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  “But the government does have some ways of manipulating the electronic media. This they can do legally since all radio and television stations must be licensed by a government agency. It’s easier to influence an industry whose very existence depends on official grant. And for that reason, it’s vital to the government that the electronic media grow while the print media decrease in importance. So the government encourages permissiveness on TV. People who once could only scan sex scenes in books and magazines, can now view it—in three dimensions and color. Thus the electronic media attract larger audiences. Thus their advertising revenue increases. Thus they grow stronger, make more love, and the need for TV station owners to retain their licenses becomes even more imperative. Thus stronger government control of their editorial policies. That’s why you see fornication and bullfights and executions on your home set. Do you follow all that?”

  She seemed shocked. I thought what I had explained was obvious to everyone.

  “I can’t believe it,” she said.

  “Believe it. It’s operative.”

  “But don’t you—you personally—object to government control of media? Any media, in any form?”

  “I’m just an em following orders,” I said. “What can I do?” We finished our coffee in silence. She opened her purse, then paused to look at me.

  “Do you mind if I touch up my makeup?” she asked innocently. “I know I shouldn’t do it at the table.”

  In some ways she was delightful. Almost as ingenuous as Millie. “Please do.” I laughed. “I might even touch up mine.” “You don’t wear much.”

  “No, not much. A friend of mine has been after me to use eye shadow.”

  “Oh, no,” she said quickly. “Please don’t do that.”

  I watched her apply lip rouge.

  “Beautiful color,” I said. “What is it?”

  “The color is called Passion Flower. Does that jerk you? The lip rouge is Amour Now.”

  "That jerks me,” I said. “Amour now or later?”

  She tried to smile mysteriously, but she was too open and honest to bring it off. We both laughed and left the restaurant hand in hand. It had been a profitable dinner.

  We went to a nude performance of Swan Lake at Lincoln Center. The audience seemed to enjoy it—oohing and ahing whenever the em star performed a grand fete—but I found the whole thing absurd. I think Lydia did, too. At least, she made no objection when we left before it ended. We stopped at a federal grogshop where I bought a lovable bottle of cherry liqueur which the manager assured me was made from real cherries. I also bought Lydia a national lottery ticket. She laughed happily.

  “If I win I’ll give you half,” she vowed.

  ‘ ‘ Good. An ef in my Division won a thousand a few weeks ago. ’ ’ “I want to win a million."

  “I hope you do. What will you do with it—after you give me my half?”

  “I’ll buy a farm,” she said dreamily. “Somewhere far off. Lonely and deserted. I’ll buy animals—dogs and horses and cows and chickens and cats. And I’ll raise my own food. I’ll have a little lake, and I’ll swim every morning. I’ll listen to the wind and watch the stars.”

  I think she was serious. But of course there were no places like that anymore.

  We went back to her home by taxi. The cabs had changed; they were electric now. The drivers hadn’t changed; still choleric and unpleasant as ever. We also had to endure a Cab-Alert installation that flashed color slides at ten-second intervals and, by recorded messages, advised us what to do about wet armpits, bowel irregularity, and a breath that wilted flowers.

  Lydia had an apartment that reflected her personality: unassertive, pleasing, calm. I had to keep reminding myself this was the ef who provided Harris with a going-away present: the fiddled Somnorific.

  “Sit over there,” she said casually, motioning toward the slipcovered armchair in the living room. “It’s the most comfortable chair I have. Would you like this cherry stuff in Smack or on ice—or how?”

  “Just straight,” I said. “And just a small glass. It’s sure to be sweet.”

  Obediently, I sat down in the armchair. She was right—it was comfortable. While she was in the kitchen, I ran my fingertips lightly over the slipcover on both sides. Leon Mansfield had been right, too; it was amateurish; I felt the bump of the mike. When she came in from the kitchen, I was leaning back, relaxed, my mouth close to the concealed bug.

  “Cheers,” I said, lifting the plasticup she handed me.

  She pulled a hassock across the floor and sat at a lower level, near my knees.

  “But you don’t seem so cheerful tonight,” she said. “Depressed?”

  “A little.”

  “Your service?”

  ‘ ‘I guess so. It’s been bothering me for some time now. Recently it’s become worse.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Want to, but can’t.”

  “Security classification?”

  “Yes.”

  “I won’t repeat it.”

  That was a giggle. She wouldn’t have to.

  “Oh, Lydia, it’s not that I don’t trust you. I know you wouldn’t do or say anything to endanger me. Or your father.”

  That startled her, but she recovered quickly.

  “I can’t believe you and Daddy would do anything wrong,” she said.

  “Depends on your definition of wrong, doesn’t it? Tell me this: Is it wrong to refuse to obey the legal order of your ruler when you feel, in your heart of hearts, that the order you are given is immoral?”

  She was silent, staring at me.

  “Nick, I can’t make a decision like that for you.”

  “I know you can’t. I’m not asking you to. It’s all mine.” “But maybe it would help if you talked it out.“

  I shrugged.

  “I doubt it, Lydia. I’ve been over and over it, again and again. I’ve considered every possible argument, for and against. And I just don’t know what to do.”

  “Nick, for God’s sake, what wit?”

  I sighed. “Well... I might as well tell you. But don’t—please, please, don’t—breathe a word of this to anyone. It involves behavior control. Or, as it was once euphemistically called, ‘behavior modification. ’ But I’m talking about behavior control by chemical means, not by psychological conditioning.”

  “You mean by giving an object a pill or injection?”

  ‘ ‘I wish it was that simple. But it’s not a single object I’m talking about; it’s an entire population. Look, the principle is an obso one. More than seventy years ago we started putting traces of iodine in table salt. It practically eliminated goiter in this country. ”

  I paused to see if she reacted. If she, as I suspected, might be a victim of hypothyroidism. But she showed nothing but fascinated interest.

  “Then we put chlorine in our water to make it potable,” I continued. “Then fluoride—all chemicals.”

  “But they’re like—like medicine!”

  “Right. No one but the ignorant could possibly object. But we established the principle of involuntary ingestion of chemicals by government decree. All right, now take this situation: We have a prison riot. The warden and several guards have been seized as hostages; the prisoners threaten to kill them. They’re destroying the prison. We can go in with armored tanks and flechette guns. Sure, a lot of objects will be stopped, but the riot will be over. Now every prison in the country is supplied water from a central source, pipe or tank. Wouldn’t it make more sense to put tranquilizers or hypnotics in the drinking water to subdue the entire prison population without loss of life? Wouldn’t you opt for that?”

  “Yesss,” she said. “I guess I would.”

  “What about Harlem, or Watts, or any other ghetto being torn apart by a race riot? Rather than an armed confrontation, wouldn’t you prefer that the riots be calmed by adding say, a soporific, to their water supply? Only for as long as it took to end the riot? Then the authorities could discuss the issues invo
lved with objects not inflamed by blood lust or an uncontrollable urge to burn, baby, burn. Wouldn’t you opt for the drug?”

  “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “Now it’s getting complicated. I might approve if it meant saving lives.”

  “It would,” I assured her. “But it’s become more difficult than you imagine. Because now we have a whole arsenal of drugs that affect behavior. We can make an object as fierce as a tiger or as mild as a kitten. And not only a single object, mind you, but by adding the chemical to food or the water supply, we can manipulate populations—in prisons, schools, towns, cities, nations, the world.”

  “You’re talking about chemical warfare.”

  “Not necessarily. I’m talking about behavior control—although I admit the fine line between that and chemwar gets finer each day.' ’ “But you said you had a particular problem?”

  “I do. About a year ago—well ... a little less than that—an African nation was admitted to statehood in the US. We can do a lot for them—socially, economically, medically, culturally. But they have one tribe, about ten thousand objects, who are national fanatics and oppose US statehood. These objects are primitives— unbelievably cruel, without conscience, burning and looting and stopping. They can cause absolute chaos in a young state trying to pull itself up from the mud of ignorance and poverty. The other objects in the state number about four million. They want nothing but a peaceful existence, a chance to improve their standard of living and educate their children. Should the ten thousand rebels be allowed to thwart that desire? Most of the dissidents live in one very restricted area. Most of them draw their drinking water from one lake. We could calm them all tomorrow by sending planes over the lake to drop a few centiliters of a clear liquid. That would be a temporary solution. We could make it a permanent solution simply by substituting a different chemical. You understand?”

  “Oh, yes. Oh, yes. I understand.”

  “But if we poisoned the lot, the international outcry would be—well, just something we don’t want. So a decision has been made at the highest possible levels of our government. It will be a two-part program. First, the rebels’ water supply will be treated with tranquilizers and antiaggression drugs. That will take care of the immediate problem. The long-range cure—if you can call it that—is to stop the tribe. Our prosterility drugs are not as dependable as they might be, so it was decided to take advantage of a genetic deficiency from which the rebels already suffer naturally. ’ ’ “Which is?”

  “Sickle-cell anemia. We’ve practically wiped it out in this country. Genetic manipulation led to an oral drug. In developing the inhibitor, we also learned how to synthesize a stimulator. We can stop the entire rebel tribe in one generation. Long enough to forestall any international accusation of genocide, and short enough not to endanger the social and economic development of the state. I have been ordered to work up the technology: drugs required, •amounts, preferred methods of delivery, and so forth. And that, Miss Ferguson, is my problem. Now give me advice.”

  She sat there, hunched over on the hassock, chin cupped in palms.

  “You’re not going to do it, are you?” she asked quietly.

  “I don’t want to do it!” I cried. “If I don’t, my career is over. But that’s the least of my worries. There’s always the R&R Hospice ‘for psychiatric observation for reasons of public security.’ They’ll never let me walk away from this. Not knowing what I know.”

  She nodded, reached forward, took my hands in hers.

  “We’ll work it out,” she whispered. “Somehow.”

  “Don’t talk to your father, for God’s sake,” I said roughly. “That’s the last thing in the world I need—the Director of Bliss learning I had mentioned this to anyone.”

  “No,” she said. “No, I won’t talk to my father.”

  She rose and smiled down at me. A sad, understanding, sympathetic smile. The last smile Harris had seen before he began clawing at his chest?

  “Another drink?” she asked.

  “No, thanks. I’m all knotted up. It won’t help.”

  She nodded, took my empty glass, went into the kitchen, then into the bedroom. I waited, wondering what she was doing. Then she came to the bedroom door and stood there for a moment, erect, arms down at her sides, palms turned forward. She was naked. She looked like an anatomy chart. I rose, turned off the lamp, moved to her.

  Whatever control she possessed, and she had displayed a great deal, fell away from her in bed. The pleasant self-assurance disappeared, and something raw took its place. If she was not a practised user, she was an ardent student. I could understand Harris’ infatuation. There was nothing she would not do.

  The body was overwhelming, slightly tumescent, a fever to her flesh. She had an almost demoniacal strength, thrashing, bucking, flailing. And uttering animal cries. Her odor was dark, fern-rot and bog. I know it may scan ridiculous, but I was never certain she was conscious of my presence. Surrendered to a paroxysm of sensuality, she was simply lost and gone, rutting her last minute on earth and howling with delight.

  Long afterward, her great breasts puddled out, nipples bleary, soft thighs spread, she looked at me with dazed eyes, coming back slowly from wherever she had been. I may have hated her then.

  Smelling of her, I showered quickly and dressed. I bent over the bed to kiss her goodnight. A strong arm curled around my neck, pulled me close.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  In the lobby, I looked at the mailbox of 2-B, the apartment directly below hers. Dr. and Mrs. Henry L. Hammond. I knew him—or knew of him.

  I circled the block slowly. Finally, on Ninetieth Street between West End Avenue and the river, I found the Kleen-Eeez Laundry van. It appeared deserted. I rapped on the side. A small circular flap, concealed in the lettering, slid aside. An eye stared at me. The flap closed. A moment later the van’s rear door was opened. Leon Mansfield motioned to me.

  I climbed in and closed the door behind me. The interior was dimly lighted with a low-wattage red bulb. It was fitted out with electronic equipment: tape recorders, shortwave radio transmitters and receivers, locator* tape splicer, etc. There was a canvas cot with a filthy blanket. Mansfield was seated at a makeshift desk, earphones clamped to his elongated skull. He turned one of the earphones around and waved me close.

  I moved next to him, breathing through my mouth. I had had enough of other objects’ odors for one day. I pressed my ear to the turned pad.

  Man’s voice: “We’ll discuss it tomorrow.”

  Lydia: “Yes, Henry. As long as you got it all.”

  Henry: “We did indeed. Perfectly.”

  Lydia: “He’s very troubled.”

  Henry: “We’ll discuss it tomorrow. Get a good night’s sleep.” Lydia: “Give my best to Alice. Good night.”

  Henry: “Good night.”

  Click. The tape stopped.

  Leon Mansfield removed his earphones. He rewound the tape, stopped the machine, removed the reel. He fitted a fresh reel on the spindle, threaded it through. He handed me the reel he had removed and two more.

  “This is what I have so far,” he said tonelessly.

  I was waiting to hear him comment about those bedroom sounds he had picked up, but he said nothing. I climbed out of the back door of the van, carrying the reels.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “A pleasure,” he said.

  X-9

  On the morning following my dinner with Lydia Ann Ferguson, I flashed DIVSEC (Division of Security & Intelligence) and requested a complete profile on Dr. Henry L. Hammond from the National Data Bank. I was certain I’d hear from Assistant Deputy Director Burton P. Klein within the hour, demanding to know the reason for my request. I underestimated the em. He came storming into my office thirty minutes later, banging the door behind him.

  “Come on in, Burton,” I said genially.

  My irony was wasted.

  “What the hell is this about Dr. Hammond?” he shouted.

  I looked at him
critically.

  “Calm, Burton, calm,” I said. “You want me to quote correlative statistics on hypertension and mortality? Now sit down and relax. I don’t like that high color in your face.”

  It worked. He threw himself into the plastivas sling at my deskside, breathing heavily, glaring at me, but gradually quieting.

  He was a bear of an em, carrying an overweight torso on slender legs. He was ugly. Ungraceful. His voice was too loud, his manner boisterous, his personal habits disgusting. (He picked his nose, rolled the detached matter between thumb and forefinger, flicked it away.)

  But he could no more dissimulate than he could play a toccata on a harpsichord. I took no profit from him, but I admired his openness. He was what he was: take it or leave it.

  “Dr. Henry L. Hammond,” I said. “Yes, I requested a profile. I’m thinking of asking him to serve on a consultant basis.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “Burton, it’s just routine,” I said softly. “Hyman Lewisohn has leukemia. You know that. Lewisohn’s survival is my concern. He’s not responding to drugs. So I’ve drawn up a contingency plan if his condition continues to deteriorate. One step in that plan is parabiosis. Hammond is an expert in parabiosis. That’s all there is to it.”

  “What’s parabiosis?” he demanded.

  At least he made no attempt to disguise his ignorance.

  “Parabiosis is a surgical process by which two objects of the same species are linked physiologically. Hopefully for a short time. One object is healthy, one diseased.. By linking their blood vessels, the healthy one takes over, or assists, the life processes of the diseased object. It has worked many times in renal failure. That pertains to kidney malfunctions. And it has worked, experimentally, with leukemic patients. That’s why I want Dr. Hammond. If parabiosis becomes necessary in Lewisohn’s case.”

  In his blunt manner, he went directly to the essence of the problem.