“ ‘Final disposition’?” he said. “You told Mary I’d give her orders for the final disposition of the object. What?”
“That’s Angela’s problem. I’m going on a threeday in exactly”^—I looked at my digiwatch—“three hours and fourteen minutes. Angela knows you’re in on this. Catch her alone and ask her what to do with it. She’ll probably want it flamed.” “Probably.”
“All right. Now let’s get to you, what you found. Did you bring back those Somnorifics in the medicine cabinet?”
“You told me to.”
“What were they?”
“Analyzed? Six-hour Somnorifics.”
“Uh-huh. What else?”
He finally shook off his depression, came alive, started talking rapidly.
‘ ‘Habitual and recent presence in the apartment of an ef, approximately twenty years old, one sixty-five centimeters. Long, blond hair, trimmed recently. She uses Quik-Eeze Creme Shampoo. She wears tooty shoes. Spike heels. One pair is oxblood red. No Reason perfume, a complete synthetic. Amour Now lip rouge. Color: Passion Flower.”
“Ah-ha,” I said.
“Let’s see . . . what else? Slight nasal drip. Low-grade bronchial infection. Fuchsia eye shadow. Ugh! Oh: here’s an oddity; I don’t think she’s on the pill or any other fertility control. Blood type is O-Rh negative. That’s not Harris’. She was recently on a threeday or vacation in a hot, southern climate.” He paused. “Want to know how I know all this?”
I looked at him.
“I know exactly how you know all that. You used chromatography, electrophoresis, spectrophotometry, polarizing microscopes, X-ray refraction, the scanning electron microscope, and our very best energy-dispersion analyzer. All this high-priced equipment on hairs you found on the backs of chairs and the sofa. Ditto on stains from hair shampoo. Position of stains gave you height. Then we have rug indentations for the spike heels and rug stains for shoe color. Pillowcase stains and scents for lip rouge and perfume. You might have used the Olfactory Analysis Indicator there. Eye shadow from pillowcase or bathroom towel, which would also give you perspiration specimen, which would give you a partial immunoglobulin profile. Nasal drip and bronchial infection from discarded tissues in the bathroom wastebasket.”
“And the vacation in a hot, southern climate?”
“Skin flakes all over the place.”
"Gee, boss, you’re real smart.”
“That’s why I’m an Assistant Deputy Director, and you’re my Executive Assistant.”
It was a mistake. I knew it the moment I said it.
“All right, all right,” I said hurriedly. “Did you find an exhausted Somnorific inhaler? Near the bed? Anywhere in the bedroom? In the apartment?”
“No. No sign.”
“I checked with Lieutenant Oliver. His ems didn’t find it either. They took Instaroids of the scene in the bedroom. No empty Somnorific inhaler.”
“Is it important?”
“Yes. But let’s get on with it. I’ve got to catch a train. What about the IMP samples?”
Now, I shall be as brief as possible. Microbiologists interested in pursuing the subject further are advised that more than a hundred references exist on film spindles. The journals of the American Society of Microbiology might be a good place to start.
As I had told Paul Bumford, the idea of microbiological identification of the individual began as a forensic concept, the purpose being to establish the presence of a suspect at the scene of a crime. I felt this was of peripheral importance. Microbiology, I was convinced, could be used as exact means of personal identification of the general populace, far superior to appearance, physical measurements, fingerprints, voiceprints, hair, teeth, blood type, etc.
All humans are hosts to an incredible number and variety of microorganisms. Some exist within the skin, some without. Some are pathogenic. Most, fortunately, are inert or beneficial. Indeed without the “good” protozoa, bacteria, fungi, and viruses, we simply could not exist.
IMP, Individual Microbiological Profile, was a project concerned only with the external microbial populations that humans support on skin, eyes, nasal passages, genitalia, throat, anus, mouth—whatever organs of the body are exposed to the atmosphere.
After two years of research, the IMP Project (a temporary horizontal organization drawing specialists from all my teams) selected the fifty most common permanent and semi-permanent microorganisms to be found on the human body. Each was given a quantitative rating of 1 to 10, depending on the profusion in which it was found on a particular object’s surfaces.
We then took IMP samples from every member of the Department of Bliss—quite an undertaking when you consider there were more than half a million in DOB service. And “taking an IMP sample” involved analysis of saliva, sputum, perspiration, semen, vaginal scrapings, skin scrapings, nasal and throat discharges, urine, and feces. Fortunately, most of these analyses were automated.
Having coded IMP’s for the 500,000-plus DOB personnel, we fed the information to our largest DIVRAD computer and asked for duplicates. There were none. That was encouraging, but hardly surprising.
We were about to start testing computer retrieval of IMP information. If the blind tests were successful, I intended to suggest a campaign, low-key at first, to make microbiological analysis obligatory nationwide. We would then include every American’s IMP in his file in the NDB (National Data Bank).
“I was able to get a good IMP of Harris from his apartment,” Paul Bumford said. “His dirty laundry, sink, bed, atmosphere, rugs, toilet seat, and so forth. What I couldn’t get, Mary furnished from the corpus. But we already have Harris’ IMP on file. I presume you want a blind identification test. Right?”
“Right.”
“But why an IMP on anyone else I could find?”
I didn’t answer his question. “Did you get an IMP on the unknown blond ef?”
“A partial. Fairly accurate, I would say. Thirty-two definite factors out of the fifty. Nine possibles. That leaves nine unknowns. And where does that leave us? Nick, do you think the blond ef is in service in DOB? Is her IMP on file?”
"Could be. Harris was in DOB. It’s possible his user was, too."
“Possible, but chancy. There’s something else on your mind. I can tell.”
I paced around, looking down at the floor, hands jammed into my zipsuit pockets.
“A crazy idea,” I muttered. “You’ll laugh at me.”
“I’ve never laughed at one of your ideas in my life and never shall,” he vowed.
“I thank you,” I said. Everything was all right between us again. “The crazy idea is this: Of those fifty microorganisms included in the IMP, I think about half could be inherited.”
He sucked in his breath. “My God,” he said, “you are incredible.”
“If I’m right,” I went on, “if twenty-five or thirty factors out of the fifty—particularly those in the respiratory tract—are inherited, then maybe if that mysterious blond ef who sucked Harris’ cock the night he was stopped isn’t actually in service in DOB, with an IMP on file, then maybe she’s related to someone who is. What do you think?”
He looked at me, shaking his head.
“Mary scares me, and you scare me,” he said. “What do I think? Definitely possible.”
“Yes. Now here’s what I want you to do while I’m gone. Take your construction of Harris’ IMP to the Computer Team. Tell them you’re running a preliminary blind test and see if they validate it. Then try input of the unknown blonde’s IMP. I know it’s incomplete , but try it. If the computer comes up with zilch, ask Jim Phelps if he can reprogram to give you a list of DOB people with identical , quanta on the IMP factors you do have on the blonde. Follow?”
“Of course. I’ll have it all for you when you return. You better get moving. Say hello to your parents for me.”
“Thank you, I will. I’ll be back in time for the Section meeting on Thursday. Meanwhile, keep the mill grinding.”
“Bastard!�
� He laughed. He took Mary Bergstrom’s cassette from my TV set and started out. The tape cartridge reminded me of something.
“Paul.”
He turned back.
“This is for the Tomorrow File.”
He brightened. The TF was his baby.
“I know you weren’t watching the PM. That’s all right. But you heard Mary’s narration. Did you hear her say that the stomach was normal, the heart was normal, the pancreas was normal? And that the liver was slightly fatty but not pathologic?”
“So?”
“Paul, those organs were grossly normal. Microscopically, of course, they were totally infarcted. But if they had been totally normal, they would still be shoved back into the object and flamed. The waste! You know the figures oh donated organs, in spite of that last telethon. And production of artificial and cloned organs just isn’t enough. We don’t have the love we need to increase production. Patients are waiting, hopefully. And we’re going to flame a healthy heart, liver, pancreas, stomach. And every time anyone stops naturally and is flamed, we lose retinas, kidneys, hands, arms, legs, gonads, and ovaries we can use, that we need.” “Nick,” he said soberly, “you were the one who taught me the difference between what we should do and what we can do.” “I know, I know,” I said impatiently. “That’s why this is for the Tomorrow File. The first sanitation laws this country passed, more than two hundred years ago, established the government's interest in and concern for public health. Then laws, laws, and more laws. Sanitation, hygiene, drinking water, sewer systems, inspection of meat plants, then Medicare, then hospitalization insurance, government payment for kidney dialysis, genetic counseling, then national health insurance, then the Fertility Control Act, the licensing of procreation. It’s all been gradually, gradually evolving, coming to a time when we must realize the citizen’s corpus is the government’s responsibility. ’ ’
“And property?” Paul said.
“Well ... its concern, certainly. We should not flame healthy organs; that’s all I know. They’re too valuable. They could be used for research, transplant, or frozen for the nukewar bank. They’re a national resource and should not be wasted.”
Paul computed a moment.
“It would mean a federal license for stopping,” he said. “Government inheritability of the corpus.”
“I know.” I nodded. “That’s what troubles me.”
He looked at me steadily.
“The future belongs to the untroubled,” he said.
X-5
They had restored direct New York-Detroit train service in 1983. It was the southern route, via Philadelphia, Canton, and Toledo, Ohio. I took the Bullet Train. It was gas-turbine-powered, with a linear motor. We moved at 480 kph, riding on a cushion of air about 1.5 cm above the track. Beautifully smooth, quiet, comfortable. The service in the dining car was excellent, the food detestable. But no one complained. They had no basis for comparison.
I had taken a compartment. This was a threeday, but I had brought along a case of papers, film spindles, tapes. Fortunately, I didn’t need to carry clothing or toilet accessories. I kept a civilian wardrobe and complete kit in my suite in my parents’ home.
The morning I returned to GPA-1, three days hence, I would be expected to attend the monthly executive conference of Satisfaction Section. This was, of course, ruled by Angela Berri, DEPDIRSAT. Present would be the Assistant Deputy Directors of her four divisions. The five of us (DIVLEG had two Assistant Deputy Directors) would sit facing Angela across the white plastiglass table in the conference room. Behind each of us would be seated our Executive Assistant. In my case, that would be Paul Bumford.
Angela Teresa Berri was a rigorously efficient manager. Each Division was allowed ten minutes, no more, no less, to present and discuss a single topic.
The topic I had selected for discussion in this particular meeting was Project Supersense.
Almost fifty years ago, neurosurgeons believed they had isolated “pleasure centers” in the human brain that could be excited by implanted electrodes. It became obvious, years later, that the term “pleasure center” was something of a misnomer; there was no single center of pleasure in human brains, or even in a single brain. Pleasure was generated in a series of “islands of concentration” in the pathway leading from the forepart of the hypothalamus to the cortex. Tickle one, and the object was no longer thirsty. Excite another, and hunger was satisfied. Titillate a third, electrically or chemically, and sexual pleasure was produced.
After lengthy experimentation on animals, a technique was evolved by which needle-thin electrodes could be implanted in the human brain. Energizing the titanium-alloy electrodes with a mild electric current gave the object a feeling of well-being. One neuroscientist termed it “reward” rather than “pleasure.” Exact placement of the electrodes was crucial, but not as difficult as you might expect. During neurosurgery, the object might be administered an anesthetic sufficient only to allow cutting through the scalp and drilling a hole in the skull.
Once the surgeon was through the meninges, the patient could be conscious and responsive during surgery. Fortunately, the stuff of the brain itself cannot register pain. So a surgeon implanting electrodes could probe and test, probe and test, asking the wide-eyed object, “There? There? What do you feel? What’s happening? Are you happy?”
Originally, after correct emplacement, these electrodes were fixed with glue to the object’s skull, with a bit protruding beyond the scalp. Wires were attached to carry the required electric current. Later, using hardware developed in the space program, a microminiaturized radio receiver, battery-powered, was taped to the object’s skull. Upon receipt of a radio signal, it stimulated the object’s “pleasure centers.” Thus he was ambulatory, free from entangling wires.
Still later, a microminiaturized radio transmitter, battery-powered, was attached to his belt. The receiver was implanted beneath his scalp for cosmetic reasons. An object could now stimulate his own brain, giving himself a jolt of pleasure, or reward, by pressing a button on his belt kit.
The purpose of all this research and development was therapeutic, to relieve the symptoms of epilepsy, depression, schizophrenia, etc.
But as frequently happens, what began as a biomedical blessing became a medical craze. It was estimated that more than two million Americans had had electrodes implanted in their brains for the sole purpose of self-stimulation. The operation was not inexpensive, and even with the development of plastitanium, the presence of electrodes (or any foreign matter) in the brain presented certain risks, especially during violent acceleration or deceleration of the object. In a car crash, for instance. But the risks did not lessen the human hunger for new pleasures. They never do.
Now enters Project Supersense. It was my idea. I realized that the brains of these two million electrode-implanted Americans were being stimulated by a radio signal, self-produced. I saw no reason, considering the state of our technology, why a film—either in a movie theatre or on a TV set at home—could not be coded along its edge, just as sound is synchronized to the visual image, to send a signal to all receivers under the scalps or within the skulls of the “Mind-Jerkers,” as the people who had opted for the electrode implant operation were popularly called.
Then these two million, watching a film on any subject, would be automatically stimulated to pleasure, thirst, pain, hunger, or eventually any other appetite or emotion, if neurobiological research continued at its present rate. Their titillations would be synchronized with the scene being shown on the film. Mind-Jerkers would feel greatly increased sexual arousal during a love scene, increased pain during a torture scene, increased fear during a horror scene, increased glee during a comedy scene.
I discussed this concept with Paul Bumford. He enthusiastically concurred that it was feasible. It was assigned to my Psychobiology Team. After investigation and research, they reported the plan practical, valuable, and eagerly awaited a go signal to develop the necessary hardware and film synchronization techn
iques in conjunction with the Electronics Team.
It was the file on Project Supersense that I was reviewing and attempting to evaluate on my train trip to Detroit. I was trying to decide whether to recommend going ahead with it or stopping it.
The railroad station in Detroit occupied a concourse on the two lowest floors of a new high-rise crematorium. Carrying my case, I took the express elevator to the copter pad on the roof. My father’s copter was waiting. In his inimitable style, the four-seater was painted a startling Chinese red. On the cabin, in block lettering of vibrating purple, it read: FLAIR TOYS: THE TOYS WITH A FLAIR! Subtle.
The pilot was a young ef with flaming blue hair. She wore a Chinese-red zipsuit. Across one breast the expected legend was embroidered in that jarring purple. But she was so pneumatic it read: “flAIRToys.” She told me she would drop me at the house, have something to eat, then go out to the airport to pick up my father, who was coming in on a commercial flight from Denver. He had a factory out there.
We tilted out over the Detroit River and almost immediately began our descent over Belle Isle to Grosse Pointe. She hovered a moment over my father’s beautifully tended estate, then let down on the front lawn. My mother wasn’t too far away, near the water. She was seated in a garden chair of white-painted iron. She was wearing one of her gowns of flowing silk, all pleats and ruffles. Her thin arm poked out, resting on the table alongside. Her fleshless fingers grasped the glass.
I looked around for Mrs. McPherson. She was nearby, a wooden statue with folded arms, standing under a small copse of young elms. She never let my mother out of her sight. Never.
I walked slowly down to the garden chair.
“Mother,” I said softly.
“Who?” she said vaguely. She looked up at me, dazed and faraway.
“Nick.”
“Who?”
“Nicholas, your loving and devoted son.”
Her face cracked into a million pleased wrinkles.
The Tomorrow File Page 5
