Authors: Lawrence Sanders
“That’s quite all right, sir,” I said.
He did not, I noted, ask me to be seated.
“Sir. ...” I said. And paused.
He gave me no encouragement. He was stone. Posture, manner unyielding. I knew at once it had been a mistake. Not fatal—but still a waste. ,
“I am interested in making an investment in the San Diego area, ’ ’ I said rapidly. Determined to speak my piece and leave with as much dignity as I could salvage.
“Investment?”
“Yes, sir. Preferably in real estate or industrial properties.” “You have something specific in mind?”
“Scilla Pharmaceuticals. They are—”
“I know them,” he said shortly. “No, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
That was clear enough. I turned, took two steps, had my hand on the huge brass doorknob when he spoke my name for the first time.
“Mr. Flair,” he trumpeted. “Dr. Nicholas Flair. Deputy Director of something called the Satisfaction Section. Of something called the Department of Bliss. Of something called the Government of the United States of America.”
I took my hand off the knob, turned back.
“That is correct,” I said.
“The name Flair is not unknown in this city,” he said coldly. “I like to know who is coming across the country to see me. It wasn’t difficult to find out.”
“I didn’t think it would be,” I said. “I admire your thoroughness—if that’s what you want from me.”
"It isn’t,” he said. "I couldn’t care less what you think of me.” “Then our business is at an end, sir,” I said.
Again I turned to go. Again his voice stopped me.
“Your father is wealthy,” he said. “Has a good reputation. You seem to be in no need. You hold a responsible government job.” “So?” I said.
“Just to satisfy an old man’s curiosity,” he said. Eyes squinting. “Why should a young man in your position want to invest in a drug manufacturer that sells to the government you work for? Shoddy, Mr. Flair. I don’t like shoddy.”
I looked at him. It was obvious what he thought.
“My motive is not what you suspect,” I told him.
“Oh? Then what is your motive?”
I should have walked out then, of course. But I wanted to make a chip, at least, in that icy superiority.
“My motive, sir?” I said. “Revenge.”
If he had been given adrenalin IV, the result could not have been more astonishing. The sunken cheeks flushed. The cold eyes took on a sparkle. He pushed himself upright in his straight-backed chair.
“Revenge?” he said. “Revenge?”
I stared at him, astounded by the sudden change in his appearance. He had, literally, come alive. He raised a steady hand, pointed across the room at the polished liquor cabinet.
“On the lower shelf, young man,” he said. “The squarish decanter and two balloons, please.”
I hesitated a moment. Then I did as he asked. I brought the bottle and brandy snifters back to his desk. He waved me to a leather armchair. Then he unstoppered the decanter, poured the two glasses one-third full, pushed one of them toward me. His movements were slow but not tremulous. We lifted, nodded, sipped.
I almost gagged. It was liquid fire. He smiled happily. I thought it was a smile; there was a crinkling.
“Burgundian,” he said. “From the grape dregs. An acquired taste. Like revenge. Tell me what you think I should know.”
I kept it brief. I did not mention Angela Berri by name. I said only that my target was an object in a high government position who was on the suck. I outlined my plan. He listened intently, not interrupting. But his eyes never left mine.
I finished. I waited for his reaction.
“An outlandish scheme,” he said finally. “Farfetched.”
“Yes, sir,” I agreed. “It’s a great advantage. The object couldn’t possibly conceive of anyone going to all that trouble.”
“And expense,” he said shrewdly. “It’s going to take a lot of money.”
“A lot of love,” I said mischievously.
“Money,” he repeated stubbornly.
I laughed. “Money it is,” I said. “How much?”
“How could I possibly know at this time? A lot. You want complete ownership? Or will a partnership suffice?”
“Ownership, if possible. Or any arrangement that will give me access to the offices. The chief executive must be ruled by me.” “I see.” He pondered a moment. “Of course, you want your name kept out?”
“Of course. I thought you might be able to set up a dummy corporation, or some kind of a holding—”
“Don’t tell me my business,” he said crossly. “There are many new discoveries and products of which I am not aware, I’m sure. But now you’re talking about something as old as Cain and Abel. We used to call it a ‘fuzz job.’ ”
“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard the expression.”
“To fuzz the ownership of a particular property. Hide it behind layers of owners of record. Lots of papers. That’s the secret: lots and lots of legal documents. The true ownership can always be traced, of course. But only after a great deal of time and effort. By then, we will have accomplished our purpose.”
“Our
purpose?” I repeated. “You’re willing to take this on?” “Oh yes,” he said. “It’s human. Very human indeed. It almost convinces me that there’s hope for you yet.”
“Hope for
me
?”
“For you, your generation, your world. That it’s not all urine specimens and computer printouts. There’s some blood left.”
I smiled politely and lifted my glass.
“To blood,” I said.
We made what arrangements we could: his payment, maximum love to be expended, transfer of funds, communication. He suggested the code. Thirty years previously he had written a thin book:
Early Monasteries of Southern California.
It had been privately published. He still had a dozen volumes left, and gave me one. If he sent me a letter of numbers, including 19-3-14, it would mean the fourteenth word of the third paragraph on page 19. Simple and unbreakable. Providing, of course, the key wasn’t known to the interceptor.
I leaned across the desk to shake his frail hand just before I departed. I knew a palm stroke would offend him.
“Mr. Hawkley,” I said. “A pleasure.” ,
“Yes, young man. ” He nodded. “It will be a pleasure. You must tell me all about it. When it’s over.”
“When it’s over,” I agreed. “Meanwhile, sir, our Gerontology Team has come up with—”
“No pills, no pills,” he said sharply. Then, to soften his refusal, he patted the brandy decanter gently. “This is my medicine.”
I left him then. No fear of failure. With my ideas and energy and his experience... . But the euphoria may have been due to the marc. Put
that
in a pill and my fortune was made!
At that point in time, according to regulations, I should have turned over to Paul Bumford complete rule of the Division of Research & Development. I did not do so for the following reasons:
1. Paul, although able and talented, was inexperienced in the administration of many objects, despite his previous service as my Executive Assistant.
2. There were a number of ongoing projects in DIVRAD which I had originated or to which I contributed. I could not withdraw my personal service suddenly without loss of creative momentum.
3. The transfer of the Division of Security & Intelligence to Angela Berri’s headquarters had left me with only three divisions. Two of these—Law & Enforcement and Data & Statistics— practically ran themselves; they required a minimum of administrative supervision. Hence, I could devote more time to DIVRAD.
If my future actions were questioned, if I was called to account by a Board of Inquiry, those were the three explanations I would have given for my conduct—and all were operative.
But the real reason I could not—had no desire to—relinquish the rule of the Division of Research & Development was considerably more complex.
The popular belief was that laws (policies) of the US Government were made by the Legislative branch and administered by the Executive. It was cynically believed that the Public Service (formerly Civil Service) was a necessary boondoggle of bookkeepers, accountants, statisticians, computerniks, clerks, etc.—mindless and servile paper-shufflers interested only in obtaining the highest possible rank-rate for the least possible effort.
A dangerous assumption.
Actually, it was quite possible for a bureaucrat to make policy. In fact, it was frequently a required part of his service. Congress might legislate the broad outlines of policy. But inevitably, it was a lot of kaka until bureaucrats translated law into action. How they translated it was, in effect, how US society functioned and evolved.
I had, long ago, realized that the Division of Research & Development, of the Satisfaction Section, of the Department of Bliss, wielded political clout far beyond its size and status on the government’s Table of Organization. No object, ever, surrenders power voluntarily. I was not about to yield the enormous power of DIVRAD to Paul Bumford, or to anyone else.
The governing factors were these:
1. The Executive, Legislative, and Judicial branches of the US Government did not yet fully appreciate the significance and consequences of the Biological Revolution and the increasing contribution of all scientific disciplines to the political world and the manner in which life would be lived. The general public was almost totally unaware of what lay ahead—not in 100, 50, or 20 years, but tomorrow.
2. After the death of President Harold K. Morse, there was no one object in the higher echelons of government who, by conditioning or inclination, was capable of recognizing what was happening. A few Congressmen had degrees in science. Most were woefully ignorant. Even the staffs of Congressional committees whose service was to oversee DIVRAD’s budget and operations did not have the necessary expertise.
Power abhors a vacuum. I rushed in. I cannot list here, for want of space, the areas in which I-—
I,
personally—could make national policy through DIVRAD. And not policy of little importance, but policy that would affect the society we lived in, and society for generations to come. A single example will suffice. . . .
Annually, an item of X-million new dollars for “gerontology research” was included in DIVRAD’s requested budget. Congressmen and staffs of the ruling committees assumed the love was for investigation and cure of biomedical disorders of the aged. During my tenure at DIVRAD, the requested sum was never reduced. Never. It would have been politically inexpedient. The rapidly growing number of obsos were voters. And increasingly vocal in their demands.
So, annually, I was granted X-million new dollars for gerontology research, with no restrictions as to how the sum was to be spent.
The legislators had no more knowledge of gerontology than they had of molecular genetics.
I had several options, including:
1. Prolong life itself. That is, attempt to extend the physical life span to, say, 100 or 125 years, by heavy research into the mechanism of stopping. But that might leave us with an enormous population of senile, dribbling oldsters, to be supported by the taxes of younger generations. The care of obsos was already an onerous economic burden. How long before euthanasia of all those over Y years of age was legislated?
2. Improve the middle life. That is, devote those X-million new dollars to research in arteriosclerosis, arthritis, senility, and other deteriorative disorders, to ensure a relatively healthy old age without appreciably increasing the longevity rates. But to what purpose? The obsos would still be retired nonproducers and nonconsumers.
3. Extend immaturity. Spend those gerontology research funds to prolong youth, keeping the young young for a longer period, so that one-half of an object’s life might be spent in conditioning, the second half in producing, and all of it in consuming.
These were but three of the options I faced in determining how gerontology research love was to be spent. I have simplified my choices, of course. There was an almost infinite number of additional factors to be considered.
For instance, the human species is by nature conservative. That is, objects resent and are fearful of change, despite the fact that change is the only constant of biological and political history. This abhorrence of change becomes stronger as objects grow older. Obsos cannot cope with change. It bewilders them. So even naturally intelligent and well-conditioned oldsters frequently waste their energy providing obsolete answers to obsolete questions, like bad chess players. Did we really want a society of doddering conservatives?
I go into such detail to illustrate my thesis that bureaucrats
can
make vital policy. And, more than any other department of Public Service, DIVRAD made policy that affected the life and future of every object in the US and, eventually, every object on earth.
That was why I was unwilling to relinquish this awesome power. Sometimes it is necessary to cultivate madness.
My activities during the several days following my visit to San
Diego provide a more precise conception of my responsibilities and the decisions I was called upon to make.
Leo Bernstein ruled the miniteam conducting research on the severed head of Fred III. At the age of eighteen, Leo was, in my opinion, one of the top three biochemists in the world. Certainly the fattest. When he was thirteen, Leo had published a brilliant theoretical paper on the virus causing plantar warts. It had led to chemotherapy for rodent ulcers of the face and scalp, and suggested an entirely new approach to the treatment of all epidermal carcinomas.
Leo’s only defect was that he knew exactly how good he was. He waddled into my office, tossed a computer printout onto my desk, lowered himself sideways onto a chair, and with much grunting effort hoisted his bulging thighs over one of the arms.
“Make yourself at home, Leo,” I .said.
He couldn’t be bothered with irony, small talk, or common courtesy.
“Take a look,” he commanded. He gestured toward the printout. “We checked the numbers three times. It’s operative.”
I scanned the printout. It was stupefying. I had been away from the lab too long. Things were moving too fast.