The Tomorrow File

by Lawrence Sanders

  Brother and sister Liszt passed. Phoebe Huntzinger agreed with Klein.

  Angela asked me if we had anything in present status that could be leased.

  “No,” I said, “nothing patentable. At this stage, it’s just a concept.”

  She nodded. “Stop it,” she said crisply. “Too limited. Phoebe, you’re next.”

  One of the responsibilities of Data & Statistics that we were all interested in, that the entire government was interested in, was the

  Satisfaction Rate (Satrat). Data was gathered daily; Satrat Reports were issued weekly.

  Briefly, the Satrat measured the quality of life in America, what percentage of Americans were satisfied with their lives and the way things were going and, conversely, what percentage were dissatisfied.

  The testing was done by a dozen commercial and academic organizations, under government contract, that specialized in public opinion polling. One of the companies was Pub-Op, Inc., in which Frank Harris Lawson was serving when he was stopped.

  The polling involved in calculating the Satrat included everything from yes-no questions to essay-type questionnaires seeking in-depth reactions, emotions, hates, fears, prejudices, etc: The technique had evolved from social attitude and motivational testing of the late 1970’s when it was recognized that the public’s well-being could no longer be judged solely by economic indicators: income, growth of the Gross National Product, employment, etc.

  The Satrat was extremely important to policymakers, from the President and Chief Director to Congress and the courts. By closely monitoring the public’s social attitudes, laws could be passed or repealed, funds spent in one direction rather than in another, potential dissension smothered before it escalated into an intractable crisis, etc.

  Phoebe Huntzinger, with her army of demographers, multivariant analysts, and linear regression statisticians, was the ef who provided the precise weekly social barometer, with the aid of an extremely sophisticated computer, of course. Her ten-minute contribution to our monthly conferences was invariably not a problem seeking a solution but merely a review of where the Satrat had been, where it was now, and her predictions of where it would be in a week, a month, a year, five years from now.

  She was a black ef with a Grade A genetic rating that was fully deserved. She spoke languidly, almost lazily, but question any of her conclusions and you’d find yourself sinking slowly in a quagmire of sine waves, hyperbolic functions, and angular velocities that would do you in. Right now, her report was optimistic: The Satrat was up and rising. The near future looked fair, the far future glorious.

  No questions were asked.

  The third offering was from the von Liszts, heads of the Division of Law & Enforcement. Usually their monthly reports involved their continual struggles with lawyers and the courts. The ma:n problem was inheritance. The development and increasing use of artificial insemination, artificial enovulation, parthenogenesis, self-fertilization, cloning, etc., had created a legal jungle through which lawyers and judges moved cautiously, no paths (precedents) to guide them.

  As one eminent jurist remarked, “The Biological Revolution has raised law into the realms of poetry.”

  But on this day, the von Liszts’ report did not concern inheritance; it dealt with a proposed legal change in the IC (Informed Consent) Statement.

  By law, we were forbidden to experiment on human objects without first obtaining their signed IC Statement. Prior to signing, we had to explain to them, whenever possible, the potential results of their cooperation. That “whenever possible” was our legal out, of course. When testing a new drug on a human object, for instance, who could possibly predict the potential results, even after lengthy testing on animals?

  Most of our testing on human objects was done on prisoners in federal penitentiaries. The IC Statements were easy to obtain. The prisoner was paid one new dollar a day for submitting to the test, or he hoped his cooperation would be a factor when his parole or reduced sentence was up for consideration, or he feared refusal to sign an IC Statement might count against him in such a legal proceeding.

  Patients in government hospitals represented a different problem. If they were obviously incompetent to scan and/or understand what they were signing, the IC Statement had to be signed by next of kin. It was invariably signed, relatives fearing that not signing might jeopardize the patient’s treatment in the hospital, and hoping too, of course, that the proposed experimentation might result in a cure.

  The third class of human objects of experimentation were formerly in government service but were now confined to Rehabilitation & Reconditioning Hospices “for psychiatric observation for reasons of public security. ” A little trick we had picked up from the Russians.

  The “psychiatric observation” -part was valid enough. If their acts had been antisocial, it was prima facie evidence of a disturbed mind. The second part, “for reasons of public security,” was validated by the first; obviously, a disturbed mind represented a potential threat to public security.

  A lot of kaka had recently been published in facsimile newspapers and publicized on TV news programs that when these patients signed Informed Consent Statements, it was under physical torture or threat of torture. This, I could testify, was absolutely inoperative. No patient in a government R&R Hospice signed an IC Statement under duress.

  It was true, of course, that those patients were frequently under hypnosis, under the influence of drugs or electric and Electronic behavior conditioning. But that was part of their therapy. The fact that they signed IC Statements while undergoing treatment in no way nullified the validity of those statements.

  That was our policy.

  The increasingly vociferous objections to that policy came mostly from the Society of Obsoletes (SOO), a loosely organized association of obsos (generally people bom prior to 1970) whose activities were usually laughable, concerning such things as antivivisection campaigns, letters to newspapers denouncing televised bullfights and executions, parades to protest the federal licensing of prostitutes, meetings to object to the legality of Smack and other addictive drinks and foods, and similarly hopeless causes. Most of these were simply a nuisance.

  But their current program against the existing Informed Consent Statement was a little more serious. It appeared to be well organized, cogently reasoned, and presented to the public with thoughtful moderation.

  To counter the efforts of SOO, Frances and Frank von Liszt suggested the IC Statement be reworded to include phrases stating that the undersigned fully understood the significance of what he was signing, that he had been offered no reward—financial or otherwise—for signing, nor was he signing under any physical, mental, or psychic duress.

  Having concluded their presentation, the von Liszts were silent. Angela Berri asked for comments. Burton P. Klein and Phoebe Huntzinger gave approval to the revised form. I had an objection. I asked if making even this minor affirmative response to the Society of Obsos’ desires might not encourage them to increase their demands.

  “Once we give in,” I pointed out, “they’ll up the ante. Then where do we end? Sooner or later we’ll have to answer them with a loud firm ‘No!’ It might be better to fight them on this. We could easily win with a well-planned media campaign stressing the anticipated therapeutic benefits to be derived from human experimentation. If we surrender on this small issue, they undoubtedly will be inspired to escalate their demands.”

  “What do you think of that, Burton?” Angela asked Klein directly.

  She surprised me. After the way he had savaged my report on Project Supersense, she seemed to be deliberately pitting the two of us, for what reason I could not fathom.

  “Mountains out of molehills,” Klein growled. He was an enormous NM; heavy through the shoulders and torso, with ridiculously spindly legs. His face was all eyebrows. He had a Grade B genetic rating, but I suspected most of his talents were in his muscles. Of course, in his service that was of some importance.

  “Look,” he went o
n, “it’s just the wording of the IC Statement we’re concerned with here. It won’t restrict us at all. Give those old idiots what they want and shut them up. They’re no threat. No one takes them seriously.”

  There was silence for a moment. We all looked at Angela. She looked at Burton Klein.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said finally. “I may discuss it with DIROB.”

  That seemed to satisfy Klein. He smiled. He thought he had won. “All right, Burton,” Angela continued. “Let’s hear from you now and wind this thing up.”

  The report of AssDepDirSec was a compendium of statistics and percentages. It concerned the numbers, categories, and frequencies of acts of assassination, kidnapping, sabotage, terrorism, and threats against PS, academic, and commercial research laboratories. Klein rattled off the figures so rapidly that he was finished in three minutes flat. I don’t think the others had caught the significance of what he had said. I was conscious of Paul Bumford shifting his position and moving uneasily behind me. I knew he had, and was trying to alert me.

  “Wait a minute,” I said, even before Angela had asked for comments. “Burton, if I understand you correctly, acts of assassination, sabotage, and terrorism against scientific research facilities -are up almost five percent from last month and more than fifty percent from what they were a year ago?”

  “That’s right,” he said stolidly.

  “Well, you seem very calm about it. Aren’t you concerned?”

  “Sure, I’m concerned. I’m taking steps. I’ve organized a working committee of government, commercial, and academic security directors. We’re exchanging intelligence. We’re beefing-up security precautions. And we’re working closely with the BPS on this.”

  The BPS, Bureau of Public Security (formerly the Federal Bureau of Investigation), maintained the data bank on domestic criminals and dissidents.

  “Well, what’s the pattern?” I demanded.

  “Pattern?”

  “Yes. What kind of installations are being bombed and burned and sabotaged?”

  “All kinds. There’s no pattern. Listen, I realize this is serious, but our violence rate isn’t so bad when you compare it to the big picture.”

  “The big picture? What big picture?”

  “The national incidence of violence, against banks, corporation offices, universities, insurance companies, government compounds, railroads, oil fields, laser-fusion power stations, airlines, and so forth. In some categories—bombings, for instance—our growth rate is actually lower than the national average.”

  I stared around the room. I don’t think any of them caught it.

  “It doesn’t compute,” I said. “Burton tells us the incidence of terrorist attacks against research facilities is fifty percent larger than it was last year and growing at a rate of five percent a month. He adds that the growth rate of national terrorist activity is even higher. But Phoebe tells us the Satisfaction Rate has never been higher and is rising every month. Just what the hell is going on?”

  Angela stared at me a moment. No expression.

  “Yes, yes,” she said quietly, “it’s something to think about. Well ... I believe we’ve accomplished a great deal. Good meeting. I thank you all. Adjourned. Nick, could I see you for a moment?”

  There was a gabble of relieved voices, pushing back of chairs, gathering of papers and files. The room emptied. Paul waited for me near the door, I went up to Angela.

  “Yes?”

  “I want to see you and Paul tonight. Come up to my place. At 2100.”

  “Fine. We’ll be there.”

  She nodded and was gone. I sank down into her chair, began rubbing my chin. Paul came over to stand close to me. I looked up at him.

  “What Klein said about using the Project Supersense synchronization technique on filmed book reels and sound tracks—we should have thought of that.”

  “I know.” He nodded miserably. “I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault. Mine. Put it in the Tomorrow File.”

  “Too late,” he said. “I’ll explain to you later tonight.” “We’ve got to see Angela at 2100. At her place.”

  “I’ll be back by then.”

  “Back?”

  “I have to leave the compound tonight.”

  I nodded.

  “Aren’t you curious as to where I’m going?”

  “Should I be?”

  “I may have a user on the outside.”

  “So?”

  “Couldn’t you be just a wee bit jealous?”

  “All right, Paul.” I sighed. “Where are you going?”

  “Tell you when I get back.”

  Sometimes he acted like a flirtatious ef. I let it pass.

  “What’s gotten into Klein?” I asked. “He seemed out for my balls.”

  “I noticed that. I was hoping you’d pick up on his report. I should have known you would. An Instox copy was circulated yesterday. I scanned it and got curious. I borrowed their rough data. They wouldn’t let me take it out of their office, but I scanned it. There is a pattern to the terrorist attacks against scientific facilities.”

  “Had to be,” I nodded. “What is it?”

  “About seventy percent are against laboratories doing procreation and genetic research.”

  “That’s interesting,” I said.

  The problem with the four-day week, for executives, was that we were compelled to serve twice as hard during the first six hours we returned from a threeday.

  I went down to my office from the SATSEC conference and dug into the three stacks of documents on my desk. As usual, I organized my own three stacks: Immediate, Soon, Later. Included in the Immediate pile were the daily progress reports from team leaders that had accumulated during my absence. Most were routine; I

  scribbled my initials to indicate they had been scanned. They would then be microfilmed and filed. But one report was of particular interest to me.

  It was from my Gerontology Team. With some diffidence, the leader was bucking along a suggestion made by one of his young servers—a bright ef. I scanned her name again to make certain I’d remember it.

  She had run a computerized actuarial study of what it cost the government to maintain an indigent and nonproductive obso until the object stopped. She had included costs of food, clothing, shelter, and medical care. The dollar total was shocking. And when I saw the grand total for all such objects, I was astonished. What I could do for the young, vigorous, and productive with all that love!

  The bright ef on the Gerontology Team had suggested an unusual approach to the problem. It was called GAS (Government-Assisted Suicide) and proposed the government offer 500 new dollars to any indigent and nonproductive obso who signed up. Stopping would be painless, by ingestion of pills provided free of charge by the government. The benefit would be awarded thirty days prior to stopping, to be used for any purpose the object desired, or it could be bequeathed.

  Assuming a minimum of 10 percent voluntary acceptance of GAS, it was estimated that, even after payment of the benefits, the savings to the government would be almost two billion new dollars annually. I could scarcely believe it. But the report stated: “Computer printout available if desired.”

  I made two Instox copies on my office machine. The original report, initialed, would be microfilmed and filed. On one copy I wrote “Original thinking. F&F,” initialed it, and marked it for return to the Gerontology Team leader. The “F&F” was Division shorthand for “File and Forget.”

  The second Instox copy I put in my pocket, then drew it out to red-pencil every reference to “Government-Assisted Suicide.” I was writing in “Government-Assisted Peace” when Paul Bumford came in. The other offices were dark; everyone else had left.

  “You’ve got to eat,” he said.

  “I suppose so,” I said. I rubbed my eyes. “What time is it?”

  “After 1900.”

  “I’ve got to come back. Pick me up here and we’ll go to Angela’s together. Will that give you enough time?”
/>
  “Plenty.”

  “Here’s something for the Tomorrow File.”

  I handed him the corrected report on Government-Assisted Peace. He scanned it rapidly.

  “Nick, it’s good.”

  “I know.”

  “Not for action now?”

  “No way. Talk to that ef who worked it up. Creative thinking there. She could be your second secretary.”

  He grinned. “For that I’ll buy you dinner. La Bonne Vie?” “I suppose so.”

  “You eat and I’ll talk. I’ve got a lot to tell you.”

  He ate, too, of course, but he did have a lot to tell me. We sat at a comer table, Paul spoke in a low voice, his lips close to my ear. He finished his recital.

  “You don’t seem very surprised,” he said, disappointed. “I’m not. Angela’s original tape was the input. She said not to inform DIROB.”

  “Oh. I had forgotten that.”

  “I hadn’t.”

  “Do you trust her?”

  “Yes, I trust her. In this.”

  “She’s such a bitch.”

  “I know. But I think she’s onto something here. It could benefit us. Let me do the talking tonight. Pick up your cues from me.” “Nick, I always do.”

  “Play it very tight. Don’t volunteer anything.”

  “Where thou goeth, there goeth I,” he said.

  We left and separated. He headed for the gate. I went back to my office. I had completed the Immediate stack. Logically, I should have started on the Soon. But there was a file in Later I wanted to scan.

  When a server in PS was sent to a Rehabilitation & Reconditioning Hospice ‘ ‘for psychiatric observation for. reasons of public security,” and had signed an Informed Consent Statement, the first task given him was to write a report or dictate a tape detailing his activities during the past year, two years, five—for as long a time as his interrogators believed would be of value.

  In this account, the object sometimes revealed names, places, dates that were frequently useful to AssDepDirSec, or BPS or UIA, in uncovering others who harbored antisocial tendencies. The object was usually assisted with memory-intensifying drugs, hypnosis, electric stimulation of the hippocampus, etc. The journal the object produced invariably made fascinating scanning.