The Tomorrow File

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Everything all right?” Millie asked sleepily.

  I turned her gently onto her stomach. I squirmed down until my face was at her tail, burrowing. I parted, probed, then pressed her buttocks tight to my fevered face.

  “Everything’s fine,” I said to her anus.

  Millie had to serve the next day, and awoke early. I was vaguely aware of her moving about. Dressing slowly. Doing something in the kitchen. Talking nonsense to the French doll that she carried about with her for a while. Then propped carefully in the corner of the couch. I wanted, desperately, just another hour or two of sleep. But I awoke, wide, when I heard her unlock the door.

  “Millie,” I called.

  She turned back.

  “Nick,” she said, “I’m sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep. Stay as long as you like. Just click the door when you leave.”

  I got out of bed. Padded across the room to her. Took her tightly into my arms.

  “You are a dear, sweet ef,” I told her. “And I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  She flushed with profit. Hugged me tightly.

  “We do have fun, don’t we?” she said.

  “We do indeed,” I agreed. “Remember me, Millie?”

  “Remember you?” she said. Puzzled. “Of course I remember you. You’re Nick.”

  “I mean tomorrow.” I laughed. “Will you remember me tomorrow?”

  I knew she wouldn’t, but I kissed her on the lips and thanked her again. She was happy because I was happy.

  “I’ll remember you tomorrow,” she assured me. “Tomorrow’s Friday. Right?”

  “Right,” I said. And watched her go.

  I did sleep another two hours and got back to Grosse Pointe before 1100. Mrs. McPherson told me Paul Bumford had flashed twice from Washington, D. C., and I was to contact him the moment I returned. I went into the library and used the flasher there. After two wrong numbers, I got through to Paul in the DCS office at the EOB. He came on screen.

  “Nick,” he said, “where have you been?”

  “Sleeping,” I said.

  “Millie,” he said. “Well, listen Nick, are we still set for July twenty-sixth? For Operation Lewisohn?”

  “As far as I’m concerned. I’m leaving in a few hours. Be down there tonight.”

  “I had this idea. . . .”

  “So?” I asked. “What idea?”

  "We should make an official record. On videotape. Can I effect a communications team? To get it all. For history. I’ll borrow objects and equipment from Joe Wellington’s PR staff.”

  I computed a moment.

  “The basic idea is go,” I told him, “but Joe is not to be involved. He has no need to know. Besides, this is a very specialized type of production. Contact Ed Nolan at GPA-1 and requisition the objects who photographed that intravaginal documentary. Remember it? With the microminiaturized IBM TV camera?”

  “Of course I remember it. Fine. I’ll get them down here instanter.”

  “No interference with performing objects. Maybe they can set up platforms out of the way. And some effective commentator. Ron Nexler. That’s his name. He did the voice-over on the chimera short. Remember that?”

  “Nick, will you stop saying, ‘Remember that?’ I don’t forget; you know that.”

  “If you say so. Bring the objects and equipment in. We’ll have them set up, then have more walkthroughs to make certain they won’t interfere with the actual surgery.”

  “Got it. With Ron Nexler giving a running commentary?” “Yes. He’s scientifically conditioned. No brain, but very glib. He’s just right for the service.”

  “I’ll get on it. It should be solidified by the time you get back tonight. I thought you’d want a permanent record, Nick.” “Yes,” I said. “I do. Thanks, Paul. By the way, my father is going to flash you a go signal on the UP field test.”

  “Great,” he enthused. “I’ll start putting it together. Everything’s percolating. Right, Nick?”

  “Right,” I said.

  There was time before my father’s copter would pick me up for the trip to the airport. I went to my third-floor aerie. The glued thread, door to jamb, was undisturbed. I sat down with the works of Egon Schiele. I lighted a cannabis. Alone.

  As I turned those familiar pages once again, staring at that strong, baleful sexuality, I slowly became aware that I was never going to solve the mystery of Egon Schiele. What was the meaning behind those stopped eyes? What significance in the helpless, tormented nudes? The dread in the sight of exposed, pitilessly detailed genitalia? I could penetrate so far, but no farther. Then my descent was blocked. I was left with a horrified fascination I could not analyze.

  Curiously, my failure to comprehend the work of Egon Schiele did not depress me. In fact, it led me to a realization I found oddly comforting:

  There are questions to which there are no answers. There are problems for which there are no solutions.

  Six hours later I was in the Lewisohn Building, Hospice No. 4, Alexandria, Virginia. Operation Lewisohn was scheduled to start at 0800, July 26, 1999. The staff spent the remaining hours in rehearsals, practice, drills. The Operation Directors devoted their time to running game-plans through Phoebe Huntzinger’s computers in GPA-1. Testing our scenario for possible flaws. We programmed for every possible combination of disasters: power failures, linkage breakdowns, sudden stopping of the subject, terrorist attack, and so forth.

  Difficulties were encountered, and overcome. For instance, the computer warned of incapacitation of key personnel. So we established an intraproject medical group, to minister to disabled staff members. We took extraordinary precautions to guard against food poisoning on the evening of July 25. We had already structured a fail-safe Table of Organization: Each object was numbered in relation to the importance of the assigned task. Thus, if Chief Surgeon Dr. George Berk, Green One, was unable to perform, his place would be taken by Green Two. And so on; everyone moving up a rank. Standby objects were present to fill in the lowest echelons.

  At midnight, July 25, all operating staff were ordered to use a six-hour Somnorific. At the same time, the Command Staff was administered low-power, time-controlled energizers. The final countdown began. The last checkout of equipment, power supply, electronic linkages, and so forth. Phoebe Huntzinger’s computers were gradually brought on line. Operating Theater D illuminated. Emergency supplies opened. Instrument sterilizers wheeled into position. Laser scanners put on warm-up. Amplifiers tested. Readout screens and printout machines switched to On.

  The results of these preparations were all reported on monitor screens to Command Central. Paul and I had agreed that I was to remain there, ruling the entire project, while he roamed the assembly rooms, corridors, labs, washup lavatories, operating area, and so forth. Reporting progress and stoppages directly to me, and only me, via a Portapager on an exclusive wavelength.

  Next to me in Command Central, on my right, Maya Leighton sat at a wide desk. With Mary Bergstrom as backup. They each had a throat mike and a copy of the final schedule. We had positioned loudspeakers throughout the building.

  I watched the enormous wall digiclock rotate the seconds. At 0729:45, I looked to Maya. She was watching me. I raised my hand. At 0729:59,1 pointed a forefinger directly at her. She began to read quietly from the schedule. Her amplified voice boomed from the speakers:

  "0730. Transportation Group to stations. Green Team and White Team to standby.”

  The objects assigned to the task of bringing Hyman R. Lewisohn into Operating Theater D moved to their designed positions: his hospital suite, hallway, elevator, etc. The Green Team (surgeons and anesthesiologists) and White Team (nurses and aides) moved to their assembly areas. I could watch these activities, and all the actions that would take place that day, on a bank of TV monitor screens.

  These belonged to the Communications Team. The commentator, Ron Nexler, sat at a control board on my left. The videotape editor sat next to him, making a rough mix as the images came in. Neither e
m took his eyes from the monitor screens. As Operation Lewisohn got under way, I saw the mobile videotape camera operator, powerpack on his back, move from one area to another. Taping the preliminaries. He, in turn, was videotaped by the fixed cameras.

  Ron Nexler spoke softly into a desk mike:

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is Ron Nexler speaking to you from the Lewisohn Building in Hospice No. 4, Alexandria, Virginia. In a very few moments we will witness an incredible surgical operation that has never been attempted before in the long history of the human race. This is a historic moment, an exciting moment, and we hope to show you every step in this astounding scientific achievement that may very well revolutionize the future of the world.”

  “0740. Green Team and White Team to washup. Transportation Group to alert. Countdown will begin by minutes from 0755 to 0759. By seconds during the final minute.”

  Quiet in Command Central. I watched the clock. Listened to Maya’s voice, coming over the loudspeaker, and to Nexler’s voice, being taped. Paul patted my shoulder, then left to begin his rounds. I scanned the monitor screens. Normal.

  “0754. Coming up to mark. Transportation Group to final readiness. Green Team and White Team to alert. Countdown to start begins . . . now! 0755.

  “0756.

  “0757.

  “0758.

  “0759, and 60, 59, 58, 57, 56, 55, 54. . . .”

  As the numbers dwindled, I could see objects all over the building glancing nervously at wall digiclocks and taking deep breaths.

  “. . . six, five, four, three, two, one. Start!”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this tremendously involved and complex surgical procedure has started. I will attempt to provide a minute-by-minute account of what is taking place. But please bear with me if the image you see does not correspond to my commentary. This is a solemn and extremely intricate project, and we in the communications field must, quite rightly, take second place to all the wonderful objects contributing their time and their talents to make this great endeavor a resounding success.

  “Now you see the door of Hyman R. Lewisohn’s hospital room being opened. The Transportation Group is moving in to begin their assignment. The subject has already been sedated sufficiently so he can be disconnected from all his tubes and needles. Nothing but an incoherent, muttered protest from him. Jake, could you move in closer and get that moan again, please? Now they’ve got him on a high, wheeled stretcher and have started him out of that room where he has spent so many lonely, pain-racked hours. Moving him toward the elevator bank. A door is being held open. ...” “0803. Green Team and White Team to positions. Subject on the way to Operating Theater D.”

  “Now, folks, the endless drills and rehearsals are paying off. Notice there is no stumbling, no bumping, no confusion. Every object knows the task required and the exact physical position and movements assigned. All serving together like the selfless angels of mercy they are.”

  “0805. Green Team and White Team to alert. Blue Team to assembly.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, what impresses me most at this crucial moment is the absolute silence of the servers as the subject is wheeled through the wide doors of Operating Theater D. Now you can see, through the magic of a portable videotape camera, the preliminaries as Lewisohn’s corpus is transferred to the operating table and draped. Now the anesthesiologists begin their important service. Notice they glance occasionally to the vital signs monitors against the walls. But mostly they are listening, listening intently, to the beeps, thumps, and whistles of amplified aural signals. All these indicators are reproduced here in Command Central. I have just spoken to Dr. Nicholas Bennington Flair, the brilliant ruler of this incredible scientific project, and he informs me that Lewisohn’s cardiac rate, although erratic, is presently within acceptable parameters, pulse is strong, and other vital signs are encouraging."

  I saw, on a TV monitor, the Chief Anesthesiologist nod to the Chief Surgeon. Just after Maya Leighton announced: “0821. Blue Team to standby,” the Chief Surgeon spoke briefly into his throat mike.

  “I’m going in,” he said.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the actual operation has begun.”

  I thought then, and I think now, it was the longest day of my life. It was not only the slight click of the wall digiclock as the minutes ticked over in Command Central. Nor Maya Leighton enunciating her orders precisely: “Blue Team to alert. Green Team begin withdrawal in precisely five minutes. Brown Team to standby.” Nor Ron Nexler’s never-ending, “Ladies and gentlemen, the next miracle you are about to see. . . And so forth.

  It was the slow, deliberate pace of what we did that day that stretched minutes to hours. I knew it could not be hurried. Should not be. But I longed for it all to be over. Done with. Finished. Won or lost. One way or the other.

  It did not go perfectly. What human plan does? But we were able to cope with emergencies, improvise when required, substitute, invent. Considering the radical nature of the operation, I cannot see how our basic scenario could have been improved.

  The surgeons were finished by 1600. Meanwhile we had been phasing in Leo Bernstein’s Blue Team. Who, in turn, were phased out as the Project Phoenix servers, Brown Team, wheeled up their equipment and began positioning the laser scanners.

  As servers came off duty, I noted they did not disappear to the cafeteria or barracks. I knew they were as worn and weary as I. Yet, almost to an object, they went immediately to the observation benches behind the glass walls in Operating Theater D. Where they could witness the climax of the project. Hunched over. Leaning forward. Elbows on knees. Chins on fists. Staring. Staring.

  I had left my swivel chair only twice that day. To go to the nest.

  But I was on post when the first faint signal was picked up from Lewisohn’s brain by the Brown Team, at 2139 on the evening of July 26, 1999. About five minutes later, they detected a signal they felt was precise enough to amplify and attempt to translate in the GPA-1 computer vocabulary. The signal was transmitted over our direct-wire link. We waited. The printout machine chattered briefly: what?

  It wasn’t much, I admit. But if Lewisohn’s brain had stopped at that instant, I would still have deemed Operation Lewisohn a success. As the word spread of what we had done, I heard a great, muffled roar go up from everyone, everywhere, throughout the Lewisohn Building. Maya Leighton kissed me. Even Mary Bergstrom kissed me. There was a continual snapping of fingers, stroking of palms. Paul came rushing back to Command Central. I realized then his total commitment to, and belief in Operation Lewisohn. For behind came laughing servers with bottles of pet-ropagne, natural brandy, petrovod, chilled Smack. Many nice liters of many nice things. A celebration Paul had provided. We celebrated.

  Meanwhile, Brown Team were still fussing with their laser scanners. Making minute power adjustments in the amplifiers. By the time I got down to Operating Theater D, they were transmitting a stream of utile signals to GPA-1. Returns were mostly gibberish, but that was understandable; Lewisohn’s brain hadn’t yet been totally flushed of sedatives and anesthesia. Leo Bernstein was personally monitoring the blood serum pump and adjusting the data processing monitor that gave a continuous scan and printout of brain weight, electrical power output, oxygen level, and so forth.

  The head of Hyman R. Lewisohn had been severed from his corpus. It had been placed beneath a giant bell jar. Five times the size of the glass dome enclosing the head of Fred III, the Labrador retriever. Lewisohn’s head existed in a sterile environment. Laser rods, instruments, the loudspeaker wire, etc., all penetrated the protective covering, but were attached with contamination-proof seals.

  The head had been cut off below the larynx, slightly beneath the voice box. But Lewisohn could not speak, since there were no lungs to provide airflow across the vocal cords. Hence the need for the scanning equipment of Project Phoenix. The head would be maintained in an animate status in a manner similar to that used to keep Fred III alive, with an oxygenated blood pump. Brain weight and electrical o
utput were monitored constantly. Lewisohn could see, and he could hear. Hence the small loudspeaker inside his bell jar.

  When I first approached Lewisohn’s head, the eyes were closed. The skin tone appeared waxen to me. But Leo Bernstein didn’t seem unduly concerned, so I refrained from questioning him. He and two members of his staff were still adjusting flow rates and formulae. The Project Phoenix servers were just as busy. Making microadjustments on the laser rods. Watching their screens to provide maximum overlap of the scanned areas. Tuning their amplifiers on phoned advice from Phoebe Huntzinger in New York. I spoke with her briefly.

  “Congratulations, Nick,” she said. “You did it.”

  “We did it,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “It was your idea,” she said. “What’s next?”

  “I’ll think of something,” I said. And we both laughed.

  I watched Lewisohn’s head. Keratotic scalp showing through the scraggly fringe of reddish hair. Distorted skull. Bulge of domed brow. Gross features magnified by his pallor. Rubbery lips, drooling slightly. Certainly not as attractive as Fred III.

  Finally, the eyes opened. Slowly. Lids rose like a weighted curtain. I moved closer to the bell jar. Picked up the small hand mike. Waited.

  Eyes appeared dulled. Lifeless. But even as I watched, I saw a definite improvement. Consciousness flowing in. Animation growing stronger.

  “Folks,” Ron Nexler’s low voice said, “Hyman R. Lewisohn’s head appears to be recovering from the shock of this historymaking operation. His eyes are opening wide, and, yes, they’re turning now to inspect. ...”

  I turned sharply. Nexler was at my side. Staring with fascination at Lewisohn’s head. But not too fascinated to remain silent; he was dictating into a portable tape deck. Over his shoulder, the mobile videotape camera operator was recording the awakening of Hyman R. Lewisohn. For history. For one insane instant I wanted to beat them both to stopping with their own equipment. But the fury passed. They were doing their service. As I was doing mine. I turned back to Lewisohn’s head.