“Look, Dad.” Niels leaned forward. “You've got to get that looked at."
“What?"
“That indigestion."
“It's nothing.” Herrick chuckled. “Probably just the result of a few too many hot chili lunches at Taco Diplomacy."
“You can't just keep laughing it off. What are you afraid of?"
“I'm all right,” said Herrick, his voice raised.
Niels silently glowered at him.
“All right. All right,” said Herrick, wilting under the stare. “I am a little worried about it. Hypochondriac that I am, I'm afraid it might be a serious disease."
“So what? Most everything can be treated these days.” Niels stared into his father's eyes. “That is, if one doesn't wait too long."
Herrick bent his head as if critically examining his dessert. “I'm worried that the disease might have a genetic component."
“Ah.” Niels sat back in his chair. “So that's it.” He smiled as he speculated on a reason his father was, at his age, so set against sterilization. “Dad. Are you, by chance...” Niels felt embarrassed asking his father this. “Are you engaged in some, um, intimate behavior?"
“You mean, am I having sex these days? No ... unfortunately. Not that it's any business of yours."
Niels, glancing at the other diners, made shushing motions with his hands.
Herrick smiled, obviously enjoying his son's discomfort. But the smile was fleeting. “A Genetic Component Disease automatically triggers the Genetic Patriotism Act—doubly automatically now that all medical reports are sent to the Department of Health."
“So it might be a GCD,” said Niels. “You're a little old to have more kids—so what, other than aesthetics, is your objection to sterilization?"
Herrick shook his head sadly. “When I was a teenager,” he said, speaking more to the table than to his son, “I was afraid of dying from some terrible disease. But now...” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Almost no one dies of disease or congenital conditions.” He let out a breath. “Maybe the government's right. Maybe the fact that we can cure most things has counteracted the survival of the fittest."
“You don't really believe that,” said Niels. “Forced sterilization for the sake of the gene pool."
“No—” Herrick cleaned his glasses with an edge of the tablecloth, an action Niels recognized as a sign of stress. “—and I certainly don't like the government considering me ungodly just because I happen not to have been created in God's genetic image."
Niels slapped a hand gently to the table. “Tomorrow, I'll pick you up at noon. You've got to have a complete physical. We've got to know if it's a GCD."
“No.” Herrick shook his head.
“Why?"
“You do know that the Genetic Patriotism Act has been renewed?"
“So?"
“They slipped in a provision that children of a GCD victim must be tested for the defective genes. If they're found, the children must be sterilized as well."
“What? I didn't know anything about that."
“It's a classified provision. It can't be mentioned by the media."
“The bastards!” Niels balled a fist. “Well, I'm prepared for them.” He tried for a confident smile. “You'll get your exam. I know a good ‘back room diagnostician.’”
“A what, please?"
“Someone who can do the tests and won't forward the results to the government."
“I've heard stories,” said Herrick, “of medical blundering and even blackmail."
“This guy's reliable. I'll pick you up at noon.” Niels motioned for the check. “Oh, and bring Fleabiscuit."
“What? What does my dog have to do with this?"
“The diagnostician's a veterinarian."
Herrick cast a glance to the ceiling. “Oh, great! It's good I'm not a horse. At least he won't shoot me."
“Don't worry,” said Niels. “The guy has a good lab. We'll use the cover that Fleabiscuit needs a check-up before our family holiday in—” Niels glanced around at the restaurant's décor. “—in New Zealand.” He gave a thin smile. “The way things are going in America right now, I'm just about tempted to emigrate."
“You and me both,” said Herrick.
* * * *
Early next morning, Niels made the appointment for his father's exam. Then, as soon as his bank opened, Niels withdrew some cash, much more than he would have been allowed at the ATM; the exam was a cash transaction. As he stuffed the bills into his wallet, he felt he was entering uncharted waters, tawdry and dangerous. He thought about his father's plight and decided it might do to have some insurance. Pulling out his cell phone, he did an Internet search for another kind of bank—and foreign-owned, protected from the prying nose of the government.
He found a local office of the Zürcher Stern Samenzellenbank, phoned, and made an appointment. He had just enough time before having to pick up his father.
At the bank, he paid to open an account, after which he was shown to a private room where he could attend to the details of his deposit. Fifteen minutes later, feeling remarkably exhilarated, he bounded out of the door of the establishment in happy possession of an anonymous numbered account at a Swiss-run sperm bank.
* * * *
At one o'clock, in his car parked across from the veterinarian's office, Niels kept watch for his father's return. While he waited, he talked on his cell phone to Susan, a colleague from the university, a postdoc in his department. She was a New Zealander, the source of the Maori's recommendation, and over the last few months she'd become rather more than just a colleague.
“We'd no choice but to use a back-room diagnostician,” said Niels.
“Why?"
“The 100 Percent American Act. For genetic security, they say. Don't you know it's un-American to keep medical records from the government?"
“Couldn't he get a.... a critical personage exemption, I think it's called."
Niels laughed bitterly. “Not a chance—unless you're a political leader, a televangelist, or a big-time corporate donor to the White House.” He pounded a fist against the dashboard. “They're all a bunch of corrupt bastards. Pardon the language."
“I'd be careful how I talked over the phone,” said Susan.
“Why? It's not as if the government can monitor all the millions of cell phone calls going on."
“Haven't you heard of the Real-time Conversation Analyzer?"
“Fine,” said Niels. “Bomb, embryo, terrorist, hijack—that should get their attention. “Revolution, assassination, abortion."
“This is not something to joke about."
“Why not? You either joke or go nuts."
They talked until Niels saw the door of the veterinarian's office open and his father step through it, pulled forward by his elderly greyhound.
“Got to go,” said Niels. “My dad's coming back—and he doesn't seem happy. See you at the club.” Niels slipped the phone into his jacket pocket, then leaned over and opened the passenger-side door.
Fleabiscuit jumped in, then wiggled through to the back and wedged his nose out of the partially opened rear window. Herrick tossed the end of the leash into the car and settled into the passenger seat.
“How long until you get the lab results?” said Niels as he started the car.
“Already got them,” Herrick said in a flat voice. “The vet had Insta-lab. And it was pretty obvious."
“What is it?"
“I'd rather not talk about it."
“A GCD?"
Herrick nodded.
“Curable, I assume."
“Yes—if I act soon."
Niels, white-knuckled hands on the wheel, wanted to scream. His father was gravely ill, and they were talking as if they were discussing an accountancy textbook.
“I don't know what to do,” said Herrick.
“Susan has a plan.” Niels tried to inject some life into his voice. “You remember Susan. She's the one who recommended Maori's."
&nb
sp; “And what exactly is that plan?” Herrick's voice sounded less than hopeful.
“I don't know. Wouldn't say over the phone. Says we should join her for afternoon tea at the Commonwealth Club. She said to drop by about three."
“Fine."
Niels pulled his car into the high-speed lane. “I'll drop you at home and pick you up at two thirty. Okay?"
“Fine."
They drove in silence. After a while, Niels noticed a black car behind them that seemed to be echoing his turns. I must be getting paranoid. For the remainder of the trip, Niels split his attention between the road ahead and the car behind.
When Niels reached his father's house, the black car was nowhere to be seen. Niels, relieved, said goodbye to his dad and accepted a lick on the face from Fleabiscuit. Then he set off for home.
A few blocks later, Niels saw the black car again. After a flash of fear, he forced his mind calm. He'd not done anything wrong. He had nothing to fear. At least they're not after my dad.
When he reached home, he didn't park, but repeatedly circled the block. The black car followed but after four circles, veered off. Niels circled twice more and then, seeing no sign of the pursuer, parked and darted into his house.
* * * *
An hour later, Niels got a phone call from his father.
“Well, the good news,” said Herrick in a “not good news” tone of voice, “is that I've had my first treatment for my GCD."
“Dad,” said Niels, confused. “What happened?"
“Apparently either the veterinarian or your friend Susan is a government informant."
“Are they holding you? Where are you?"
“Oh, I'm quite free,” said Herrick. “They've no further need for me. They performed the—the other procedure on me and let me go."
Niels stifled a gasp. “Without appeal or due process? That can't be."
Herrick laughed without mirth. “It appears that genetic security trumps the Constitution."
“So quickly?"
“Apparently, in some matters,” said Herrick, “our government is coldly efficient."
“Dad, that's horrible. We have to take this up with—"
“What's done is done,” said Herrick. “It's you I'm worried about. Get out of there. They'll be coming after you next."
“It's a one in two chance I don't have the defective gene."
“Unacceptable!"
“Dad, wait. We've got to meet."
“Get out of there!” said Herrick. “I'll contact you somehow. I don't know how, but I'll find a way."
“Wait. Let's meet at, I don't know, at seven thirty at—"
“Don't say it!"
“The phone? Wait. Let me think."
“You don't have time to think,” said Herrick almost at a shout. “If you ever want to have kids, get away. Get away while you can."
Niels grasped at an idea. He whistled the first line of The Whiffenpoof Song, the signature song of the Yale singing group his father had belonged to.
“What?"
“Later, Dad. I'll talk to you later. Eli Yale!” Niels hung up.
As he returned the handset to its cradle, Niels noticed he was shaking. He only hoped his father had understood the clue. And he felt like a heel for not rushing to Susan's defense. There was no way Susan would have turned him in. Not Susan.
At the sound of a knock, Niels jerked his gaze from the phone to the door. He took a quick step toward it, then froze. It took a moment for him to identify his emotion: fear—stark terror. Not since he was a kid running from school bullies had he felt like this.
He dropped prone to the floor, eyes squeezed shut, overcome with rage. Either the vet or Susan had betrayed him. He directed his hate at both. Then another thought struck. He himself might be the guilty party; maybe Susan had been right. Maybe his cell phone was being monitored. He felt like a rat for suspecting Susan. Amazing how fear can even make us turn against our friends.
After a few frozen minutes, he crawled toward the front window. Inching himself up, he peeked through an edge where the blinds allowed a pinhole-like view of the sidewalk.
He could see no one outside, but the black car was parked directly across the street. Its windows were tinted and, against the sunlit street, he could make out none of the occupants.
He stared longingly at his own vehicle—parked directly in front of the black car. Slowly, he dropped his head to below window level and crawled to the front door. There he got to his knees, engaged the dead bolt, and activated the alarm system. He felt under siege in his own house.
He skulked off to his bedroom, packed an overnight case, and then padded softly toward the back door. He stopped. That's what they wanted him to do—to go out the back. The car in front was just a ploy.
“Damn it,” he whispered. “Why don't they just come in and get me?” He realized the likely answer. They wanted to take him without a fuss—without people around. This was not a police operation, but something extrajudicial.
An idea began to form. There'd be a significant flux of people on the street after the 5:42 commuter train arrived from the city. And his car had a remote starter—so in the winter, his car would be warm when he got into it. That remote starter could give him the extra few seconds he needed. He'd make a break for it when the 5:42 came in.
* * * *
Overnight case in one hand and car keys in the other, Niels peered through a gap in the blinds. His car, sleek, blue, and alluring, seemed an island of hope. He waited until he saw a wave of people flowing down the street. Taking a sharp breath, he activated his car's remote starter and then pushed the unlock car doors button. He flung open the door and sprinted for his car.
Running diagonally across the street, he saw the driver get out of the black car. The man held something metallic. Niels anticipated being shot down in his tracks—but then realized that what he'd thought was a gun barrel was the antenna of a transceiver. The driver fiddled with the device, and that gave Niels the crucial seconds he needed.
As he threw himself into his car, he saw a man running from behind the house toward him. Niels gritted his teeth and bore down on the accelerator. He felt like a criminal as he sped away. In the rearview mirror, he saw the black car coming after him. He'd not planned past this point. The car behind was chasing him, but to where? He had no idea. He struggled for a plan—even a thin vestige of a plan. Maybe he could try to lose himself in the city.
The black car kept its distance—following, but not overtaking. He had some breathing room. He buckled his seat belt and smiled. That simple act of fastening his seat belt gave him satisfaction, a small feeling of being in control.
Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, he fumbled for his cell phone and powered it off. He'd be unconnected, but at least no one would be able to track him. Seeing the phone display go blank, he had a sense of his tether to the world being broken. He felt like a criminal, like an alien in his own country. He returned the phone to his pocket and, as his hand encountered his wallet, he got an idea. He transferred his transit card from his wallet to his shirt pocket and drove on into the heart of the city.
Next to a major subway station, Niels screeched to a stop. Gripping his travel case, he leapt out of the car and sprinted down into the subway station. Yes, the car would acquire traffic tickets to an amount approaching the national debt of some lesser countries, but he didn't care.
He took the stairs two at a time, swiped his transit card, darted through the turnstile, and threw himself into a subway car just as its doors were closing. He had no idea where the train was going.
* * * *
Twenty minutes later, sitting on a train to God knows where, Niels found himself in mental gridlock. In mind if not in deed, he'd betrayed Susan, and he knew that not until he'd made amends could he concentrate on a plan.
Looking out the window—the train was above ground now, traversing a seamier region of the metropolis—Niels's mood echoed the landscape: bleak, lonely, forlorn.
He
visualized Susan, her auburn hair and cream complexion. My God! She's waiting for me at the Commonwealth Club. What time is it? He pulled out his cell phone but the time display was dark; he'd forgotten he'd powered it off. Eager to apologize, he moved a finger to the power button but stopped himself, his hand turning into a fist.
When the train had rumbled to a stop at the next station, Niels ran out and searched for a pay phone—he didn't even know if pay phones still existed. But he found one and dialed the Commonwealth Club. Aware of the pounding of his heart, he waited while Susan was being paged.
“Niels. Where are you?” said Susan. “I've been so worried."
Contrite, Niels described the recent events.
“I'd still like to get together,” said Susan. “Would you mind if I joined you and your father tonight? Where are you meeting?"
“Um."
“Oh,” said Susan. “I understand. Are you on your cell?"
“No, a pay phone in a subway station."
“Then I wouldn't worry too much,” said Susan. “We're very unlikely to be monitored."
Niels felt he had to offer an act of faith, an act of trust. “Susan. Seven thirty tonight. We're meeting at Maori's. I think it would be great if you were there."
“Thank you,” she said. “I'll come around eight. That'll give you and your father some time to talk."
Niels leaned his forehead against the pay phone. God help him if his trust was misplaced.
* * * *
After several hours of riding random trains to throw off pursuers, Niels arrived at Maori's. In shirtsleeves at the door of the restaurant, he felt scruffy and underdressed.
“Do you have a reservation, sir?” asked the maitre d’ in a clipped New Zealand accent. He was formally attired and looked as if he'd just come from addressing the General Assembly.
“Well, actually,” said Niels, “I don't think so. I had rather a busy—"
“Could I have your name, please?"
“Niels Pederson."
As the maitre d’ consulted a notebook, Niels continued, “I'm meeting people here.” His hand moved to straighten his nonexistent tie. “And it's possible my secretary didn't—"
“Ah,” said the maitre d', looking up from the book. “Doctor Niels Pederson. Please follow me. Your table is ready."
Analog SFF, January-February 2007 Page 24