The Tomorrow File

by Lawrence Sanders

  The evening’s speaker was then introduced. He was Arthur Raddo. A young em with lank blond hair falling untidily over his forehead. Enormous eyes with a fervid stare. Flat lips he licked constantly. Wearing a wrinkled, soiled zipsuit of a PS-5. His physical appearance gave the impression of limp ineffectuality. But his voice was unexpectedly loud, passionate. Still, I was certain he was a frail.

  He said that up to that point in time, the Beists had been content with rather vague canons and implied scripture. What was needed, Raddo proclaimed, was a start on structuring the Beists’ beliefs, to put them into written form, in a sort of Bible to which all members might voluntarily submit and adhere.

  In addition, he said, such written prescriptions would serve as a basis for proselyting. For the time had passed when Beism could be content with the casual addition of the bored and curious and lonely to its membership rolls. The time had come to move actively to build numbers, require discipline, exercise power.

  If Beists were sincere about the evolution of the human species into a single superrace, he said, then they must devise a program to purify the blood. That was the phrase he used: “purify the blood. ” But he never defined it, and I could only assume he actually meant to improve the gene pool. Although he never concretized how this was to be done. “Purify the blood!” he kept shouting. “Purify the blood!”

  “We cannot stand still and talk and hope,” he concluded. “We must sacrifice ourselves if the future is truly to belong to us. To the single, divine human race.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then an enthusiastic snapping of fingers. In spite of his nuttiness (surely there was pathology there), it had been a well-organized speech. Point led to point. A was easy to accept. If you accepted A, you had to accept B. And, of course, B led to C. I could hardly believe this insipid object was capable of such artfulness.

  The meeting was brought to a close by the Wilensky ef’s announcement that a contributed “holiday feast” was available to all members and guests in the administration room. There was a swift surge of hungry Beists.

  Paul chatted a moment with other officers on the platform, then came down. We moved toward each other.

  “Well?” he said. Smiling. “What did you think?”

  “About what?”

  “The speaker, for starters.”

  “A wowser,” I said. “Where does he serve?”

  “I’m not certain. Bureau of Printing and Engraving, I think. He comes on a little heavy, I admit. But every religion has its fanatics.”

  “How long have you had a board of directors?” I asked curiously.

  “Oh . . . a few months,” Paul said vaguely. “The membership was getting too large. We needed some kind of formal structure. Environment determines social organization, you know. Then you get a positive feedback.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I demanded.

  “Oh, look,” he said. “There’s Grace Wingate. She’s waving at us.”

  So she was. I moved slowly through the throng. Never taking my eyes from her. She watched me approach. Smiling. Paul had disappeared. So had everyone. And everything. She was wearing a

  bottle-green silk sheath. A black suede coat about her shoulders. Sleeves hanging empty. Her hair was down. She was beautiful. I could not compute why.

  “Nick!” she said. “Merry Christmas!”

  “Merry Christmas to you. Are you as well as you look?” “Better.” She laughed. “You can drop my hand now.” And laughed again. “What a rogue you are!” Determinedly light. “Was,” I said. “Have been. Not now.”

  The smile faded slowly.

  “Would you like something?” I asked. “Food? I can get it.” “No, nothing, thank you. We were at an embassy party and were late getting away. So sorry we couldn’t get to your housewarming but . . . you know.”

  In another moment we’d be agreeing what a severe winter it threatened to be and wasn’t it a shame that the entire crew of Sealab 46 had been lost when the hull unaccountably cracked.

  “I really must run,” she said nervously.

  “Can we sit a moment?” I asked.

  “A moment,” she said. Finally.

  And all during this our eyes had not unclinched. Had not wavered. Somewhere around us was movement, laughter.

  “I have a Christmas present for you,” I said. Suddenly deciding. “Will you accept it?”

  Appreciable hesitation. Then: “Yes,” she said.

  I handed over the tissue-wrapped package. Her eyes lowered as she unwrapped it softly, timorously, just far enough to see what it contained. “Ahhh,” she breathed. Then looked up at me again. “Beautiful. Nick, they’re beautiful. I thank you.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “But I have nothing for you.”

  I stopped myself. I could have told her.

  “Grace, am I to see you only at Beist meetings? Must I join? Is there no other way?”

  It troubled her. But I had to know. If she wanted it no-go, now was the time to signal me.

  “I am never alone,” she said. In such a low voice I could hardly hear.

  “Never?”

  “Not outside. But. ...”

  “But?”

  She shook her head. Ashen hair flaming.

  “This is very wrong,” she said.

  “Not wrong,” I said. “Just difficult. Couldn’t you come to New York? For shopping or the theater?”

  “I could,” she said. “But with a secretary. And guards. Always guards.”

  I was deliriously happy. Because, I thought, my only problem was logistics.

  “Grace,” I said, “come to New York. Plan a week or two in advance. Tell your husband. Tell him that at your reception I invited you for lunch the next time you were in New York, and you’re going to take me up on it. Send me a note when you’ll arrive. Does that sound all right to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you do it?”

  “Yes. What about the secretary and guards?”

  “I don’t know. At the moment. I’ll think of something.”

  I hoped my erection was not obvious. I wondered why our flat words seemed to me the most erotic conversation I had ever had. Our eyes locked again, promising. . . .

  “Do you sleep naked?” I asked her.

  She caught her breath. Went quite pale. Those somber eyes seemed to grow in size and intensity. Dark beacons. I thought her lips trembled. A knuckle went to her teeth.

  “Nick,” she said. “Please. Don’t.”

  “Do you?” I persisted.

  “Yes,” she whispered. At last.

  “Think of me?” I asked.

  She nodded dumbly.

  “Here we are,” Paul Bumford caroled brightly. “Best cake in the house. If I have to say so myself.”

  He was balancing three plastiplates with slices of chocolate layer cake, three plastiforks. He sat down with us, and Grace Wingate remarked how lovely the lighted Christmas trees looked along the mall.

  We had finished the cake, were standing, beginning our farewells when a black zipsuit came pushing through the crowd of Beists. They fell silent as he passed, Drawing back. Watching him. No expression.

  “Ma’am,” he said to Grace Wingate.

  “What is it, Tim?”

  “We just got a call on the car phone. Do you know if Director

  Nicholas Flair and Deputy Director Paul Bumford are here?”

  “Fm Flair,” I said. “This is Deputy Director Bumford. What is it?”

  ‘ ‘Sir, ’’ he said, “the Chief Director would like both of you to join him at his Georgetown residence as soon as possible.”

  Paul and I glanced at each other.

  “Mrs. Wingate,” I said. Bowing slightly. “It’s been a profitable evening. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.”

  “Oh, yes,” Paul said. “From me, too.”

  “Thank you both,” she said. Wooden smile. “Perhaps I’ll see you at home.”

  Penelope Mapes met us at the outside d
oor. Led us through the hallway maze to the library.

  “I called your place in Chevy Chase,” she said. “Mary Bergstrom told me where you were. Are you both Beists?”

  “Paul is,” I said. “I’m just an innocent bystander.”

  The plump squab giggled dutifully.

  “Penny, what’s this all about?” Paul asked.

  “Penny.” That was interesting.

  “I’ll let the CD give you the gruesome details,” she said. I Knocked, and swung open the library door. Chief Director Michael Wingate rose from behind the desk.

  “Nick!” he said. “Paul! So glad you could make it.”

  He introduced us to the other two ems in the room. But I knew one of them well. And recognized the other. We all stroked palms.

  Dr. Winston Heath was Chief of the National Epidemiology Center in Frankfurt, Kentucky. I had known him for years: a cold, | unemotional technician. Capable but limited. No imagination. He was the palest live object I had ever seen. Blanched.

  The other em was R. Sam Bigelow, Chief, BPS—the Bureau of Public Security (formerly the Federal Bureau of Investigation). In all the photos of him that appeared in newspapers, magazines, books, and in his frequent TV interviews, he looked like a frog. In person, he looked like a frog. A suspicious frog. He glowered at Paul and me. Not looked, but glowered. I felt immediately guilty.

  We found chairs. Penelope Mapes faded into the background. That ef had made effacement a fine art. I wondered if Chief Director Wingate demanded her presence for the same reason gynecologists insist their nurses be present during an internal: to forestall cries of rape.

  “This conversation is restricted,” the Chief Director mentioned casually. “I need not quote applicable law. I'm certain you're aware of the penalties. The situation is this:”

  Then, speaking rapidly but distinctly, Wingate related the pertinent factors. Two weeks previously, there had been a heavy outbreak of botulism in GPA-11 (Idaho, Wyoming, Montana, and both Dakotas). Since then, slightly more than 1,200 cases had been reported. Of those afflicted, approximately. three-fourths had stopped. During the same time period, seven botulism cases had been reported from East Coast areas, sixteen from the West Coast, and scattered cases elsewhere.

  “Dr. Heath,” the Chief Director said, “will you take it from here?”

  “Average number of botulism cases annually per total population for the past ten years,” Heath said in a dead, lecturer’s voice, “is 2.17. For the entire US. Naturally, our first thought was massive food poisoning. A bad shipment of canned something into the stricken area. Although that would not account for the cases on the East and West Coasts and the few scattered all over the US. But we computed that it was possible that tourists, traveling through GPA-11, had taken some of the spoiled foodstuff home with them. We immediately sent an investigative team into GPA-11, of course. They found absolutely no evidence of food poisoning. In fact, victims came, for the most part, from families who consumed identical meals. But only one object of several was poisoned. It could not have been the water supply since, as you know, the Clostridium botulinum is anaerobic. And besides, the water supply was “ruled out because only a relatively few of the total population were affected. Most botulism results from inefficient home-canning. No evidence of that. As you are probably aware, commercial canning processes have been so completely automated, with such a multiplicity of quality controls, that the risk factor in commercial food processing is practically nil. That’s it. Any questions?”

  “Stop rate, doctor?” I asked.

  “It’s 76.1967, doctor.”

  “Age of victims, doctor?” Paul asked.

  “Between nine and eighty-three, doctor. Very few of the very young. At the age of fifteen, the curve begins to rise. Slowly. It accelerates at maturity. Reaches a peak at fifty-plus, then declines slowly. One odd incident: the stopping of a four-month-old ef from botulism. The single infant case recorded.”

  “Any common denominators, doctor?” I asked. “Industrial pollution? Occupation? Clothing? Sports? Drinks—soft or alcoholic? Any drug intake common to all?”

  “Negative, negative, negative, doctor,” Dr. Heath said bleakly. “We’ve checked it all out.”

  “You’re certain it’s botulism, doctor?” Paul asked.

  R. Sam Bigelow looked at him coldly.

  “We’re certain,” he said. “Heath told you what it is. We checked it out in the Bureau labs. That’s what it is.”

  The Chief Director turned to me.

  “It’s not over, Nick,” he said. “Case incidence is beginning to decline slowly, but projective curves show more than a thousand objects eventually stopped.”

  “What was the diagnosis of the local physicians, doctor?” I asked Heath. Worrying it.

  “Botulism, doctor.” He nodded. “Some of them recognized it immediately and were able to reverse it. Some missed it completely. It is rare these days, Nick; you know that.”

  “We’ve been able to pillow it,” Chief Director Wingate said. “The media have been very cooperative. No one wants panic.” “You said victim age peaks at fifty, doctor,” I said to Heath. “Do you see any significance in that? Lowered resistance?” “Can’t see it, doctor.” He shook his head. “There were many ' juveniles. Afflicted objects over the age of eighteen constituted 71.83 of the total. It appears to be an adult disorder, but not exclusively so.”

  We were all silent then. Staring blankly at each other. I computed what I had heard. The detail that impressed me most was that Dr. Winston Heath, Chief of the National Epidemiology Center, still believed that Clostridium botulinum was anaerobic.

  It was not his fault, of course. The doctrine of “need to know,” applied to scientific research, is stupid—and frequently fatal. As witness that stop rate of 76.1967 percent.

  I glanced at R. Sam Bigelow’s toadish scowl, then addressed the Chief Director.

  “Sir,” I said, “are Paul and I to assume, by the presence of the Chief of the Bureau of Public Security in a colloquy involving a public health problem, that there is reason to believe the epidemic may be—”

  “Now look here, you—” Bigelow growled at me. Frog eyes popping.

  But Wingate waved him down.

  “No, no,” he said. “A very cogent question. Nick, about two years ago a black revolutionary group tried to contaminate Denver’s water supply. Last year, a group called SON. . . . Ever hear of them?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “Society of Nothing. Around San Francisco. Mostly senseless assassinations. They were in all the media.”

  “Right.” He nodded. “We took them just before they were about to feed Cyanide gas into the air conditioning system of a federal think-tank in Oakland. We have absolutely no evidence of any terrorist participation in this' botulism outbreak. We have received no letters or threats. We’ve checked our undercover agents carefully. No hint of any activity. No one in the media has received letters or threats. It may be just a medical fluke. Something no one will ever be able to explain. But I’ve got to cover all bases before I bring the matter to the attention of the Joint Committee on Internal Peace. That’s why Chief Bigelow is here. That’s why you’re here. I need all the help I can get. I keep thinking that if it happened once, in GPA-11, it can happen again. Anywhere. Surely you can understand my concern.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “None at the moment, sir. Paul?”

  “None.” He shook his head. “Can we have some time on this, sir?”

  “Of course.” Wingate tried to smile. “You two are the very lively brains pushing a Department of Creative Science. I’m hoping you—and science—can make a significant contribution toward solving this problem. You understand?"

  We understood; the velvet glove was peeling off the iron fist.

  Everyone rose; the meeting broke up. Penelope Mapes came out of the shadows to open the door for us. But before we disbanded, I had the opportunity to draw Dr. Winston Heath aside.

/>   ‘ ‘Doctor, ’ ’ I said, “it’s been a pleasure seeing you again. How is the family?”

  “Fine, doctor,” he said. Brightening as much as a skeleton with skin can brighten.

  “And that boy of yours? Scheduled for the moon colony, wasn’t he?”

  “That memory of yours,” he said. Shaking his head. “Yes,he’s up there now. We get a teleletter every week. He wouldn’t be anywhere else. Enjoying every minute.”

  “Paleogeology, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, that’s his discipline.”

  “Fine. Fascinating stuff. Doctor, about this botulism business— I don’t for a moment doubt your analysis, or the diagnoses of the attending physicians, or the backup opinion of the BPS labs, but tell me—was this done on the basis of the clinical picture?”

  “Of course, doctor.” He looked at me strangely.

  “Of course, of course,” I soothed him. “Entirely understandable. Do you think you could send me some bits and pieces at GPA-1? Maybe a little blood? Just to confirm your findings. Substantiate your judgment. You know the kind of hardware we have. Excellent stuff. Some experimental. It would help us. Give the labniks a problem—right? A challenge. Who knows?”

  He was thoroughly confused. As I meant him to be. All he could assimilate was that supportive testimony on his analysis could do him and the National Epidemiology Center no harm.

  “Of course, doctor,” he said. “Happy to cooperate. Most of what we have is frozen. But we do have some pickled stomach, I believe, and a few other things. And some very interesting slides. I’ll send you what I can.”

  “Fine, doctor,” I said. Clapping him on the shoulder. “Justfine. All contributions gratefully accepted.”

  We both laughed.

  “Since the matter is of such high priority and top security,” I said. Leaning closer. Lowering my voice. “—Perhaps you better send it by personal courier.”

  “Of course, of course.”

  “Doctor,” I said heartily. Slapping his palm. “It’s a pleasure serving with you on this.”

  He couldn’t blush with happiness. But he became less pale. “And, doctor,” I murmured, “I’m looking forward to serving much closer with you in the future.”