Mary. Can you find out if they’re users?”

“I’ll try.”

“Paul,
do
it. Casually, humorously, if you can. If not, a direct question.”

“All right. Then?”

“I’ve got to use Maya.”

“Nick!”

“Got to.”

“I don’t follow.” “To set up Art Roach.”

“Ahh.”

“You don’t profit from the idea of my using Maya?”

“No.”

“Paul, it’s necessary.”

“I know, I know. How will you get her together with Roach?” “No idea. Yet. I’m just winging it. But the first step is determining if she’s right for the service. What do you think? Is she ambitious?”

“Very.”

“Sexually curious?”

“Yes.”

“On anything? Smoking? Drinking? Popping?”

“On
everything.
But she functions. And very well.”

“So?”

“Yes. You may be right, Nick. You always are. I’ll set it up. ” “No,
I’ll
set it up. Friday night. You and Mary Bergstrom and Maya Leighton come up about 2100. We’ll have a few drinks, smoke a little hemp, talk a little business. Nothing about
this.
Understand?”

“Of course.”

“During the evening, I’ll get Maya aside and suggest she leave with you and Mary, and then come back up here about a half-hour later. You know nothing about it.”

“I compute, Nick.”

“She may return or she may not. If she doesn’t, we’ll have to find another ef. If she does, I’ll take it from there. Paul, are you certain you control Mary Bergstrom?”

“Certain.”

“Are you users?”

“No.”

“Then how do you control her?”

“Well.. . .Well, we talk. I listen to her. I even listen to her play the flute. She doesn’t have any friends. So I—”

“Paul? What is it? Do you have an investment in this ef?” “Nick, I swear to you, I don’t know. I don’t really know. That's operative. I do know she’ll do whatever I say.”

“That’s good enough for me. Let’s get moving on this.” “Thank God! At last!”

After he left I had another drink. I paced the floor. I knew what

was bothering me. /should have thought of the idea of getting a hook into Art Roach. Paul Bumford was not only becoming more confident, he was creating fresh and operative ideas. I wasn’t certain that development was lovable.

I took an eight-hour Somnorific.

On Friday morning, I sat down to a breakfast of dissolved orange-flavored concentrate (500 mg of ascorbic acid per teaspoonful), probisks, and a hot cup of coftea. As I munched and sipped, I scanned the front page of my facsimile
Times.

The lead story, under a three-column head on the
left-hand
side (human behavior analysts had finally realized that most non-Judaic objects scanned from left to right) carried a Washington, D.C., dateline. It concerned a speech delivered by Angela Berri, Director of Bliss, to the national convention of the Actuarial Guild of America. Angela stated at the outset that the ideas she would express were based on the concepts of Hyman R. Lewisohn.

A radical revision of the Social Security laws was proposed. An object who had contributed to the SS fund all his serving life, and to which his employers had contributed, would have an equity in that fund. It would not end when he stopped. It could be bequeathed. It would be part of his estate.

Such a law, if enacted, would mean a revolutionary adjustment of Social Security deduction rates. An upward adjustment, of course. It would also mean the US Government was getting into the life insurance business. I could well believe the New York
Times
report that Angela’s proposal had been greeted by the assembled actuaries with “incredulous murmurs.”

That was of no importance to me. What I found of interest was Lewisohn’s basic conception. For some time, I had suspected that all the ideas from his prodigious brain were not simply fragmentary answers to fragmentary problems. I imagined that extraordinary em had conceived a Plan, and every suggestion he made was part of a visualized design.

That filthy, cantankerous dwarf was putting together a new world,
his
world. I could not perceive its delineation. But I knew,
knew,
there was a grand Lewisohn Plan. He was creating a mosaic, a piece here, apiece there, chuckling obscenely. I found it a stress to manipulate SATSEC. He read his obso novels, vilified his doctors and nurses, scorned the rot of his corpus, and jauntily encompassed us all.

The moment I arrived at my office I flashed the Chief Resident at Rehabilitation & Reconditioning Hospice No. 4. He came on screen almost immediately, with his habitual manner of expecting every call to presage disaster. Dr. Luke Warren was a perennially worried little em. His field was biomedicine, and he was good. Not just competent, but
good.

“Luke,” I said, “how are you?”