If Louise Rawlins Tucker or a server had answered my ring, I might have burst into tears. But neither did. After the third ring, the door opened. It was she. She! Grace Wingate let me in. Closed the door swiftly behind me. We smiled at each other. Shakily. I think we both said, “Well!” at the same time. '
She busied herself taking my coat. Turning away to hang it in a hallway closet. She was wearing a strapped tanktop in pink. Shoulders and arms bare. Pinkish-purple slacks chained low on her hips. Sandals. My hammered silver earrings. When she came back to me,
I touched them. We both laughed. Brief blast. Put arms about each other’s waist, walked slowly back into the house. Then it was all right. Easy.
There were cucumber sandwiches, I think. And cocoa. It wasn’t important. We sat apart and talked. Rapidly, frantically, breathlessly. There was so much to get through. So much to learn.
Her father had been in the Foreign Office. Retired now. That was how she had met Michael Wingate—at a Department of International Cooperation reception. Her mother collected cut glass in a hobnail design. Her one brother, older, married, two children, was with the Permanent Trade Mission in Peking. She had broken her leg at the age of thirteen. Skiing. Her tonsils were out. She was ashamed of her teeth, fearing they were too large, protuberant. She had studied dance. She adored broiled natural shrimp. Green and blue were her best colors, she thought. She worshiped my beard.
I did my best to reply in kind. Telling her about myself. Even imagining things to make myself more attractive in her eyes. To mogrify my image. A desperate stratagem, I admit. But you cannot love another unless you love yourself. She watched me steadily. Gaze never flickering. Finally, sandwiches merely nibbled, cocoa merely sipped, I moved over to sit alongside her on the couch.
We clasped hands and talked, talked. . . . Circling each other. Tentatively. Then spiralling closer. Each new revelation breeding another.
She told me her husband was a brilliant em, and kind, thoughtful. But he had a hundred guises, was all things to all objects. Withal, a secret em. Because there was a wall around the core of him. She could not penetrate to what he was, really, essentially. He wouldn’t let her. And, above all, she wanted to be close to someone. So close that she could lose herself. Surrender.
I warned her. I said that my moral sense was atrophied. That I had used many objects, ef and em, for my own profit. That I connived without conscience. Betrayed. That I was ego-oriented and goal-directed. Sometimes without ruth. But for all that, I had not murdered. Personally. She might think that last merely a matter of degree. But degree was all—was it not? Absolutism was the mark of a crabbed and dingy brain. And although I had—
It was then she leaned forward and pressed soft, warm lips on mine. To silence me.
“I don’t care,” she whispered. “About all that. You can hurt me. Nick. If you want to.”
I shook my head. "I don’t want to hurt you. I want to know you." We stared into each other’s eyes. And learned more than all our words. Those dark, somber eyes. Widening to bring me in. I drifted hair back from her ears. She sat erect. Trembling slightly. I felt her ears with my fingers. Probing.
“That . . ." she said.
“Oh, yes,” I said. “I know.”
We felt each other. Still seated, we touched. Explored. Hair. Features. Neck and limbs. Torso. Our hands fluttering. Her bare shoulders. My arms. Her waist. My chest. Legs. Yes, and ankles. All. I caressed her toes, bared by her sandals.
During that almost somnambulistic ritual, we realized—I know I did; I think she did—that we would not use each other that day. The recognition lightened us, freed us.
She was, Grace Wingate was, to me, all sweetness and light. A large corpus but fragile, elegant. In texture and movement. Complete with the buoyancy of youth. And beyond sexuality, there was, in those somber eyes, dark glance, the unknowable that sucked me in, drew me in. I wanted to dive.
“I love you,” I said.
“Why do you love me?”
I told her all. Corpus. Somber eyes. Soft lips. Vulval ears. Flame of ashen hair. Touch of her skin. The naked body moving within what she wore. Toes I longed to suck. The pouting navel I imagined. The ache to become one with her. Need to . . . what? Merge? Melt into each other. Penis and vagina welded. A two-backed beast. Ultimate linkage. Then, Siamese twins. Heart and all visceral organs joined. One beat. One throb. One thought.
It did excite her. The conception. A mirror of her secret hope. She began to say why she loved me. Just as graphic. Obscure eyes flaming now. As she came alive. Words she had thought but had never spoken. Stuttering from her moist tongue. Her fantasies and mine. Combined.
She told what she would do to me. Forme. Bravely. In such tones that I had to know she was willing to transform dreams of reality.
That brief afternoon was as dear as a dream recalled. Later, I remembered, we sat in the walled garden. Our secret place. Both of us cloaked against a raw drizzle. Clasping hands. We the only source of heat and joy in the universe. Radiating. Then we did not speak; we could already be silent together. With profit.
It was strange that parting—as we had to, eventually. It was a Small defeat. A small stop. We both had the sense that such a necessary, practical thing as parting, that afternoon, somehow reduced our passion. Stupid, I know. But there it was.
“We must make it up,” she said gravely. “So strong together that parting can mean little. Nothing. No effect.”
“Even better,” I said. “To make us stronger. You compute? Strong enough to be apart and loving more.”
“We’ll age well.” She laughed. Kissing my palm. Before I slipped out the door. “Like good wine.”
“Or music,” I said.
“Music.” She nodded.
Back to this world. The hearings opened on HR-316, A Bill to Establish a Department of Creative Science within the Public Service of the US Government, and went exceeding well. Joe Wellington had arranged for complete media coverage. Including live TV broadcasts on the federal (formerly educational) network. The parade of favorable witnesses was impressive. Their credentials were undeniable, their statements (as instructed) were short and pithy.
Questioning by subcommittee members was brief and superficial. The Congressmen were not venal. (In this regard.) Simply uninformed. We were dealing here with scientific matters of great complexity. Even the subcommittee’s staff, though they might be science-conditioned, could grasp only part of what we proposed. Let alone foresee the consequences. So that opening statements and questioning dealt mainly with such matters as medical research on geriatric disorders, new methods of utilizing solar energy, the efficacy of inoculation against venereal diseases, genetic manipulation to prevent crime, and so forth.
But all this was froth. No one questioned, thankfully, the philosophy of the bill. No one asked what influence the proposed Department might wield on the political and social infrastructures. No one wondered how the future might be tilted by giving to science and technology an authoritative, policymaking role in the US Government. I believed that role would be benign. But no one asked.
I think, by the fourth day, we had all relaxed. Knowing it was going well. HR-316 was on its way to becoming the law of the land. Paul and I, having set new events in motion, turned back to pendulating projects.
“This UP thing,” he said. “Houston has been expediting it. As per orders. They’re up to Mk. 7. They claim results.”
“Tested?”
“On prisoners. Three stoppages on Mk. 4. But that was traced to contaminated containers. They’ve got a prototype package for the new brew. Want to try?”
He knew my insistence on testing new drugs personally. Either by myself or members of my staff.
“The Mk. 7?” I said. “Sure. Fly in a sample. I’ll try it at Chevy Chase tomorrow night. Have Seth Lucas bring over a diagnostic kit. And tape recorders. I’ve always wanted to know the Ultimate Pleasure.”
“It’s got an orgasmic trigger,” he said.
&nbs
p; “Thanks for warning me,” I said. “Tell everyone to stand back.”
By 2100 the following evening, we were prepared. In my bedroom at the Chevy Chase place. In attendance were Paul, Mary Bergstrom, Maya Leighton, Dr. Seth Lucas. Three tape recorders and Lucas’ diagnostic kit. This was a small, portable juke, developed by DIVRAD’s Electronic Team. Circuitry based on space technology. Taped sensors provided input on pulse, respiration, skin temperature, blood pressure, EEG, etc., all signaled on separate screens and recorded on paper tape automatically. With time indications along the edge.
I lay naked, the taped wires leading from my corpus to the gizmo. Lucas fussed over that. Paul and Mary handled stopwatches and recorders. A fascinated Maya Leighton held a towel.
“Your Thrill of the Month,” I told her.
“Better,” she assured me.
Seth checked out his pinball.
“All circuits go,” he reported.
“All right, Nick,” Paul said. Nervously, I thought. “I’m going to hand you the pack. The moment you take it, we start the clock. You scan the printed directions, follow them, open the pack, self-administer. ”
“Yes, doctor,” I said. “Let’s have it.”
He took the UP Mk. 7 from a brown paper bag. It was a clear plastic kit. Very small. No larger than, perhaps, a plastisealed tube of glue or a dozen nails.
“Give us verbal response as long as you can,” Paul said. “Don’t worry about coherence. Just babble.”
“Right,” I said.
“This is exciting," Maya said.
Paul handed me the package.
“Start time,” he said loudly. “Two one three eight point four six. Now'.”
I scanned the instructions slowly: “This UP injection is the sole property of the US Government. It has not been licensed for manufacture, distribution, or sale by any other agency, business, group, or individual. Unauthorized manufacture, distribution, and/or sale is in direct violation of Public Law DIVRAD OL962341-B2, and subject to penalties inherent therein. To receive an additional UP injection, this package and its contents (needle and emptied tube) must be returned to your local distribution center.”
"Simplify instructions, ” I said. ‘ ‘Means nothing to wetbrains."
I continued scanning:
“To use the UP injection, follow these steps carefully:
“One: Open plastic case by tearing slowly along perforated line A-B.”
Obediently, I attempted to tear along perforated line A-B. It didn’t serve. I broke a fingernail.
“It doesn’t tear,” I said.
“Correct,” Paul said. “It’s not perforated. The dotted line is just printed on. The whole idea is to consume time and make the object frantic. Keep trying.”
I finally ripped the cardboard backing off and got the clear plastic cover loose. Paul and Mary glanced at their stopwatches, made notes of my progress.
“Two: Unscrew plastic cap from needle of Syrette.”
“We need another word,” I said. “Objects won’t know what ‘Syrette’ means. And the damned top won’t unscrew.”
I finally pulled it off. There were no threads; it was merely pressure-applied.
“Another time-waster?” I asked Paul.
“Ritual,” he said. “Go on.”
"Three: Push exposed needle with a sharp, quick motion into any area of the corpus below the neck.”
“No good,” I said. “That might include anus, genitals, nipples, navel, et cetera. Instructions should be more explicit. Perhaps limiting target area to arms, legs, buttocks, and so forth. I’ll take it in the thigh.”
Their tape decks were recording my comments. Seth Lucas was watching his screens and dials. His tape, too, was running.
“Slightly heightened signals,” he reported. “Nothing abnormal.”
“Here we go,” I said.
I jabbed the needle into my right thigh.
“Four: Squeeze from the bottom of the tube. Using thumb and forefinger of the right hand (if right-handed) or thumb and forefinger of the left hand (if left-handed), make certain the full and complete contents of the Syrette are emptied through the needle. ” “Who wrote these instructions?” I asked. “Gertrude Stein?” I compressed the tube as directed. From the bottom to the top. It was an opaque container; I didn’t know if it was a clear liquid or a milky creme.
“Five: Withdraw needle from skin and put Syrette carefully aside. Remember, you cannot be awarded another UP injection unless you return the used and emptied syringe to your local distribution center. ’ ’
I pulled the needle from my thigh. Rolled over carefully so as not to disturb my taped sensors, and placed the emptied Syrette carefully on the bedside table.
I had expected it to start with a gentle euphoria. Either a numbness or a tingling. But it was a jolt.
“A hit,” I heard myself say. “It’s got to beeee. . . .”
“Pulse and respiration rising,” I heard Seth Lucas report. “Skin temperature up. And he—”
That was the last I heard from anyone. Then I could hear only myself: “Got to stretch it. That intro. Now. Sweat and vibrations. Memory going. Sphincter contracting. Auditory nil. Numbness beginning now. Fingers. Toes.”
Then I could no longer hear myself.
There were the hackneyed hallucinogenic visual reactions: moving swiftly through clouds that gradually brightened to swirls of color. Great blobs of brilliant hues everywhere. (No music; no sound at all.) Then the colors clearing, drawing back: the reverse of a drop of oil on water. Enormous well-being then. Peace, and a divine carelessness. Ultimate don’t-give-a-damnness.
I see a chair. Or couch. The center of the image is clear. The edges are blurred, with striations of light. A vignette. An ef is seated. An obso ef, but not unhandsome. A heavy, scarred, and pitted face. Almost emish, but attractive. Strong. She is wearing an em’s blue serving shirt. Not buttoned, but loosely tied about her heavy breasts. She is leaning back. Bare stomach and torso are soft. There are precisely three rolls of avoirdupois. I note them clearly. She is wearing faded denim shorts. Ragged. Torn off from pants. Belted with a brass buckle in a lion’s-head design. Her knees are up, and spread. Bare feet on the edge of the chair. Or couch. The skimpy shorts are pulled tight across her pudendum. It is divided into two plump halves. Bulging.
I come into the picture. From the blurred edge. Coming into focus. We speak. But there is no sound. I touch her bare knee.
“You can do what you like,” she says. “Hurt me if you want to.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I say. “I want to know you.”
I spread her knees wider, standing now between them. I scrape the insides of her naked thighs gently with my fingernails. She closes her eyes.
I kneel. I rub my mustache and beard along her legs. Then begin to kiss. Lick. I pause to look up. Her eyes are open. Somber.
“Untie your shirt,” I tell her.
She obeys. Pulls the knotted shirttails free, opens them wide. Her skin is coarse, bruised. Her liberated breasts swell down. They are heavy eggplants. Purplish. Glossy. Aureoles are hardly distinguishable; nipples are retracted. I lean forward awkwardly. I blow gently on one nipple. It begins to grow. When it has extruded sufficiently, I touch it softly with my wet tongue. Her entire body leaps convulsively on the chair. Couch. I pulp the elongating nipple between my lips. The other begins to extrude. Her breasts harden. She slumps sideways. I ease her down. Put a pillow beneath her head. Her hair is quite long. Black without luster. Streaked with gray.
I take her hand, make her cup a breast. Then I kiss her lips. Lightly. Our tongues serving. As we flicker, I push her hand and breast upward. Pull her head forward, down. Her breast is full enough so that we can both kiss and suck. Simultaneously. Tongues circling the erectile nipple, meeting, circling. The taste is sharp, almost acrid..
Now her breasts are slick. Slipping from my grasp. I draw back from her. Gesture toward her shorts. Then they are gone. The opened shirt gone from her shoul
ders. She is naked. I am still wearing my silver zipsuit. Red tab on right epaulette.
I begin. Moving her hands and fingers to show her how she must hold herself for me. Her knees are up. Then her feet. High in the sky. A cloud beneath her hips. Warm moisture collects on my mustache and beard. She adores the beard. Worships it. I nuzzle deeper, straining my tongue. She groans.
I slide her fingers lower. Demonstrate how I want her buttocks prized apart. My fingers are coated with petrogrease. I slide into the brown rosebud.
“Am I hurting you?” I ask anxiously.
“Deeper,” she says.
My forefinger probes slyly. She begins a slow paroxysm. My other hand fumbles at her navel. Exploring slickly.
Her movements become stormy. Unruly. I manipulate her. First here. There. Together. It crescends. The bruises on her coarse flesh become livid. Bright violet and yellow splotches. Then, with a great pelvis heave, she summits. I hang on, continuing my service.
I turned my eyes upward to see her expression. I saw Paul Bumford. Leaning over me.
“Nick?” he said. Anxiously, I thought. “You all right?”
“Time?” I asked.
He glanced at his stopwatch.
“From the moment you took the package,” he said, “about seventy-three minutes.”
I looked about the room. Seth Lucas was checking the dials and long strip of paper tape. Mary Bergstrom was regarding me curiously. Maya Leighton was grinning, the clotted towel wadded up in her hands.
“Total time disorientation,” I reported.
“Get this:” I said. “Euphoric physical weakness. Visual dis-acuity. Total auditory loss. From the looks of that towel Maya is playing with, I gather I summited. But no memory of it. No psychic guilt. No hangover. No regrets. Quite an experience. Quite an experience. How much time elapsed after I stopped talking?” They all looked at me queerly.
The Tomorrow File Page 55
