“Good service, Nick,” she said.
I took another few minutes to call Hammond. I explained I had to go out of town on personal affairs, but I would return in plenty of time for the Saturday meeting. I asked him if he’d drive Lydia Ferguson up to Hammonds’ Point. I’d meet her there and drive her back to the city Saturday night.
“Of course, Nick m’boy,” he said genially. “Of course.”
X-11
I had time to scan two files on the flight to Detroit. The first originated in the Culture Section of the Department of Bliss. It dealt with the problem of televised executions. Ratings were down. Although not stated in the memo, it was in the state’s interest—as I previously explained—to keep TV viewing audiences at optimum levels.
Capital punishment had been legislated in 1979, but only for federal crimes. Originally, these included treason, espionage, military desertion, kidnappings in which the victim was stopped, bombings or hi-jackings of interstate carriers, and assassination of government servers.
Over the years, the list of capital crimes had been enlarged to include all kidnappings, all homicides, threats and acts of terrorism against the state, use of and trafficking in restricted drugs, forgery of federal specie (including BIN cards), acts of public terrorism, defiling the US flag, willful political dissent with the intent of overthrowing the government, and “slanderous and/or libelous actions taken against public servers.”
The guilty were executed by electric chair. Not only was it a popular TV special, but it was believed that TV exposure of capital punishment had a socially beneficial effect on those contemplating similar crimes.
In any event, ratings were off. The CULSEC memo asked for suggestions for more “visually stimulating” methods of execution that might regain the lost audience. The answers seemed obvious to me. Hanging, garrotting, or even the revival of the guillotine would certainly prove more visually stimulating. And when these methods palled, as I supposed they eventually would, there was always drawing and quartering.
I scrawled quick notes on the border of the memo. One of my secretaries would transcribe them into acceptable officialese.
The second file, a thick one, was labeled “Hyman R. Lewisohn. ’ ’ It concerned the health of the em who, more than any other object, was the source of innovative ideas for the social, political, and economic progress of the US.
Lewisohn’s genius had come to the attention of the government in a curious manner. Early in 1973, at a diplomatic reception in Teheran, an aide of the economic counselor to the US Embassy had been chatting with the Shah.
“That was quite an article by your Professor Lewisohn,” the Shah mentioned.
“Ah yes, Excellency,” the aide said, as smoothly as he could. “Remarkable.”
The Shah looked at him closely, then smiled.
“Yes,” he said. “Quite remarkable!”
An hour later a coded cablegram went to Washington: rush URGENT RECENT ARTICLE PROFESSOR LEWISOHN.
The article and the author were finally tracked down. Hyman R. Lewisohn was an obscure professor of economics at an obscure Midwestern liberal arts college. His article had been contributed ($25 honorarium) to an obscure monthly trade journal of the petroleum industry.
Working with only a primitive desktop computer, Lewisohn had proved, quite simply, that petroleum was too valuable to be burned as fuel. His theory was based on estimates of the finite quantity of petroleum in the world. He then computed the future cash value of heating oils, kerosene, gasoline, lubricants, naphtha, and similar products versus the future cash value of plastics, chemicals, drugs, dyes, fertilizers, and—a pure conception at the time—synthetic protein.
Lewisohn was offered a US Government post. He refused. The rank-rate was doubled. Again he refused. An Undersecretary of State was sent out to talk to him. It must have been a bewildering interview for the public server.
Hyman R. Lewisohn was the orphan of immigrant German Jews.
He was a victim of achondroplasia, with the enormous bulging forehead common in such cases. In addition, he had a crop of coarse red hair, paid absolutely no attention to his grooming or even to his personal cleanliness, and deliberately discouraged personal relationships by a rude and offensive manner. This included expectorating on the floor, loudly deriding the opinions of others, lewd gestures, and so forth. But he had one thing going for him: He was a genius.
Eventually, he stated his terms for public service. He was to be paid 100,000 new dollars annually. Living and working quarters were to be provided, with a relatively small, compact, versatile computer. His expenses for periodicals were to be paid, including the obso romantic novels to which he was addicted. The government agreed immediately, making the most lovable bargain since the purchase of Alaska. We had bought the power of Lewisohn’s creativity.
And now that power was stopping. The file I scanned contained the most recent contingency plan from the Chief Resident at Rehabilitation & Reconditioning Hospice No. 4, near Alexandria, Virginia. It was not encouraging. The obso em was not responding to treatment. Bone marrow transplant was recommended. I realized I had to go down there myself and scan him. His continued existence was—well, essential. That was all I could say.
When I came down the ramp at the Detroit airport, I was met by the blue-haired copter pilot. She was wearing her Chinese red zipsuit with the embroidered “flAlRToys” across one breast. The other disembarking ems looked at her voraciously.
“I’m supposed to guide you,” she said archly.
“Oh? Where?”
“To the private plane area. Your father’s over there, waiting at his jet. And the copter’s parked there.”
My father was standing at the cabin door of the sleek twin-jet. There were three objects with him. One em was Ben Baker, his production manager, carrying a plastic box. The other two were assistants, one ef, one em. Introductions were made. We all stroked palms.
“Thanks, Nick,” my father said. “I knew I could depend on you.”
“How’s Mother?”
“No change. Ben, show him.”
Baker took the lid off the box he was carrying, held it out to me. I bent over to look. The stench drove me back.
“Jesus Christ!“ I cried. “What is it?”
“What is it?” my father repeated bitterly. “When it left our Connecticut factory five weeks ago it was a perfect Poo-Poo Doll. Something happened.”
“Something sure as hell did,” I agreed.
The mess in the box was putrescent. It stank. The plastic body of the doll had deteriorated, decayed almost to the point of liquidity. The rot had discolored the dress, stained the hair, even corrupted the little plastiglass eyes. It was a small corpus. Fetid.
“Ben,” I said, “what caused it?”
“I wish I knew,” he said miserably. “That’s the most automated toy production line in the world. Computerized quality control. Bells go off if anything isn’t just perfect. Automatic temperature and fluidity controls. Foolproof. Fail-safe. But we lost a whole run.”
The ef assistant spoke up.
“Everything since that run has been perfect,” she said. “We’ve done heavy analysis. They look fine.”
“How long did the bad run last?” I asked.
“A week,” Ben Baker said. “Actually a little less than six days. Before, the dolls were fine. After, the dolls were fine. But during? Murder!”
“We can’t let it happen again,” my "father said furiously. “Never!”
On that happy note we separated. I watched my father’s jet take off. Then I took the copter to Grosse Pointe. The ef pilot didn’t stop chirping.
“What’s your name?” I interrupted once.
“Beryl,” she said. And started up again.
We landed on the front lawn. I handed my case over to a sad-faced Charles and went immediately to my mother’s bedroom on the second floor. Shades and drapes were drawn. But enough late Afternoon light came through to pearl the room. Mrs. McPherson was seated woo
denly at my mother’s bedside. I went over to the bed, picked up the feather hand, tried to find a pulse.
Head turned. Eyes opened slowly. Widened in consciousness. Then recognition.
Weakly: “Hullo, chappie.”
“What’s this?” I said sternly. “What’s this?”
“Terminal nostalgia,” she said.
I caught my breath.
“Don’t fake me, chappie,” she said.
“Have I ever?”
“No,” she murmured. “No, no, no.” In diminishing volume until I couldn’t hear. “No, no, nooo. . .
I went over to one of the windows. I think I leaned my head against the frame. I was alert, aware of my own symptoms. Mental dislocation. Light-headedness. Something new: Physical vertigo. Weakness in the knees. A tilt. I thought I might fall. . . .
. . . annual visits to the cemetery at Mt. Clemens when I was a child. The grave of an older sister who had stopped at the age of three months from a respiratory infection. “Susan Bennington Flair, May 3, 1967—August 14, 1967.” A smirking granite cherub.
. . . natural bacon frying for breakfast. A treat on Sunday morning. The kitchen filled with the scent. Dividing up the thick Sunday newspaper, a section to each. Gobbling bacon, shouting news items to each other. Rollicking.
... my parents dressed to go out. Mother in a strapless black velvet gown. Her bare flesh glowing. Glowing! Excitement and electricity. Her naked body moving inside the gown, bursting to spring free. A choker of small diamonds, no brighter than her sparkle. Goodnight, Nick! Goodnight! Goodnight!
... a midnight storm when the thunder. . . .
I flipped a spansule into the air, caught it in my mouth. A salted peanut. I swallowed it down. In a few moments the trembling ceased; memories faded.
I went back to my mother’s bedside. I saw the dark green jar on the bedside table, picked it up, spilled a few of the pills into my palm. I recognized them.
“Did Dr. Bradford tell you about these?” I asked Mrs. McPherson.
She nodded.
“Please don’t leave them at the bedside.” I moved the jar across the room, to a dresser top.
I ate alone in the gloomy dining room. I sat at one end of the long oak table, surrounded by lost whispers and forgotten laughs. I had a slice of proham, a cold salad made of propots, two slices of natural
tomato—ruby red and mealy. I did what I could with it all, forking it down, staring at the walls, listening to echoes.
Then, in the library, I poured a large natural brandy. I took it up to Mother’s bedroom.
“I’ll stay awhile,” I told Mrs. McPherson.
She nodded and left. I sat in a cane-backed armchair, sipping my drink, watching the bed. Occasionally my mother stirred, moved uneasily, groaned or muttered. It was not natural sleep. That dark green jar contained a potent barbiturate.
I went over to the bed, put my hand lightly on her hot forehead. She relaxed, calmed; the moans ceased. I was standing there, feeling the paper-thin skin beneath my fingers, when Mrs. McPherson returned. She was carrying a tray of dishes, covered with a large plastinap. She hadn’t been gone more than fifteen minutes. She wasn’t giving an inch. Mother was hers. I left the two of them. Together.
It was a black night, mild and moonless. A tug hooted somewhere. A jetliner droned over. Then the silence crept back. I walked slowly down toward the water, peering about for the garden table and chairs. I found them, finally. I sat there in the dark, sipping my brandy slowly, almost tonguing it.
I stirred, eventually, when bright lights flashed on in the guesthouse. I heard loud music. New jazz. It was probably Beryl, dancing about in her red zipsuit or inspecting her bare breasts critically before a mirror, peering at them through a cloud of cannabis smoke. I went back to the house and called Millie. No answer.
I poured another brandy, took it up to my suite. I showered, dressed in tooty civilian clothes, called Millie again. No answer. I finished the brandy in two gulps. There was an effect now, a welcome lack of caution, irresponsibility triumphant. I drove into Detroit, singing.
Millie wasn’t at her apartment. I started a crawl of taverns we had visited together. I drank apetronac, petrovod, petrorum—whatever I saw first; it made no difference. I didn’t find Millie. By midnight I was moving sideways through a blurred world, slipping by everyone, giggling.
I found her finally. I was in a tumultuous place, somewhere, raised my head from my drink, looked in the mirror. A stranger there. And over his shoulder, across the room, there was Millie,
sitting with another ef and two tooty ems. I swung around on the barstool, so quickly that I spun off, staggering.
“Hey,” I yelled. “Hey, Millie!”
I went banging toward them, knocking into tables, chairs, shoving objects out of the way. A burly em suddenly stood before me. “Be good or be gone,” he said pleasantly.
I got a knee into his groin and he went down, mouth open. Grinning, I clawed my way toward Millie.
“Hey, Millie!” I called joyously.
Then I was in an alley. I was on the bricks, slime under my cheek. I doubled over, drew up my knees, covered my face with my hands.
They took me with their boots. Not speaking. Just breathing hard. It hurt. How it hurt.
Just before I went out, I heard an ef screaming, “Stoppit! Stop-pit! Stoppit!”
I came up slowly. Through a bloody haze I was staring at a plaster ceiling, paint chips peeling away. My chest was cold and wet.
I looked down. Millie was rubbing a plastinap of Jellicubes along my ribs. I looked around. Her apartment. And two uniformed bobs from the Detroit Peace Department, watching. One held my BIN card, one my purse.
“Oh, Nick,” Millie said anxiously. “Are you tip-top?” Beautiful question.
“Tip-top,” I nodded. “What time is it?”
“Almost 0200. How do you feel?”
“I told you. Tip-top. Would you make me some coffee?”
She scurried off. I slowly swung my legs over the edge of the bed. Cautiously, I sat upright. Something was wrong on my left side. I probed gently.
“Broken?” one of the bobs asked.
I took a deep breath. No sudden, sharp anguish. Just dull pain. “I don’t think so. Contused perhaps.”
“You want to press charges?” he asked.
“That wouldn’t be wise,” I said. “Would it?”
“No,” he said. “It wouldn’t.”
“Did I cause any damage?” I asked.
“You kicked an em in the balls,” the other bob said. “The manager.”
“Can I have my purse?”
I took out my wallet, riffled the bills. I thought some love was missing. But I had spent a lot.
“You think fifty will make him feel better?” I asked.
“Fifty will cure him,” one of them said.
I handed over the fifty, then added twenty more.
“Sorry for the trouble,” I said.
“It happens.” One of the bobs shrugged. “But an em like you—in a place like that. You want to watch it.”
They both nodded virtuously. I was given back my BIN card. They departed. I was getting out of my clothes when Millie returned, bringing a plasticup of something black and steaming. “Oh, Nick,” she said sorrowfully, looking at me.
“I vomited?”
“Yes, you did.”
“Not in here? “ I asked, horrified.
“No. In the alley. When they were picking you up.”
I took a sip of coffee. If it had any flavor, I couldn’t taste it. It wasn’t important. It was hot and wet. I took slow sips as I continued undressing.
“I’ll wipe off your clothes,” Millie said. “With a damp rag.” “Thank you.” I smiled. “Later. Is my face all right?”
"Your right ear is a little scratched. From the bricks. But you can hardly notice.”
I examined myself. Red blotches on shoulders, arms, ribs, hips, thighs, calves. I knew what color they’d be tomorrow, and the nex
t day, and the next. And I could feel the pain starting in my back and buttocks. A complete service.
“Do you have any tape, Millie?”
“Tape?”
“Any kind. Mending tape? Electrician’s tape?”
“Nooo, I don’t think so. Nick, should I go out and get some?” “At 0200? Thanks, dear, but no. Do you have an old thermasheet I can rip up? I’ll send you a new one.”
“Don’t say that. You don’t have to give me anything.”
I tore long strips. I held one end in place, then slowly revolved. Millie wound me like a mummy. I kept telling her to keep it tight. Finally my thorax was wrapped, armpits to waist. It still hurt. But it would hold. I tucked in the loose end.
“I’m sorry, Millie,” I said. “Please excuse me. I know I ruined your evening.” “Oh, Nick ... I was so happy to see you again. Why didn’t you call?”
“I tried.”
It seemed a ridiculously formal conversation. A naked em, chest mummified, standing before a fully dressed ef.
“Another coffee?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “Two liters of cold water.”
“Do you think—” she asked tentatively.
“Let’s try,” I said. “But you must be very gentle.”
“Ever so gentle,” she cried happily. “I’ll do everything!” But I didn’t let her. For some reason I couldn’t compute, it was important to me that I give her profit. I never penetrated her child’s body that night, not once, but I employed lips, tongue, fingers, eyelashes, toes, until she was screaming with delight, and I had to hush her, fearing the neighbors would call the bobs again.
It went on and on. She seemed insatiable, but I would not end until she signaled me. Finally, she pushed me away and lay back exhausted, rosy and sweated.
“Who is Lydia?” she gasped.
“Lydia?” I said. “I don’t know any Lydia.”
“In the alley. Just before you passed out. You said, ‘Lydia.’ ” “Did I?” I said. “That’s interesting.”
Late the next morning I watched while Dr. Bradford examined my mother. She was awake, babbling nonsense.
“Yes, yes,” Bradford kept saying. “Yes, yes.”
The Tomorrow File Page 18
