The Tomorrow File

by Lawrence Sanders

  Then the tape ran blank, lights came on, we all blinked. Warren turned to me and gestured toward the stage. A podium had been set up there, to one side. I rose, moved up the two-steps, turned to search those young faces. Young! There was even a group of five thirteen-year-olds assigned to the Hospice by the Science Academy for practical training as part of their conditioning. That had been my idea and I was proud of it.

  “First of all,” I started, “before we get into a screaming match—’ ’

  There was a titter of laughter.

  “—I’d like to congratulate Dr. Luke Warren and his associates for one of the finest scientific presentations I’ve ever seen. Luke— well done!”

  There was an enthusiastic snapping of fingers. Warren ducked his bald head, blinked ferociously, gnawed his upper lip, blushed happily. First the kick, then the pat. That was how this object had to be manipulated.

  I went on. “Now then, I have just examined the patient. I hadn’t seen him for six months. His physical deterioration is obvious and ominous. Question: Is that deterioration due to the disease itself or to the irradiation treatment? Oh—before anyone eagerly volunteers—let me say that I will listen to anything you have to offer. I welcome your opinions. But the final decision must be mine.” I paused. “After all, it’s my ass that’s in the sling.”

  That won them and loosened them. They roared with sympathetic laughter. The give-and-take became fast. Sometimes angry and heated. Consensus: Physical deterioration was basically due to the nature of this disorder in this particular victim. Similar deterioration, though rare, was not unheard of. But it had been compounded by the radiation treatments, which should cease immediately.

  “I concur.” I nodded. “We’re getting nowhere. Even worse, neither is the patient.”

  Again, laughter. I knew, of course, that Warren had planned this colloquy to condition his young staff as well as to inform me. He had been exactly right to do so.

  “Second question,” I said. “What do we do now? With the understanding that it is not sufficient to keep this object’s vital functions animate. I hope you all recognize that his service as this country’s most creative theorist is necessary—no, it’s essential to the future of our society. He must not only be kept alive, he must be kept capable of serving. And if that isn’t enough, we must also consider the personality and character of the em himself. I am sure you are all aware of what a quiet, gentle, cooperative, profitable object he is.”

  Loud groans and laughter. They knew him.

  “So that’s our input. One: Keep him alive. Two: Keep his brain functioning. Three: Tailor our treatment so it will not adversely affect his willingness to contribute his very unique service—I mean this very seriously—to the planning of our future world. Dr. Warren, is this symposium being taped?”

  “Why, yes,” he answered nervously. “I thought—” “Excellent,” I said. “I’mgladitis. All right—let’s have suggestions on where we go from here.”

  It was a wild-and-woolly session and I profited from every minute of it. I think what gave me most pleasure was that I could keep up with them. I had fears, occasionally, that my increasing service in social and political fields might leave me lost in the disciplines from which all my power stemmed—scientific expertise. Things were moving so rapidly, on so many thrusts, that to fall behind was to perish.

  The first suggestion offered, predictably, was for bone marrow transplant. I explained, for the umpteenth time, that this difficult, painful treatment would incapacitate Lewisohn for long periods of time. During which his service would be lost to the US. The Chief Director would never approve.

  Second suggestion: Connect him to a strainer. This was our name for a machine that operated in a fashion not unlike kidney dialysis. Briefly, the strainer sieved useless, immature leukocytes from the bloodstream. It required a three-hour connection every twenty-four hours. I knew Lewisohn well enough to know he would never allow it. He didn’t want to live that much to endure the strainer for the remainder of his days.

  Several additional suggestions offered by the young Oncology Team at Rehabilitation & Reconditioning Hospice No. 4 were brilliant, none the less brilliant for the fact that I had already thought of them and included them in my contingency plan. One was the injection of laboratory-grown antibodies. We had recently made great advances in breeding specific antibodies in vitro. Some had proved efficacious in the treatment of multiple myeloma.

  Another suggestion came from a bioimmunologist. She suggested treatment with tuberculosis vaccine and dead cells from stopped leukemic victims. Excellent.

  I was wondering if anyone might suggest parabiosis. Dr. Seth Lucas did. The treatment was relatively brief, he argued. Lewisohn would have to be connected to his partner about an hour a day.

  “And how do you suggest we persuade him to do that?” I asked. “To have his veins and arteries tied to a stranger at his side, for whatever period of time? You can’t sedate him every day. He’ll compute what’s going on and fight it. One call to the Chief Director, and that’s it.”

  “Easy,” Lucas said. “We build a special suite. Partitioned. Tubes lead from Lewisohn through a blank plastiwood wall. He’ll never see his partner. We tell him we’re monitoring his blood. I think we can get him to lie still for that. He’s fascinated by machines. We’ll tell him it’s an automatic blood analyzer, a computer. He’ll go for it. We should have no trouble getting objects to connect him to. And it’s better than a strainer; there’s a possibility of a cure.”

  I was profited. I had selected the correct object for the scheme I had in mind.

  “Not bad,” I acknowledged. “We could even make up an inoperative computer printout to show him. Thank you, Dr. Lucas. And thank all of you. Dr. Warren, if you will be kind enough to furnish me the original tape of this conference, it will be of great help to me in making an informed judgment.”

  I paused. Then, slowly, I descended the two steps of the stage to stand on the floor of the conference room. On their level.

  “A final note,” I said. “A personal note. A sermon, if you will. My text is cancer, and the long, arduous search to find a cure. Many of you are aware, I am sure, that in obso days it was believed this disorder was a single disease for which a single cure might be found. It was only with the passage of years, and much service, that science became aware of the complexity of the problem. Cancer, as we now know, is many diseases with many causes, many symptoms, and demands many cures. Today we take most of those cures for granted. I ask you to remember the time required to produce them, and the services of thousands of objects, singly and in teams, that contributed to those cures. But I don’t wish to rehash medical history. I only want to point out that the conquest of cancer, to date, is the most frighteningly complex task science has ever undertaken. Even today, when computers relieve us of much of the analysis and synthesis, we still don’t know all the answers. This colloquy today is evidence of that! My thrust is this: On a personal level, I ask you not to be disheartened by complexity. On the contrary, I urge you to accept complexity. In fact, to seek it. You are individually capable of computing far more than you are now called upon to do. Life is no longer simple—if it ever was. Science is no longer simple. And certainly our society and the world are no longer simple. They are organs of incredible complexity. And to understand them, to manage them, we must, each of us, become infinitely complex ourselves, capable of assimilating, computing, and acting on millions of bits: facts, observations, emotions, instincts, experience, and so forth. Do not fear complexity. Do not be dismayed if human values and aims prove to be just as complex as the conquest of cancer. Open your mind to the complex. Train your mind to encompass more, more, more. Then the future will truly belong to us. Thank you.”

  They all stood to snap their fingers frantically. I was not certain they computed what I meant. But I did.

  Following the Watergate scandals of the 1970’s, heavy structural changes had been made in the US Government. In 1979, a weak— and
frequently witless—President had signed an Executive Reorganization Bill. In the words of apolitical commentator of the time,

  ‘ ‘Today, with one stroke of his pen, the President reduced the White House to the size of a privy.”

  Briefly, the ERB legislated the removal of all departments and agencies from control of the Chief Executive. What had been the

  Cabinet became independent Public Service Departments, ruled by PS directors. All departmental directors were ruled by a Chief Director who was appointed by the President with the advice and consent of the Congress. The Chief Director could be, but need not be, a PS server. He had tenure to the age of fifty-five unless removed from office upon conviction of wrongful acts, carefully spelled out in the enabling legislation.

  In effect, the Chief Director became the manager of the US, ruling through the Public Service. The intent was for the PS merely to administer laws passed by the Legislative Branch.

  In the almost twenty years the Executive Reorganization Bill had been law, two results had become increasingly apparent:

  1. The President’s role was reduced to that of a titular “head of state.” He visited abroad and received foreign dignitaries. He awarded honors and presided over national ceremonies. He addressed the citizenry on the need for morality, law, order, patriotism, and the prompt payment of voluntary contributions (taxes). He kicked out the first ball on the opening of the soccer season. He met with delegations of Indians, Boy Scientists, and crabby veterans of World War II. He launched atomic-powered dirigibles and chatted, via TV, with our colonists on the moon. He barbecued proribs on the White House lawn and spent at least two days in each nation that elected to become a new state in the US. But his administrative powers were nonexistent. The Chief Director ran the government.

  2. The purpose of the ERB had been to curtail the swollen power of the Executive Branch. T hat it did. But it also created a fourth branch of government, the Public Service bureaucracy. By 1998, it ruled 89 percent of all government servers (96 percent, including the military), and had amassed more political power than the other three branches combined. As pointed out previously, we not only administered the laws of the US, but in the manner of bureaucrats everywhere, in all times, we created policy.

  Our present Chief Director, Michael Wingate, had held office for seven years. His particular interests were economics and foreign policy. He was said to be science-oriented, and I believed that to be operative. Although I had never met him personally, I had received a cordial handwritten note from him thanking me for my assistance on “our recent project. ” He was referring to my suggestion for the use of a sickle-cell anemia stimulator on the recalcitrant African tribe.

  The Chief Director and his fourth wife lived in a pleasant, unpretentious home (surrounded by a guarded, barbed wire fence) in the Georgetown area. I drove Angela Berri from her Watergate apartment in her smart, steam-powered sedan. We were both wearing zipsuits with decorations. Angela was carrying a thin, shiny briefcase linked to her wrist with a silver-alloy handcuff and chain. She didn’t tell me what the case contained and I didn’t ask.

  The security precautions at the gate were as stringent as those at the compound in GPA-1. We were not allowed entrance until our BIN cards and voiceprints were electronically scanned, approved, and recorded. Then came visual identification by closed-circuit TV to the house. Then the gate was opened. The surrounding lawn was brilliantly illuminated by floodlights.

  A serving em in a black zipsuit opened the steel-backed front door. But before he could close it, the Chief Director came rapidly toward us, smiling, hands outstretched. My initial reaction was to the em’s warm charm. Then I was surprised by his shortness. In his TV and film appearances, he had seemed much taller. But that could have been manipulated, of course.

  I knew something of his background. It was interesting. He was forty-two, a Natural Male, and married only Natural Females. His father had been a successful inventor, mostly of gadgets and small electric and electronic devices. But one invention, a machine for “aging” whiskies and wines almost instantaneously, had proved enormously lovable. It exposed alcoholic beverages to actinic light. It could not produce a twenty-five-year-old cognac in seconds, but it could take the raw edge off petroleum-based alcoholic drinks and make them potable. It was used in almost every distillery in the world.

  Michael Wingate inherited his father’s wealth at the age of twenty. He could have spent his life in indolence. But he earned a doctorate in social engineering and came to the attention of the government with his PhD thesis on the practicality of direct TV broadcasts to foreign countries via satellite. His ideas had been adopted, but objections in the United Nations became so heated that the US was forced to sign a covenant that restricted all international satellite radio and TV broadcasting to UN control.

  (As I dictated the previous paragraph, I became suddenly aware that Michael Wingate’s background was not too unlike my own. This was an insight that had not occurred to me before. Perhaps it explains why I was prepared to take profit from the em even before meeting him.)

  Wingate joined Public Service, rose rapidly in rank, and was appointed Chief Director in 1991. His brilliance was almost universally recognized arid his wit admired.

  “Angela!” He smiled. She bent slightly to take his kiss on her cheek.

  He turned to me and beamed.

  “Dr. Flair!” he said. “This is a pleasure. I’ve been waiting a long time for this meeting.”

  That solved a question that had been puzzling me: Why had Angela called me to Washington? She was too crafty to initiate contacts between her servers and rulers. Now it was obvious: He had commanded my presence.

  His palm stroke was slow, firm, dry. He looked like a beardless Santa Claus: white hair, rubicund complexion, pug nose, blue eyes twinkling merrily. An appearance, I knew, that served him well in the political jungle. His brain was quick, dark, devious. He preferred the plot to the plan.

  “Grace will be down in a moment,” he said. He chuckled suddenly, for no reason I could tell. ‘ ‘Let me show you about. Then we’ll have a drink in the library before dinner.”

  He bounced ahead of us, full of energy and delight. Throwing doors wide, pointing out antiques: rugs, paintings, sculpture, porcelain—all on loan from the National Gallery. This home and all its furnishings were owned by the US and provided as the “Georgetown White House” for the use of the Chief Director.

  It was larger than the exterior had indicated. Three early Federal houses had been combined, walls removed or archways and doors inserted. Rooms ran into rooms. Ceilings soared. Quaint cubbyholes abounded. Colors were light; fresh flowers were everywhere. It was all bright, cheerful, comfortable and pleasant.

  But still. ... In almost every room black zipsuits moved casually, shadows, ems and efs. None of them obviously armed. One em, in a red zipsuit, an officer, stood aside to let us pass, grave and reserved. Servants all. But members of the Chief’s personal guard. Formerly the Secret Service. Now officially called the Household Staff. They were everywhere. Michael Wingate ignored them.

  Finally, he led us into the library. He had, I noted, a need to touch. His hands were on my arm, shoulder, back. He stroked Angela’s hair, clasped her, waist, held her hand briefly. When he poured an already mixed beverage from a plastic decanter bedded in a bucket of Jellicubes, he handed us each our plastiglass, then curled our fingers about it with both hands. An interesting tic.

  “Well,” he said happily, holding up his glass. “Happiness and long life to all.”

  We smiled politely. I looked about. Like my father’s library in Grosse Pointe. With one vital exception: These books had been read. I could tell: uneven rows, stained bindings, bookmarks poking up, a few lying on open shelves, bindings down, spread wide.

  “Dr. Flair,” the Chief Director said. He paused. “Nick? All right?”

  “Of course, Chief.”

  “Nick, how is Lewisohn?”

  I gave him a brief, concise report. T
he em’s deterioration. The best we could hope for. The worse we might expect. What I proposed to do next. He listened intently, head cocked to one side. The bright smile on the lips, but not in the eyes.

  “Nick,” he said. “I’m sure you understand the importance of this em’s survival?”

  “Yes, sir. In a functioning condition.”

  “Precisely,” he said. “Functioning. We need that.”

  “Chief,” Angela said, “from what Nick says, it may require a heavy outlay. The use of—uh—volunteers. A new staff. And perhaps—”

  ‘ ‘Anything. ’ ’ He waved away all the details. ‘ ‘Don’t even pause to question it. Whatever you need. My responsibility. You have full authority. Is that clear, Nick?”

  On that last question, the velvet glove split and I saw the iron fist: blue eyes deepening, lips pulled tight, the whole face suddenly harder, austere. This em would not suffer failure lightly.

  “I compute.” I nodded. “You have my—”

  But then the library door opened suddenly. The Chief’s wife stood framed. Angela and I rose to our feet. Wingate, the happy bunny once again, bounded over to take her hand and lead her into the room.

  “Ah. . . .” he said. “Oh. . . .” he said. “Grace, you look lovely. Just lovely.”

  So she did. My first reaction, purely visceral: I must use this ef. She was a head taller than he and, I judged, half his age.

  Bare feet, spatulate, with big-toe rings set with clusters of red stones. Garnets?

  Loose-flowing gown in a flowered pattern. Natural silk perhaps. Sleeves to her wrists. Draped to her ankles. High on her neck.

  Longhands. Smooth, tapered fingers. Tanned. A tiny gold chain for a wedding band.

  Dark eyes. Violet? Brown? Heavy brows. Curved brows swooping down on veined temples.

  Wide mouth. Full lips. Slightly parted. Glistening. Upper teeth somewhat protuberant. Long canines.

  Sharp nose. V-chin. Sinuous neck.

  What little I could see of her flesh—ankles, feet, wrists, hands, neck, head—was complete, an almost discernible line about her. She was within. Contained.