The Tomorrow File (6 page)

“Inhalant?” I suggested.

They looked at me.

“Possible,” Paul said.

“Probable,” Mary said.

“All right.” I nodded. “Now what did he inhale?” “Something,” Paul said. “Something that caused wild, uncontrolled platelet agglutination and limpid deposition.”

“Serotonin,” Mary said. I looked at her, surprised and pleased. She had learned a lot, outside her discipline. “It’s got to be the serotonin. Probably a manipulated form of 5-HT. The East uses it as an interrogative technique. By injection. Very painful. Very. But this must have been by inhalation. Stopping him almost instantaneously.”

“I concur.” I nodded. “The military played with it in the obso days of hypothesized chemwar. But they rejected it. Too lethal.” “Too lethal?” Paul cried. “For a nerve gas?”

“Use your brain. It killed instantly. So we wipe out all of France. Seventy-five million humans stopped, plus all other warm-blooded animals, including those marvelous geese with their synthetic-hormone-injected livers. What do we do for foie gras then? Seriously, what would the military do? All those corpora to flame. Vegetation gone too, if we wanted. What’s the point? War is geography. That’s why the military put lethal gas in the icebox and switched to temporary incapacitators. Knock ’em out, walk in wearing masks, take away their weapons, wait for them to wake up. Then they go back to work, the horses pull, the dogs bark, the birds sing, and those geese feel their livers expand. Beautiful. Simple and humane. But at one time, back in the 1970’s and ’80’s, a 5-HT gas existed. Probably still does. In a deep cave somewhere in Colorado.”

I paused.

“The New York Peace Department will be very interested in this,” I continued smoothly. “Mary, you did a fine service.”

If I had told her she was gorgeous, she couldn’t have blushed a deeper hue.

“Thank you,” she said faintly.

“Run a lung slice to confirm. I think you’ll find it. Then put the object back together again. Paul will give you the final disposition.”

She nodded to us and was gone.

“A very bright ef,” I said, after the door closed behind her. “Sometimes she scares me,” Paul said gloomily.

‘‘Pure intelligence is always scary. You’ve never met Lewisohn, have you? There’s a creative intellect that’s terrifying.”

“ ‘Final disposition’?” he said. “You told Mary I’d give her orders for the final disposition of the object. What?”

“That’s Angela’s problem. I’m going on a threeday in exactly”^—I looked at my digiwatch—“three hours and fourteen minutes. Angela knows you’re in on this. Catch her alone and ask her what to do with it. She’ll probably want it flamed.” “Probably.”

“All right. Now let’s get to you, what you found. Did you bring back those Somnorifics in the medicine cabinet?”

“You told me to.”

“What were they?”

“Analyzed? Six-hour Somnorifics.”

“Uh-huh. What else?”

He finally shook off his depression, came alive, started talking rapidly.

‘ ‘Habitual and recent presence in the apartment of an ef, approximately twenty years old, one sixty-five centimeters. Long, blond hair, trimmed recently. She uses Quik-Eeze Creme Shampoo. She wears tooty shoes. Spike heels. One pair is oxblood red. No Reason perfume, a complete synthetic. Amour Now lip rouge. Color: Passion Flower.”

“Ah-ha,” I said.

“Let’s see . . . what else? Slight nasal drip. Low-grade bronchial infection. Fuchsia eye shadow. Ugh! Oh: here’s an oddity; I don’t think she’s on the pill or any other fertility control. Blood type is O-Rh negative. That’s not Harris’. She was recently on a threeday or vacation in a hot, southern climate.” He paused. “Want to know how I know all this?”

I looked at him.

“I know exactly how you know all that. You used chromatography, electrophoresis, spectrophotometry, polarizing microscopes, X-ray refraction, the scanning electron microscope, and our very best energy-dispersion analyzer. All this high-priced equipment on hairs you found on the backs of chairs and the sofa. Ditto on stains from hair shampoo. Position of stains gave you height. Then we have rug indentations for the spike heels and rug stains for shoe color. Pillowcase stains and scents for lip rouge and perfume. You might have used the Olfactory Analysis Indicator there. Eye shadow from pillowcase or bathroom towel, which would also give you perspiration specimen, which would give you a partial immunoglobulin profile. Nasal drip and bronchial infection from discarded tissues in the bathroom wastebasket.”

“And the vacation in a hot, southern climate?”

“Skin flakes all over the place.”

"Gee, boss, you’re real smart.”

“That’s why I’m an Assistant Deputy Director, and you’re my Executive Assistant.”

It was a mistake. I knew it the moment I said it.

“All right, all right,” I said hurriedly. “Did you find an exhausted Somnorific inhaler? Near the bed? Anywhere in the bedroom? In the apartment?”

“No. No sign.”

“I checked with Lieutenant Oliver. His ems didn’t find it either. They took Instaroids of the scene in the bedroom. No empty Somnorific inhaler.”

“Is it important?”

“Yes. But let’s get on with it. I’ve got to catch a train. What about the IMP samples?”

Now, I shall be as brief as possible. Microbiologists interested in pursuing the subject further are advised that more than a hundred references exist on film spindles. The journals of the American Society of Microbiology might be a good place to start.

As I had told Paul Bumford, the idea of microbiological identification of the individual began as a forensic concept, the purpose being to establish the presence of a suspect at the scene of a crime. I felt this was of peripheral importance. Microbiology, I was convinced, could be used as exact means of personal identification of the general populace, far superior to appearance, physical measurements, fingerprints, voiceprints, hair, teeth, blood type, etc.

All humans are hosts to an incredible number and variety of microorganisms. Some exist within the skin, some without. Some are pathogenic. Most, fortunately, are inert or beneficial. Indeed without the “good” protozoa, bacteria, fungi, and viruses, we simply could not exist.

IMP, Individual Microbiological Profile, was a project concerned only with the external microbial populations that humans support on skin, eyes, nasal passages, genitalia, throat, anus, mouth—whatever organs of the body are exposed to the atmosphere.

After two years of research, the IMP Project (a temporary horizontal organization drawing specialists from all my teams) selected the fifty most common permanent and semi-permanent microorganisms to be found on the human body. Each was given a quantitative rating of 1 to 10, depending on the profusion in which it was found on a particular object’s surfaces.

We then took IMP samples from every member of the Department of Bliss—quite an undertaking when you consider there were more than half a million in DOB service. And “taking an IMP sample” involved analysis of saliva, sputum, perspiration, semen, vaginal scrapings, skin scrapings, nasal and throat discharges, urine, and feces. Fortunately, most of these analyses were automated.

Having coded IMP’s for the 500,000-plus DOB personnel, we fed the information to our largest DIVRAD computer and asked for duplicates. There were none. That was encouraging, but hardly surprising.

We were about to start testing computer retrieval of IMP information. If the blind tests were successful, I intended to suggest a campaign, low-key at first, to make microbiological analysis obligatory nationwide. We would then include every American’s IMP in his file in the NDB (National Data Bank).

“I was able to get a good IMP of Harris from his apartment,” Paul Bumford said. “His dirty laundry, sink, bed, atmosphere, rugs, toilet seat, and so forth. What I couldn’t get, Mary furnished from the corpus. But we already have Harris’ IMP on file. I presume you want a blind identification test. Right?”

“Right.”

“But why an IMP on anyone else I could find?”

I didn’t answer his question. “Did you get an IMP on the unknown blond ef?”

“A partial. Fairly accurate, I would say. Thirty-two definite factors out of the fifty. Nine possibles. That leaves nine unknowns. And where does that leave us? Nick, do you think the blond ef is in service in DOB? Is her IMP on file?”

"Could be. Harris was in DOB. It’s possible his user was, too." 

“Possible, but chancy. There’s something else on your mind. I can tell.”

I paced around, looking down at the floor, hands jammed into my zipsuit pockets.

“A crazy idea,” I muttered. “You’ll laugh at me.”

“I’ve never laughed at one of your ideas in my life and never shall,” he vowed.

“I thank you,” I said. Everything was all right between us again. “The crazy idea is this: Of those fifty microorganisms included in the IMP, I think about half could be inherited.”

He sucked in his breath. “My God,” he said, “you are incredible.”

“If I’m right,” I went on, “if twenty-five or thirty factors out of the fifty—particularly those in the respiratory tract—are inherited, then maybe if that mysterious blond ef who sucked Harris’ cock the night he was stopped isn’t actually in service in DOB, with an IMP on file, then maybe she’s related to someone who is. What do you think?”

He looked at me, shaking his head.

“Mary scares me, and you scare me,” he said. “What do I think? Definitely possible.”

“Yes. Now here’s what I want you to do while I’m gone. Take your construction of Harris’ IMP to the Computer Team. Tell them you’re running a preliminary blind test and see if they validate it. Then try input of the unknown blonde’s IMP. I know it’s incomplete , but
try
it. If the computer comes up with zilch, ask Jim Phelps if he can reprogram to give you a list of DOB people with identical , quanta on the IMP factors you
do
have on the blonde. Follow?”

“Of course. I’ll have it all for you when you return. You better get moving. Say hello to your parents for me.”

“Thank you, I will. I’ll be back in time for the Section meeting on Thursday. Meanwhile, keep the mill grinding.”

“Bastard!“ He laughed. He took Mary Bergstrom’s cassette from my TV set and started out. The tape cartridge reminded me of something.

“Paul.”

He turned back.

“This is for the Tomorrow File.”

He brightened. The TF was his baby.

“I know you weren’t watching the PM. That’s all right. But you heard Mary’s narration. Did you hear her say that the stomach was normal, the heart was normal, the pancreas was normal? And that the liver was slightly fatty but not pathologic?”

“So?”

“Paul, those organs were grossly normal. Microscopically, of course, they were totally infarcted. But if they
had
been totally normal, they would still be shoved back into the object and flamed. The waste! You know the figures oh donated organs, in spite of that last telethon. And production of artificial and cloned organs just isn’t enough. We don’t have the love we need to increase production. Patients are waiting, hopefully. And we’re going to flame a healthy heart, liver, pancreas, stomach. And every time anyone stops naturally and is flamed, we lose retinas, kidneys, hands, arms, legs, gonads, and ovaries we can use, that we need.” “Nick,” he said soberly, “you were the one who taught me the difference between what we
should
do and what we
can
do.” “I know, I know,” I said impatiently. “That’s why this is for the Tomorrow File. The first sanitation laws this country passed, more than two hundred years ago, established the government's interest in and concern for public health. Then laws, laws, and more laws. Sanitation, hygiene, drinking water, sewer systems, inspection of meat plants, then Medicare, then hospitalization insurance, government payment for kidney dialysis, genetic counseling, then national health insurance, then the Fertility Control Act, the licensing of procreation. It’s all been gradually, gradually evolving, coming to a time when we must realize the citizen’s corpus is the government’s responsibility. ’ ’

“And property?” Paul said.

“Well ... its concern, certainly. We should not flame healthy organs; that’s all I know. They’re too valuable. They could be used for research, transplant, or frozen for the nukewar bank. They’re a national resource and should not be wasted.”

Paul computed a moment.

“It would mean a federal license for stopping,” he said. “Government inheritability of the corpus.”

“I know.” I nodded. “That’s what troubles me.”

He looked at me steadily.

“The future belongs to the untroubled,” he said.

They had restored direct New York-Detroit train service in 1983. It was the southern route, via Philadelphia, Canton, and Toledo, Ohio. I took the Bullet Train. It was gas-turbine-powered, with a linear motor. We moved at 480 kph, riding on a cushion of air about 1.5 cm above the track. Beautifully smooth, quiet, comfortable. The service in the dining car was excellent, the food detestable. But no one complained. They had no basis for comparison.

I had taken a compartment. This was a threeday, but I had brought along a case of papers, film spindles, tapes. Fortunately, I didn’t need to carry clothing or toilet accessories. I kept a civilian wardrobe and complete kit in my suite in my parents’ home.

The morning I returned to GPA-1, three days hence, I would be expected to attend the monthly executive conference of Satisfaction Section. This was, of course, ruled by Angela Berri, DEPDIRSAT. Present would be the Assistant Deputy Directors of her four divisions. The five of us (DIVLEG had two Assistant Deputy Directors) would sit facing Angela across the white plastiglass table in the conference room. Behind each of us would be seated our Executive Assistant. In my case, that would be Paul Bumford.

Angela Teresa Berri was a rigorously efficient manager. Each Division was allowed ten minutes, no more, no less, to present and discuss a single topic.

The topic I had selected for discussion in this particular meeting was Project Supersense.

Almost fifty years ago, neurosurgeons believed they had isolated “pleasure centers” in the human brain that could be excited by implanted electrodes. It became obvious, years later, that the term “pleasure center” was something of a misnomer; there was no single center of pleasure in human brains, or even in a single brain. Pleasure was generated in a series of “islands of concentration” in the pathway leading from the forepart of the hypothalamus to the cortex. Tickle one, and the object was no longer thirsty. Excite another, and hunger was satisfied. Titillate a third, electrically or chemically, and sexual pleasure was produced.