The Tomorrow File (43 page)

“Thank you, doctor,” I said. I meant it ironically, but he missed it.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

“Is it depression?” I asked him

“Close to it.”

“Is
 
he eating?” I asked the dietician.

“Poorly. We’re giving supplements by injection. When we can. He’s a difficult patient.”

“The understatement of the year.” I looked at the blood em. “Doctor?”

“Nothing’s serving,” he said gloomily. “A very stubborn case.”

Then we all sat in silence a few moments. I was thinking—and I presumed the others were computing along similar lines—how important the survival of this disgusting, magnificent object was to my own career. His life had become my life. I would not let him go without a struggle.

“The parabiosis suite?” I asked Lucas.

“Almost finished. Want to take a look?”

“Yes. Paul, you and Mary and Maya come along. Then we’ll beard the ogre in his den. I thank all of you.”

The new suite designed for the parabiotic treatment of Hyman Lewisohn had a fatal flaw. I pointed it out as calmly as I could. The purpose of the massive and lovable alteration of three hospice rooms was to shield him from the fact that his veins and arteries had been snugged with the veins and arteries of a healthy “donor” or “volunteer” or “partner” whose natural immunity might help rid Lewisohn’s circulatory system of the proliferation of immature white cells.

Lewisohn, I knew—we all knew—would not willingly endure this vital linkage. He scorned personal relationships, intimate relationships. They sickened him. He gloried in his independence, in his uniqueness. To such an extent that he rejected every opportunity for friendship. I do not wish to dwell too long on the neuropsychiatric motivation of this em’s behavior, except to point out that his physical ugliness, his achondroplasia, was undoubtedly the gross motivating factor. But unfortunate as that might have been, it may also have been the stimulus of his creative energy. Such things happen.

In any event, I had no wish to “cure” this psychic twitch. In fact, it was to my interest that he continue to function as before. My only concern was his continued existence and ability to serve. Nothing more.

So I pointed out to Dr. Seth Lucas that the dividing wall erected between Lewisohn’s new suite and the room in which the donor would reside was much too thin. Sounds would carry. Lewisohn would become aware of some object existing on the other side of that partition through which ran the tubes and wires necessary for the exchange.

We spent almost an hour planning how the dividing wall might be improved: widening, the addition of insulation, the use of ultrasonic baffles, the placement of Lewisohn’s three TV monitors to mask sounds from the donor’s chamber, etc. Maya Leighton proposed that visitors’ chairs and Lewisohn’s computer be placed on the side of his bed away from the wall, manipulating his attention in that direction. An excellent suggestion.

Then we all trooped down one floor to examine the patient in his ' present quarters.

I saw at once what Maya Leighton and Seth Lucas had meant by i the object’s lassitude. His obscene insults were as vituperative as usual. But they came fitfully, in bursts, almost as a duty to maintain his reputation. Or his ego image. But between outbursts were periods of a condition distressingly akin to catatonia: head turned
^!
aside, eyes unfocused, jaw hanging slackly. That enormous skull seemed more distorted than ever; the corpus had shrunk. Skin on neck and shoulders hung loosely, without tone. Spittle gathered in
¹
the comers of his mouth. Maya wiped it gently away. He looked up , at her dully. She took his hand. I watched. His fingers did not curl about hers.

I remember thinking, bitterly: The bastard is going.

I introduced Mary Bergstrom and Paul Bumford. He did not acknowledge their presence. Finally, he gathered enough energy to demand of me when he’d be out of this “dungheap.”

“Soon,” I promised him. “We’re moving you to a new suite. Upstairs. More room. More privacy. You’ll like it there.”

He cursed me mechanically, then lost interest, looked about vaguely. Seth Lucas fussed at him, watching the electronic monitors. The little white spheres bounced across the black screens or traced graceful curves. Thankfully, there were only minor aberrations.
Ping-ping-ping. Ka-voom, ka-voom, ka-voom. Ahh-waa, ahh-waa, ahh-waa.
Soft sounds of existence.

I noted Paul surreptitiously examining a pile of books stacked at the bedside. There was the usual disorder of computer printouts, folders, manuscripts, envelopes with the red tags of restricted material. But I could not believe the em was capable of serving productively in his present state.

Outside, we held an impromptu, low-voiced colloquy in the corridor.

“Paul?” I asked.

“Going.”

“Mary?”

“I concur.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “Seth”—I turned to him—“you have that list of potential donors from FO’s and hospices. Start bringing them in for serological workups. Begin with twenty. We’ll make our initial choices from them.”

“Right.”

“Get a crew on that wall immediately. Prepare to start parabiosis next Wednesday. I’ll come down with a surgical staff from GPA-1 to help you with the hookup. Now . . . where can we get a vodka-and-Smack in this necropolis?”

They all laughed. Dutifully.

On our way to the Executive Lounge, I drew Paul Bumford aside for a moment.

“What were the books, Paul? Alongside Lewisohn’s bed?”

“I only saw three of them:
The Methodology of Modern Revolution. A Psychohistory of Terrorism.
And
The Roots of Social Discontent. ”

“Oh?” I said. “That’s interesting.”

Beds had been reserved for us in Transients Quarters. I could forgo the honor; let Paul Bumford and Mary Bergstrom endure those hard cots. I knew Maya Leighton had leased a small apartment in Hamlet West. I pleaded my need in doleful tones. She had a dinner engagement that evening with Art Roach. I told her what to do: Flash him and cancel it, claiming a sudden medical emergency.

“And so it is,” I assured her.

“So it is,” she agreed. “It’ll be wonderful losing him for anight. How much longer do I have to jerk him, Nick?”

“Three months max,” I told her. “But probably only a month. Maybe a little more. Can you endure?”

“If you say so.”

“Maya, your reports have been a big help.”

“But he’s such a yawn, Nick,
such a
yawn. There’s nothing
to
him. After the novelty has worn off.”

I insisted on cooking dinner for us. It took an hour’s touring of local markets to find a natural steak, four small, sad natural potatoes, a natural Spanish onion. We settled for green probeans, a plastipak of synthetic scallion greens, a half-kilo of prorooms— “Taste-engineered to please the most discriminating palate.” And a liter of actinized brandy.

It turned out to be an unstructured, improvised, and rather splendid evening. At least, I enjoyed it, and I tried to please Maya. Her profit, being part of mine,
most of
mine, was important to me. Also, at that point in time, I was in need of mindless bliss. She was always in need of mindless bliss. This is merely an observation, not a value judgment.

I baked the minuscule potatoes in Maya’s microwave oven, chilled them swiftly in the quik-freez section of her refrigerator, then sliced them and fried them with chopped onions and scallion greens. The steak was microwaved, the probeans and prorooms cooked together, then turned into the frying pan at the last moment for a coating of oil and seasoning. The whole thing was palatable, eminently palatable.

Perhaps our enjoyment was whetted by the brandy. We attained a level of beaming inebriation and held it for hours, not becoming maudlin, slovenly, physically uncoordinated. But relaxed in an almost floppy state, grinning continually, occasionally teasing, playing like puppies. I could not recall ever feeling such a sense of physical belonging with another object.

Late in the evening, she leaped from my lap—we had been munching each other—hauled me to my feet, tugged me toward her bedroom.

“I have something to show you,” she said.

“You’ve had toothbud transplants on the labia majora?”

“How did you guess?” she giggled.

What she had to show me was a shelved cupboard filled with all the paraphernalia of a sophisticated sexualist.

“Why, Maya,” I murmured, “I didn’t know you cared.”

“I joined the Thrill of the Month Club about three years ago,” she said. “But I’ve only been collecting seriously in the last year. I have some rare items here.”

“Rare, indeed,” I agreed.

Dildos: wood, rubber, plastic, steel; capable of being filled with hot water, metal bearings, mercury; or vibrated electrically or ultrasonically. Japanese Ben-Wa balls; German breast oscillators; French ticklers; US artificial vaginas; British Electro-Cops; inflatable sex dolls, ef and em, life-size, fitted with wigs and costumes, with heat elements and vibrators; coitus splints; molded tongues covered with nodules; clitoral stimulators; penile extensors; desensitizing cremes, lotions, and sprays to delay orgasm; vibrating fingers; dildo harnesses; vibraginas; penis rings; studded penis sleeves; open-mouthed rubber masks; double-vibrators for vagina and anus; purse-sized vibrators; erotic statuary; a “gun” with a penis barrel that “ejaculated” when the trigger was pulled; false breasts; condoms and vibrator sleeves of every conceivable abrasive design; jellies, oils, sprays. And much, much more.

“I don’t know how they can sell that stuff,” she said. Vestigial morality there. “Isn’t there a law against it, Nick?”

Her naivete amused me. Yes, there was “a law against it.” Several. But it was deliberate government policy not to enforce those laws. The reason given for the government’s inaction was the doubtful constitutionality of those laws and the subsequent difficulties in obtaining convictions.

The operative reason why the government allowed—Allowed? Encouraged!—the increasing technologizing of sex was the continuing need to achieve and maintain Zero Population Growth. Anything that contributed to Z-Pop was in the public interest. Hence this proliferation of false penises and artificial vaginas (the expensive models trimmed with mink). Similarly, the federal government had quietly passed the word to state and local law enforcement agencies to overlook laws still on the books making homosexuality and lesbianism criminal offenses. Z-Pop was more important.

“Now then,” I said, rubbing my hands before this cornucopia of mechanical delights, “what shall we start with?”

Maya had a pharmacopoeia in her nest. I made full use of it the following morning. After a liter of cold water, a vitamin injection, an energizing inhalant, and two methylphenidate spansules, I began in -believe my original diagnosis of ambulatory quietus had been exaggerated.

The brandy bottle was quite empty, but I found a new half-liter of petrorum in the cupboard under the milk. I mixed a large rum-and-Smack and sipped it while showering and using Maya’s dipilatory face creme. I called for a cab. While waiting, I examined my features in the bedroom mirror. Except for a small bite mark low on my neck, there were no obvious signs of the previous night’s debauch. And certainly no psychic scars.

Maya was still sleeping. That great, lush corpus sprawled across the rumpled sheet. Tangled hair. Slack flesh. Bruised breasts. Smeared makeup: I heard the doorbell chime—the taxi driver—and bent swiftly for a final lick.

“Who?” she said drowsily.

I laughed, and left.

We took the limo into Washington, Mary Bergstrom sitting between Paul and me, as before. During the trip I questioned both on Group Lewisohn personnel and operations. Generally, their reactions were favorable, though both felt Dr. Seth Lucas, while talented, was too young and inexperienced for the responsibility he held. I agreed, which was one reason I ruled his decisions so closely. Also, of course, if Lewisohn survived, I wanted no doubt as to whom the credit belonged. If that seems egocentric, allow me to point out that I was also quite willing to accept the consequences of failure.

We pulled up before the old HEW Building on Independence Avenue, now headquarters of the Department of Bliss. Three limousines were parked in line before us. Two were identical to our own hearselike vehicle. The third was a white Rolls-Royce.

“That belongs to DEPDIRCUL,” I told Paul. “He thinks it enhances his image.”

Paul snorted.

He and I got out of the car, carrying our attache cases. I leaned down to speak to Mary.

“Sight-seeing?” I asked her.

“I’d like to,” she said faintly. “This is my first visit to Washington. ”

“Take the car,” I told her. I glanced at Paul. “Suppose we all

meet right here at 1600 this afternoon for the trip back?” “Thank you,” Mary said. “I’ll be here Paul nodded. We stood there a moment, watching the limousine pull away.

“That was kind of you,” Paul said. “Lending Mary the car.” “I’m a kind em,” I said. “Some kind. Paul, after the conference I want you to move around. Talk to objects you know on Headquarters Staff. Not Security and Intelligence, but others. Talk to reporters. Then go up to the Hill. Check in with the staff members. If you bump into a familiar Congressman, stroke palms and tell him what a splendid service he’s doing. But the staff members are more important. Buy lunch or drinks.”

“What do you want?”

“Anything on terrorism rates. Current social discontent. We know the Satrat is soft, but I don’t think it’s giving us an operative scan. The demographics may be off.”

“You’re thinking about Lewisohn’s books?”

“Yes. I believe he’s serving on possible solutions. And if the Chief Director assigned it, the situation must be getting near flash point.”

“Nick, we better move faster on the UP pill.”

It took a lurch of my brain to realize he was already computing the social, economic, and political consequences of a drug that provided Ultimate Pleasure. Particularly if the manufacture and distribution of that drug were controlled by the government.

“Right,” I said. “We’ll review progress on the trip back. Now let’s walk into the cage.”