The Tomorrow File Read online

  “Where do you get the healthy object to connect him to?” he asked.

  “Volunteers.” I shrugged. “Prisoners condemned to capital punishment. Others. We can work it out.”

  “Do you know what you’re doing?” he asked finally.

  I was startled. I thought at first he was questioning my professional competence. Then I saw, from his bemused manner, that it , had been a rhetorical question. What the hell, he wanted to know, was going on?

  I had seen that same manner in, and heard the same question from many other objects, some much more intelligent than Burton Klein. It sprang from an inability to accept change. It was a psychological condition quite similar to shock. Things were moving so fast, society evolving so rapidly, some objects simply could not cope. Mutation followed mutation so swiftly that after a while catalepsy was the only means of survival.

  “Burton,” I said gently, “you’ve been serving too hard.” “Yes, I have,” he agreed. He scrubbed his face with his palms. “Things have been piling up. These terrorist attacks. I don’t know where to start. And—”

  “And?” I prompted when he paused.

  “And other things,” he muttered. *‘I don’t know whom to trust anymore.”

  “Sleeping well?” I asked him.

  “Somnorifics.”

  “How often?”

  “Every night.”

  “That’s not so good. Want to check in? Here or at a Hospice? We’ll give you a workup.”

  “No,” he said decisively. “Not now. My annual comes up in September. I can wait till then.”

  He got up heavily, started for the door. Then he turned. “Listen,” he said. “You talk to Angela Berri more than I do.” It wasn’t a question. I didn’t answer.

  “You should know—”

  But then he stopped, turned around again, and marched out, leaving my door open. I stared after him.

  We met in my apartment about 1800. Angela Berri told us the program to accuratize the Satrat was proceeding on schedule. No problems. She and I looked to Paul Bumford.

  Paul had been serving long hours; it showed. His weight was down. His naturally fair skin had an unhealthy pallor. There were dark rings under his eyes. With his vanity, I knew that must gall him. He had applied pancake makeup, but the shadows were still discernible.

  “Mary Bergstrom and I have been using the King Mk. IV computer in A Lab,” he reported. “I thought it best not to take the chance of alerting Phoebe Huntzinger to what we were doing.” “Good,” Angela said.

  “But the King is limited,” Paul went on. “Especially in storage. Anyway, we broke down and coded the raw data on terrorist

  attacks. Nationwide. Only on the mainland. Incidents in outlying states are normal. We programmed for dates and times, types of attack, number of objects believed involved, types of installations hit, results, duration of attacks, methods of approach and escape, types of sabotage, and so forth.”

  “And?” Angela demanded.

  “These are preliminary printouts,” Paul said. “But I think they’ll hold up. It may be a nationwide conspiracy, directed from a central command. I can’t say definitely. I’d guess yes. Operations appear to be organized by Geo-Political Areas. Each GPA exhibits distinct characteristics. In GPA-6, for instance, bombings predominate. In GPA-3, it’s kidnappings. Times of attack and numbers of objects involved convince me the whole is organized, structurally, along GPA lines.”

  “Any uniformities?” I asked.

  “Mostly procreation and genetic research facilities, in all GPA’s. Most significant: Attacks on procreation and genetic research facilities are 82.3 percent sabotage. That indicates interior collusion. Turning a thermostat down a few degrees. Enough to destroy a culture. Poisoning rats’ meal. To stop a cancer-sensitive strain it’s taken thirty years to breed. In our Denver Field Office labs, a hundred aborted fetuses were uncovered over a weekend. ” “Jesus,” Angela breathed.

  I tried to control my anger. What in God’s name did they think they were doing?

  “Those are my gross conclusions to date,” Paul finished. “It’s big. It’s serious. No hint of who may be behind it. No suggestion of foreign influence. Obviously a great number of objects, including SATSEC personnel, are participating. Questions?”

  “Any captures?” I asked. “Defectors? Informers?”

  “None.”

  “Any love stolen?” Angela asked.

  “Now that’s interesting,” Paul said. “The answer is yes. Terrorism against banks was in the usual pattern. Large sums were taken. But I think the bank hits were a diversion.”

  “Nice diversion,” I said. “Dual purpose. Muddy the waters and finance the whole operation. Good brain there.”

  “Paul, you’ve done excellent service,” Angela said.

  He straightened and brightened.

  “Another two days,” he said. “Then we’ll be finished. What’s next?”

  “Me,” I said. “I’m next. These are the tapes supplied by Leon Mansfield. Recorded yesterday. He told me Lydia Ferguson’s apartment was already being shared before he got in. The bug leads to the apartment below hers. Occupied by Dr. and Mrs. Henry L. Hammond.”

  Angela Berri showed no reaction when I spoke the name. I was watching for it.

  “So what you hear, ’ ’ I went on, ‘ ‘has already been shared by her rulers. I knew it when I spoke. Here we go. . . .”

  I started the machine. Angela and Paul leaned forward, hands clasped, heads down. During Lydia’s animal cries in the bedroom, I watched them closely. Neither reacted. They listened intently, right up to Henry’s last line. I switched off the machine.

  Then Paul raised his head, looked at me admiringly.

  “How did you ever think of that African idea?” he asked. “Using an anemic stimulator on a rebel tribe?”

  “It just occurred to me. I thought it was exactly the type of activity a dissident group would be looking for. Something to discredit the US in the United Nations.”

  “Genius,” Paul enthused. “Genius!”

  Angela Berri was silent.

  “Who is Dr. Henry L. Hammond?” Paul asked.

  ‘ ‘I know him. I never met him personally, but I heard him address a meeting of the American Association' for the Advancement of Science in 1993. On symbiosis. A brilliant paper. Then he disappeared, for years. This afternoon I ran a DIVSEC profile on him.”

  Then Angela came alive.

  “DIVSEC?” she said sharply. “Did Klein question it?”

  “Of course.” I nodded. “But I soothed him. I told him I wanted Hammond as a consultant because I was considering symbiosis for the treatment of Lewisohn. Which I am.”

  She started to speak, then thought better of it.

  “Hammond’s profile was interesting,” I went on. “He headed a team at CIT that did the research on symbiosis. More failures than successes on human objects, but definite progress. Six months after he delivered the paper at the Triple-A S, he resigned, went to Japan, and served in a Zen Buddhist monastery for two years. How does that jerk you? Then he returned, married his former secretary, and took service at CCNY teaching a very primary course in something called Human Dynamics. As far as I can discover, it’s a lot of kaka.

  Hammond and his wife live in the apartment directly below Lydia Ferguson’s. Alice Hammond rules a government daycare center on Broadway and Seventy-third Street. She’s a PS-7. About six months ago they applied for and were granted a procreation license. Ef. Their political involvement, to date, has been minimal. Both are registered Independents. She belongs only to several scientific societies.”

  “Obsos?” Paul asked.

  “No. He is twenty-seven, she is twenty-four. Both, for some unknown reason, underwent primal scream therapy about two years ago. He should have known better. Anyway, there you have Dr. and Mrs. Henry L. Hammond who, possibly, are now listening to tapes similar to those you just heard.”

  They both straightened up, leaned back on the couch.

 
; “Well . . .” Paul said finally. “Where do we go from here?” “I know where I go,” I announced. “This afternoon Lydia called. She just had a wonderful idea. The people downstairs, the Hammonds, have had her for dinner twice. So she feels she owes them an invitation. Will I come for dinner on Thursday to meet them?”

  “Watch yourself,” Angela said.

  Late that night—not too late, about 2330—I was seated naked on the edge of my bed. I should have swung my legs under the thermasheet and tried to sleep. But something was puzzling me.

  Paul Bumford, the last time we had been under that same sheet— not the same one, but an identical one—had said his happiness derived from surrender. To me, I presumed. Or at least to physical mastery. And last night I had proof of Lydia’s happiness in surrendering to—well, to something. The mastery of her own flesh perhaps. There was a link there, between the two, but I couldn’t analyze it.

  My flasher chimed. I went over to the bedroom extension, sat down, flicked it on. The image was Angela Berri.

  “Nick,” she said, “why did you have to use the African idea?” “Angela,” I said, “what difference does it make?”

  “What if they ask for documentation?”

  “I’ll tell them the truth: all oral orders, no documentation exists. It doesn’t, does it?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” she said.

  “Good. Besides, that was three years ago. It’s operative, isn’t it?”

  Then she looked at me, eye to eye, on the screen. “Perfectly,” she said. “One of the most lovable ideas you’ve ever had.”

  “Thank you, teacher,” I said.

  She smiled and switched off.

  I was the last to arrive at Lydia’s apartment. But she wasn’t upset. Just happy, apparently, to see me. I kissed her cheek, left her to serve in the kitchen, went into the living room to introduce myself.

  Dr. Henry L. Hammond had changed little, physically, since I had seen him at the AAAS meeting five years ago. He was a big em, stalwart, with a natural Valkyrie hair style and a full, blondish beard. His lips were an intense cherry-red, but I did not believe it was makeup. His palm stroke was dry and hearty.

  His wife, Alice, obviously pregnant, was small, mousy, and seemed composed mostly of grays: gray hair, a grayish tinge to her skin, a gray silk dress, gray plastipat shoes, a necklace and bracelet of slate chips set in pewter. She was quiet, contained, watchful. The more dangerous of the two, I judged.

  Hammond and I chatted briskly. Inconsequential topics: the high cost of food, the difficulty of getting cabs when it rained, the dearth of decent housing in New York. Finally, his wife spoke.:

  “Where do you serve, Dr. Flair?” she asked.

  I told her. She nodded, with a half-smile. Then she rose awkwardly and went into the kitchen, presumably to help Lydia with the dinner.

  “Pardon me, Dr. Hammond,” I said. “My memory may be playing tricks, but didn’t you serve on parabiosis?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said casually. “But that was a long time ago.” “You’re no longer in the field?”

  “Oh my, no. I took a two-year sabbatical to visit the Orient. When I returned, I discovered I was simply out of it. Things had moved along so rapidly in my absence that it would have taken me years to catch up.”

  “I know exactly what you mean.” I laughed. “Sometimes I’m afraid to take a threeday. The world progresses while I’m away.” “Progresses?” he said. “Well, it certainly changes.”

  “And what are you doing now?”

  “Conditioning. At CCNY. Basic stuff on human motivations. But I find it very satisfying. Teaching the young, I mean.”

  Then we were called to dinner. We sat at a round plastisteel table

  in a small alcove. The table was lighted with electric candles - little bulbs shaped like flames, with flickering filaments.

  Lydia had prepared a casserole in her microwave oven: prorice and proshrimp—shaped and tinted like the real thing, lt also contained slices of green propep, bits of natural ham, and natural onion.

  It was edible.

  We went through the confusion of passing plates about, spooning out the main dish, dividing a prolet salad that could have used more synthetic herbs and spices. Then, all served, we settled down to consumption.

  Dr. Hammond was wearing obso clothes: flannel slacks and a rough tweed jacket. He withdrew a pair of yellowed ivory chopsticks from his inside breast pocket. He manipulated them with great dexterity, demonstrating how it was possible to pick up a single grain of rice. His wife gave me the impression of having witnessed this trick previously, too many times.

  “Mrs. Hammond,” I said. “I haven’t—”

  “Alice,” she interrupted gravely.

  “Alice.” I smiled. “A first-name basis is profitable. Call me Nick. I haven’t yet congratulated you and your husband. When is the child due?”

  “The last week in August.”

  “Congratulations! Ef or em?”

  “Ef,” she said.

  “Wonderful.”

  “We wanted an em,” she said.

  Lydia and Hammond were silent, bending over their plates. “I’m sure you’ll be delighted with a little ef,” I said. “You’ll see.”

  “Dr. Flair, do you—”

  “Nick.”

  “Nick, do you approve of the government licensing pregnancies and dictating the sex of the child?”

  “Approve of it?” I said cautiously. “Perhaps not approve. But I accept it. I recognize the necessity.”

  “What is the necessity?”

  “Why . . . it’s the Fertility Control Act.”

  “I know. But what is the necessity for that?”

  “Well. . . it’s very important, socially and economically. When sex predetermination drugs were developed, a few years before the FCA was passed, it was discovered that half a million ems more

  than the norm were being bred annually. Parents opted for them. Lewisohn was the first to point out the dangers of that. At the time, more than fifteen years ago, they were very real dangers: increased male homosexuality due to a gross surplus of ems, psychological deprivation of efs when they were old enough to realize they were not first choice, a decline of culture consumers since efs predominate in this market, and so forth. All the FCA does is decree the most favorable social and economic ratio. Computerized estimates are made annually of how many babies are to be bred. The government still authorizes more ems than efs, I assure you. But you probably know the statistics of ef and em longevity rates. Even today, widows over sixty-five far outnumber widowers of the same age. But we’re slowly bringing the numbers into balance. And, most important of course, the FCA has achieved Zero Population growth. Now, as longevity increases, we’re considering going to Minus-Z Pop. To ensure every living object adequate breathing room and a decent environment.”

  “You make it sound so logical,” she said.

  “It is logical.”

  “But isn’t the FCA a restraint of individual freedom?”

  “No doubt about it,” I said promptly. “Like traffic laws and required radiation inoculation,of children. For the common good. ” “All I know,” she said, “is that we wanted an em baby and are not allowed to have one.”

  “It’s a weakness I have,” I acknowledged sadly, “to speak in statistics and percentages and ratios and Z-Pop growth. But these things are part of my service. I tend to treat objects as numbers. I forget the personal traumata that may be involved in obeying a very logical and practical government decree.”

  “You see the forest but not the trees,” Henry Hammond said. “Right,” I agreed. “But you must realize I’ve been conditioned to do exactly that.”

  “Well,” he said, “at least you recognize it as conditioning.” “Yes,” I said. “I do.”

  “Nick,” Lydia said suddenly, “can a hypnotized object be made to do something against his will? Something he knows is morally wrong?”

  I looked at her in surprise.

  “Of co
urse,” I said. “If the hypnotist is clever enough.” “You mentioned conditioning,” Alice said. “Can a conditioned

  object be made to do something against his will? Something he knows is morally wrong?”

  It was a beautiful orchestrated performance. I wondered if they had rehearsed it.

  I knew the operative answer to Alice Hammond’s question, but it didn’t fit my role.

  “You’ve opened a different can of worms,” I said. I tried to appear disquieted. “There’s been a great deal of research on the subject, but no definitive answer. As yet.”

  “How do you feel about it?” Henry Hammond asked. “What’s your personal opinion?”

  I paused a long moment, staring down at my empty plate.

  “I’d say no,” I said finally, in a low voice. “I believe, regardless of the length or intensity of conditioning, an object’s operative nature will eventually surface.”

  They said nothing. Their expressions didn’t alter. But I felt I had scored points. It was all a lot of kaka, of course. They were talking about psychological behavior modification. If I wished, I could describe to them the effects of an existent drug that simply demolished all their airy-fairy theories. They were such innocents, playing a game the rules of which had changed while they were picking up a single grain of rice with obso chopsticks.

  I insisted on helping Lydia clear the table and sterilize the dishes. The Hammonds went into the living room. I couldn’t overhear their conversation. It wasn’t important; I’d be hearing soon enough on Mansfield’s tapes what they had discussed.

  I learned sooner than that. After our chores, Lydia and I joined them in the living room. Talk was desultory. Nothing significant. Until. . . .

  “By the way, Nick,” Dr. Henry Hammond said, “Alice and I have a summer place, up near Cornwall. Know where it is?” “On the river, isn’t it? South of Newburgh?"

  “Glorious view,” Alice said.

  “Built on the ruins of an Indian trading post,” Henry said. “Almost a hectare of land.”

  “Clean air-,’’ Alice said.

  How could I resist?

  “Alice and I are going up on Friday morning to open the place for the season,” Henry went on. He paused to light an enormous oompaul pipe, puffing mightily, blowing out great clouds of blue