Authors: Lawrence Sanders
“Grace will be down in a moment,” he said. He chuckled suddenly, for no reason I could tell. ‘ ‘Let me show you about. Then we’ll have a drink in the library before dinner.”
He bounced ahead of us, full of energy and delight. Throwing doors wide, pointing out antiques: rugs, paintings, sculpture, porcelain—all on loan from the National Gallery. This home and all its furnishings were owned by the US and provided as the “Georgetown White House” for the use of the Chief Director.
It was larger than the exterior had indicated. Three early Federal houses had been combined, walls removed or archways and doors inserted. Rooms ran into rooms. Ceilings soared. Quaint cubbyholes abounded. Colors were light; fresh flowers were everywhere. It was all bright, cheerful, comfortable and pleasant.
But still. ... In almost every room black zipsuits moved casually, shadows, ems and efs. None of them obviously armed. One em, in a red zipsuit, an officer, stood aside to let us pass, grave and reserved. Servants all. But members of the Chief’s personal guard. Formerly the Secret Service. Now officially called the Household Staff. They were everywhere. Michael Wingate ignored them.
Finally, he led us into the library. He had, I noted, a need to touch. His hands were on my arm, shoulder, back. He stroked Angela’s hair, clasped her, waist, held her hand briefly. When he poured an already mixed beverage from a plastic decanter bedded in a bucket of Jellicubes, he handed us each our plastiglass, then curled our fingers about it with both hands. An interesting tic.
“Well,” he said happily, holding up his glass. “Happiness and long life to all.”
We smiled politely. I looked about. Like my father’s library in Grosse Pointe. With one vital exception: These books had been read. I could tell: uneven rows, stained bindings, bookmarks poking up, a few lying on open shelves, bindings down, spread wide.
“Dr. Flair,” the Chief Director said. He paused. “Nick? All right?”
“Of course, Chief.”
“Nick, how is Lewisohn?”
I gave him a brief, concise report. The em’s deterioration. The best we could hope for. The worse we might expect. What I proposed to do next. He listened intently, head cocked to one side. The bright smile on the lips, but not in the eyes.
“Nick,” he said. “I’m sure you understand the importance of this em’s survival?”
“Yes, sir. In a functioning condition.”
“Precisely,” he said. “Functioning. We need that.”
“Chief,” Angela said, “from what Nick says, it may require a heavy outlay. The use of—uh—volunteers. A new staff. And perhaps—”
‘ ‘Anything. ’ ’ He waved away all the details. ‘ ‘Don’t even pause to question it. Whatever you need. My responsibility. You have full authority. Is that clear, Nick?”
On that last question, the velvet glove split and I saw the iron fist: blue eyes deepening, lips pulled tight, the whole face suddenly harder, austere. This em would not suffer failure lightly.
“I compute.” I nodded. “You have my—”
But then the library door opened suddenly. The Chief’s wife stood framed. Angela and I rose to our feet. Wingate, the happy bunny once again, bounded over
to
take her hand and lead her into the room.
“Ah. . . .” he said. “Oh. . . .” he said. “Grace, you look lovely. Just lovely.”
So she did. My first reaction, purely visceral: I must use this ef. She was a head taller than he and, I judged, half his age.
Bare feet, spatulate, with big-toe rings set with clusters of red stones. Garnets?
Loose-flowing gown in a flowered pattern. Natural silk perhaps. Sleeves to her wrists. Draped to her ankles. High on her neck.
Longhands. Smooth, tapered fingers. Tanned. A tiny gold chain for a wedding band.
Dark eyes. Violet? Brown? Heavy brows. Curved brows swooping down on veined temples.
Wide mouth. Full lips. Slightly parted. Glistening. Upper teeth somewhat protuberant. Long canines.
Sharp nose. V-chin. Sinuous neck.
What little I could see of her flesh—ankles, feet, wrists, hands, neck, head—was complete, an almost discernible line about her. She was within. Contained.
Hair the color of fresh ashes. As fine and fragile.
Sculpted ears.
I would lick those first.
“Please forgive me,” she said, smiling at Angela. Giving me a flick. “I tried three sets of earrings, then gave up.”
Thick voice. Almost syrupy.
We all—even Angela—waited on her. Her presence demanded it. Though her manner was never less, nor more, than quiet, attentive, sympathetic, understanding. But she seemed so
sure.
A teacher. Even her laughter was detached.
It was an unmemorable dinner—surrogate food—served efficiently but with no panache by black zipsuits. A natural Israeli white wine was palatable; a red petrowine, actinized, was not. One amusing detail: Angela Berri ate her entire dinner with her right hand, the briefcase still shackled her left wrist. No one commented. I wondered, idly, if the Chief Director might have the only key. If so, he made no effort to relieve her discomfort.
He dominated the conversation during a gelatinous pate, cold potato soup, an entree of chilled canned salmon (molded inexpertly into the shape of a fish), a salad of prolet. This synthetic lettuce was produced in endless sheets, the rollers stamping the veins and crinkles of the natural leaf. Then the sheets were cut into small squares and merchandised in plastic bags. It might well be used to stuff mattresses.
Chief Wingate, in a droll, eye-rolling manner, recounted his tribulations in dealing with a small, emerging nation of the Far East. Its representative in Washington had expressed interest in joining the US. Diplomatic tactics in this case demanded gifts, bribes, long letters swearing undying fealty to the current monarch, and, finally, supplying the Ambassador with the corpus of a popular TV star, a comedienne who weighed about 100 kilos.
“And how did you get her to cooperate, dear?” Grace Wingate asked. Dutiful wife, feeding her husband lines. “Bribery?”
“Oh, no.” He
chuckled. “She agreed voluntarily. Didn’t even have to appeal to her patriotism. She said no one had asked her for. years and years!”
Laughter fluttered around the table. Artificial lettuce.
“Is it worth the trouble, Chief?” Angela asked.
“I think so.” He nodded. Serious now. “Not from any great contribution they can make, but simply from their numbers. Almost four million. Their resources aren’t all that exciting, although there may be oil off the coast. But we must constantly keep in mind our need to increase our consumer pool. Nick, what do you think?”
His sudden, direct question startled me. I had a distinct impression I was being interviewed.
“A Zoo Nation,” I said.
“Zoo Nation?” He looked at me quizzically. “I’ve never heard the term before. Yours?”
“I believe so. Yes, sir.”
“How do you define a Zoo Nation?”
“An undeveloped—or underdeveloped—political entity that has nothing to offer but its history, hunger, culture, and poverty. Limited natural resources. And most of those can now be synthesized. Or adequate substitutes produced. No science and no technology.”
“Surely they could be developed as a viable nation,” Grac^ Wingate said sharply.
I turned to look at her.
“To what purpose?” I asked. “Assuming it could be done. I’m not certain it could be. Science and technology progress at a geometric rate. Attempt to raise a Zoo Nation to our status—or Russia’s, or China’s—and by the time that was accomplished we’d be so far ahead they could never catch up. Never. But I think they could achieve a reasonable level of prosperity as a Zoo Nation, a well-ordered Zoo Nation. Income from tourism and handicrafts. Assistance with their sanitation and public health. Perhaps some light cottage-industry. A limited amount of education. Bring the first-rate brains to the mainland for advanced conditioning. But don’t expect to make a Japan from a Chad. Develop it deliberately as a Zoo Nation. Encourage its native culture. Make it a kind of human game park, protected, allowed to grow. Within limits.”
“Limits?” Wingate said. “Z-Pop?”
“Or Minus-Z. Depending on arable land, rainfall, birthrate, disease, and so forth. A computer study would give you the optimum population. The vital factors are not to expect too much from or promise too much to a Zoo Nation. There is quality in nations, just as there is in objects.”
“Mmm,” the Chief Director said. He stared at me. Pausing as the servers removed our dinner plates and brought dessert. Thick slices of the new strain of seedless watermelon. They had removed the flavor with the seeds. But the coffee was genuine. With an oily film from poorly washed cups.
“Interesting,” he continued. He slipped a saccharine pill into his coffee. “You judge national quality by the degree of scientific and technological development?”
“Of course.” I smiled. “My conditioning.”
“And how would you rank the US?” he asked. “Compared to, say, Russia, Pan-Europe, China?”
“Forget Pan-Europe,” I said. “They have the brains but not the love. As for Russia and China, I can give you only an uninformed judgment. I am not cleared for restricted research in the physical sciences.”
“What is your ‘uninformed judgment’?”
“In the biomedical disciplines? Compared with Russia and China? Grossly equal. We’re ahead in molecular biology. Russia is ahead in bioimmunization. China is ahead in psychopharmacology. But still, as I said, grossly equal.”
“But you feel we’re not doing enough?”
“Not nearly enough.”
He threw back his head and laughed.
“I get that thrust from all sides,” he said finally. Spluttering. Wiping wet eyes with his plastinap. “But rarely as openly or as honestly. What do you suggest we do?” Then, ironically: “I’m sure you have many ideas on the subject, Nick.”
I caught an angry glance from Angela Berri. But I ignored her wrath and his irony. I didn’t care. It was an opportunity. I would have been a fool to avoid it.
“Yes.” I nodded. “I have many ideas on the subject. The Science Academy and the National Science Advisory Board were steps in the right direction. But not enough. There must be clear communication between the scientific community and government. A continuing dialogue. And in a participating, not merely an advisory capacity.”
“I thought most scientists were deliberately—even enthusiastically—nonpolitical,” Chief Wingate said mildly. “If not antipolitical-. ’ ’
“Obso scientists were,” I acknowledged. “And are. Many younger scientists are activists. They—we—recognize that science has always been political. That is, it is based on the values of the society in which it exists. The same holds true for art, of course. And economics. No human activity exists in a vacuum. All are influenced by and, in turn, influence the social medium. Today, science is the megafactor of tomorrow. We ignore it at our peril.” “You feel very deeply about this,” Grace Wingate said softly. “Yes, I do. And it’s operative. Remember, we are the first species that can control its own evolution. Compute
that
and its consequences.”
“And what do you suggest?” the Chief asked. Somber now. “For today? Where do we start?”
“A separate department under your rule, sir. The Department of Creative Science. Bring together all the government’s scientific activities in one efficient and effective political body. Right now, the government’s scientific activities are scattered all over the place: atomic energy and solar research in the Department of Natural Resources; weaponry and chemwar research in the Department of Peace; plant biology research in the Department of Agribusiness. Et cetera. The most important, the most promising projects in basic research are restricted. So the overlapping and duplication of effort are disgraceful. I realize that sometimes this state of affairs is desirable: planned disorganization with several teams working on identical projects unknown to each other. But in this case, the disorganization is unplanned. There is no centralization, no firm management. Science demands control, political control, for optimum value to the state. Conditioned political scientists are the answer. If a purely objective scientist, working alone in his lab, was to come up with a guarantee of physical immortality, a public announcement of such a development would simply wreck our economy and our society. We make a thousand discoveries a year, none as world-shaking as that, but the consequences of every scientific advance should be evaluated economically and politically before it’s made available. A Department of Creative Science could do that. Am I making sense?”
“A great deal of sense.” Chief Wingate nodded.' “A great deal indeed. I agree with your thrust. And I thank you for expressing your views so lucidly.”
He glanced at the digiclock on the wall, then looked to his wife. A signal apparently passed between them, although I did not catch it. Grace Wingate rose to her feet. We all followed.
“Nick,” the Chief Director said, “I’d like a favor from you.” “Of course, sir.”
“Angela and I have things to discuss. My wife has a meeting to attend. May I prevail upon you to accompany her and see her safely home?”
Mrs. Wingate smiled faintly.
“My profit,” I said.
We separated. The Chief led Angela into the library, his arm linked in hers. She still carried that thin briefcase. Grace Wingate asked me to wait a few moments while she changed.
When she came bouncing down the stairs, I was startled by her costume. She had suddenly lost five years. At least! Long ash hair flamed down her back. A middy was closed with a loosely knotted light blue scarf. A white pleated skirt stopped just above her bare knees. She wore white plastivas sneakers. If she had tried to sell me Girl Scout cookies, I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised.
She smiled at my reaction to her appearance.
“Well!” I said. “Are we going to a marshmallow roast?” Then she laughed, took my arm, led me to the door. We waited silently while the heavy bolts were drawn, the door swung open. Two outside guards accompanied us to a waiting diesel-powered Mercedes limousine. Chauffeur and guard in the front seat, closed off from us by a shield of bulletproof glass. The windows also had the green-tinted nylon layer. As we rolled through the opened gate, a sedan with four black zipsuited occupants followed us closely to Wisconsin Avenue, M Street, and onto Pennsylvania Avenue. “We’re visiting the President,” I guessed.