The Tomorrow File (19 page)

‘ ‘Almost certain. I played it very cozy tonight, but they think they have me in a bag. That African business I invented to tell Lydia. They’ve got it on tape.”

“Oh-ho,” he said. “Blackmail.”

“Well . . . just call it pressure.”

I had no way of contacting Leon Mansfield, other than making that annoying trip up to West Forty-second Street. He had given me no number to flash; he wasn’t listed in the directory. I decided to wait till noon, hoping he’d call by then.

I spent the morning doing a workup on my Division’s budget for the coming year. It was axiomatic in Public Service that you inflated your proposed budget by approximately 20 percent, knowing it would be cut by approximately 10-15 percent. Fiscal game-playing.

Ordinarily, I would have stuffed all the raw data into a computer’ pressed the button, and let it chug out the estimate in minutes. I would still do that, eventually. But there was a factor involved that few other government budget-makers had to wrestle with.

A great number of projects my Division was serving on were classified. Some were unknown to the Chairmen of the ruling Congressional committees. A few were even unknown to Angela Berri and DIROB. I had to conceal funds for these projects by diluting them to several other known and approved programs. And, of course, I could make no records of this double-entry bookkeeping. Budget-making was not particularly difficult, but it was time-consuming.

I was still hacking away at it, about 1115, when Leon Mansfield flashed me from a public booth. This time he was on camera. He looked weary.

“Same place as last time,” he said. “Half an hour.”

He switched off. I cursed the em. But I had no choice. I drew a propane-powered sedan from the motor pool and drove up to the Mess Hall on Seventh Avenue. I had the 300 new dollars in my purse. Parking, as usual, was a nightmare. Finally I pulled into a restricted zone. I stuck a card, “Psychoanalyst on Call,” on the windshield. Someone in my Division had them printed up as a joke. Incredibly, they sometimes worked.

Leon Mansfield was at the same table near the plate glass window. He looked seedier than ever. He had a package with him. I slid into the chair next to him.

“Couldn’t we have met at your office?” I asked.

“No. I don’t have an office. They tore the building
down yesterday.”

“I suppose you’ve been moving,” I said.

He shrugged. “I left everything there. Nothing I wanted.”

I had a sudden, sharp attack of Random Synaptic Control. Images flickered by. . . .

. . . the wreckers’ ball flinging high against a blue sky.

. . . tons of steel crunching into stone carvings on which an Italian immigrant had served slowly and lovingly 100 years ago.

. . . great clouds of acrid dust, jagged holes in the walls, crumbling brick, wooden staircases knocked flat, a gigantic gilt eye staring up from the rubble.

. . . and all the odd detritus of Mansfield’s office obscenely exposed, opened to the wind. Blowing away: posters, books, magazines, photos, pictures—all blown and scattered.

I took a spansule from my side pocket and popped it dry. Mansfield watched me with interest.    .

“On something?” he asked.

“Increases my sex drive,” I said.

He lost interest.

“Got some tapes for you,” he said listlessly. “Slow job.” “It’s quickening,” I said. “Dr. Henry L. Hammond. He’s on the tapes. The apartment below Ferguson’s.”

“The em who’s sharing?”

“Yes. He owns a summer place. Near Cornwall. That’s—”

“I know where it is.”

“He and his wife are going up Friday morning. I want you to get there first. Share it, if you can. If not, just scout. Take some Instaroids. I’ll need to know by tomorrow. Can you handle it?” “Sure. How much did she tell you to give me?”    

I took the love out of my purse, passed it to him under the table. He riffled the bills with a grubby thumb.

“Three hundred,” he said. “The dear lady. Never too little. Never enough.”

“I thought it was generous,” I said.

“Hmm?” He looked up at me, through me. “Generous? Oh. You misunderstood me, Mr. Nicholas Flair. Yes, it’s generous for the service.”

‘ ‘Then what did you mean by ‘Never enough’ ? Never enough for what?”

He shrugged and tried a ghastly smile.

“Dreams,” he said.

His personal problems had a very low priority rating on my Anxiety List. I started to leave, then sat down again.

“Just out of curiosity,” I said, “when did you stop believing my story about a cheating ef user?”

He looked at me in astonishment.

“Stop believing? I never started. You said Angela Berri sent you.”

I took the package of tape reels and left. Out on the sidewalk, I glanced back. He had taken out his pocket chess set and was continuing the game that seemed never to end.

On the following afternoon I met him again at the Mess Hall. He told me what he had done at the Hammonds’ summer place and handed over another envelope.

“How can I get in touch with you?” I asked. “Do you have a new office or an apartment?”

“No. I’m living in the Kleen-Eeez van.”

“Living in it?” I said. “Where do you wash up?”

“Subway toilets,” he said.

Great conspiracies. Nationwide plots. Vital plans astir. Important state secrets endangered. And one of the principal actors living in a laundry van and using subway toilets. It called for a 100-year Somnorific.

That evening we gathered in my apartment, standing at my white plastisteel service table, the overhead fluorescents pulled low.

“Here are the Instaroids that Mansfield took,” I said, passing them around. “This is a rough map he drew of the site. The house is just south of Cornwall on Hudson, before you get to the state park. The dirt access road leads off Route 218, crosses abandoned rail-road tracks here, curves toward the river. The house is on a bluff overlooking the river.”

“Nice-looking place,” Paul remarked.

“Hammond told me it was built on the ruins of an Indian trading post, and it looks it. The foundation is natural fieldstones set in mortar. The rest is all wood. Hand-hewn beams. The originals. Very obso. Some of the knee braces and rafters are modem. Glass windows with plastisteel storm shutters. Poor security, Mansfield reports. He got in with no trouble. That em is a whiz on locks. Downstairs: one large living-dining room, kitchen, small pantry, toilet. Upstairs: one bedroom, a study-library, a nest. Lots of obso furniture.”

“Inside walls?” Angela asked.

“Painted plaster. The walls are unusually thick. But emplacing cameras would be a structural service. We don’t have time.” “So?” she asked.

“Paul, let me have those shots for a minute. Here, Angela. And here. Two obso phones. One in the downstairs living room, one in the upstairs study.”

“Did Mansfield share them?”

“No. He was concerned about an electronic sweep.” “Smart,” Paul said.

“Oh, yes. He guesses something of what’s happening. So he put a tap on the line. It’s an overhead wire, on poles, coming down the access road from the highway. He says it’s a direct wiretap, the best he could do in a short time. The transmitter is concealed under a plastic insulator close to one of the poles. Mansfield claims it’s invisible from the ground. He’ll receive in his van, parked off the highway, about a kilometer away, hidden in the trees. All right so far? Angela?”

“If they sweep the house electronically—and I think they will; I think Mansfield is right—can they detect the phone line sharing?” “I don’t know. Paul?”

“Doubtful,” he said. “Unless they measure power loss. That could only be done through the phone company.”

“All right,” I said. “We’ll go with the phone line tap. We’ll get all incoming and outgoing calls. But that may be nil. We need interior conversations. Question: Should I be wired? Personally?” “How?” Paul asked. “Something taped to your ribs? Too dangerous, in case of a search. Dental implant? Rectal implant? Ingested transmitter? All detectable.”

“Aren’t we crediting them with more talent than they probably possess?” Angela said.

“No,” I said. “Paul’s right. And it’s my cock. I say no.” That ended wiring me for hi-fidelity broadcasting.

“There are other solutions,” I said, “but they all require time to set up. We could use a laser to pick up window vibrations. Or an ultrasensitive telescopic mike. But all that involves heavy equipment, difficult to conceal. I don’t see us getting any physical evidence. We’ll have to go with my memory. I’ll take a Supermem intravenous and try to stay in theta as much as I can.”

“My God,” Paul said, “with several people gabbling around you? Practically impossible.”

“I’ll try,” I said. “We have no choice. Angela, another problem.”

“What?”

“Look at this map. Cars coming off the highway turn onto the dirt access road and head down toward the river. Those abandoned railroad tracks are set in an obso wood crossing. But—here, scan this Instaroid—the planking has shrunk and been worn away. If you were driving, you’d naturally slow down before bumping over the tracks. Foliage on both sides. If Mansfield could conceal remote-controlled cameras, we could get photos of the visitors.” “Marvelous,” Angela said.

“Great,” Paul said.

'“Here’s the problem,” I said. “I have no way of reaching Mansfield to tell him to emplace the cameras tonight. And the Hammonds are going up tomorrow morning.”

“No problem,” Angela said. “I’ll get in touch with him tonight. As soon as I leave here. I’ll tell him what we need. He’ll have the cameras in before the Hammonds get there tomorrow morning.” “You have a number for Mansfield?” I asked.

“I can contact him,” she said,   I didn’t pursue it.

“All right,” I went on. “Then we’re set on the sharing for Saturday. Now sit down and listen to the tapes.”

We moved to the living room and sat in a row on the couch. We listened to the dinner party at Lydia’s. None of us spoke until the machine clicked off.

“Very good, Nick.” Angela nodded approvingly. “You manipulated them beautifully.”

‘ ‘I liked your answer to the question on conditioning, ’ ’ Paul said. “Fancy footwork.”

I rose, went over to the machine, changed reels.

“Just a little more,” I said. “The Hammonds were obviously in no hurry to leave, so finally I left. This is the conversation after I departed.”

I started the tape.

Lydia: “He’s nice, isn’t he?”

Alice: “You like him, Lydia?”

Lydia: “Yes. Very much.

Alice: “Be careful. You know what happened last time.” Lydia: “This is different.”

Henry: “Well, in any event, I think he’ll do. Clever. Creative mind there. But not deep, of course. I’ll wager he’s never answered a koan or known satori.”

Alice: “Yes, dear. I think he’s going to be very valuable to us. Lydia, you’ve done a fine service.”

Lydia (faintly): “Thank you.”

Lapse of eleven seconds.

Lydia: “I do like him, you know. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to him.”

Henry: “We all know the risks involved. He’ll know them, too. Before he volunteers.”

Lydia: “I think we should go now, dear.”

There were the usual thank-yous and goodnights. Then the sound of a door closing. I switched off the machine.

“That’s all,” I said.

“You’re definitely in,” Paul said. “No doubt about it.” Angela looked at me. Curious expression.

“The ef profits from you,” she said. “Mightily.”

“That needn’t concern us,” I said. “What stresses me is that on all the tapes we’ve heard, hours of them, there’s been no mention of the stopping of Harris.”

“My God, you’re right,” Paul said.

“I was hoping for a confession,” I said. “Or at least an obvious reference.”

“Oh, but there was,” Angela said quickly. “On that last tape, Lydia said she liked you. Alice said, ‘Be careful. You know what happened the last time.’ Then, at the end, Lydia repeated that she liked you and hoped nothing would happen to you. She was making a reference to what happened to Harris.”

“Possibly,” I acknowledged. “It’s one interpretation. Another could be entirely innocent. Alice merely referring to an unhappy affair that Lydia had in the past. Then Lydia, at the end, expressing a normal anxiety that something might happen to me if I join in on the bombings. It’s just not definite. We haven’t tied them to Harris’ stopping with any physical evidence. Well ... no use worrying it. Perhaps I’ll get what we need this weekend. Let’s hope so.”

After they left, I sat in my suspended plastifoam sling and went into my own blend of alpha and self-hypnosis. I came out of it twenty minutes later, calm and relaxed. As far as I was concerned, it was as good as Hammond’s satori.

I had brought home a single file to scan. It was an abstruse report from my Genetics Team. It concerned a process known as “autoadultery,” which one of our laboratory wits had dubbed “masturbation carried to its logical conclusion. ’ ’ Briefly, it was a technique of taking the DNA from the egg of one human ef and using it to inject another egg from the same object and fertilize it. The child bred would be, genetically, entirely the ef’s, with no em sperm involved. In the process we were developing, entry into the “mother” egg was made by laser surgery.

The technique was still experimental, of course, but the concept had been proved feasible. There was no reason why it could not be made generally available. I hesitated to imagine the social, political, and economic consequences. Even more important, I had doubts of its genetic value.

Even assuming a Grade A genetic rating of the efs selected for such procreation, wouldn’t there be a deterioration of the gene pool, simply by the loss of variety supplied by the em sperm? In other words, would we be risking a kind of inbreeding, a never-ending reproduction of identical efs? (An ef’s cell contains no Y chromosome .) Perhaps it was em chauvinism that conditioned me, but I felt the dangers were real.

What it all came down to, I computed, was—what kind of a society did we want? Ten years from now? Fifty? A hundred? We had not yet decided that.

It was best, I thought, to cultivate pragmatism, trying to cope with each change as it developed. The science of futurism had its limits, doomed to failure by the invention, discovery, development of mutations impossible to foresee.