The Tomorrow File

by Lawrence Sanders

  Now Angela Berri was presenting me with what I guessed to be essentially a political choice. I hesitated only a moment. In politics, as in war, it is better to make a bad decision than no decision at all.

  Without speaking, I raised my eyebrows and jerked my head upward to point my chin at the tape cassette.

  Without speaking, she motioned me over to stand next to her.

  Without speaking, I picked up the cassette and examined it. It appeared to be a standard commercial cartridge, providing about thirty minutes of tape on each side. The clear plastic container was unlabeled.

  Without speaking, she took a pad of scratch paper and a gold liquid graphite pencil from a side drawer. I watched her movements carefully.

  She tore the top sheet of paper from the pad and placed it off the blotter, on the bare plastisteel desktop. She didn’t want to risk the second sheet of the pad or the desk blotter picking up even a faint imprint of what she would write. She scribbled a few words, then looked up at me. I bent over her. I smelled a pleasing scent of her sweat, the stallion’s, and the exciting estrogen-based perfume she was wearing.

  I read what she had written: “For you only. ” I pondered a few seconds, then took the gold pencil from her fingers. Directly beneath her note, I jotted, “Paul Bumford?” She read it, raised her eyes to stare at me a moment, then nodded. Yes.

  She took a ceramic crucible from a side drawer, crumpled our shared note, dropped it in the crucible. From another drawer she took a small bottle of a commercial solvent, Deztroyzit. The cap was actually a dropper with a bulb of plastirub. She dripped two drops onto the crumpled note. It dissolved. We watched the white smoke curl up. Acrid odor. In a few seconds the paper was gone. Not even ashes left.

  I slipped the tape cassette into the side pocket of my zipsuit. We walked to the door without speaking.

  In the hallway, the young em was just coming up from the lower level workshop. He was carrying a beautifully crafted model of an antique rocket. I think it was a Saturn.

  “Nick,” she said, “this is Bruce. Bruce, meet my friend, Nick.”

  We smiled at each other and stroked palms. I judged him to be about twelve. No more than fourteen. Handsome. Big.

  “Bruce’s clone group is being conditioned for Project Jupiter,” she said proudly.

  “Lucky Bruce.” I sighed. “I wish I was going.”

  But of course I was much too old. I was twenty-eight.

  Bruce, not having spoken, left us and carried his rocket to an upstairs room.

  At the outside door she put those long, slender fingers on my arm.

  “Nick, thank you again for bringing me that IMP report.”

  “Sure.”

  “Perhaps when I get back we can use each other again.”

  “A profit!” I said. I meant it. She was an efficient user.

  “For me, too,” she said.

  I made the return flight with minutes to spare. There were fewer than twenty passengers scattered around the cabin of the 102-seat hypersonic. It was a waste of the taxpayers’ love. But if you worried about wasting taxpayers’ love, you shouldn’t be in Public Service in the first place.

  Takeoff was right on the decisecond. After we were airborne, the Security Officer came down the aisle returning our BIN cards, surrendered for identification check at the boarding gate. As we circled out over the Pacific, I stared at my card. I had, as required by law, provided a new color Instaroid photo the previous year. But I felt many years older than that long-faced, rather saturnine em who stared back at me.

  The BIN card noted I was 182 cm tall and weighed 77 kg. (The US had completed switchover to the Metric System in 1985.) Hair: black. Eyes: Blue. Race was not noted since by assimilation (especially interbreeding), classification by race, color, or ethnical stock was no longer meaningful (or even possible). Creed was not noted since religious persuasion was of no consequence.

  My BIN was NM-A-31570-GPA-1-K14324. That is, I was a Natural Male with a Grade A genetic rating, bom March 15, 1970, who lived in Geo-Political Area 1, and whose birth registration number was K14324. The invisible magnetic coding made it almost impossible to forge a BIN card. Almost, but not quite.

  I put it away when the stewardess came down the aisle, pushing her cart of nicotine, caffeine, alcohol, Smack, Somnorifics, tranquilizers, decongestants, antidepressants, antibiotics, diuretics, steroid hormones, and narcotic sedatives. In her white zipsuit and white cap, she looked exactly like a pharmaceutical nurse making the rounds in a terminal ward.

  I asked for a two-hour Somnorific, but all she had was one-hour or three. I took the one. I settled back in my seat, the alumistretch strap holding me securely, and turned the inhaler over in my fingers before removing the seal.

  About five years previously, the Space Exploration Section (formerly NASA, now a division of the Department of the Air Force) had let a contract to Walker & Clarke Chemicals to develop a controlled hypnotic. SES had found that on extended flights and tours of duty in the space laboratories, the crews frequently suffered from boredom and/or insomnia. SES wanted a precisely timed sleeping pill, inhalant, or injection with no side or toxic effects.

  After some clever molecular manipulation of glutethimide, a nonbarbiturate hypnotic, Walker & Clarke came up with a powder that oxidized when exposed to air, releasing a gas that had the required somniferous effect when inhaled. After tests, the Space Exploration Section accepted the new product and felt it safe enough to license for unrestricted use. They claimed it was nonad-dictive.

  “It is nonaddictive,” Paul Bumford agreed, “unless you want to sleep.”

  Anyway, Walker & Clarke, after a massive preproduction advertising campaign (“Don’t wait for sleep; make it come to you!”) brought out Somnorific—plastic inhalers of precisely controlled strengths, from one to twenty-four hours. You peeled off the foil seal, waited about ten seconds for oxidation to take place, plugged the Somnorific into each nostril for a deep inhalation, and away you went.

  Initially, Somnorific was a colossal failure. Customer complaints mounted, unopened cartons were returned to jobbers by drugstores, to wholesalers by jobbers, and to Walker & Clarke by wholesalers.

  Investigation soon proved where the problem lay: customers were simply not waiting the required ten-second oxidation period despite clearly printed instructions for use. They were yanking off the foil seal, plugging the bullet-shaped containers up their noses, and taking deep breaths. Nothing.

  I knew all this because Tom Sanchez, Director of Research at Walker & Clarke, had brought his troubles to me. We sometimes did favors for lovers in the drug cartels. They, in turn, helped us on sweetheart legislation. In this case, I assigned the problem to my Human Engineering Team.

  They came up with the solution in one day. It was a classic. They recommended that the foil seal on each Somnorific inhaler be attached with a more tenacious adhesive. It was now difficult to pick off with your fingernails. When you finally got the damn thing off, it stuck to your fingertips and you had to ball it up between thumb and forefinger before you could flick it away. By that time, oxidation was completed and the Somnorific ready for use. We were all manipulated, in small matters and large.

  I finally flicked the foil seal off my fingers, took two inhalations of my one-hour Somnorific, and was gone: black, deep, dreamless.

  I must have drifted into natural sleep after the hypnotic wore off because we were letting down when I awoke. The hypersonic had no windows or ports. But there was a cabin telescreen, and I saw we were over New York harbor, coming into Ellis. I could see the Statue of Liberty. For safety, they had outlined it in red neon tubing when the airfield went operational. It didn’t spoil the lady’s appearance as much as you might expect.

  A SATSEC copter was waiting for me. That was Paul’s doing, and I appreciated it. A few minutes later we landed on the pad in the compound. Paul was seated in an electric cart near the hangar. He leaned out to wave to me. I walked toward him, brushing the side pocket of my zipsuit wit
h the back of my hand to make certain I still had DEPDIRSAT’s tape cassette.

  Paul waited until I climbed onto the plastivas seat next to him.

  “What was it?” he asked eagerly.

  I fished out the cassette and showed it to him.

  “What’s on it?”

  “I don’t know. For our ears only. We better go to your lab.”

  He nodded and started the cart with a jerk. He was a miserable driver.

  Geo-Political Area 1 was a megapolis that ran along the Eastern Seaboard from Boston on the north to Washington, D.C., on the south. During the decentralization of government offices during the Presidency of Harold Morse, the DOB had assigned SATSEC to a complex of office and residential buildings on the lower tip of Manhattan Island.

  The development had originally been called Manhattan Landing. It was excellent for our purposes, including offices, apartments, shops, restaurants, and small parks. The three level underground area had been converted to laboratories and computer banks at a cost of 200 million new dollars. Like all government compounds, ours was surrounded by a high chainlink fence, with constant security patrols, closed-circuit TV, infrared, ultrasonic, and radar monitors.

  My apartment was on the penultimate floor of the highest residential building, since I was a Division Leader, PS-3, the third highest rank in Public Service. Paul Bumford, a PS-4, lived one floor below me. Angela Berri, a PS-2, had the penthouse. DIROB, the Director of the Department of Bliss, a PS-1, had his home and office in Washington, D.C.

  Paul and I drove directly to A Lab, fed our BIN cards into the Auto-Ident, and took the executive elevator down, down, down. Another Auto-Ident check to get into the general lab area. To enter Paul’s personal lab, he had to speak his name into a live microphone. It automatically checked his voiceprint with the one on file in the Security Computer. Then the door could be opened with his magnetic key. It was all a game. Everyone knew the whole system could be fiddled, but we all followed regulations.

  Over in a comer of the lab, the fluorescents were on high intensity. Mary Margaret Bergstrom, an AENOF-B (an artificially enovulated female with a Grade B genetic rating), was serving with a polarizing microscope. She looked up in surprise when we entered. Paul waved to her. She nodded briefly and went back to the scope.

  “What’s she doing here at this hour?” I asked. It was not yet dawn.

  “She serves all hours. ’ ’ Paul shrugged. “She’s got no social life, no hobbies, no bad habits.”

  “Unless you call playing a flute naked in front of a mirror a bad habit.”

  Paul laughed. “Oh, you heard that story, too!”

  We went into his private office. He turned on the lights, locked the door behind us, pulled the plastopaque shade down over the glass window that looked out into the general lab area.

  I checked the Sharegard monitor on the wall. It was supposed to register the presence of any unauthorized electronic sharing devices. Sometimes it worked. At the moment it showed a normal reading.

  “When did you have your last sweep?” I asked.

  “About a week ago. We were clean then. They found an unauthorized transistor radio over in B Lab. Some done had been listening to the dog race results.”

  “Beautiful. Let’s get on with it.”

  Paul took out a portable cassette deck. The cracked plastic case was held together with plastitape.

  “Earphones,” I ordered.

  I used an earplug set. Paul did, too, but in addition he clamped on a theta helmet: small steel plates, held about three inches from his temples. They sent a weak electric current, about 7 cps, through his hippocampus. Paul was studying biofeedback but had not yet mastered the skill of going into theta at will.

  He inserted Angela Berri’s tape cartridge and pushed the On button. He looked at me. I nodded. He pushed Start.

  ‘ ‘This morning, at approximately 1045 EST, the corpus of an em was discovered lying in a bed in an apartment on West Seventy-fourth Street in Manhattan. The em was identified as Frederick Halber. That’s H-a-l-b-e-r. The corpus was discovered by the guardian of the building in company with a uniformed officer of the New York Peace Department. The guardian had been alerted by flasher from Halber’s employer. Halber had failed to show up for service that morning and wasn’t answering his flasher. The employer is Pub-Op, Inc. You know that outfit, Nick.

  “The New York Medical Examiner made a preliminary diagnosis of coronary thrombosis. The corpus was taken to the New York City Resting Home. His ‘next of kin’ listed in Halber’s service file at Pub-Op, Inc. was a cover name for his control. That was how I was notified.

  “The real name of the stopped em was Frank Lawson Harris. He was in PS, on my Section’s Headquarters Staff, assigned to undercover service, reporting only to me, through his control. The Director of Bliss and the Assistant Deputy Director of the Security Division are not aware of this activity. They are not, repeat, not to be informed.

  “Nick, I want you to find out what you can about how Harris stopped. I do not believe it was a coronary thrombosis. I believe he was assassinated. Claim the corpus from the NYC Resting Home and perform a complete autopsy, ( including tissue and organ analysis. Preferably, do it personally. If not, concoct a believable cover story for whoever does it. Lieutenant Oliver of the New York Peace Department will cooperate on releasing the corpus and allowing you access to Harris’ apartment.

  “I will be back tomorrow. I hope you will have answers by then.

  I know I can rely on your loyalty and discretion. Destroy this.” The voice stopped. Paul turned off the machine. We removed our earphones. We looked at .each other.

  “What do you make of that?” I asked finally.

  He ticked points off on his fingertips:

  “One: Angela Berri is involved in a covert and possibly illegal activity of X kind for Y reasons.

  “Two: Her immediate ruler, DIROB, is unaware of this activity, as is the Department’s Security Chief. Why? Either her activity is illegal or they are personally involved in an illegal activity which she has uncovered or suspects.

  “Three: Her covert activity is organized and of some duration, since she has a system of controls for her agents and has enlisted the assistance of at least one officer of the New York Peace Department. And since she suspects Harris was assassinated, her activity is serious and not just ordinary politicking.

  “Four: Halber’s—or rather, Harris’ employment at Pub-Op, Inc., is probably of some significance since we depend on them a great deal in our estimation of the Satisfaction Rate.

  “Five: If Harris was in service with the Department of Bliss, his file is available to us, and we have an IMP on him.”

  He paused a moment, then: “How was that, Nick?”

  I held up a finger. “Six: You and I are now involved, whether we like it or not.”

  “We can refuse to do anything.”

  “And risk Angela’s vengeance? I know the ef. Good-bye careers.”

  “What do you suggest, Nick?”

  “Do what she orders,” I decided. “I interpret this tape as an order from our ruler, not a request. And you so interpret it. Agree?”

  “Agree.”

  “Do not destroy the tape. It is our only hope in case this whole thing blows up. I’ll keep a file on all this in my apartment safe. When you’re finished with the tape, return it to me. From then on, we’ll discuss this only in the open or in a closed area where the possibility of sharing is minimal.”

  “Understood.”

  “Tomorrow morning, or rather this morning, I’ll get Lieutenant Oliver on the flasher and make arrangements to get into Harris’ apartment. We’ll take IMP samples. And I’ll claim the corpus. Can you do the PM?”

  His face went suddenly white. “I can, but don’t ask me, Nick. Please don’t ask me!”

  I was shocked by his vehemence.

  “All right,” I said gently. “You don’t have to. But I haven’t done an autopsy in more than ten years. I’m not up.”


  “Mary!” he burst out. “Mary Bergstrom can do it! She does them all the time. She likes to do them.”

  “What will you tell her?”

  He thought a moment.

  “That the New York Peace Department requested our cooperation because the case demands a transmission electron microscope, an energy-dispersion analyzer, and a lot of other hardware they don’t have.”

  “You lie very well.” I nodded approvingly. He grinned. “Will she ask questions?”

  “Not Mary. She’ll do what I tell her.”

  “Fine. Tell her to get everything on color tape. She’ll have the corpus later today. I’m going to sleep. You keep the cassette until you run the voiceprint. I’ll call you after I’ve spoken to Lieutenant Oliver in the morning.”

  He locked the tape cartridge in his office safe. Then he opened the door. I put a hand on his arm.

  “Paul, that beachhouse of Angela’s out on the coast. ...” “Yes?”

  “She told me she doesn’t own it, that she borrowed it from a friend. But she moved around in it like she’s lived there all her life. ’ ’ “Oh?”

  “There’s a glassed-in gazebo down on the sand. And a small stable. I saw a stallion and at least one em server. The whole thing has got to cost at least a hundred thousand new dollars, plus upkeep. On Angela’s rank-rate?” I pondered a moment. “Paul, does the Section have a contact in that area who could make quiet inquiries and find out who actually owns the house?”

  “Sure,” he said promptly. “I know just the em. An attorney in Oakland. DIVLAW let one of his clients plead nolo contendere in a case of mislabeling chlordiazepoxide. It might have been an honest packaging error, but I doubt it. Anyway, they ran a good recall, and no one got hurt. But if we had fought it, the client could have drawn a five-year reconditioning sentence instead of a ten-thousand-dollar fine. That lawyer will do anything we ask.”

  “Take care of it. ‘I know I can rely on your loyalty and discretion,’ ” I quoted solemnly. He laughed.