The Tomorrow File (56 page)

En route, we reviewed our options on the Ultimate Pleasure pill. We agreed it was no longer a go/no-go decision; the problem now was how to formulate the directive to the Houston Field Office, what parameters to set for the new drug they were to develop.

“By its very nature it would have to be addictive, ’ ’ I pointed out. “In any social context.»To be of any value. Psychologically addictive, if not physiologically.”

“Physiologically addictive,” Paul said definitely.
“Must be.
You know the numbers on cannabis, amphetamines, barbiturates. We’re looking for a universal drug. That demands physiological addiction.”

“Well. . .” I said slowly. “I suppose you’re right. Psychological addiction is too chancy. But we want a formula with a constant effect. Something that doesn’t produce tolerance. Easily selfadministered. That means ingestion or inhalation.”

“You’re ruling out the needle?”

“Aren’t
you?"
I said. Surprised.

“No. Nick, I think you’re missing an important factor here: administration of the UP as ritual or ceremony. Popping a pill or sniffing an inhaler can’t do it. But the needle can. Penetrating the corpus. A sacred rite. It needn’t be intravenous; a subcutaneous injection would serve as well. Better. But there should be a period of preparation required, sanctified or holy equipment, a
process
of administering the drug as involved and satisfying as taking communion. Nick, we’ve got to PR this thing. Part of the jerk must come from the act itself.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Yes,” he said determinedly. “I ultimize the UP as something like those disposable one-shot morphine Syrettes they put in first-aid kits. Needle attached. Sterile. No danger of serum hepatitis. The UP shot attractively packaged, difficult to unwrap. This must take time. The used container must be turned in before a new one is awarded. To help prevent OD’s.”

“Awarded?” I picked up on that. “Is that how you see it, Paul? As an award?”

“Has to be,” he said firmly. “For any service that benefits the state. To mildify terrorism. To reward increased production or consumption. To ensure military discipline. Whatever might be in

the public interest. Production and distribution rigidly controlled. Public execution for illegal manufacture, sale or possession. It might even be used as a reward for limiting procreation. Another factor in the Z-Pop campaign.”    ,

I looked at him with something like wonder.

“You’ve really been computing this,” I said.

“Yes.” He nodded. “I have. I see it as cocaine-based. If we can’t get Bolivia or Peru into the US, we can cultivate the shrub in factory-farms. In addition to the coke, we’ll want an addictive factor. That’s where it gets dicey. Almost any addictive factor will add a tolerance problem. But I think we can strike a risk-benefit balance. And an aphrodisiac. Perhaps an orgasmic trigger. It’s going to be one heil of a cocktail. Can I get Houston moving on a crash basis?”

“Crash away,” I said. “Top priority, top security. Weekly reports. Send me an Instox of your directive.”

“Will do,” he said happily. “Now we’re moving. Nick, I—” He stopped suddenly. I turned to stare at him.

“Well?” I asked.

“It’s something for the Tomorrow File.”

“Oh? What is it?”

“I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

“Come on, Paul, don’t play cozy with me.”

“Well, it’s not actually my idea. It’s Mary Bergstrom’s idea. With an assist from Maya Leighton.”

“Mary? Maya? What the hell
is
it?”

“Well, when we were all down in Alexandria, the night you disappeared after you braced Art Roach, I took the two efs and Seth Lucas out to dinner. Talk got around to Z-Pop. I explained how difficult it was to achieve when longevity rates were increasing every year.”

“Paul, I hope this doesn’t concern euthanasia for obsoletes. You know it’s politically inexpedient.”

“No, no. Not euthanasia. I explained the arithmetic of population growth to them, how a reduced fertility rate is nullified if life span continues to increase. So then we started talking about longevity. Mary said longevity was primarily characterological. Inherited trait. Then Maya said, if it was genetic in origin, why couldn’t it be engineered? Nick, we all started talking at once. Maya said, to her knowledge, no one has ever done any heavy research on the chromosome pairs that carry the long-life genes. Mary said she saw no reason why they couldn’t be identified and manipulated. She futurized a predetermined life span. Adjustable to the needs of society. Nick? Reactions?”

“Yesss,” I said slowly. “For the Tomorrow File.”

“And it’s definitely
not
euthanasia,” Paul said triumphantly. There were as many black zipsuits as guests milling about the barred gate to the Georgetown White House. There was no relaxation of security precautions. Invited guests and wives, husbands, children, relations, users, friends—all, one by one, filed through the metal detector, showed BIN cards and invitations, were identified by voiceprint or vouched for on-closed-circuit TV.

Then up the driveway to the steel-paneled door. Inching along the reception line. Chief Director Michael Wingate. Grace Wingate. Director of Bliss B. Anthony Chapman. Mrs. Chapman. A fluttery ef with the face of a parrot. Rapid palm strokes. Smiles. Move along. Murmured phrases.

Then into the gathering crush. All doors thrown wide. Black zipsuits bearing trays. Paul shoved his way through; I followed in his wake. Pausing to stroke palms. Smile.

“Paul, I need a drink.”

“Here. In here.”

He elbowed. Pushing. He would have his way. He drew me to a bar. His eyes were shining. There he was. Being entertained in the home of the Chief Director of the US Government. Mama would have been so
proud.
I looked at him closely. Who
was
he? “Nick, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You look so strange.”

“My genial, party look.”

“There’s Sady Nagle! There. Over there.”

“Would you like to meet her?”

“Of course. They say ...”

Noise increased. In volume and intensity. And heat. The crush. I lost Paul. I found myself with an empty glass. Edging back toward a bar. Then I was dancing with Theodore Seidensticker III, sliding in the opposite direction. We did a mad tango, revolving to get around each other.

“Ah there,” he said. He did something with his face. I think he intended it to be a friendly smile. It frightened me.

“What happened to Roach?” I asked him.

“Who? Oh. Very cooperative. Demoted. Fined.” “Thank you,” I said piously.

We scraped past. I had a terrible urge to goose him. I envisioned him suddenly plunging forward. Outraged and shaken. The full glasses he was carrying splashing on an ef wearing a tooty evening gown with portholes through which bare breasts bulged strabismically.

The doors of the dining room were thrown wide. The buffet awaited. Disposable food. Come and get it!

Objects were so deliberately casual. What a jerk! The slow saunter. Not really caring. Hunger was vulgar. Then the nonchalant inspection. Then the heaped plate. Where
was
she? I searched the crowd.

“Are you Nick Flair?”

“I am. Penelope Mapes?”

“Yes. The Chief Director’s AA. I’ve been wanting to meet you.”

A short, plump ef, downy as a bird. Enormously efficient at her service. It was said. But at this moment flushed, breathless. Her palm stuck.

“He speaks so highly of you.”

“He’s very kind.”

She pushed or was pushed tightly against me. I- thought her pneumatic. If her pudendum was depressed, her buttocks would expand. Compress her bicep, and the fingers would swell. Penetrate her with a respectful rod and, hissing faintly, the corpus would deflate in your arms. An empty envelope of skin smelling faintly of lavender.

I didn’t like this party. Where
was
she?

“He speaks so highly of you,” Penelope Mapes repeated throatily. Eyes glazed. Staring at my beard.

“Would you like a ringlet?” I asked. “To tuck beneath your pillow?”

“Oh,
you!”
she said.

Paul rescued me by squeezing nearby. I reached out, dragged him close, pushed the two together, introduced. Paul was delighted. The Chief Director’s Administrative Assistant!

“Oh,
you!”
she was saying as I slid away.

The thought of heaping a plastiplate with that gelatinous food was more than I could endure. I had another vodka-and-Smack.

I stroked many palms. Supinely with departmental directors. Vertically with deputy directors. Pronely with assistant deputy directors. Joe Wellington, the Chief Director’s PR Chief, insisted on shaking hands. As his left hand gripped my right arm just above the elbow. Numbing.

“Nick baby!” he said.

“Joe baby!” I said.

A billow of cannabis smoke parted and there she was. Centered in a semicircle. More a golden chemise than a sheath. Quite short. Bare arms. Bare legs. Golden sandals. Ashen hair bound up in a high swirl. The completed nakedness apparent. Lips parted. The teeth. Glistening.*Head slightly lowered to listen to the em beside her.

She was wasting herself on him. On them. On everyone but me. Dark, somber eyes rose and caught my stare. Lips bowed in a quick smile. She looked slowly away. That brief lock of glances cut into. . . .

“Nick!” the Chief Director shouted. “So glad you could make it!”

He was Santa Claus again. Perhaps that had been Angela’s fatal flaw. She had one role that devoured her. This em flipped a dozen masks off and on. Quik-change.

“Marvelous party, sir,” I said.

“Is it?” he said. Chuckling. “Not when you’re giving it! Got enough to eat and drink?”

“Plenty,” I assured him.

“Good, good. Paul Bumford here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Find him, will you? Both of you upstairs in about fifteen minutes. Second door on your right.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hello, hello, hello!” he caroled. Bouncing away. Stroking every palm in sight. Touching. Patting. Feeling. Pressing. Physical contacts for everyone. I turned to search for her, but the cannabis curtain was down. *

“What’s this about?” Paul asked.

“I have no idea,” I said.

We trudged up the stairs. Second door on the right. A black zipsuit inspected us coldly.

“Do we knock?” I said. “Or walk right in?”

“Both, ” Paul said. He rapped sharply, paused a second, opened the door. We entered. I closed the door respectfully behind us.

It was, I supposed, an upstairs sitting room. Small. Cluttered with odds and ends of obso furniture. Many chairs. Many. Two couches. Stained prints on the walls.

Chief Director Michael Wingate. Deputy Chief Director for Domestic Affairs Sady Nagle. Administrative Assistant Penelope Mapes. Assistant to the Administrative Assistant in Charge of Administration Theodore Seidensticker III. Chief of Public Relations Joseph Wellington. All of them suddenly sober, suddenly solemn.

“Sit anywhere,” Wingate commanded. Short, abrupt gesture. Santa Claus had departed. Genghis Khan had returned.

Paul and I listened in silence to what he had to say.

He told us the prospectus for the new Department of Creative Science—which he understood was the result of our joint efforts— had been distributed for comment. To certain selected objects in Public Service, Congress, the judiciary. Also, to objects in the highest echelons of academe, science and law, labor and industry, organized religion, and consumer/environmental Gruppen.

“Although I myself was high on the DCS—” Wingate said. Somewhat wryly. “—it was necessary to test the political viability of the product. Too many causes lost—even just causes—engender an impression of ineffectuality. Not only in others, but in oneself."

I began to appreciate this em’s talents and experience.

He continued, looking mostly at me, but shifting his glance occasionally to Paul. His assistants sat mute, regarding us both without expression.

Wingate said initial reaction to the concept of a Department of Creative Science had been almost universally favorable. But the great majority of advocates—even those most enthusiastically supportive of the role of science and technology—were troubled and/or dismayed by what they considered to be our alarmist predictions of the future. What he wanted to learn, Wingate said, was had we included those predictions of extreme change in an effort to bolster our case? If we had, he felt we were guilty of oversell. Or did we sincerely believe tomorrow would produce the problems we had envisioned, necessitating the solutions we had suggested?

“Sir,” I said, “new problems demand new answers.”

“Sonny,” Sady Nagle said. In the kindliest of tones. “Even if those terrible things you predict should happen—and I’m not saying you’re all wrong; some of them I can see starting today—you suggest such radical solutions you scare us. Because what you suggest, sonny, is impossible. Just impossible.”

“Why impossible?” Paul demanded.

“First of all, sonny,” she said, turning to him, “some of your ideas are illegal. Just that—illegal. Other ideas, which may be legal, are a spit in the face of what remains in this little country of
^v
morality, religion, tradition, and social order.”

“J don’t think you understand,” Paul said hotly. “I don’t think any of you really understand. You just don’t grasp what we’re trying to tell you. And that is what President Morse said ten years ago: This society is obsolete. It’s creaking along, parts falling off, levers jamming, fuses blowing, the whole outmoded mechanism coming to a shuddering halt.”

It was too late to switch him off or try to mollify what he was saying. He was on his feet now. Pacing. His voice louder. They were all listening intently. Following him with their eyes as he strode about the room.

“Illegal?” he demanded. “Then change the laws. Tradition? As ephemeral as slavery and dueling. Morality? Someone said it’s all a matter of time and geography. Religion? Valuable, but only as a function of the state. Social order? It is what the government says it is. Yes, the solutions we propose are radical. Or may appear radical. Because the problems are new. Have never been faced before. Zero population growth. Energy crunch. World-wide terrorism. Ecological decay. Genetic engineering. Nuclear blackmail. All relatively new problems. That not only demand new solutions, as Nick said, but demand a new way of computing. Of seeing the interdependence of all human activities. A lot of things that have been cherished for a long, long time will have to go.
Must go \
There are no absolutes. Free elections? Free speech? The Bill of Rights? Freedom of worship? Personal privacy? They’ve all been restricted during times of crisis. And they are all relatively young concepts. Some of them less than two hundred years old. They worked well for that timespan. But we can no longer afford them. We must compute new concepts, a new Bill of Rights, to see us through the approaching crisis. And it is coming. As certainly as I know the reality of our presence here, in this room, I know it is coming. And the only way to even begin to cope is to put away the slogans of yesterday, the shibboleths of today’s political system and social organization. I put it to you this way: Is there one of you who would not voluntarily relinquish your individual freedom if, by relinquishing that freedom, you helped guarantee the survival of the human species? That is not just a ‘what if’ question. It is an exact statement of the choice, we may some day soon be facing. Yes, Nick and I suggested a radical program. Because only strange new ideas can ensure the survival of our society. Of our species. That is what we’re really talking about—survival. The Department of Creative Science will be the first step toward bringing science and technology into a policymaking role in the US Government. Reject it, and you reject the future.”