Authors: Lawrence Sanders
“I’m not sure I can do anything about this,” I said slowly to Grace Wingate. “If your husband wants to avoid a Congressional confrontation, I can’t see any choice but to opt for Angela’s plan. ’ ’
She turned away from me, staring out the window.
“She owns you, too, I suppose,” she said dully. “You’ve probably used each other.”
“Yes, we’ve used each other,” I said. “No, she doesn’t own me. Give me a little time. Maybe I can compute something. If you want me to be your friend, if you want me to help you, you must trust me. Can you do that?”
She turned to look at me. Despair in those dark eyes.
“I have no choice.” she said. “Do I? I have nowhere else to —I can’t let her—They—she and Mike—Nick, I want to keep my husband! But she—and she thinks I—you don’t
know
what she—’ ’
“I know, Grace,” I murmured. “Believe me, I know. I’ll do everything I can. I’m on your side.”
She leaned forward, kissed my cheek swiftly, pulled away. We stopped before the barred gate. Guards came over to inspect us.
We found Angela Berri and Chief Wingate seated casually in a parlor-type room in the front of the house. It was furnished with three TV sets, a game table, a cellarette on wheels, and slightly worn chintz-covered armchairs and sofas. Angela no longer had her briefcase. There was nothing in the manner or appearance of either of them to indicate how their discussion had gone. Perhaps I imagined they were seated an unusual distance apart.
Wingate rose to greet us.
“Good meeting?” he asked his wife.
“Oh, yes.”
“Let’s have a nightcap,” he said.
He glanced at me, made an almost imperceptible motion of his head. Obediently, I followed him over to the cellarette. He busied himself with the bottle of apricot-flavored petroqueur and four small, stemmed glasses.
“Did you attend?” he asked in a low voice.
“Yes, sir. I did.”
“Reactions?”
“Certainly not apocalyptists. Quite the contrary. I think they’re harmless.”
“They are,” he said. “At this point in time.”
“Not politically oriented,” I observed. “Unless what I saw was a front.”
“No, it’s operative,” he said. “I had them profiled. Nick, that suggestion of yours for a new Department of Science. ...”
“Department of Creative Science, sir.”
“Yes. Spell it out in a personal letter to me. Purpose, organization, staff, estimated budget, and so forth.”
“Be happy to, sir.”
He handed me two filled glasses, looked swiftly at the chatting efs, turned back to stare into my eyes.
“No need to go through channels,” he said quietly. “Bring the prospectus directly to me. Don’t mail it. No endorsement copies. You compute?”
“Yes, sir.”
We each carried two glasses back to the efs. Wingate handed one of his to Grace; I gave mine to Angela. We sat in a rough square, efs at the ends of a sofa, ems in distant armchairs. Each in a corner.
“Nick,” the Chief said, rather languidly, “that suggestion of yours for a new Department of Science. ... I wonder if you appreciate the political problems involved in getting a new Public Service department approved by Congress? The opposition would be heavy: the small but loud group that is against any extension of PS hegemony, obsos, the antiscience faction, antiabortionists, most religionists, rulers of existing government research sections in other departments, and industrial lobbyists with sweetheart contracts with those sections. A can of worms. It wouldn’t be easy to get the enabling legislation passed.”
“I’m sure it wouldn’t, sir.”
“But suppose we decided to make a fight for a new department,’ ’ he said casually. “Any suggestions on tactics?”
I caught a warning glance from Angela. Wingate was, I knew, drawing me out on the possibility of creating Lewisohn’s new Department of National Assets. He had no way of knowing I recognized his stalking-horse. Nor did Angela. She was concerned only that I might say something to endanger her plan. But I could safely ignore her warning; I could always plead ignorance and innocence.
“I don’t believe the establishment of a new department would present insuperable difficulties, sir,” I said pompously. Ingenuous I. “It seems to me one way to approach the problem would be to introduce—at the same time you introduce the new department bill—another bill so controversial, so certain to arouse strong passions and angry dispute, that with all the howling going on—media debates, demonstrations, strikes, boycotts, and so forth—why, you might stand a much better chance of slipping by your new department bill with a minimum of opposition.”
He stared at me a moment. Expressionless. I risked a quick glance at Angela. If looks could stop, I would have been cremated in my armchair.
“A throwaway bill,” Wingate mused. “Something we know will be defeated. But we put up a valiant fight. It takes off the heat. In other words, a decoy bill. I do believe you have a talent for politics. What you suggest—”
At that precise instant. Explosion. Loud. Heavy thump. Ground tremble. Inside me. Tinkle of broken glass. Softer thump. Wisconsin Avenue or all around? Shake and flutter. Looks. Frozen. Caught. Shatter of automatic rifle fire. Boom of flechette guns.
Wingate: “Down on the floor! All of you!”
Angela a cat. Up. Two quick steps. Soft, gymnastic roll onto one shoulder. Then. Under a table. Hands and knees. Spine arched. Head up. Lips drawn back. Snarling.
Door burst. Black zipsuits.
Ems kneeling. Glass breaking. Another thump. Mirror shattered. Myself moving in a dream. Stop-action. Down on one knee. A razor stripe across the back of my left hand. Shallow slice. Dark blood welling. No pain.
Wingate at the window.
“Goddamn it, get down! Sir!”
A red zipsuit inside. Door slammed and bolted.
“Down! Down! Down!”
Grace Wingate gliding to her husband. Grasping his shoulders. Turning him. Interposing her body between him and the jagged windows. Hugging him close. Looking into his eyes. Angela spit-ting. Furious. The efs magnificent.
A chatter of gunfire from black zipsuits at the windows. Smoke. Smell. Sharp crack. Whine of steel splinters. Portrait of John Quincy Adams with three eyes. Final burst. A human wail. High-pitched scream.
Silence. We wait. Trembling. Black zipsuits reload. With shaking hands. I look down. A few drops of urine. Nothing shows. But I know. Wingate goes to the cellarette. Begins to fill glasses. Steady hands.
“Oh,” he breathes. “Ah,” he breathes. “The worst this year. ”
He turns. Sees my blood, starts toward me. I wave him away, knot a handkerchief, pull it tight with my teeth. Angela crawls out. Straightens up. White.
“Stay here,” Wingate says. Rushes out.
The black zipsuits are still at the windows. Not moving. I take them brandies. They drink. Not taking their eyes away from the night.
Wingate comes back with a kit. My wound is ridiculous. A slice across the knuckles. Already clotting. I dab it, tape it. The bandage stains slowly. Then stabilizes. Angela grips my arm, her grin a forgiveness. Grace Wingate kisses my cheek. Again. Soft, yielding lips. Syrupy as her voice. Her body would come apart in my hands. Just disintegrate. No. Unfold. And reveal mysteries.
“We lost an em on the gate,” Wingate reported. “Three injured. They lost four stopped. Two injured. All of them. We think.”
“Who?” I asked.
He shrugged.
“Oh . . . who knows. Animals.”
The Chief ordered an escort to see us back to the Watergate Complex. A gray sedan preceded us. Driver and three armed guards. A gray sedan followed us. Driver and three armed guards. The red zipsuited officer in command was an ef. She insisted on ushering us safely inside the door of Angela’s apartment. When the door was closed, locked, bolted, chained, I glanced through the peephole. A black zipsuit stood outside.
“Welcome to Washington,” Angela said. “District of Columbia.”
“But the love isn’t bad,” I said, and we both laughed.
When Maya Leighton and I had arrived late that afternoon, I had been impressed by the apartment. Now, after an evening in the Wingates’ pleasant, comfortable, lived-in, slightly shabby home, these rooms seemed stagy. Everything glistened or glowed. Ashtrays were not only empty but polished. Artificial elegance.
When we had arrived, Angela had not yet returned from her office. A serving ef in an earth-colored zipsuit let us in, showed us the two double bedrooms, nests. We bathed separately, changed into our uniforms, waited with a drink for Angela’s return.
She rushed in, stroked palms, gave Maya a sharp, searching look, then disappeared to dress for dinner with the Chief Director. While she was absent, and Maya and I sat in silence, sipping vodka-and-Smack, Art Roach rang the chime. He was wearing his red zipsuit.
What a chilly, bloodless em he was. He inspected Maya Leighton -drowsily, blinking. I recognized the look. There are certain surgeons who enjoy cutting. The two departed, for an evening of fun
and frivolity. I had already warned Maya. I could, I told myself, do no more.
Now. Angela and I safe inside the guarded door. We were sunk in uncomfortably soft armchairs. Enveloped. Drowning. She stared at me.
“You’re a fool, Nick,” she said. Finally.
“A fool? How so?”
“When the Chief asked you how he might pass a bill for a new department.”
“So ? I answered him as honestly as I could. Would you have me stutter, ‘I don’t know,’ or ‘I have no idea.’ Then
he
would have thought me a fool. And
you
a fool for giving me my rank. Is that what you wanted?”
“Oh . . . no.” She sighed. “I suppose you’re right. You just didn’t know.”
“Know what?”
“Nothing. You have no need to know. I wonder if your secretary is home?”
I waved toward the door of the second bedroom.
“Take a look,” I told her.
She rose, kicked off her shoes, padded to the bedroom door. She opened it, peered in cautiously, closed the door.
“She’s here. Sleeping naked.”
“Any obvious cuts, bruises, contusions, welts, or scratches?” She looked at me curiously.
“Ah,” she said, “I see you know Art Roach. No, she looks rosy and whole.”
We looked at each other and laughed. We were both very vulgar objects.
“Speaking of wounds,” she said. “How’s yours?”
“I’ll survive,” I said. “How often does that happen?” “Assault on the Chief? Third time this year. It’s always pillowed. The neighbors are all in PS. No one talks.”
“He was good. So was his wife. Lovely ef.”
“Yes.”
She looked toward the bedroom door. Seeing, I knew, the naked Maya sprawled sleeping.
“I’m charged,” she said.
“That’s understandable.” I nodded. “Violence. Danger. Adrenalin.”
“Don’t you feel it?” “Of course. Flip a coin?”
“Don’t be silly. Is she het or bi?”
“Bi. I think. Don’t really know, ma’am.”
“Would you mind if I tried?”
“Not at all. But Roach probably just used her.”
“So?” she said. “That just makes the cheese more binding.” “You’re a dreadful ef.” I laughed.
“I know.” She smiled coldly. “Dreadful. An object inspiring dread. And don’t you ever forget it, Nick.”
She went into Maya’s bedroom. Closed the door behind her. In a moment I heard a burst of laughter. Then murmurings. Then silence.
I stood up, stretched, looked around. I poured myself a petronac at her futuristic bar, then slumped down again in that womb-chair. I sipped the brandy and, for a moment, plotted her destruction.
I couldn’t compute it through. Too many variables. I thought of Grace Wingate. What she . . . What I ... I couldn’t compute it through. Insufficient input.
I came around to Lewisohn’s suggestion for a new Department of National Assets. His Grand Plan was becoming increasingly evident. I should have seen it before. Opening the United States to foreign nations. A national bank. Converting Social Security to conventional insurance. And now centralizing the management of the nation’s real property. The leukemic dwarf was creating a corporate state. Eventually, a corporate world. It was that simple and elegant.
I could live with it, I decided I moved to the other bedroom. Undressed slowly. I could live with it. Every successful corporation, conglomerate, multinational company depended on research and development for growth. Enter Nicholas Bennington Flair. Machiavelli in a silver zipsuit.
I inhaled an eight-hour Somnorific and plunged out.
In the forty-eight hours following my return to GPA-1 from Washington, I made a number of administrative decisions that were to have far-reaching effects important in this account.
I constituted a “Group Lewisohn” that would be responsible for the continued creative functioning of our famous patient. The Group would be headquartered at Rehabilitation & Reconditioning Hospice No. 4 at Alexandria, Virginia, and would be under the nominal rule of Dr. Seth Lucas. Second in command would be Maya Leighton. I transferred her to GPA-2 and briefed her on what I expected from her. In the treatment of Lewisohn . . . and in the treatment of Art Roach.
I informed Angela Berri of the creation of Group Lewisohn (later, Maya Leighton was to refer to it, in my presence only, as “Grope Lewisohn”) via a conventional, low-priority mailed memo.
I flashed Seth Lucas, told him his new assignment, and instructed him to proceed with the construction of a suite designed for the parabiotic treatment of Hyman R. Lewisohn as he, Lucas, had described it during the colloquy at Hospice No. 4.
I also remembered to have his security clearance raised to Red-2.
I had a heavy four-hour meet with Paul Bumford. We dealt with a plan for drawing and storing an Individual Microbiological Profile for every object in the US, as a means of positive and precise identification. Then our discussion turned to our project for developing UP, the Ultimate Pleasure pill. We agreed basic research fell into three gross areas: physiological, psychological, mental. Overlapping, of course. There was a fourth, worrisome research area: metaphysical in nature. But we could not define it and postponed action until more input was available.