Tony’s invention consisted of the addition of certain substances to his pill mixes that would not only suppress any therapeutic placebo effect, but would absolutely guarantee the resulting pills would be totally inert. Anyone interested can, of course, download a copy of the final patent.
I guided Tony through our official disclosure form, plus an assignment form. He included test results from his lab notebook showing his invention worked. I was happy with him. I was even happier because I could leave him to do the rest of it on his own. He fixed me up with a taxi to my seashore hotel. I was able to spend the afternoon sunning myself.
Next morning Tony once again collected me, this time at my hotel. I ran an eye over the formal stuff he had prepared for me. I could find no good reason to postpone my return to the Connecticut blizzards and chills. We checked flights. Tony brought me to the airport. On the way there I asked after Tony’s father. The Jamandar was well.
I put another question to Tony. This one had bothered me since the previous evening. “Do you have any idea why your placebo pills suddenly lost their inertness?”
“Just normal,” Tony said. “People expect pills to do something for them. Their bodies react accordingly.”
“I wondered if it had anything to do with your interest in homeopathy.”
“Hardly. But there was one rather odd result from the publicity the media gave to our socalled therapeutic pills. People began buying them for their curative benefits.”
“Do you supply what they want?”
“Of course. Our business is to make money for GBI.”
“Who are your customers?”
“Relatives and friends, first off. Then a spread. Southeast Asia. China. One of our sales agents overseas came up with a name: Long Life pills. Supplying them is a nice adjunct to our bottom line.”
“Are you sure there is no homeopathy involved?”
Tony said nothing.
“Hmmm,” I said. “Better keep quiet about this. It could mess up the issuance of your patent.”
At the time, Tony’s inert placebo patent was my sole concern. It was why Sam Burden had brought me to sunshine. In hindsight, with the India–China affair on my back, it’s obvious to me that I should have checked further on the Long Life pills. Maybe I should have generated a cascade of patents. But I didn’t. And so, here we are.
Tony got me to the airport in good time for my plane. I flew out of the sunshine into the cold and the dark of winter.
Back to the present, then. The preceding is the Anandas patent story, exactly as I developed it from the notes in my story cabinet file. I read it over and thought it wasn’t bad. But I could not convince myself that it would protect me from impending harsh criticism. The forces arrayed against me were too powerful—India, China, the American media apparently, my own self-imposed rules of loyalty to keep GBI out of it and let no blame attach to Tony Anandas.
The more I thought about it, the more isolated and powerless I felt.
By the way, I was permitted to wallow in my discontent without interruption from my communicator. Before settling to write, I had pressed the sieve button to have the machine eliminate everything except specific important communications. Its call counter told me that it had eliminated a lot of unimportant ones—no doubt the frantic media trying to get comments, preferably incriminating, from me.
Oddly, there was no pack of slavering media folk in my front yard or behind my house.
I cooked myself a TV dinner. I sat at my picture window to eat it. To boost my courage, I set myself thinking of worse times in my long life.
There was one good thing. A glorious bay sunset. San Francisco, on my western horizon, became a golden city under a canopy brilliantly shaded in multiple tints of red and orange. The bay waters danced joyfully.
Another by the way. Rather, several of them. The Anandas patent went through smoothly. No problems introduced by the relevant examiner. After, I heard no more of Tony until the grapevine mentioned he had left Pharmaceuticals, and, later, Sally’s news of his death.
Very vaguely, I remembered hearing of the sale of Tony’s Long Life product line to Indian interests. That may have been before or after Tony left Pharmaceuticals. It was certainly at one of those usual times when I was too busy to think about it.
Well, these thoughts, along with the food and the sunset, soothed my anxieties to some small degree.
The peremptory buzz of my communicator suddenly interrupted my developing sense of hopeful tranquility. I had no choice but to go to my desk and receive whatever high priority thing was coming in.
I activated the communicator. A middle-aged individual faded in, male, clean shaven. His formal gray jacket and inconspicuous tie suggested bureaucrat.
“Mr. Wally Mason?”
“Yes. Media in disguise?” My spontaneous question told me I was still afflicted with a trace of paranoia.
“Certainly not. Government. We’ve been protecting you from the media.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. You don’t have a mob clamoring outside your house, do you?”
“No.”
“Our doing.”
“Thanks.” So that explained why I had been left in peace, although I couldn’t imagine how the government had managed it. “What can I do for you?”
“Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Hank Robinson. National Security.” He waved an official looking badge. “We need to talk to you. Me and my colleague, Jeremy Thomas.” He made room and another, somewhat younger, man appeared on the screen.
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“Face to face, if you please, Mr. Mason” “Fine. I always cooperate with government. Should I come to you?”
“No. We’ll visit. Half an hour okay?”
“You know where I am?”
“Sure. Government pretty much knows where everyone is.”
“Okay. I’ll keep a watch for you, Mr.—did you say Robinson?”
“Hank. Call me Hank. See you soon—Wally.”
Then he was gone.
I didn’t let fresh hope dominate my feelings as I returned to my picture window, but I did feel that government involvement might be beneficial. Lifelong, I had been a good citizen. The government owed me.
San Francisco, by now, was nothing but twinkling lights. The western sky had gone completely dark.
Within the specified half hour, a gray government car pulled into my driveway. I went to my side door in time to see two men get out of it. Hank Robinson and Jeremy Thomas. I advanced, shook hands, and escorted them into my humble abode. (Tony words—remember?) I settled them in a living room nook with a coffee table. They refused drinks, or rather, Jeremy did. “We have too much work to do, Mr. Mason.”
“Wally,” Hank said.
“Wally, then,” Jeremy said.
“Wally,” Hank said, “You’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest and put us in a pretty precarious situation.”
“Not that we blame you,” Jeremy said. “We don’t suppose you knew what you were doing.”
“Nevertheless,” Hank said, “the trouble you’ve started between India and China is, to say the least of it, bad for Uncle Sam.”
“The US of A doesn’t want it to develop into a war,” Jeremy said. “Wars escalate. We would be bound to be caught up in one.”
“What do we do, then?” I hoped they had a good idea that would leave me blameless. Certainly I didn’t want a war.
“Let me just review the situation,” Hank said.
Hank ran over everything: the Long Life pills, the Chinese accusations, the Indian dollar and irrigation problems—the culprit who wrote the misleading patent. It was all standard, as per media and Sally Johnson of GBI PR
“So?” Hank concluded, “It looks as if the entire mess is your fault, Wally.”
I protested. “I don’t believe I had anything to do with any of it.”
“Beside the point,” Jeremy said. “The point is that India and China are ready to go to war over it, unless they can avoid it by
blaming you.”
“Luckily,” Hank said, “neither side really wants a war. If their propaganda folk can put out a strong enough case against you, they may be able to talk their people and themselves out of the crisis.”
“Talk to each other,” Jeremy said. “Maybe get the U.N. to fine you, or to impose other sanctions. Come to some sort of agreement.”
“Mainly, keep their respective peoples happy,” Hank said.
“So what we want you to do, Wally—” Jeremy this time. “—is to open it all up. Confess. Say what a bad fellow you’ve been. Say you’ll do anything to make amends.”
“Do it for love of country, in service to your homeland,” Hank added. “That sound all right to you, Wally?”
It did not sound all right.
I was totally convinced of my own innocence.
Hank picked up on my hesitation. “You’ll go into the history books, Wally.”
“As an arch-villain? No. I will not have it.” I got to my feet. “Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen.”
Hank and Jeremy stared at one another as I went to my living room desk and ran a couple of printouts of my Anandas patent story. I brought them back to the coffee nook. I handed one printout to Hank and one to Jeremy. “Read this,” I said, in a tone sounding more courageous than I felt. “You’ll see that I’m not in the least bit involved in your power politics. Moreover, there was no scam. Tony’s Long Life pills really work. China has no right to condemn India. India is in trouble because of global warming, mostly caused by us. They should sort things out between them. Show some sense. Most of all, I am not to blame!” My last few words sounded weak, even to my own ears.
Hank glanced at the hard copy in his hand. Jeremy had a concerned expression on his face. Hank first, then Jeremy, placed the manuscripts on the coffee table.
“Looks bad,” Hank said.
“Mr. Mason,” Jeremy said, “are we to take it that you refuse to accept your patriotic duty?”
“You refuse to do what we want you to do?” Hank asked. “I am disappointed in you, Wally Mason. Truly disappointed. Your refusal could result in bloodshed on a scale never before seen on Earth.”
“Can’t we convince you to change your mind?” Jeremy asked.
“Absolutely not.”
“Then we’ll have to make other plans.” Hank glared at me, nodded to Jeremy, and stood.
Jeremy stood.
The government bureaucrats left my home by the side door. They took the printouts with them.
I heard their car speed away. Screaming tires.
I went early to bed, but was too disturbed to sleep the sleep of the just.
Oddly enough, nothing happened for several days. The media went quiet on the India–China controversy. No slavering media hordes came to invade my privacy. From my point of view, it was as if nothing had happened at all.
But I continued to worry.
Suddenly my communicator called me to it with a high priority buzz.
Hank Robinson appeared on my screen.
“Wally,” Hank said, “you forced us to rethink everything. Tactics and strategy both. We did it, and everything has changed. We need you now. In Washington. There’s a limousine coming for you in two hours, and a government plane is waiting.”
No invitation. No room for me to choose whether or not to go to Washington. Hank was gone from the screen before I could say a word.
So I went to Washington. I had a limo and motorcycle escort at Dulles and a hotel suite better than any I had occupied, even at the peak of my GBI career.
Presently I had guests. Hank and Jeremy. Live.
After saying “Good to see you, Wally,” Hank activated the big screen in my living room, revealing a woman’s familiar face: the secretary of national security.
“The secretary won’t join in.” Jeremy said.
“She just wants to see what we are up to,” Hank added. “Let’s sit and get to work, Wally.”
We sank into luxurious chairs, more or less facing the screen.
“Jeremy is in charge now,” Hank said. “Tell Wally the story, Jeremy.”
“First, an apology,” Jeremy said. “We were about to make a villain of you.”
“Not anymore,” Hank said. “A hero, now.”
“You changed everything, Wally.” Jeremy again. “Your story of Tony Anandas. The Long Life pills proving to be real and effective.”
“Tony’s modesty,” Hank said. “He was a genius. Could have been a spokesperson for homeopathy, but he preferred to hide his light under a bushel.”
I managed to squeeze a word in. “That is the way I like to be. Hidden under a bushel.”
“Not this time,” Hank said. “Lots of votes are at stake: the homeopathic constituency; the anti-war constituency; the pro-Chinese; the proIndian.”
The face on the screen frowned. I thought she was going to interrupt, but she did not.
“So,” Jeremy said, “we reviewed all the intelligence about India versus China. Decided if we relay your story to both sides, war danger would vanish, and you’ll be a hero. Our review told us everything is different from what we thought. Tell Wally about the changes, Hank.”
“I’ll make it brief,” Hank said. “When the Chinese dollar supply began to dry up because of the recession, their government put out word that the Long Life pills didn’t work. This was supposed to direct internal turmoil toward India, helping them to maintain domestic tranquility.”
“It didn’t,” Jeremy said. “Trouble was, the pills really worked. There were a lot of Chinese peasants, aged and wise, who worked that out. Their government, they thought, wanted to relieve itself of the burden of so many long-life persons. Chinese social services for older people, improved from zero a few years ago, had become overextended and overtaxed. Old Chinese want the same quality of life as we have in America.”
“So the turmoil got worse,” Hank continued.
“Tough for the Chinese government,” Jeremy went on. “A shortage of dollars. A temptation to redirect the internal turmoil by going to war with India. Luckily, cooler heads prevailed. The war didn’t get started.”
“Oil,” Hank said. “The reason why India wanted the Long Life pill business to bring home the dollars was to keep the nation supplied with oil. Not so much to underwrite their irrigation schemes, although oil was needed for that, too, but to keep the whole economy afloat.”
“You can imagine the catastrophic famine if the whole economy went belly up,” Jeremy said. “Luckily, Uncle Sam’s dollars, burdened by the post-recession inflation, began to decline in value. So the interests supplying oil began to lose interest in dollars.”
Hank spoke. “Just in the last few days, the oil interests have quit the dollar standard. They’ve decided to accept other currencies.”
“Euros,” Jeremy said. “Japanese yen. Most important for us, Chinese yuan.”
Hank said, “the Chinese will now be able to use their own currency to buy Long Life pills. This will increase world demand for Chinese exports.”
“It will boost the Chinese economy,” Jeremy said. “The government will be able to provide improved social services for their aging population. Meanwhile, India can sell enough pills to maintain oil imports. In a pinch, if the irrigation schemes develop too slowly, they can boost pill production, increase yuan income, and avert famine by purchasing food wherever there is an excess supply.”
“So, Wally Mason,” Hank said, “you see what wonders the patent you wrote has wrought in the world. You and the inventor.”
Jeremy added: “We’ll put your story out, pretty much as you wrote it. A little massage here and there to improve its effectiveness.”
Hank continued. “The inventor, Anandas, is of course already a hero in some circles. For the way in which you catered to his modesty, we can turn you into a world-class hero, Wally Mason.”
As Hank spoke, I noted a pleasant smile flickering across the face on the screen.
Me. Wally Mason. Hero.
; It would have been in character for me to protest, saying I didn’t need it. I didn’t protest. Maybe I’m not exactly the man I think I am.
They were going to make a world-class hero of me?
You know what? Before this was all over, they did!
Before my heroic conduct became public, I had to attend to two more duties.
First, I had to call Anandas Senior to assure the Jamandar that his son had done far more than enough good in the world to win him absolution from his sins.
That done, I had to call the current CEO of GBI to let him know that the corporation’s good name would come to no harm.
Then I began to train myself to bask in my new heroic role. Not a bad outcome, I thought, for a placebo effect.
Copyright © 2010 Brian C. Coad
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William Michael McCarthy
To: Northeast Institute of Higher Education Dear Sirs, I’m writing about a recent hire: Jared Jones—a graduate of your institution. Mr. Jones is a pleasant man. He always arrives for work on time and does his best to fulfill his assignments. Unfortunately, Mr. Jones’ best isn’t...
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Probability Zero
Spell Czech
William Michael McCarthy
To: Northeast Institute of Higher Education
Dear Sirs,
I’m writing about a recent hire: Jared Jones—a graduate of your institution. Mr. Jones is a pleasant man. He always arrives for work on time and does his best to fulfill his assignments. Unfortunately, Mr. Jones’ best isn’t particularly good. I’m writing to confirm that Mr. Jones actually did graduate from your school. Are his transcripts accurate? I find it difficult to believe this man has a college degree.
Since my publication is currently the recipient of government stipends, as nearly all magazines are nowadays, I’m compelled to communicate with you before taking any action against Mr. Jones.
Your cooperation in this matter is greatly appreciated.
Analog Science Fiction and Fact 12/01/10 Page 21
