Hair the color of fresh ashes. As fine and fragile.
Sculpted ears.
I would lick those first.
“Please forgive me,” she said, smiling at Angela. Giving me a flick. “I tried three sets of earrings, then gave up.”
Thick voice. Almost syrupy.
We all—even Angela—waited on her. Her presence demanded it. Though her manner was never less, nor more, than quiet, attentive, sympathetic, understanding. But she seemed so sure. A teacher. Even her laughter was detached.
It was an unmemorable dinner—surrogate food—served efficiently but with no panache by black zipsuits. A natural Israeli white wine was palatable; a red petrowine, actinized, was not. One amusing detail: Angela Berri ate her entire dinner with her right hand, the briefcase still shackled her left wrist. No one commented. I wondered, idly, if the Chief Director might have the only key. If so, he made no effort to relieve her discomfort.
He dominated the conversation during a gelatinous pate, cold potato soup, an entree of chilled canned salmon (molded inexpertly into the shape of a fish), a salad of prolet. This synthetic lettuce was produced in endless sheets, the rollers stamping the veins and crinkles of the natural leaf. Then the sheets were cut into small squares and merchandised in plastic bags. It might well be used to stuff mattresses.
Chief Wingate, in a droll, eye-rolling manner, recounted his tribulations in dealing with a small, emerging nation of the Far East. Its representative in Washington had expressed interest in joining the US. Diplomatic tactics in this case demanded gifts, bribes, long letters swearing undying fealty to the current monarch, and, finally, supplying the Ambassador with the corpus of a popular TV star, a comedienne who weighed about 100 kilos.
“And how did you get her to cooperate, dear?” Grace Wingate asked. Dutiful wife, feeding her husband lines. “Bribery?”
“Oh, no.” He chuckled. “She agreed voluntarily. Didn’t even have to appeal to her patriotism. She said no one had asked her for. years and years!”
Laughter fluttered around the table. Artificial lettuce.
“Is it worth the trouble, Chief?” Angela asked.
“I think so.” He nodded. Serious now. “Not from any great contribution they can make, but simply from their numbers. Almost four million. Their resources aren’t all that exciting, although there may be oil off the coast. But we must constantly keep in mind our need to increase our consumer pool. Nick, what do you think?”
His sudden, direct question startled me. I had a distinct impression I was being interviewed.
“A Zoo Nation,” I said.
“Zoo Nation?” He looked at me quizzically. “I’ve never heard the term before. Yours?”
“I believe so. Yes, sir.”
“How do you define a Zoo Nation?”
“An undeveloped—or underdeveloped—political entity that has nothing to offer but its history, hunger, culture, and poverty. Limited natural resources. And most of those can now be synthesized. Or adequate substitutes produced. No science and no technology.”
“Surely they could be developed as a viable nation,” Grac^ Wingate said sharply.
I turned to look at her.
“To what purpose?” I asked. “Assuming it could be done. I’m not certain it could be. Science and technology progress at a geometric rate. Attempt to raise a Zoo Nation to our status—or Russia’s, or China’s—and by the time that was accomplished we’d be so far ahead they could never catch up. Never. But I think they could achieve a reasonable level of prosperity as a Zoo Nation, a well-ordered Zoo Nation. Income from tourism and handicrafts. Assistance with their sanitation and public health. Perhaps some light cottage-industry. A limited amount of education. Bring the first-rate brains to the mainland for advanced conditioning. But don’t expect to make a Japan from a Chad. Develop it deliberately as a Zoo Nation. Encourage its native culture. Make it a kind of human game park, protected, allowed to grow. Within limits.”
“Limits?” Wingate said. “Z-Pop?”
“Or Minus-Z. Depending on arable land, rainfall, birthrate, disease, and so forth. A computer study would give you the optimum population. The vital factors are not to expect too much from or promise too much to a Zoo Nation. There is quality in nations, just as there is in objects.”
“Mmm,” the Chief Director said. He stared at me. Pausing as the servers removed our dinner plates and brought dessert. Thick slices of the new strain of seedless watermelon. They had removed the flavor with the seeds. But the coffee was genuine. With an oily film from poorly washed cups.
“Interesting,” he continued. He slipped a saccharine pill into his coffee. “You judge national quality by the degree of scientific and technological development?”
“Of course.” I smiled. “My conditioning.”
“And how would you rank the US?” he asked. “Compared to, say, Russia, Pan-Europe, China?”
“Forget Pan-Europe,” I said. “They have the brains but not the love. As for Russia and China, I can give you only an uninformed judgment. I am not cleared for restricted research in the physical sciences.”
“What is your ‘uninformed judgment’?”
“In the biomedical disciplines? Compared with Russia and China? Grossly equal. We’re ahead in molecular biology. Russia is ahead in bioimmunization. China is ahead in psychopharmacology. But still, as I said, grossly equal.”
“But you feel we’re not doing enough?”
“Not nearly enough.”
He threw back his head and laughed.
“I get that thrust from all sides,” he said finally. Spluttering. Wiping wet eyes with his plastinap. “But rarely as openly or as honestly. What do you suggest we do?” Then, ironically: “I’m sure you have many ideas on the subject, Nick.”
I caught an angry glance from Angela Berri. But I ignored her wrath and his irony. I didn’t care. It was an opportunity. I would have been a fool to avoid it.
“Yes.” I nodded. “I have many ideas on the subject. The Science Academy and the National Science Advisory Board were steps in the right direction. But not enough. There must be clear communication between the scientific community and government. A continuing dialogue. And in a participating, not merely an advisory capacity.”
“I thought most scientists were deliberately—even enthusiastically—nonpolitical,” Chief Wingate said mildly. “If not antipolitical-. ’ ’
“Obso scientists were,” I acknowledged. “And are. Many younger scientists are activists. They—we—recognize that science has always been political. That is, it is based on the values of the society in which it exists. The same holds true for art, of course. And economics. No human activity exists in a vacuum. All are influenced by and, in turn, influence the social medium. Today, science is the megafactor of tomorrow. We ignore it at our peril.” “You feel very deeply about this,” Grace Wingate said softly. “Yes, I do. And it’s operative. Remember, we are the first species that can control its own evolution. Compute that and its consequences.”
“And what do you suggest?” the Chief asked. Somber now. “For today? Where do we start?”
“A separate department under your rule, sir. The Department of Creative Science. Bring together all the government’s scientific activities in one efficient and effective political body. Right now, the government’s scientific activities are scattered all over the place: atomic energy and solar research in the Department of Natural Resources; weaponry and chemwar research in the Department of Peace; plant biology research in the Department of Agribusiness. Et cetera. The most important, the most promising projects in basic research are restricted. So the overlapping and duplication of effort are disgraceful. I realize that sometimes this state of affairs is desirable: planned disorganization with several teams working on identical projects unknown to each other. But in this case, the disorganization is unplanned. There is no centralization, no firm management. Science demands control, political control, for optimum value to the state. Conditioned political scien
tists are the answer. If a purely objective scientist, working alone in his lab, was to come up with a guarantee of physical immortality, a public announcement of such a development would simply wreck our economy and our society. We make a thousand discoveries a year, none as world-shaking as that, but the consequences of every scientific advance should be evaluated economically and politically before it’s made available. A Department of Creative Science could do that. Am I making sense?”
“A great deal of sense.” Chief Wingate nodded.' “A great deal indeed. I agree with your thrust. And I thank you for expressing your views so lucidly.”
He glanced at the digiclock on the wall, then looked to his wife. A signal apparently passed between them, although I did not catch it. Grace Wingate rose to her feet. We all followed.
“Nick,” the Chief Director said, “I’d like a favor from you.” “Of course, sir.”
“Angela and I have things to discuss. My wife has a meeting to attend. May I prevail upon you to accompany her and see her safely home?”
Mrs. Wingate smiled faintly.
“My profit,” I said.
We separated. The Chief led Angela into the library, his arm linked in hers. She still carried that thin briefcase. Grace Wingate asked me to wait a few moments while she changed.
When she came bouncing down the stairs, I was startled by her costume. She had suddenly lost five years. At least! Long ash hair flamed down her back. A middy was closed with a loosely knotted light blue scarf. A white pleated skirt stopped just above her bare knees. She wore white plastivas sneakers. If she had tried to sell me Girl Scout cookies, I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised.
She smiled at my reaction to her appearance.
“Well!” I said. “Are we going to a marshmallow roast?” Then she laughed, took my arm, led me to the door. We waited silently while the heavy bolts were drawn, the door swung open. Two outside guards accompanied us to a waiting diesel-powered Mercedes limousine. Chauffeur and guard in the front seat, closed off from us by a shield of bulletproof glass. The windows also had the green-tinted nylon layer. As we rolled through the opened gate, a sedan with four black zipsuited occupants followed us closely to Wisconsin Avenue, M Street, and onto Pennsylvania Avenue. “We’re visiting the President,” I guessed.
She laughed again. A throaty, gurgling laugh. She seemed freer, relaxed, glad to be out from behind that barred door.
“I’m going to church,” she said. Hint of mischief in her voice. “I’m a religionist. Did you know that?”
“No, Mrs. Wingate, I didn’t. Which religion?”
“Beist.”
“Deist?”
“Beist. I’m sure you’ve never heard of it. It’s very new.”
“How many members?” I asked her.
“Oh . . . perhaps a hundred.”
“That’s not a religion,” I said. “It’s a cult.”
“Beist,” she repeated. “We have a small chapter here, and in New York, and in San Francisco. But we make no effort to recruit. If objects hear about us and want to attend meetings, they are welcome. We ask nothing from them. We own no property. Meetings are held in members’ homes or, as tonight, in offices or stores. It’s all very informal. Unstructured. We hope to keep it that way. ” “And what does a Beist believe?”
“A force. A Life Force. We prefer not to define it. We accept the mystery. We welcome the mystery. We say the individual is not immortal, but the human species is. We say all life is growth, with purpose. To merge finally, and become one with that Life Force.” “Vaguely mystic,” I murmured.
“Is it? Perhaps. You said tonight at dinner that we are the first species capable of directing and controlling our own evolution. We accept that. We say the human species, now, today, is the highest form of life but will direct its evolution, over thousands and thousands of years, to a higher form, something finer, that will eventually become one with the divine essence of the universe, the Life Force.”
She stopped suddenly, turned sideways from the waist, stared at me.
“Well?” she demanded. “What do you think?”
“You want me to be honest?”
“Of course. You must always be honest.”
This last was uttered in such a sweetly innocent tone that I could not scoff.
“Mrs. Wingate,” I said, “I can’t—”
“You may call me Grace,” she said.
“Thank you. Grace, I’m glad your new faith encompasses manipulated evolution. But when you speak of a Life Force, a divine essence, you lose me. Consider my conditioning. All scientists—well, certainly most—equate the individual corpus with a clock. Nothing divine about a clock. Dial, hands, wheels, pivots, gears, springs: a mechanical device. Reproduce it exactly—so many teeth in the gears, ratios just so—put tension on the spring or provide some other power source, and away it goes. Tick-tick-tick. Nothing mysterious there. Similarly with the human corpus But infinitely more complex. Not only mechanical, but electrical and chemical. Still, the corpus is stuff, no matter how complex. Bone, blood, tissue, cells, enzymes, hormones, glands, organs, skin, muscle. All stuff And the time will come when we can produce it all, assemble it correctly, and then away it will go, the heart beating steadily—ca-thump, ca-thump, ca-thump. But no finger of God will poke down through the clouds and touch it. No divine essence will be injected. No Life Force will be needed. It will be purely a laboratory product, a reasonable facsimile of the real thing. We’re closer to that synthesis than you might think. Where does that leave Beism?”
“But don’t you see?” she said excitedly. “We accept all that. It’s all part of the purpose. To evolve into something finer and better. When you can create a living human in the laboratory, won’t you try to improve on it?”
“Probably. In fact, undoubtedly.”
“Well, there you are!” she said triumphantly. “You’re part of it, part of the Life Force, whether you recognize it or not. And— Oh, we’re here. Nick, would you like to attend? You don’t have to, of course. But you’re welcome, if you’d like to come in.”
“I’d like to very much.”
This particular meeting of the Beists was held in the back of a commercial laundry on Sixteenth Street, behind the White House. There were, perhaps, thirty objects present. There was one ef in the uniform of a naval commander, and I recognized the junior Senator from South Dakota. The others were a diverse lot. Most, apparently, middle class, but with a sprinkling of artisans, zipsuits from several Public Service ranks, a few adolescents, a few obsos, a tall, dignified em in Arabic robes.
The congregation stood against the walls, or sat on a miscellany of folding chairs, or perched on cold pressing tables and laundry machinery. The mood seemed light, carefree, informal, lively. There appeared to be no ceremony or ritual. Grace Wingate left me a moment to whisper to a plump young ef with stringy hair and a complexion disfigured by a bad case of acne vulgaris.
Grace rejoined me. I had ‘ ‘reserved’ ’ a seat for her alongside me on a long metal sorting table. If we had leaned back incautiously, we’d have fallen into empty wire bins labeled Shirts, Skirts, Sheets, Towels, Drawers, etc. Just the place to seek the divine essence.
The dumpy young ef stood up before the gathering. Gradually, the congregation quieted. The ef introduced herself as Joanne Wilensky. She welcomed newcomers. She regretted there was no literature on the Beist movement to distribute, but suggested those interested might question any members present after the formal meeting was concluded.
“We can’t answer all your questions,”, she said. A smile that made her almost pretty. “Because we don’t know all the answers. Beism is as much a seeking as a knowing. Perhaps you can help us. We hope you can. Does the secretary have anything to report?”
The junior Senator from South Dakota rose and read two short letters from the Beist chapters in New York and San Francisco. Both reported increased attendance at their most recent weekly meetings and growing membership. The secretary announced with some pride t
hat he now estimated the total number of Beists in the US at almost 200. Fingers were snapped.
Joanne Wilensky then asked if anyone else cared to speak. An em in a bronze-colored zipsuit rose and stated he was about to be transferred to Yuma, Arizona. He requested permission to start a Beist group there. The congregation voted approval enthusiastically. The wave of the future.
The Wilensky ef paused a moment, surveying the group slowly. She was a dowdy figure, shapeless, in a wrinkled plasticot dress.
“Is she the minister, or priestess, or guru?” I whispered to Grace Wingate.
“Sort of. It all started with her. But we take turns leading the meetings. She doesn’t get paid or anything. She’s a presser in this laundry.”
“Scientists believe—” Joanne Wilensky began in a hesitant, stammering voice—and then she proceeded to tell us what scientists believed, repeating almost word for word the comparison of a clock to a human corpus I had made to Grace Wingate in the car. I had seen Grace speak to her, but I was startled at how accurately the Beist leader was repeating my thesis.
“But the life of the clock comes from a coiled spring,” she stated. “Or from an electric outlet. Or from a battery. Where does the life of a human come from? Not from on high, the scientists say. Not from the finger of God poking down through a cloud. Then from where? Why should this combination of blood, tissue, cells, and organs result in animate life? Because, say the scientists, it is the nature of the materials used, being so constituted that in proper combination life begins. That is no answer at all. Why should the constitution of the materials be of such a nature? Why should the proper combination of those materials result in a beating heart? It is the why we seek. It may or may not be the touch of a Divine Creator. It may or may not be the blind functioning of chance. God or accident: Is there any difference? But we believe there is a reason, a purpose. We know not what. But we ask the scientists this question: Why do they exist? Or we? Or stones, stars, fish, and the universe? Why a something and not a nothing? Nullity, complete nonexistence, would prove nonpurpose. Existence presupposes purpose.” And so forth, and so forth. A stew of not especially new ideas. She made the mistake so many religionists make of trying to justify their faith by reason. Then they’re in my court, and I can slaughter them. If I started a new religion, I would have but one law, one justification: Believe. Faith confounds reason.
The Tomorrow File Page 29
