The Tomorrow File (18 page)

“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 course,” 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

smoke. He was really a ridiculous em. “We were wondering if Lydia and you would care to come up for Saturday? We’re having a few interesting people in.”

I had been planning to start a threeday on Friday morning, but I didn’t hesitate.

“A profit,” I said. “Lydia?”

“Oh, yes.” She nodded. “Sounds like fun.”

“Can you get a car?” Henry asked. “You could train to Newburgh, and we could pick you up there. But a car would be easier. It’s a profitable drive.”

“No problem,” I said. “I’ll requisition one from the motor pool. One of the advantages of serving our beneficial government.” We all laughed. I was in.

I returned to the compound shortly after midnight. Paul must have tipped the gate guard to flash him when I signed in; he was waiting outside my apartment door.

“I was worried. The whole thing worries me. Is it going to be all right, Nick?”

“ ‘The future belongs to the untroubled,’ ” I quoted him.

He had the grace to blush.

I let us in, locked the door behind us.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Wait a minute. Let’s get Angela in on this. I’ll tell you both at the same time.”

“You can’t. She flew down to Washington this evening. The Deputy Directors are meeting with DIROB tomorrow. Cabinet meeting on Thursday.”

“Shit. ” I thought a moment. ‘ ‘She usually stays at the PS hostel, doesn’t she?”

“Well, she checks in there. God knows where she sleeps.”

I grinned at him.

“Try to get her, will you? I’ll pour us a petrovod. I need it.” Paul was still on the flasher when I returned to the living room He finally got through to the Public Service hostel in Arlington. Yes, Angela Berri was registered there. No, she was not in her room. Yes, she had left a number where she could be reached. Paul repeated it, then switched off.

“That’s DIROB’s private number,” I said. “He might be having a buffet dinner for his Deputy Directors and headquarters staff before the meeting. He usually does.”

“Before
the meeting? Why not after?” “Who knows? Maybe they’ve all lost their appetites by then. Try her there.”

I stood behind Paul, playing with his ear while he punched out DIROB’s number. He got the image of an em server in an earth-colored zipsuit. There was a lot of noise, people moving in the background. Finally Angela came on.

“Yes, Paul?” she said crisply. “Where are you?”

“Nick’s apartment.”

“Can it wait?”

He looked up at me. I shook my head.

“No,” he told Angela.

“Call you back in five minutes,” she said, and switched off. Paul arose, and I took the chair in front of the flasher. Angela was back on in about three minutes. This time she was seated at a desk in what appeared to be a study or library.

“You look lovely,” I told her.

She smiled. “Thanks. Is that what you called to tell me?” I laughed.

“There’s more. They want me to meet people. This Saturday. At a place near Cornwall. That’s up the Hudson. Just south of Newburgh.”

She thought a moment.

“Yes,” she said finally.

“I’ve already agreed,” I said. “But the place should be shared. Or at least scouted. And fast.”

She nodded.

“Send Mansfield. Give him three hundred. You have it?”

“I can get it.”

“Good.”

“I don’t know the exact address.”

‘ ‘Just give Leon the name. Let him take it from there. Tell him to call you when it’s set.”

“Right. Enjoying yourself?”

She made an O of her mouth, extended her tongue, wiggled the tip lasciviously.

“Wicked ef,” I said.

She switched off.

“You heard all that?” I asked Paul.

“Yes. Bitch! Who’s the meeting with?”

“Very vague. ‘A few interesting people. ’ You’ll hear the tapes. ” “Are you in, Nick?”