“Can you do all that?” I asked her.
“Yes,” she said.
Two hours later I was seated in the cocktail lounge of the Morse Hotel. I had asked for Seymour Dove at the desk. But he had already checked out, was on his way back to San Diego. So I was drinking a vodka-and-Smack by myself. My first opportunity to spend leisure alone for many, many months. I was enjoying it.
I dined somewhere. A crowded, horrendously expensive French restaurant. It required ten new dollars slipped to the maitre d' to bypass the crowd waiting to claim their reservations. The food was undeniably natural—but what was the use? The best chefs in the world couldn’t compensate for its lack of flavor. Within a generation or two, the sense of taste would be as debased as the sense of smell was at that point in time. Sighing, I dug into my “baked potato. ’ ’ What they had done, of course, was to salvage a blackened shell, discarded by a previous diner, fill it with cheaper mashed potatoes, and shove it under a microwave broiler for a minute to give it a realistic crust.
I had two natural brandies at the restaurant bar on my way out. A black ef, wearing an obso nun’s robe, scuttled through the door and succeeded in handing out small pieces of paper to several bar patrons before the maitre d’ and two waiters hustled her out of there. My paper read: Repant for the time IS at hand. Even the holy couldn’t spell. I strolled out in an expansive mood. This was my world. Let others waste their days weeping.
I spent hours walking Washington that night. From Lafayette Park to the White House. Down Pennsylvania Avenue to the Capitol. Around to the Library of Congress. Back to the National Gallery of Art. All the way down the Mall to the Lincoln Memorial.
It was easy to feel indulgent about Washington, D.C. Despite the presence of foreign embassies, of couriers arriving and speeding off to every corner of the earth, despite its architecture—some of it incredibly gross, some incredibly elegant—Washington remained insular. A marbelized village. A company town. Its one product was government; its one raw material was power. Departments and offices and agencies and facilities had been distributed all over the US. But no one doubted where the thrones were.
Eventually, I went to a phone booth. I called Angela Berri. It was almost a reflex, an automatic response, an emotional knee-jerk. My soul had received a light tap below the patella.
Her greeting sounded fretful, weary. But after some idle chitchat, she seemed to thaw; her voice warmed.
I suggested an immediate picnic on the White House lawn.
She suggested a naked pas de deux on the Capitol steps.
It went on like that for a while, each suggestion topping the last in outrageous public lewdness. Finally I asked her to join me somewhere for a drink. She said she was too exhausted to consider stirring from her apartment. But she wanted very much to see me. I was to come to her Watergate apartment at once.
Which was what it was all about in the first place.
Exhausted, she may have been. Without makeup or uniform. But I saw no diminution of her unique primitive force. If anything, her languor only heightened, by contrast, the flash deep in her eyes, the electricity of her sudden gestures. She was wearing a black silk robe. Carelessly. A plain robe. It gaped at neckline and thigh. A full sleeve fell back to reveal a bare arm. That pampered body was cut into white sections. An effect at once abstract and stirring.
She gave me a straight petrovod on Jellicubes. She was not drinking, but she was smoking—something. I could not identify the odor. Not cannabis. She saw me sniffing.
"Perfumed hash.” She smiled. “Want to try?”
“No,” I said. “Thanks.”
She smoked slowly. A small, jeweled pipe. I sipped my drink slowly. She crossed her knees. The robe fell back. One bare foot bobbed.
“I’m weary, Nick,” she said suddenly. “I’ve begun to flip in and out. Occasionally. Is that bad?”
“Anxieties?” I asked.
“No. Not really. Nothing I can’t handle. Just a—it’s difficult to describe.”
“Flipping in and out?” I asked.
“Reality,” she said. “You play a role long enough, hard enough, and the role takes over. You’re all role.”
“Disorientation,” I said. “Want something for it?”
“Yes,” she said. Rising. Holding out her hand. “I want something for it. Come along.”
None of Maya’s hardware for her. Not that night. Just her depilated body and a curious need for tenderness. For warm affection. For close, protective snuggling. The ruler ruled. The master mastered.
The problem was. . . .The problem was. . . .Well, the problem was this: Was her mood operative or plotted? Was her soft languor real or structured? Was her surrender valid or scenarioed? I didn’t know. For certain. And not knowing, I would have been a fool to assume anything but falsity.
That’s the way we were. That’s the way we all were.
No sexual sophistication that night. No tricks, gimmicks, gigs.
Just a slow, lazy petting to arousal. At one point we lay slightly apart, not touching. I could not compute the rapture.
I would have preferred her to ravage me. Absolution? That lacking, I could only serve her. I was>a knight, and gathered her close. A young body came tonelessly into my arms.
Usually we laughed with delight. That night we were silent. Obediently she lay upon her back, spread silken thighs. Curled snake arms about my neck. Linked snake legs about my back. But silently, in a shy, docile manner. I penetrated her as gently as I could, as deeply. It was her mood.
There was some illumination from the nest light. I arched my back to see her face. Eyes closed. Lips slightly parted. Gleam of wet teeth.
“Don’t go away from me,” she murmured.
I bent to scrape my new mustache and beard across her breasts. She responded to that; I could feel her return. From wherever she had been. She had no right to try to escape. We are all here. Fingernails rived my shoulders. Legs tightened.
She was velvet on steel: the languor suffused with steamed blood she could not deny. But no further murmurings, whispers, cries, moans. In silence, deliberately, we used each other, sensing when our rhythm was one.
I don’t know how long we lasted. A lifetime, I suppose. Eventually, of course, we could no longer control our deliberation. Our rhythm controlled us; conscious will eroded. My fingers slid to join my penis. I had one wild, frightening impulse to tear her apart. But that was gone almost as quickly as I recognized it.
Our summit was calm, satisfying. Certainly for me. And, I believed, for her. We flowed together in a kind of dance. Her extended arms and legs now feebly stroking the air. My pelvis squirming in rut. Open mouths were slicked together; tongues beat a slow tattoo. Good-bye. Good-bye.
Y-12
Early the next morning I took a cab back to the Hospice in Alexandria. I found Paul, Mary, Maya, and Seth Lucas having breakfast together in the cafeteria. I drew a plasticup of black coffee and joined them, pulling up a chair.
“How’s Lewisohn, Seth?” I asked.
“Well ... all right.”
“What does that mean—‘Well ... all right?’ ”
“Count’s up. Just a bit. Not appreciably. Not significantly.” “How often do you take it?”
“Every eight hours.”
“Take it every four. Keep me informed. Mary and Paul and I will be leaving this morning.”
“Everything all right, Nick?” Paul asked.
“Everything’s fine,” I assured him. And then. “Coming up roses. Load the limousine. We’ll be starting back this afternoon. ”
I showered, shaved, trimmed beard and moustache, donned a fresh zipsuit. With decorations. I waited until Dr. Seth Warren was about to start his rounds, then requested the use of his office. I told him I would soon be gone. He happily granted my request. I knew I made him nervous. But then life made him nervous.
I had decided to start with Chief Director Michael Wingate’s Administrative Assistant, a capable ef named Penelope Mapes. The headquarter
s of the Chief Director were located in the obso Executive Office Building. Since the Presidency had been reduced to what was essentially a ceremonial role, the White House was completely adequate for the Chief Executive’s activities.
I sat behind Dr. Warren’s cluttered desk and flashed the Executive Office Building. When an operator came on screen, I identified myself and asked to speak to Administrative Assistant Mapes. “Just a moment, please, sir,” the operator said.
I saw her punch buttons furiously. But Penelope Mapes didn’t come on screen. Instead, I got an em I recognized, although I had never met him personally. His name was Theodore Seidensticker III. His title—unlikely anywhere except in Washington, D.C.— was Executive Assistant in Charge of Administration to the Administrative Assistant.
I identified myself as he inspected my silver zipsuit and decorations. I asked to speak to Penelope Mapes.
“Sorry, Dr. Flair,” he said stiffly. “The Administrative Assistant is not available.”
“Not available.” That meant she was in conference, in the nest, ill, nursing a hangover, stopped, or under the desk of Theodore Seidensticker III enjoying a little fellatio alia veneziana. That last remark suggests my mood of the moment.
I then asked to speak directly to Chief Director Michael Wingate. Seidensticker looked at me pityingly. He said that was quite impossible. The Chief Director was in conference and had a full calendar for the remainder of the day. Checkmate. We sat and stared at each other.
The Executive Assistant in Charge of Administration to the Administrative Assistant was a tall, bony, sniffy character with a cold, Brahminical look. Even his posture was designed to demonstrate his uprightness. He was reputed to be the Lord High Executioner of Wingate’s court. I decided, that moment, he was just the em for me.
I explained, as briefly as I could, that I had a matter of the greatest urgency to lay before the Chief Director. A matter of the greatest sensitivity. Allegations had been brought to my attention indicating conduct inimical to the public interest by an object high—very high—in the Chief Director’s administration.
He didn’t consider, hesitate a moment, or ask any questions. It was evidently a situation with which he was not unfamiliar.
“I will see you at 1200 precisely, Dr. Flair,” he said tonelessly.
"Please bring whatever documentation you have in your possession.”
We left the Hospice amidst fond farewells. I stroked the palms of Warren and Lucas. I kissed Maya’s cheek. I promised to return as soon as possible. A prospect that sent Warren into a paroxysm of blinking, pate-stroking, lip-gnawing.
Mary parked the limousine at the curb outside the Executive Office Building. I told Paul I expected to be an hour, no longer. He agreed to wait right there, in case I was finished earlier. I marched into the building, carrying my loaded briefcase. Ted the Stick was faithful to his word; he saw me at precisely 1200. Precisely.
I had prepared my story. I told him that a month previously I had been visited by the chief executive of Scilla Pharmaceuticals of San Diego. A drug manufacturer with whom SATSEC had had lovable dealings in the past. He had claimed he was the victim of extortion by Art Roach, Chief, Security & Intelligence, Department of Bliss. If he paid off Roach, he was guaranteed a government contract. I had advised Scilla to play along. A meeting was arranged, the Scilla president was shared, and this was the result.
I then played the Art Roach-Seymour Dove tape for Theodore Seidensticker HI. Watching his face as we listened. No change of expression on those horsey features.
I had then, I went on, confronted Art Roach with the evidence of his criminal behavior. He had been immediately contrite, even tearful, but claimed he had attempted the shakedown under direct orders of Angela Teresa Berri, Director of Bliss. Since she ruled him, he followed her orders, knowing what he was doing was contrary to the public interest, but fearing to disobey her. His career was at stake. To prove his horror and disgust of her illicit activities, he had compiled a record of her infamy. This he had delivered to me voluntarily, trusting in the mercy of those who would judge his own participation in her nefarious schemes.
I then placed the remaining evidence before Seidensticker: the list of fiddled contracts, grain deals, the methanol refinery ripoff, ownership of the Sexual Congress. He donned steel-rimmed spectacles to scan the documents slowly and carefully. Perhaps I imagined it, but I thought his thin lips pressed thinner still when he learned of Angela’s proprietorship of the bordello. Could Ted the Stick be a regular customer? (Every Thursday evening. 1800 to 1900. Precisely.)
Finally he pushed the material away with the tips of bloodless fingers. Ugh. Dirty stuff. He took off his glasses, massaged the bony bridge of his nose.
"If possible, sir, " I said, ‘ ‘I would like to ask for compassion for Art Roach. He is not an intelligent em. I believe his story, that he acted as he did under orders.”
I owed Roach nothing. But he had certain specialized talents that might be of use to me in the future. It was worth one tentative effort to save him.
“Roach isn’t important,” Seidensticker said. Voice of doom. “Angela Berri is.”
“Can it be glossed, sir?” I asked anxiously. ‘ ‘Allow her to resign for reasons of personal health?”
He pursed those knife lips, considered the matter gravely. A gourmet inspecting a menu.
“It might be possible to gloss,” he acknowledged, “if it was not for that distressing business involving the National Data Bank. That gang must be cleaned out, and all their customers taken. With so many objects involved, it will be almost impossible to put a pillow on the affair. No, I’m afraid Angela Berri must pay the penalty prescribed by law.”
He didn’t smack his lips. Exactly.
He leaned toward the flasher, punched a number. Three digits. I couldn’t see the screen from where I was seated, but it was obvious to whom he was speaking.
“Sorry to interrupt the Chief Director, sir,” he said in a lackey’s voice. “But something of the utmost urgency has come up. I have Dr. Nicholas Flair with me, and—”
“Who?”
“Flair. Dr. Nicholas Flair. Deputy Director of Satisfaction Section, Department of Bliss. He has brought a matter to my attention that I believe demands the Chief Director’s immediate decision, sir.”
Michael Wingate’s office was impressive. And quite unlike his home. It occupied half of the top floor of the EOB. Cold, futuristic decor and furnishings. It was divided roughly into thirds. A serving area: plastisteel desk, swivel chairs, maps and charts on the walls, flashers, phones, Telex printers, etc. A sitting area with a chromium cocktail table, inflated chairs and sofa, radio and television sets. A dining area: a glass table large enough to seat eight, pantry, a well-equipped bar, a stereo set with a screen for film cassettes.
Seidensticker knocked on the outer door and waited for the “Come in!” before he entered. I followed a few paces back. The Chief Director was in the “parlor” area, seated on the inflated couch alongside a short, plump, obso hausfrau. I recognized her at once from newsphotos and TV appearances: Sady Nagle, Deputy Chief Director for Domestic Affairs. (When her appointment was up for confirmation, a Congressional critic grumbled, “My God, she’s so ugly she couldn’t have had a domestic affair in her whole life.”)
The Chief Director rose to greet us. He nodded at Ted the Stick, then turned to me with a strained smile. The pleasant, twinkling Santa Claus was gone. He seemed to me an em under considerable strain. I could guess the reason for his tension. The twenty-four hours his wife had given him were ticking away.
“Nick,” he said. “Good to see you again.”
“My profit, sir,” I said.
He introduced me to Sady Nagle. She was across the room. I bowed in her direction. She smiled sweetly, bobbed a great mass of iron-gray hair. She was so ugly she was charming.
“Nick, entertain Sady for a few minutes, will you? Mix a drink if you like or ring for the steward.”
He and Seidensticker went b
ack to the office area. The Chief Director sat down heavily behind his desk. The Executive Assistant was carrying my briefcase. He stood at Wingate’s elbow and began to lay out the evidence: tapes, film, lists, journals, notebooks.' He leaned far over Wingate, whispering, whispering. . . .
“May I get you a drink, Miss Nagle?” I asked.
“Sady,” she said. In an unexpectedly hoarse, emish voice. “Tea would be nice. For that you push the little button over there by the pantry door. Then Tommy comes in. He knows how I like my tea. In a real glass. And whatever you want.”
I did as she instructed. I pressed the little button, a red steward appeared immediately, listened to my request, nodded, disappeared .
“Come sit here,” Sady Nagle called to me. Patting the couch beside her. “You’re really a doctor?”
“Really.”
“So tell me, Nick . . .” she went on. “I can call you Nick?” “Of course.”
“Tell me, Nick, what kind of a doctor are you? Head? Foot? Stomach? Heart? A professor maybe?”
“All kinds,” I told her.
“Good.” She smiled approvingly. “So tell me, doctor, what do you recommend for an endless headache?”
“Two aspirins every four hours,” I said. “Endlessly.”
She laughed until her face was pink.
Her tea was brought, and my iced Smack. We had a most enjoyable conversation. I had never met an object who could listen as well as she. She asked personal questions about my birthplace, my parents, why I wasn’t, married. But never did I feel she was prying; I felt she cared.
She was said to be a political genius, the one object in the US perfectly attuned to the wants, needs, ambitions, and dreams of the political hierarchy and the public. And to their sins and weaknesses. I could believe it. It seemed difficult to withhold a confidence from her, and impossible to deceive her. I think her gift, in addition to that ugly, grandmotherly appearance, was that she could never represent a threat. She was sympathetic, disarming, and so worldly-wise and understanding that if I had suddenly blurted out, “Sady, I have just betrayed an ef I admire,” she might pat my arm and say, “You shouldn’t have done that, sonny.” And I would then be less horrified by my deed than by the realization that I had diminished her good opinion of me.
The Tomorrow File Page 43
