The Tomorrow File

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Not to worry,” I said. “I’ll spell your name right.”

  He grinned at me then. I could remember when it was a little boy’s grin.

  I took a commercial jet to San Diego. It stopped at St. Louis, Tulsa, Phoenix. But I didn’t regret the time lost. I used it to dictate notes into my Pockacorder, organizing ideas on the prospectus for the Department of Creative Science. I knew I not only had to convince the Chief Director of its value, but I had to provide—in a brief document—sufficient ammunition to make it politically viable. I had to manipulate his mind from concept to reality.

  I decided, in the introduction, to move swiftly from the specific to the general.

  “As recently as two hundred years ago, ours was an agrarian society. An em might spend his lifetime in the same log cabin, chinked with mud, in which he had been born. He woke to a cock’s crow, washed in well or stream water, donned garments woven and sewn by his wife, ate a breakfast of foods raised on his own land, turned his fields with a wooden plow pulled by a horse, sold what extra produce he could for needles and glass, read his Bible by candlelight, fell exhausted onto a rope bed covered with a straw tick. Ignorance, poverty, near-starvation, and hard, grinding, endless labor. Muscle labor.

  “Today, two centuries later, the average em wakes on a plas-tifoam mattress when his radio alarm clicks on. He adjusts the temperature of his shower by regulating taps through which flows water brought from hundreds of miles away. He cleans his teeth with an ultrasonic strigil. He dons garments knitted of fibers made from petroleum. He drives an electric-powered vehicle. He serves in aseptic, air-conditioned surroundings. He rules machines that provide brute labor. He eats foods, nutritional foods, vitamin-enriched, of an astounding variety. He is able to learn from or be entertained by an amazing array of sight, sound, and scent appliances. He lives longer and he lives better.

  “Science and technology have effected this change from the society of two hundred years ago. Revolution is a mild word for it. But since science advances exponentially, the next two hundred years will be, not revolution, but change so fundamental that those living today have less possibility of visualizing it fully than the em of 1800 conceiving today’s world.

  “With these advances in medicine, comfort, personal fulfillment, and increased opportunities for all objects, have come new problems: the possibility of nukewar, uncontrolled population growth, despoilment of the environment, a shortage of energy, etc., etc. It could be said that science and technology have created these problems.

  “If this is operative, then science and technology can solve these problems. When the need becomes imperative, the human brain will find a solution. Otherwise, we would be apes, would we not ? ’ ’

  I played the tape back and listened intently. It would need greasing, but the gist was there. It was at once a challenge and a promise. It was almost a crusade. I felt it would impress Chief Director Michael Wingate because he would recognize the political potential. No one is against tomorrow.

  I called Hawkley, Goldfarb & Bensen from the jetport and was told Simon Hawkley would see me at 1400. I purchased a map of San Diego at the newsstand. I sat down on a plastic bench, put my attache case flat on my lap, spread out the map. I found the approximate location of Scilla Pharmaceuticals. I refolded the map—not on the original creases, naturally-—left the terminal and rented a diesel-powered two-door Ford sedan, one of the new Shark models. The attendant gave me directions on how to get to the La Mesa area, to Alvarado Road.

  I am conscious of having dictated the preceding paragraph in simple, declarative sentences. It is indicative of my actions at that point in time. After reflection and planning comes the go or no-go decision. This is the stage, I believe, at which most objects falter. Anyone can reflect. Anyone can plan. The crunch comes with the move from thought to action, a giant step that requires energy, resolve, and a willingness to accept change.

  In any event, I became aware that once the go/no-go decision was taken and I had opted for action, a linear logic all its own took over.

  A led to B which led to C, etc., almost with no volition on my part. Pilots speak of "the point of no return, " the exact second when their diminishing fuel leaves no alternative but to continue the flight, they hope to their destination. I believe I reached my point of no return on I that hot afternoon of August 20, 1998, in San Diego, California.

  Did I believe in omens? Yes, I believed in omens, and Scilla Pharmaceuticals was a pleasant surprise. The main building was small, two stories high, built of cinder blocks painted a celery green. The architecture was inoffensive. There was a loading platform, several smaller outbuildings, a circular drive of white gravel. The landscaping was attractive: trees, bushes, shrubs, lawn—all obviously well tended, neat, clean. There was a chain fence around the area, a smartly uniformed guard at the gate.

  I drove past slowly, staring, made a U-turn and drove past again. I was briefly tempted to stop, go inside on some pretext or other, and take a look at the interior. But I decided against it. I was satisfied with my first impression: a small, clean, moderately prosperous drug factory. It seemed to fit my needs exactly.

  A few hundred yards past the gate the road was bordered by trees for a short distance. The shoulders of the road were wide; a driver could safely pull off onto the verge. Traffic, at that time of day, seemed minimal. At night, I guessed, it would be practically nonexistent. We could park in the shadow of the trees with our receivers and recorders.

  I drove slowly back toward the business section, computing possibilities and variables. The difficulties were numerous, but not unconquerable. Mostly physical problems: equipment, timing, tactics. I might even bring it off by myself, but it would be awkward. I needed assistance. Which brought me back to something, or someone rather who had been troubling me. Paul Bumford.

  He was, of course, my co-conspirator. Having divulged so much to him, having made him privy to my motives and plans, I should not at that point in time have even questioned his further involvement. He was already in. I could not deny it. But still . . .

  A year previously there would have been no problem. He was then my creature. But the events of the past six months—the smashing of the Society of Obsoletes’ conspiracy and Paul’s elevation to AssDepDirRad—had given him power. That was, as I had told him, a virus. He was as much a victim as I. But I knew it for what it was. And could, I thought, cope, recognizing the responsibilities and dangers of power. But did Paul?

  I drove directly to the offices of Hawkley, Goldfarb & Bensen, and spent almost fifteen minutes searching for a parking space. Finally I did what I should have done in the first place: I parked directly in front of the building in a No Parking zone. A uniformed doorman seemed to pop up out of the Glasphalt sidewalk, but I had a five-dollar bill folded, ready to slip into his palm.

  “I’ll only be a few minutes,” I said.

  He glanced at the bill.

  “Take your time,” he said.

  Up to the thirty-fourth floor in a high-speed elevator that smelled of an estrogen-based perfume. Then down those chilled, empty corridors. The massive plank door swung shut behind me. Thudding. I was not conscious of having stepped into the past. I had stepped into an executive’s office on the star Arcturus. It was all foreign to me, including the unwrapped mummy propped behind the mahogany desk. These exhausted eyes stared thoughtfully at me. Again, the scrawny neck stretched from a starched white collar a shiny alpaca jacket.

  “Sir,” I said, “I trust I find you in good health?”

  He demanded language like that.

  He waved me to a chair. He already had the decanter and two balloons ready. He poured me a half-glass with a slow, steady hand.

  “I live, young man,” Simon Hawkley said.

  We plunged right in. He had a sheaf of papers ready and flipped them over steadily, explaining what he proposed. My initial investment would be in a new corporation formed for the purpose of establishing a franchised chain of porn shops. Quite legal. The pom
shops would then purchase controlling interest in a new company formed for the purpose of establishing a drive-in three-dimensional laser movie theater. Which in turn would invest its assets in a new factory to produce redi-mixed frozen salads with forty-eight different artificial seasonings. Which would. ... A classic "fuzz job.”

  “To accomplish all this,” Simon Hawkley said at one point, “I will need a power of attorney from you, young man. This is where a certain degree of trust on your part is essential.”

  “A degree of trust, sir?” I said. “I always thought of trust as complete and absolute, or nonexistent. You have my trust, Mr. Hawkley.”

  He liked that. The silver lips compressed in what I hoped was a smile.

  I signed all the documents he shoved toward me. I wrote out a check for an enormous sum drawn on a Detroit bank where my father’s loan against my inheritance had been deposited in my name. Hawkley immediately called in the bountifully hindquartered secretary. She took my check and BIN card and departed to open my account.

  We raised glasses, sipped, looked at each other. Quite solemn.

  “Now then—” I began.

  “Now then,” he rumbled in that surprisingly deep, resonant voice of his. “Now then, you will need a personal representative at Scilla. Under the terms of sale, the executive staff stays on. You are allowed to bring in a chief executive. I have a man for you. I vouch for him completely. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “He is on our payroll, so your expense will be minimal. He is young, intelligent, sharp. Versed in business law. He will spend a minimum of two or three hours a day at Scilla, familiarizing himself with the operation. Auditors will go in every month. You will not be—uh—I believe ‘scammed’ is the new word, Mr. Flair.”

  "That is the word."’ I nodded. "But it never occurred to me that I would be scammed, sir. But there is—”

  “Our man,” he rumbled on, “whom you will meet shortly, will occupy the private office of the former owner, Anthony Scilla. Now, you will want the office shared. I recommend Chauncey Higgles, a British organization of excellent reputation. They have a branch office in this city, on Market Street. We use them frequently. Dependable. Discreet. The salesperson you want to deal with is Mrs. Agatha Whiggam. I have alerted her to your interest. She tells me that Higgles has in their files complete floor plans of Scilla, as they do of almost every other building, office, store, and factory in the city. I suggest you follow her instructions.”

  I looked at him with admiration.

  “Mr. Hawkley,” I said, raising my glass to him, “we’re two of a kind.”

  “Umm,” he said.

  He swung slowly back and forth in his high-backed leather swivel chair. He gazed at me dreamily from those faded eyes.

  “Mr. Flair,” he said, “you are an adventurer.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I expect so.”

  “Perhaps a buccaneer?”

  “Perhaps,” I agreed.

  Again the stretched smile. I think he saw himself in me. I know I saw myself in him. Strangely enough, I had never felt that sense of identity with any object except Angela Teresa Berri. And here we were, plotting her destruction. If the three of us ever got together, we could rule the world and all its suburbs.

  The blond secretary returned with bank forms, a receipt, a book of checks, my BIN card. I signed where I had to sign, including a dozen blank checks. I kept only my BIN card; he retained the other documents.

  “We’ll wait for your Detroit check to clear,” he said. “But unless you hear from me differently, you may proceed with your plans in two weeks.”

  He was speaking to me, but his eyes were following the haunches of the young ef as she marched out of the office. The massive door boomed shut behind her.

  “Art is long, and time is fleeting,” Simon Hawkley said. “Yes, sir,” I said. I wasn’t certain what he meant. If anything. He sighed, looked down at his liver-spotted hands.

  “The man you are about to meet is Seymour Dove,” he said. “He is neither a clerk nor a junior partner. But he occupies a very special position in this office. Originally, he trained for the stage. He is very handsome and has great presence. He also had enough intelligence to realize the theater—stage, movies, TV—did not offer the rewards he desired. So, at a relatively late age—his middle-twenties—he took a law degree and minored in business administration. But his previous stage experience has proved valuable, as I have reason to know. Also, he is a happy man. That helps.”

  “Yes, sir,” I agreed. “It surely does.”

  He slowly slipped an obso hunter from an inside pocket, flicked it open, glanced at the face, clicked it shut, slid it back into the hidden pocket.

  “Mr. Dove will be with us in two minutes.”

  If only I could manipulate SATSEC as efficiently.

  Initially, Seymour Dove overwhelmed me. Dismayed me. I saw ! a big, beefy em, handsome and brutish, clad in harsh, bright California colors. A horseblanket-plaid jacket, fire-engine-red slacks, a lace shirt unbuttoned to his navel, capped teeth, bronzed skin, red hair so perfectly teased it had to be a wig, makeup artfully applied, plastigold sandals on bare feet, enormous sunglasses that not only blanked his eyes but covered half his face. A sight.

  “Hi, dads,” he said.

  I turned to look at Simon Hawkley in astonishment. Was this— But he was silent, regarding me gravely. I turned back to Seymour j Dove. He was pulling up a chair, unasked, beginning to speak rapidly in a flat, hard voice, totally unlike his flutey “Hi, dads.”

  “Here’s what you want,” he started. . . .

  Then, as he spoke, I caught on. He wasn’t wearing clothes; he was wearing a costume. He was auditioning for a role. He would wear those garments as chief executive officer of Scilla Pharmaceuticals and earn a reputation as a microweight, a playboy. But • he’d watch the books. He’d report to Simon Hawkley the moment he got a nibble from Washington. He’d keep his private office sacrosanct and oversee the sharing installation.

  “Is that about it, dads?” he asked, switching back to his stage ' voice.

  I stood up, leaned across the desk to shake Hawkley’s paper hand. Then I stroked palms with the seated Seymour Dove.

  “My worries are over,” I said.

  The California whites gleamed at me.

  “Depend on it,” he said.

  Y-8

  On September 10, Paul Bumford came to my office to discuss matters of mutual interest. He had been serving tough; his thinned-down physique and almost gaunt features showed it. But he was cool, precise, informed. If he had problems—and I knew he had— he showed no signs of being unable to handle them.

  Finally, after we had concluded the agenda agreed upon, he returned to me an Instox copy of the DCS prospectus I had submitted to him for comment.

  “Well?” I asked.

  He grinned. “Nick, it’s magnificent.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. If he rejects it, he’s a fool. But he won’t reject it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just feel it.”

  I laughed. “Well ... I trust your instincts.”

  "Do you ? Nick, don’t change a word of it. It's great. And thanks for the plug. More good news . . . Mary Bergstrom and Phoebe Huntzinger are back from the Denver FO. Everything on Project Phoenix is go. Mary made some suggestions on the scanning areas of the lasers. Phoebe says the computer is as ready as it’ll ever be. Tests started yesterday.”

  “Fine,” I said. “That’s fine.”

  I consulted some notes on my desk pad. I was conscious of him staring at me. I looked up. Our eyes locked.

  “So much going on,” I said, “I thought it best to make notes.” “Of course.” He nodded.

  “Now then,” I went on, “the DOB (we pronounced it Dob) is meeting on Tuesday of next week. Do you have time to go down to Washington with me?”

  “I’ll find time.”

  “Good. And I want Mary Bergstrom to come along. We’
ll drive down on Monday, directly to the Alexandria Hospice. They’ll put us up for the night. I want you and Mary to meet Group Lewisohn. ’ ’ “Why?”

  “Oh . . . just to familiarize yourselves with their operation,” I said vaguely.

  “In other words, I have no need to know?”

  “At the moment, no,” I agreed. “But you might.”

  “Oh? Your contingency list for Lewisohn?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The trouble with contingency plans,” he said, “is that they all have a built-in defect. The objects who devise them can’t resist trying them out to see if they’ll succeed.”

  I thought it time to show my teeth.

  “Are you objecting to my efforts to keep Hyman R. Lewisohn alive?” I asked coldly.

  “No, no!” he backed off hastily. “My God, Nick, you’re touchy lately.”

  “I admit it.” I sighed. Having made my point. “The moment we

  get the Scilla business concluded, I’ll be my usual sweet self again.”

  “Scilla,” he said. “Ah-ha! I’ve been saving the best news for last.”

  “What about Scilla?” I asked sharply.

  “I’ve gotten the need for hallucinogens to over a hundred thousand new dollars during the next fiscal year. Projected.”

  I smiled. “Paul, that’s great. Just great!”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “I won’t be modest. It’s great.”

  “All right, now here’s what you do: Send me a Request for Suspension of Bidding form. State that you’ll need the hallucinogens in the amounts detailed for the purposes noted. State that Scilla has been our supplier in the past and you recommend them on the basis of tested purity of product, responsibility for delivery, and so forth. And the amount involved, in your opinion, is not sufficient to advertise competitive bidding among the drug cartels. Then I’ll put my endorsement on it, forward it to Data and Statistics, and they’ll send it on to—”

  “Got it right here,” he said.

  He picked the document from his case, glanced at it briefly, placed it on my desk with a flourish.