She surprised me; an uncommonly skilled driver. She was relaxed, almost negligent. Hands lightly on the wheel in the approved 10-2 position. Fast, but not careless. Skirt pulled up to her pudendum. Eyes on the road. Elbow on the window rest. Sensitive touch. But excited.
“Can I go faster?” she said.
“Sure.”
We went faster. I responded to that, remembering Millie and me whirling around that darkened track in Detroit.
“Whee!” she said.
As usual, speed took me out. I could forget my mad Potemkin’s Village scheme to hang Angela Berri by her soft heels, forget the groans of today and the moans of tomorrow. The whispers of yesterday.
“Are you wearing anything?” I asked her.
“Beneath? No.”
“Will it bother you?”
“Yes,” she said. “It will bother me. Do it.”
I twisted my body sideways. She spread her legs eagerly. I buried my face. She tasted of . . .
“Petronac-flavored,” she said. “A new douche.”
And so we sped into the Nation’s Capital.
I took the wheel then. It cost almost two hours to get through Washington traffic, across the Potomac, down into Alexandria. But I welcomed our slow progress. It gave me time to compute the ef at my side.
There were contradictions. I knew—and Paul Bumford concurred—that she had a sharp, alert brain. But I found her, physically, a yawning animal, almost indolent, willing server to sensuality.
Her scientific discipline was geriatrics; all her conditioning had been directed toward alleviating the ills of the aged and the extension of life. Yet she had come to our attention by her suggestions for two euthanasic programs. She had told me glibly, “I want to live forever.” But my original take on her had been correct; She was terminally oriented.
There had been a brief moment in my life when I had believed there was still hope for the human species if there remained but one unpredictable object. But that was youthful romanticism. After I squirmed into the snake pit of national politics, I realized that a ruler must equate the unpredictable with the unreliable. The future was too important to leave to whim.
We were rolling through the lovely Virginia countryside when I decided there was less to her than met the eye. She would not be a problem.
Hospice No. 4 offered a pleasant prospect: several hectares of plastiturf surrounding small plots of natural meadowland, trees, a well-groomed orchard. The buildings were three levels high, constructed of antiqued plastibrick with plastirub ivy attached to the south walls. A curved driveway of Glasphalt led to the portico of the Headquarters Ward. A small spur of this driveway turned off to the receiving and emergency building, marked with a large sign: WELCOME WARD.
The various buildings were in a loose cluster. They were, I knew, connected by underground passageways. Utilities, power sources, computers, and classified labs were also underground. It was a design that was, with minor modifications, standard for government hospices all over the US.
Also standard was a single building that stood apart, unconnected to the others by above- or below-ground passages. It looked exactly like the other wards. The only difference was the plastisteel wire netting over the windows. The netting was molded white. You could hardly see it in the late-aftemoon sunshine.
This was the Public Security Ward. It was in this building that objects guilty of politically unacceptable behavior were rehabilitated and reconditioned. It was also where government servers guilty of activities inimical to the public interest were drained. It was also where most of our scientific research on human objects was conducted. Generally, this was limited to the testing of new pharmaceuticals. More esoteric research was the province of my Field Offices.
I do not wish to imply—that is not my thrust at all—that this building was a prison ward of dark dungeons, beatings, torture, starvation, or any other kind of repression whatsoever. Quite the contrary. It was a reasonably clean, cheerful, bright, efficiently operated facility. It was open at all times to duly authorized inspectional or investigative bodies of the US Congress, and was so inspected and investigated frequently. We had nothing to hide. Everything was legal.
It must not be inferred that at this point in time the US was what the Society of Obsoletes termed a “police state.” The communications media were still privately owned and allowed to express their views freely, even if those views were critical of government policy, as they sometimes were. Private property rights were still cherished and protected by law. And the public could still vote, choosing between the two political parties. In fact, during the Presidential election of 1996, 16 percent of the qualified electorate had cast ballots. So the US could hardly be called a police state. Far from it.
We were no sooner parked, getting out of the car, when a group of white-clad figures debouched through the main door of the Headquarters Ward. They awaited us on the porch. I recognized Dr. Luke Warren.
“Welcoming committee?” Maya Leighton asked.
“Yes,” I said. I was about to warn her not to speak unless spoken to, to follow my lead in all things—but then I thought better of it. Let her behave as she wished. It would give me additional input on her potential.
We went up ta the porch. Introductions and palm stroking began. I gathered fresh evidence of a new social habit I had first noted a few months previously.
The palm stroke had generally replaced the handshake by the mid-1980’s. Human behavior analysts believed its origin was the palm slap of black “studs” and “cats,” widely used in the 1960’s. The violence of that gesture was modified in the palm stroke that had become an almost universal token of friendly greeting. Originally the palm was offered with the hand held vertically, thumb and fingers closed. Palms were pressed as much as stroked.
I had noticed a new modification that signaled status. The server, or inferior, was, more and more, offering his hand in a semihorizontal or sometimes flat position, palm upward. Almost in supplication. The ruler, or superior—by rank, wealth, age, or fame—would then stroke the proferred palm with his own hand turned downward. Almost a benediction.
So we went through the ceremony. All palms were turned up to me. All palms were turned down to my secretary. I was amused, and took care not to show it.
Besides Dr. Luke Warren, the Chief Resident, the only other
object of significance to this account was Dr. Seth Lucas, introduced as the junior resident who had day-to-day responsibility > for Hyman Lewisohn’s condition. It was the first time I had met Lucas, although I had scanned his file before approving his assignment to the case.__
He was a tall, thin (almost scrawny) black with the somewhat glassy stare of a contact lens wearer. His features were quite ordinary. He was nineteen years old and was an honor graduate of the Science Academy’s Accelerated Learning Course. He had majored in biochemistry and specialized in psychopharmacology.
His record in Public Service had been excellent, but not brilliant. A tiny red tab in his PP (Psychological Profile) called attention to “potential racism against blacks.”
Dr. Luke Warren bustled about, gnawing crazily at his upper lip, blinking like mad, continually running both hands over his bald pate, as if to press water from his nonexistent hair. He wanted to shepherd us into the colloquy immediately. It was all set up. It was all planned.
I told him that was impossible. I wished to make a personal examination of our famous patient first. Face fell, shoulders slumped. I had dealt his always frail confidence another stout kick. Too bad. In certain objects, one cultivates apprehension. They perform best when fearful or even desperate.
So, with Dr. Seth Lucas showing us the way, Maya and I went to see Lewisohn.
“Seth,” I remarked to the black doctor. “Seth. The evil brother of Osiris.”
We were walking down a wide, polished corridor, stepping aside occasionally to avoid bustling nurses, pushed beds, wheeled equipment.
“That’s right,” he said, not smiling. “Set
h, the evil brother of Osiris. That’s me. Except my brother’s name is Sam. Sir.”
I looked at him curiously, remembering suddenly.
“Didn’t you publish recently?” I asked him.
Then he came alive. Smiling. He looked even younger when he smiled. Little boy playing doctor. White paper gown. Electronic stethoscope hung around his neck.
“Yes, I published,” he said. “About six months ago. In the Psychopharmacology Bulletin. You scan it?”
“Sure,” I said. “ ‘The Influence of Cocaine on Catecholamines in the Treatment of Schizophrenia.’ Right?”
He laughed with delight.
“Right! What did you think?”
“Elegant organization,” I said. “But you’re full of kaka.”
He bridled.
“How so?”
“The results of that experiment of yours can’t be replicated. We tried. I think your problem may have been contaminated coke. What’s your clearance?”
“Red-3,” he said.
“I’ll get it raised to Red-2,” I promised him. “Then I’ll send you some restricted stuff they’re doing in the Spokane Field Office. I think you’ll be interested.”
“Thank you,” he said gratefully. “I’d like that.”
We stopped outside Lewisohn’s suite. I stepped into a nest across the hall to scrub my hands with germicide and dry them over the hot air outlet and ultraviolet beam. As habitual and meaningless as a devout religionist crossing himself as his bus speeds past a church.
I went back to the door of the suite where Maya and Lucas were waiting.
“How’s he doing?” I asked him.
“No better, no worse. An hour ago the count was—”
“All right”—I interrupted him—“I’ll get all the gruesome details at the colloquy. What’s his mood?”
“Today, not so bad. It scares me.”
“Scares you? Why?”
“I’d rather have him ranting and raving.”
“I compute.” I nodded. “Well . . . we’ll see. Maya, when we go in, stand away from the bed where he can see you. If I look at you, clear my throat and raise my chin a little, you go over to the window and look out. Have your back turned to him and bend to look out. Bend far over. Got that?”
“Of course.”
“When you turn back into the room, have the top button or the top two buttons of your blouse open. Then come over to stand close to the bed. Understand?”
“Yes.”
Dr. Seth Lucas had been looking back and forth from Maya to me during this exchange. But he said nothing. He didn’t grin.
“Let’s go,” I said.
It was a conventional VIP hospital suite. The electrically operated bed dominated. Emergency equipment was hidden behind a screen. A private nest with tub and shower. A parked electric wheelchair. A separate sitting room with sofa and two armchairs of orange plastifoam. A 3-D laser TV set. There were books, papers, tape rolls, and film reels everywhere. A viewing machine. A facsimile newspaper machine. Two flashers and three phones, one in red fitted with a scrambler. A small, desktop computer. Rolls of computer printout.
When we entered, Lewisohn was in bed. The top third raised. He was scanning a thick manuscript through spectacles that looked like the bottoms of obso bottles.
He didn’t look up until Dr. Lucas closed the door behind us. Then Lewisohn pushed his glasses down on his mottled nose and stared at us over the rims;
“Dr. Nicholas Bennington Flair,” Lewisohn said in his harsh, grating voice. “Born too late. Should have been a Borgia. One of the bad ones. A poisoned dirk at your belt, a poisoned ring on your finger. Wooing a lady with a love song on a lute. Kissing her just before you murder her so you might rule a duchy inherited by her weak brother to whom you have been supplying young boys and drugs from the East.”
I looked at him, trying not to show my shock. It had been almost six months since I had last seen him. The deterioration was evident. He was stopping.
“Still reading those crappy novels of yours?” I said disgustedly. “No wonder we can’t get any service out of you.”
Observers usually thought our insults, our obvious hostility masked a hidden and deep affection. I wasn’t so sure.
His eyes slid away from me and locked on Maya Leighton. He continued to speak to me while he stared at her.
“Think you’re going to prod me with those filthy fingers of yours?” he demanded. “Be gone. I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.”
I glanced at Maya, cleared my throat, raised my chin a little. She moved casually to the window. Lewisohn’s eyes followed her. She bent far over to peer out. Her legs were slightly spread. The miniskirt hiked up farther on her long, tanned legs.
“Who’s she?” Lewisohn shouted furiously. “What’s she doing here?” •
“Maya Leighton. She’s a doctor, too.”
“Doctors!” he shouted. “I’m surrounded by doctors. I’m up to my asshole in doctors. All of you get the hell out of here.”
But his voice lacked his usual ferocity. He continued to stare at Maya’s bare legs. I moved closer to the bed. I looked down at him.
It is extremely difficult to generalize about the symptoms of leukemia. In many cases there are only minimal signs of physical deterioration; the gradual stopping may be concealed by rosy cheeks, a sweet breath, grossly normal vital functions. But the rot is there: milky blood, tumerous bone marrow, a serious lowering of the defense mechanism against infection.
In Lewisohn’s case, however, degeneration of the corpus was plain. Tissue had shrunk. That dwarfed body seemed even smaller, more distorted. The coarse red hair had thinned to a fuzz. Features had condensed so that the protruding forehead was obscenely bulging. Pale lips. Sluggish eyes. Pinched nostrils in a thick nose. I bent over him.
“Get the fuck away,” he said. “Don’t touch me, you Italianate bastard.”
All diagnosticians have their individual bags of tricks. In this case, diagnosis of the disease wasn’t necessary; I knew what was stopping him. But I wanted to know more about his condition. I leaned far over to sniff his breath. Foul. Sour predominating. His skin also had a stale scent. I inspected his fingernails. Milk-tinged with bluish half-moons. I pinched the skin on the back of one hand. The ridge slowly, slowly flattened out. But not entirely.
He let me tinker with him because Maya had turned from the window and come back to the bedside. She had unfastened the top two buttons of her blouse. The shining cleavage between her heavy breasts was clearly visible. Lewisohn had pushed his glasses back into place. He was still staring at her. She regarded him gravely.
“Hello, Maya,” the old man said in a low voice.
‘Hello, Mr. Lewisohn,” she said in a soft, tremulous voice. “I can’t tell you what an honor it is to meet you. I’ll never forget this moment.”
She sounded as if she meant it. Perhaps she did.
“Pull up a chair,” he said to her.
I went back to the door where Dr. Lucas had been standing silently, arms folded. I motioned him outside. We closed the door, leaving Maya inside with Lewisohn.
“Not good, is it,” Lucas said.
“Are you usually given to understatement?” I asked with more sharpness than I intended.
“Dr. Flair,” he started, “I’ve been—”
“How do you get along with him?” I interrupted.
“As well as anyone. My father was a son of a bitch to live with. I’m used to it. We jive one another.”
“Jive? I haven’t heard that word in years. Who runs the tests? Who takes the blood?”
“I do.”
“What do you want?”
He was startled.
“What?”
“What do you want, Seth?” I repeated patiently. “From your career. From life. Want to serve in a hospice?”
“Jesus, no! I’m just putting in my time.”
“Well then?”
“Research,” he said promptly. “I profit from that.”<
br />
I nodded. What I was computing might work out.
“I can do that for you,” I said. “What will you do for me?” He looked at me shrewdly. If he had agreed immediately, I would have canceled him on the spot. But he was trying hard to be prudent. Still, I caught his excitement.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked cautiously.
“Not much at the moment. I want you to talk to Maya Leighton, as much as you can. Observe her. Get some input. Then I’m going to flash you tomorrow and ask if you believe you can serve with her. You’ll rule.”
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll do that.”
“Fine. Where’s the colloquy?”
“Conference Room B. Downstairs.”
“I’ll find it. You wait for Maya. The two of you come down together.”
I opened Lewisohn’s door. Maya was sitting at his bedside, holding his lumpy hand. Leaning forward. Loose blouse gaping. Her legs were crossed. Cool, tanned thigh. The other calf bulging sweetly.
“Get the fuck out of here!” Lewisohn roared.
Up yours, ” I snarled at him. “ Serve a little and earn your keep, you monster. Maya, five minutes.”
She nodded. I closed the door.
“Give them five minutes,” I said to Lucas. “Then knock at the door. Maya will come out.”
I went down to the colloquy, synthesizing. I needed a friendly
base in the Washington-Alexandria area. Hadn't someone said war is geography?
Conference Room B was crowded when I entered. A chair had been reserved for me, front row center, next to Dr. Luke Warren. I took my place. Lights dimmed.
The colloquy had been beautifully organized. Warren was on top of his service, though no one would ever convince him of that. It began with a fifteen-minute presentation. He had put the entire thing on tape.
We had the whole story in color: tissue slides, magnified computer printouts, filmed microanalysis, blowups of those deranged leukocytes dancing about madly, color comparisons of serum, charts, percentages, projective curves. I was vaguely aware of the door of the conference room opening and Maya and Seth Lucas entering. But I was concentrating on the screen. It was not encouraging.
The Tomorrow File Page 27
