I pulled that live hawser in, hand over hand, until her back was j against me. Tightly. I moved the woven plait so that it curved over her shoulder, hung down her front. I reached around to clasp it there.
“Wanton!” I whispered in her ear.
She glanced back at me. Mischievous.
“Yes, I am,” she said. “With you.”
It was a creamy noon. Breeze hinting of summer heat. Altocumulus high in a pellucid sky. On such a day, why should I glance about casually at the windows of strangers, overlooking our garden, our secret place, and wonder where hypersensitive parabolic microphones might be emplaced?
We sat on a curving bench in the arbor. The poor, peeling lattice that seemed fated to know July as bare and forlorn as it had endured December. The entire garden had that feel: gentle decay and soft sadness. All colors muted. All scents fragile. Even a cricket’s chirp faint and hesitant.
After some initial chatter, she seemed to sense my reverie, and was quiet. Then she leaned close, back half-turned so that I might caress her glossy plait.
“You do like it,” she murmured. “Nick? Don’t you?”
“Oh, yes. Very much.”
“More than my own hair?”
“Not more than,” I said. “But as much as.”
She giggled softly. “I can never catch you out.”
“I’ve had a lot of experience,” I said, i I left off stroking that rope of vibrant hair. How could hair, as nerveless as a fingernail, so pulse with life and seem responsive to a touch? I slid a hand beneath her loose middy. Up. Stroked, with timorous fingers, her naked back.
“Oh,” she said.
I sat without moving. Regarding with wonder my wandering hand. It was not I, but my scampish fingers that searched, smoothed, probed. It was not I, I swear. That vagrant hand had its own mind, and would have its way. I felt it palm her cool, quivering flesh. Arch to scrape nails from arm to torso. Then, sneaky hand, it shifted furtively to circle her. Pull her closer. Until sly fingertips could touch her bare breasts. And stealthily search out a nipple soft and yielding as a bud. My wayward hand stopped there.
After a few minutes—my hand and I motionless—she turned to glance at me.
“Nick?” she said.
I was silent.
She moved away to face me. The lifeless hand fell limp from beneath her blouse.
“You look so strange,” she said.
“Do I?” I said. “I feel strange. Something strange is happening to me.”
I stood up. Shakily. Leaving my wine glass on the slatted bench. I wandered about that shoddy garden. Kicking gently at doomed plants. They would never make it. Never. I went back to sit beside her, take her two hands in mine.
“Do you believe I love you?” I said. “Love you more than any object or thing in this world? Do you believe that?”
“Yes,” she said. Gravely. “I do believe that.”
“You scanned my letters. You must know how I feel about you. The fantasies.”
“They were beautiful,” she said softly.
“I could only hint. Imply. I didn’t want to compromise you, or Louise, by writing a complete scenario. You compute?”
“Oh, yes.”
“It seemed to me that if we could use each other, I might very well stop with profit. I imagined how it could happen. Many times. In great detail. Scents. Tastes. The touch of you. A wildness.”
“Don’t you think I’ve thought the same? Many times? Mad dreams.”
“I know, I know. And yet . . . and yet, a while ago, when I touched your sweet breast, I knew suddenly it would be a defeat. For me. For you. For our love.”
“A defeat? Nick, I—I’m not sure I understand.”
“You think I do?” I burst out. Almost angrily. “It doesn’t scan. I know it doesn’t. I know you bought that lovely wig for me. I was so excited when I felt it. And when I touched your body, I thought: It will be now. This afternoon. We will do it now. I can’t tell you what that was. Rapture.”
“And then?”
“A cold fist clamping around my heart. That using each other would defeat us. Our love. What is it, Grace? Tell me. Do you know? I love you more, now, at this moment, than ever before. But why should I feel this? That using will ruin us. What we are to each other.”
“You feel it will—will soil us?”
“I don’t know.” I groaned. “I just don’t know. I’ve used hundreds. Efs and ems. You know that. I told you that. I’ve done things you might think perverse. I never felt defiled. Or that I was corrupting my user. I never felt guilt. Never! But then—but then. . .
“But then?” she prompted.
“But then I’ve never loved before. I thought it was an obso vulgarity. Now, loving, I think I want it to be new. All new. Oh, I must sound a choice idiot! I’m sorry, Grace. I wish I could analyze exactly what I felt and could explain it to you. All I know is that it’s important to me. The most important thing in my life. Can you tell me? Please! Tell me what it is.”
She put her arms about me. I put mine about her. Mouths close without kissing. The moment stretched without breaking.
If she had demanded we use each other immediately, I would have obeyed. And been potent, I knew. Exhibited my expertise, taken profit and given it. But I was right: It would have been a defeat. I think she sensed it, too. For we had never been closer than on that magic afternoon, in that secret garden. Realizing that everything that had gone before was preliminary. Now we were exploring a frightening realm. Where intimacy was so profound that it was mixed with fear of the unknown.
From that day on, my life became trichotomous. All the tangled skeins twisted into three strands. The strands braided into one rope. Like Grace’s glossy plait. There were a few stray tendrils: the campaign for the Department of Creative Science, and so forth. But my main concerns devolved into: My relations with Grace Wingate and the shattering self-analysis that demanded; the rowen of the botulism outbreak in GPA-11 and the missing flask of 416HBL-CW3 from the GPA-1 pharmlab; and Operation Lewisohn, the most complex administrative project I had ever ruled. A hundred talented servers to be directed and managed in such a manner as to ensure that minimal 30 percent success possibility I had predicted to the CD.
When the entire staff had gathered in the Lewisohn Building in Hospice No. 4,1 convened the first general assembly in Operating Theater D. Staff sat on the tiers of polished benches that rose high above the actual operating area. They were behind glass walls that were attached to the ceiling. I stood in the arena. Speaking to them via a PA system.
As per orders, they were all wearing the color-coded paper gowns and caps of their groups. Green for surgeons and anesthesiologists. Blue for Leo Bernstein and his servers. Brown for the Project Phoenix Team. Gray for Phoebe Huntzinger’s computerniks. White for nurses. Red for the Production Team. Purple for Operation Directors. These colors had not been picked by whim; they had been selected with the aid of the psychoneurology miniteam from Houston. They had advised that red and purple represented high authority to most objects. A centuries-old conditioned reflex. The miniteam itself, present to administer Ultimate Pleasure injections and placebos to the Operation Lewisohn staff, and to analyze the results, wore zipsuits.
“Colleagues,” I began, “I welcome you all, and thank you for being here. The fact that you had no choice in the matter doesn't change that sentiment one whit.”
Their laughter came to me faintly from behind the glass walls.
“Before continuing my remarks,” I went on, “I would like to introduce our Chief of Security, Art Roach, who has a few pertinent remarks of his own. Art. ...”
He was still wearing a black zipsuit, although we had already forwarded a recommendation for his promotion to red. When he took over the microphone, I was surprised to note that he was almost exactly my height and weight. I had always thought of him as a taller, heavier em. But that was before he became my server.
I had feared his necessary comments would be an embarrassing ramble i
n a fried-fritter accent. But again he surprised me. Pleasantly. His address was short and to the point. He reminded them all of the Oaths of Allegiance they had signed, and of the penalties resulting from betrayal of that Oath. Quoting copiously from official regulations, without notes, he told them that they were, in effect, to be held incommunicado for the duration of Operation Lewisohn. Communication with the outside world could be made, if absolutely necessary, only through a Censor Control Board. Every effort had been taken to make their off-hours as pleasant as possible. Any suggestions for additional recreation facilities would be welcome.
He did it all very well. Just a few “yawls.” There was a polite snapping of fingers when he concluded. I took over the mike again.
“All right,” I said. “Let’s get to it—what you’re doing here. Some of you brought from halfway around the world. At great government expense, incidentally. I want to start by talking about the brain. The human brain. . . .
“A piece of gray cheese. It’s not so large. You can easily hold it in one hand. An elephant’s brain weighs four times as much. But in proportion to corpus weight, it’s smaller. Otherwise, elephants would be sitting where you’re sitting now. (Laughter) But I don’t wish to discuss the physical properties of the human brain. You know all that. You better know it, or we’re doomed! I want to discuss with you today the human brain as a national asset. Or, if you will, a national resource.
“In the present state of the world today, I suggest to you now that a nation’s essential strength is not in its minerals, its agriculture, its wealth, or its armaments. But in the quality of the brains of its citizens. Compute that a moment. A nation is no stronger than the brains of its citizens. And the ideas those brains create.
“In the US, we have learned, and are still learning, how to improve the quality and functioning of this essential natural resource. Isolation of the ‘smart genes’ and genetic manipulation. Megaprotein feeding of the mother. Oxygenation of the fetus. Scientific conditioning of the child. Positive drug therapy for memory. And so forth.
“But the growth of a nation’s brain pool is not only a matter of genetics, diet, drugs, conditioning. Other factors are involved. In a sense, great brains breed great brains. History is replete with examples of times—relatively short periods—when ‘schools’ of great brains flourished in politics, art, literature, science, music, and so forth. There seems to be an interaction. Great brains inspire great brains. Or perhaps, more exactly, great ideas inspire great ideas. So there is an exponential factor serving here. A nation’s brain pool improves at a geometric rate.
‘‘Are you still with me? Or are you now saying to yourself, ‘Enough of this historical and political kaka. What are we doing here?’ Fair enough. What you are doing here is to preserve, for the US Government, the continued functioning of one of the greatest brains this nation, or any nation on earth, has ever possessed. This is what we're going to do. And this is how we’re going to do it. . . .”
I had them then. As I continued speaking, they shifted forward in their seats. Fascinated. Leaning to me. These were very brainy objects themselves; it didn’t take long for them to realize they were involved in a radical and risky scientific project. But a characteristic of the human brain I had not mentioned—the absolute need to solve a mystery, to conquer the unknown—had taken hold. At the end, I casually remarked that anyone who objected to the purpose of Operation Lewisohn would be excused, without prejudice. Notone object opted for out. I hadn’t anticipated there would be.
Those early rehearsals were ridiculous. Pure chaos. Even such a simple process as washing-up and sterilization became incredibly complex when a total of almost 100 objects were involved. When the preliminaries were solved, and we moved to positions, cues, and timing on the actualoperation—more confusion. Paul Bumford generated an excellent idea. He suggested we paint circles on the floor. Color-coded to match the gowns of the various teams. The circles showed clearly where members of each team were to stand. Numbers within the circles designated various individuals.
With such stratagems, we gradually began to execute a coherent scenario. Four hours each day were spent merely planning physical movements and walking through our paces. Remaining hours were spent in team lectures, colloquies, and symposia in which actual techniques were discussed, demonstrated, attempted. Like well-trained gunners, each object had to know (and be proficient at) not only his own service, but the service of every fellow team-member. In case of emergency.
It all began to coalesce. I saw definite progress.
As ruler of Operation Lewisohn, I had, of course, the perquisite of free, unquestioned entrance to and egress from the Lewisohn Building at Hospice No. 4. But with the stress of early organization and the pressure of preliminary rehearsals, it was June 5, 1999, before I had an opportunity to slip away. To requisition a black sedan from the motor pool. Start out early in the evening to locate the residence of the late Arthur Raddo. My investigation had to begin somewhere.
As I had anticipated, Raddo’s address on Sixth Street was in a neighborhood that had once, long ago, been fashionable. Even elegant. It had seeded. There was a government bordello or betting parlor on almost every comer. Between were licensed shops offering porn, Graeco-Roman massage, high colonics, sporting events, and a type of specialized entertainment called ‘ ‘Sadie Moscowitz.” This was a vernacular corruption of sadomasochism. Much as, years previously, marijuana had been debased to "Mary Warner. ”
I parked outside the area, on a shadowed sidestreet, and walked slowly toward Raddo’s address. I was wearing civilian clothes. It was still early in the evening; the streets were crowded. Tourists, mostly, I guessed. With a heavy representation of pimps, jostlers of all sexes (including children), steersmen for illegal bagnios, black-market pushers, illicit drug sellers, etc. All, victims and predators, thronging quik-thaw petrofood stands, taverns, handjob joints, cabarets, grogshops. A strange, roiling neighborhood for the home of a devout Beist. But perhaps Arthur Raddo hadn’t had the love to move elsewhere.
His building was slightly more presentable than the others. Slightly. An obso red-brick high-rise. Some of the windows on the lower floors were broken. Blocked with squares of cardboard or tin. The usual litter and graffiti. The unattended lobby smelled equally of urine and carbolic.
There was a “Raddo, A.” listed on the lobby directory. Apartment 2-H. I opted for the dimly lighted staircase rather than chance an elevator. The outside door of 2-H had once been handsome wood. Now the jamb and area around the lock had been slashed and hacked. I heard voices from within: the never-ending litany of a broadcast. I pressed the bell. Not only was there no answer, but I didn’t even hear the bell ring. I knocked sharply. Again. Again.
Finally: “Who is it?” a voice called out. An ef’s voice. Surprisingly light and cheerful. Almost a carol.
“Mrs. Raddo?” I said loudly. Wondering: A mother? A widow?
“Yes?” the carol came again. “Who is it?”
“I’d like to talk to you about Arthur,” I said. Lips close to the door.
There was a pause. Then the clicking of at least three locks and bolts. The sound of a heavy metal bar being withdrawn. Squeaking.
The door was opened to the length of a short, heavy chain. A bright blue eye peered at me.
“I’d like to talk to you about Arthur,” I repeated. Hurriedly. “Just a moment. My name is Flair.”
“I’m not supposed to talk to anyone about Arthur,” the clear voice said. “They told me.”
“I’m a reporter,” I said. “I’m serving on a feature. A very sympathetic feature about Arthur. I need some information.”
“Will it be on the TV?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said. More confident now. “But I need to know what he was really like. The truth.”
“The truth about Arthur?” she breathed.
“Yes,” I said. “Exactly.”
The door closed, the chain was slipped. Then the door was opened. She let me in.
/>
“I’m Mrs. John Raddo,” she chirped. “Arthur’s mother.”
An obso ef. About sixty to sixty-five, I judged. Blued-white hair teased into tight curls. A wig? Short, plump, almost merry in appearance.
She closed the door behind me, then served on the locks and bolts. I watched. Fascinated. Finally, the heavy steel bar in place, she tried the door. Beautiful. She led the way down a dim hallway to a semilighted room.
“You’re interrupting my favorite program,” she said. Not angrily. Archly. “You must promise not to speak until it’s over. ”
“I promise,” I said.
We took two sprung armchairs facing the TV set. She immediately picked up what appeared to be a square of knitted wool (A sweater back? The start of a scarf?) and began manipulating large bone-needles rapidly. The blue yarn flew from a bag on the floor. Even as I watched, entranced, her nimble fingers finished a row and started back.
“I just love it.” She sighed. “It’s a rerun, but just as good as the first time.”
I looked then at the TV set. Surprisingly, it was the same model I owned: holographic laser, 3-D. Very lovable.
I recognized the program she was watching: The Twenty-six Best Positions. Original programs from October to March, reruns from April to September.
Permissiveness on television had come much later than in books, magazines, movies, and on the stage. TV executives had moved cautiously, carefully, following a scenario pioneered by book publishers. First, in the late 1970’s, they presented self-help programs on achieving emotional maturity. Followed, in the early 1980’s, by increasingly frank discussions of the importance of sexual fulfillment in a happy marriage. These were mostly talk shows: seminars and symposia of physicians, psychologists, sexologists, and so forth.
By the late 1980’s and early 1990’s, television was presenting shows that were totally sex-oriented. There was one network series, Have No Fear, that appeared in the 1991-1995 period, very high ratings, that effectively glossed anxieties objects might still have about the dangers of masturbation, fellatio, and the use of dildos and similar gadgets of technologized sex.
The Tomorrow File Page 57
