She would not betray me. Could not. I knew her too well to believe that. Still. . . . The worm gnawed.
I reviewed again those intimate conversations that had been such an awesome revelation. That had introduced me to the glory of opening myself, totally, to another object, and of entering into her. The two of us one as we explored an unknown world. It was an experience of which I had never known I was capable. Had never known existed. As if I might leap from a high place and discover I could fly. As breathless and shocking and deliriously pleasurable as that.
It was quite dark outside, the illumination in my room at its lowest setting, when I came to a conclusion that almost syncoped me with its simplicity. Its purity. Whether our meetings had been shared or Grace had betrayed me was actually of no consequence. Nothing that had been done—for whatever reason—could take from me the exaltation of our love. I did not regret it. That was the operative factor: I did not regret it.
I would never know if she had betrayed me. Never. Even if our love had lasted a millennium. If we had a hundred, a thousand, a million intimate meetings. Even if we had used each other. I would never have learned her sufficiently to know if she was or was not capable of treachery.
For she was, essentially, finally, unknowable. I recognized that now. Unknowable. She was, and I am, and you are.
What will we do when the mystery is gone?
A-1
The office of the Director of the Department of Creative Science was a long box of a room. Conference area at one end. Desk, chairs, communication equipment at the other. One of the two ems in the room, wearing the gold zipsuit of a PS-1, sat in a swivel chair behind the desk. The other em, red zipsuited, stood facing him.
On the wall, behind the Director’s desk, a plastic overlay graph was framed and illuminated with its own little lamp. In grease pencil markings of three colors, it was clearly shown that the Satrat and production of the Ultimate Pleasure injection were ascending curves, following almost identical percentage increases. As these two lines rose, a contrary curve, descending, marked the plunging terrorism rate.
The Director switched a tape deck to Fast Rewind. The two ems waited patiently until the empty reel filled up and the machine clicked off. Then the Director removed the full reel and placed it carefully in a cardboard carton alongside his desk. The legend on the carton: “Good-Cheer Skinless & Boneless Portuguese Sardines.” It contained a vast number of tape reels.
“That should do it,” the Director said. “You’re certain this is the original?”
“I’m certain,” the officer said.
“No copy has been made?”
“No copy,” the officer said. “I know better than that.”
“I hope you do,” the Director laughed. “I’ll prepare the transcription personally for the Chief Director. What about the Informed Consent Statement?”
“Signed, sealed, and delivered,” the officer said. “Original to the Chief Prosecutor. Copies to BPS and to our files.”
“Good. How did you get him to sign it? Drugs? Hypnosis? Shock therapy?”
“Yawl won’t believe this,” Art Roach said, “but we didn’t have to use anything. He really did sign it voluntarily. He was happy to sign it.”
“Oh?” Paul Bumford said. “That’s interesting.”
END
The Tomorrow File Page 67
