The Tomorrow File

by Lawrence Sanders

  Two cc.

  I looked for the signature.

  It was there.

  Nicholas Bennington Flair.

  In my own flamboyant scrawl.

  Z-5

  Two days later I was on my way to Denver. For a personal inspection of Project Phoenix. Lewisohn’s condition was deteriorating so inexorably that I knew I had to expedite my scenario for his survival. While, he still had sufficient strength to endure it.

  Aboard the jet, sipping my fourth vodka-and-Smack of the day, puffing my third cannabis, I reviewed my actions in re the fiddled 416HBL-CW3 file card. I was satisfied that I had done all that a crafty object might do.

  My first reaction, of course, upon viewing my own signature, had been akin to, say, witnessing an act of levitation. “I see it but I don’t believe it.” Then I thought possibly I had taken the Clostridium botulinum and had signed the file card under the influence of hypnosis. Either by a clever operator or by drug. In the precarious world of politics, at that point in time, you learned to breathe the volcano’s fumes.

  But the date, November 18, 1998, precluded the hypnosis theory. On that particular day, I had been in Washington, D. C., conferring with Joe Wellington. I was certain. Later, my memory was verified by a notation in my appointment schedule.

  Then, still staring at the file card, still shaken, I had the wit to check the register. That big ledger in which every visitor to the restricted drug library had to note date, time of entrance and exit, signature. Sure enough, “Nicholas Bennington Flair” had entered the library at 2320 on November 18, 1998, and exited at 2345.

  But I was gratified to see that the signature on the register was identical with the signature on the 416HBL-CW3 file card. I don’t mean the two signatures were similar; they were identical. To every hook, dash, curlicue. Vinnie Altman still snoozing, still gently snoring, I brought the file card over to the ledger to compare the two.

  No object ever duplicates a signature exactly. Ever. But, of course, those were not signatures. Closer examination proved that. The pressure of pen throughout had been uniform: no faintness or heaviness of line. Ergo: not writing at all, but printing or inscribing with a mechanical or automatic device. The methodology then became apparent.

  Like most executives, my form letters were printed and signed by an office computer. When the quantity desired was limited, and mass distribution unnecessary, identical letters were Instox duplicated from a signed master. When many letters of varied subject matter but of routine nature were prepared, they would be typed from my dictated tapes by Ellen Dawes’ assistants, scanned by her for accuracy, and “signed” with a small, portable imprinter. This was a mechanical device not unlike a postal cancellation meter. It contained an ink supply. A lever depressed a plastisteel cut that was an exact (photographic) reproduction of my signature. The cut was an em equivalent of an engraving. The "signature" looked authentic. But being mechanically reproduced, pressure was uniform throughout.

  The problem of my “genuine” signature appearing on file card and ledger having been solved, to my satisfaction, I next turned to how it had been snookered. My signature meter was usually kept in my office safe. To be requested by Ellen Dawes when there were a number of letters to be “signed.” Then returned to me. But not always. When I was absent from the office on those Washington trips, or the PR expedition, the meter was turned over to Ellen. She should have kept it locked up. Knowing her, I didn’t suppose she did. But even locked in my safe it would not have been secure. What was?

  Having relatively easy access to my signature meter, how would a terrorist group planning to steal a quantity of Clostridium botulinum have proceeded? Putting myself in their place, with their arcane but obviously powerful motivation, I plotted a possible scenario. During the twenty-four hours following my discovery of the missing416HBL-CW3, I put the plan to a field test. With certain refinements.

  My preparations may sound complex; they were actually not. I sent Ellen Dawes to the stationery stockroom for paper, envelopes, pads, pencils, rubber bands, paperclips, and a quantity of several forms. Including 100 blank restricted drug file cards. I only needed one. Which I filled out for 416HBL-CW3. I showed an authentic initial entry of 5 cc on November 3, 1988, and no additional deposits. The withdrawal side I left blank. I “aged” the card by scraping it several times across the surface of my office plasticarp. When I had finished, it looked ten years old. Reasonably.

  I then paid a casual visit to A Lab, wandered about until my presence was ignored, and filched a 5 cc flask of glycerol. I then left the compound, briefly, to purchase a half-liter bottle of petroport at a federal grogshop. I brought the bottle to the Pharmacology Team Lab and told them I needed it doped with an instant hypnotic and a memory eraser. A restricted project. No questions were asked. The seal was carefully lifted, screw top removed, contents contaminated, the bottle restored to its original appearance.

  Then, just to prove to myself the fiddling could have been carried out by a single object r I donned a greatcoat over my zipsuit and filled the pockets with my signature meter, the newly prepared restricted drug file card, the small flask of glycerol, the half-liter of fixed petroport. No problem of storage.

  “Vinnie,” I said. After he had turned off the alarm, unlocked and opened the door. “This is just a social visit. Someone gave me this jug of happiness. Thought you might like it.”

  I handed over the dozied liquor.

  “Why, doc,” he said. Coming out of his fog for a moment. “Mighty nice of you. Have one with me?”

  “You go ahead,” I said. “A little too sweet for me.”

  We went back to his desk where a copy of another Danish magazine, Clit, was spread wide. As it should have been. I waited while Vinnie poured himself a plastiglass of my petroport.

  “Over the hills and far away,” he said. Raising the glass and draining half of it.

  Thankfully, he was seated when it hit him. I took the glass from his hand before the remainder spilled. His head had fallen sideways. He was snoring busily.

  I went back to Room G, Bin 3, Stack 4, Position R. My original idea had been to bring in an identical glass flask filled to the etched line with 5 cc of pure glycerol. But close investigation by the Bureau of Public Security would have revealed the substitution. Also, I would have had to remove the original flask, taking it with me in my pocket when I left. The notion of striding on icy pavements carrying a glass bottle of enough toxic bacteria to stop the entire population of the US was not an endearing prospect.

  So I merely removed the stopper of the original bottle and poured in enough pure glycerol to bring the level up to the etched line. I did this as porcupines fornicate—very, very carefully. I doubted if even heavy analysis of the contents would reveal the dilution.

  I replaced the original bottle in its original position. After wiping the glass free of prints. Turned off the lights. Returned to the outer office. Carrying the remainder of the pure glycerol. Vinnie Altman was still snoozing comfortably, the eraser busily at work in his brain destroying the memory of the previous hours.

  I then removed the fiddled 416HBL-CW3 card from the file and substituted the new card I had prepared. It looked right at home. But before I did that, I satisfied myself that my signature meter could have been used to imprint my name on file card and register. It could have. Easily. But I didn’t record a notice of my current visit, of course. No need.

  I remembered to pour the dregs of Vinnie Altman’s drink back into the bottle and then take with me the remainder of the contaminated petroport. I switched off the alarm, opened both locks, exited, slid the door softly shut behind me. Alarm and locks connected automatically. Beautiful. I had done what I could to pillow the attack upon me.

  In the jet, beginning the descent to the Denver airport, I reflected again, briefly, on the problem of who had been responsible. For the programmed outbreak of botulism in GPA-11 and for the attempt to fix the blame on me. Some terrorist group, I supposed. Perhaps frantic leftovers fro
m the Society of Obsoletes’ conspiracy who had not yet been terminated. But it was fruitless to wonder.

  It was much more profitable to fantasize on Louise Rawlins Tucker’s dinner party to be held the following Sunday. I had confirmed date and time by flasher. She had said casually, open-eyed, “I think you’ll know most of the objects, Nick. They’re fun. Grace Wingate promised to come.”

  The Denver Field Office had been alerted to my arrival. There was an official limousine awaiting me at the gate. I did not find those trappings offensive. At the complex itself, Phoebe Hunt-zinger met me at the door. We went immediately to a colloquy with the new Project Phoenix Team Leader, a yellow em named Thomas Lee, and his young staff.

  I listened for more than an hour. Their progress startled me.

  Although I should have been habituated to rapid research. As explicated in my prospectus to the Chief Director on the Department of Creative Science, I had stated that the accelerating rate of scientific discovery was mainly due to four factors:

  1. The increasing use of computer technology, especially for automatic chemo- and physioanalysis.

  2. The increasing early conditioning of the young. By oxygenation of the fetus and a hyperprotein diet for selected infants, the US was producing what a French astrophysicist had called (sorrowfully, I thought) a “generation of genii.”

  3. The easy availability of human objects for research. This element alone contributed immeasurably to public health and happiness.

  4. The exponential factor involved: discoveries leading to discoveries, a geometric progression of scientific knowledge. Our conditioning techniques and development of brain-expanding and memory drugs were hard-pressed to embrace the complexity of today’s science. It had become a race, as the obso writer H. G. Wells said, between education and catastrophe.

  So I tried not to appear too startled by the progress of the Project Phoenix Team. I listened to their triumphs and their defeats. Nodded. Made a few pertinent suggestions. Then we adjourned to their operating theater to observe an object currently under usage. I did not inquire about the volunteer’s antecedents. It would have been infratooty.

  She was a young ef. About fourteen, judging from her pubescent breasts and scrabbly pubic hair. She was tightly strapped, naked, into a mechanism roughly resembling a barber’s chair. Taped with electronic sensors; IV feeding that included a mild hallucinogen. Atop her head, descending to her eyebrows, was an enormous stainless steel helmet from which radiated the spokes of the soft laser transmitters and receivers, on swivel attachments.

  The operating theater was a jumble of hardware. Many primary readout screens: one for each laser scan. Computers to monitor the object’s vital signals. A transmitter to the Golem computer in a sublevel. Readout and printout machines for computer retrieval. And, touchingly, a pink bedpan.

  We watched, quiet, while technicians made minute adjustments of the last rods.

  “Sending,” someone said. Watching an EEG transmitter screen.

  Machines went into action. The sounds were a symphony. Ka-tah, ka-tah, ka-tah. Chingchingchingching. Beep-o, beep-o, beep-o. And underneath all, a deep, disturbing hum. We looked to the Golem computer readout screen.

  XXXI WANT TO GET OUT OF HEREXXX XXXMUST YOU DO THIS TO MEXXX XXXPLEASE LET ME STOPXXX I turned to the operator.

  “Could I have a printout on that, please?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She pushed buttons. Held the screen image while the printer chattered briefly, 350 wpm. She tore off the screed, handed it to me. I scanned it, passed it to Phoebe Huntzinger.

  Phoebe spanned it.

  “What do you find significant in that?” I asked her.

  She scanned it again.

  “Nothing special, Nick.”

  “All one-syllable words,” I said.

  “Nick, I told you Golem is limited. We’re using a ten-thousand word vocabulary storage, plus phrase linkups. We’re pushing the limit now.”

  “Phoebe, I’m not blaming you,” I said. Smiling. Touching her arm. “You've done wonders. Just gives me ideas, that’s all. Thanks for the show. Let’s eat.”

  But that brief demo at the Denver FO led to consequential imperatives. (Loverly words—no? Obsos would have said, “Far-reaching consequences.” But language changes. As it should. Otherwise we would still be chanting, “Whan that Aprille with his shoures sote. . . .”).

  When I returned to GPA-1,1 began to move objects about. I sent Leo Bernstein to Hospice No. 17 in Little Rock, Arkansas, for brief familiarization conditioning on their service on the formularization of synthetic blood. I pulled Seth Lucas out of Hospice No. 4, temporarily, and sent him to the Denver Field Office to serve with Tom Lee, the Team Leader on Project Phoenix. And I brought Phoebe Huntzinger back from Denver to Manhattan Landing.

  “Big service,” I told her. “Clear as much storage in your computers as you can. Program two-hundred-thousand word English vocabulary, plus a thousand-item vocabulary of foreign words and phrases. Particularly those applicable to economics and government. Got that?”

  “Sure, boss. Going to tell me what this is all about?”

  “No. Then after you have your pachinkos programmed, set up a direct wire link with Denver. For send and return. So we can scan the input down here and interpret.”

  “All right, Nick. You don’t have to draw a diagram.”

  “This Tom Lee—what’s your take?” I asked.

  “A brain,” she said. “He’s eighteen. Makes you feel obso— right?”

  “In this juvenocracy, everyone makes me feel obso. Get hopping, Phoebe.”

  I sent a restricted, detailed letter of instruction to the eighteen-year-old Team Leader Thomas Lee. I ordered him to prepare a contingency logistics plan to transfer Project Phoenix from the Denver FO to Hospice No. 4.

  I sent a formal letter to R. Sam Bigelow at the Bureau of Public Security. I stated that in answer to his such-and-such, dated such-and-such, my personal visual inspection had confirmed that 5 cc of the substance 416HBL-CW3 was still in the possession of SATSEC, and records indicated no withdrawals for any purpose whatsoever.

  Then I flashed Penelope Mapes, requesting an interview with the Chief Director. Times synchronized to my satisfaction. He would be leaving for a week’s tour of exmainland States on a Saturday, just one day prior to Louise Rawlins Tucker’s dinner party. Fine. Penelope Mapes promised me fifteen minutes with him on the afternoon of his departure. Megafine. I remembered the comment of a lab ef who had been involved in a successful research project.

  “How you doing?” I asked her.

  “Just great,” she had said. “Everything’s coming up penicillin.”

  I arrived in Washington on March 15. Many happy returns, Julius Caesar. I stayed at the Chevy Chase place and spent two full days with Joe Wellington and staff, including Samantha Slater, planning the logistics of a PR excursion through the Midwest. Touting the glories of a Department of Creative Science to Establishment Gruppen. It was, I sometimes felt, a contentless ceremony. Except, of course, the ceremony itself was meaningful.

  I also spent a full day at temporary headquarters of the DCS in the basement of the Executive Office Building. The babe was healthy and growing. An enlarged suite of six offices, still in the process of expansion. More noise, more objects, more franticness. There is nothing quite like political growth. It is at once fascinating, exciting, disturbing. Something like the proliferation of Neisseria gonorrhoea on a petri dish.

  Paul Bumford and I—Mary Bergstrom sitting nearby, a silent fury—went over the political scenario. The original bill, HR-316, submitted to the House of Representatives by a Congressman from Alabama (a “sweetheart” of the Chief Director) had, of course, been overcast. A process similar to artificially inflating a requested budget by 20 percent. Knowing you’ll be cut back to your desired goal. In this case, proposed amendments in the House Government Operations Committee were nibbling away at the original bill. But nothing that hadn’t been anticipated and programmed. T
o quell wild beasts, you toss them raw chuck. When they are surfeited, the broiled sirloin is slipped by. So it was. So it always has been.

  I “By the way,” I said to Paul. “Something for the Tomorrow File. A federal TV cable system. The only channel. All sets licensed.”

  “Got it,” he said. “Excellent. Especially for agitprop.”

  My meet with Chief Director Michael Wingate was scheduled for 1430. I was ushered into his crowded EOB office. I had an opportunity then to observe the manager of the US in action. Surrounded, crushed by advisers, aides, secretaries, guards, applicants, patrons and clients, servers and masters. Penelope Mapes was there, of course, and Theodore Seidensticker III, Joe Wellington, Sady Nagle, and a varied assortment of concerned objects from Senators to hypersonic pilots and navigators plotting the CD’s flight to our overseas provinces.

  Then Michael Wingate exhibited to me another side of his multifaceted character: the efficient executive. Cool under pressure. Welcoming stress. The em of almost instant decisions; a barely perceptible pause before the “Yes” or the “No.” And withal, remarkably genial, pleasant. Brooking no serious opposition, you 1 understand. Not even from Senators. But the negative always glossed by the physical gesture: palm stroke, pat, embrace, caress, playful punch. It was a marvelous performance. To watch.

  “Nick!” he said. Genuine pleasure. “So glad to see you!”

  I believed it. That was his gift. A charm so intense it conquered : all.

  “About GPA-11?” he asked.

  “No, no.”

  “You’ve discovered how they’re doing it?”

  Then I divined part of his secret: He never listened—totally.

  “No, Chief,” I said. “I’m sorry to report I have not discovered how they’re doing it. ”

  “Bad business,” he said sternly. Shaking his head. “Bad business.”

  In our following conversation, interrupted a dozen times, I finally was able to make clear to him why I had requested the audience. Hyman R. Lewisohn was stopping. Using conventional therapy, there was no hope for the em’s survival. But I wanted to attempt radical surgery. I didn’t explicate further. But before that eventuality, I wanted the Chief Director to convene an ad hoc committee of the nation’s foremost civilian physicians, hematologists, oncologists, etc., to make an independent analysis of Lewisohn’s present condition. And to make a prognosis. They would have open and complete access to my personal files and to the records of Group Lewisohn.