Authors: Lawrence Sanders
He ended suddenly. I could hear the sounds of the party downstairs: laughter, cries, music, the stomp of dancers. But in that frowsy room, silence banged off the walls. No one moved.
Finally, Chief Director Michael Wingate drew al great breath. He looked about slowly. Not seeking reactions, but reassuring himself as to place and time. Then his eyes came to Paul and stayed there.
“What I shall say,” he stated in a low, firm voice, “does not imply concurrence with everything Paul said. Nor should my total agreement with his views be inferred. However, I have decided to go ahead with exploring the most feasible scenario for establishing a new Department of Creative Science. I ask you all to submit your ideas to me as soon as possible. I thank you for your close attention. I suggest we now return to the party, singly or in twos. So as not to attract attention or comment. Thank you.”
Paul and I were the last to leave. He was still shaking. I thought it best not to say anything at the moment. We rejoined the throng downstairs. We were separated.
I wandered through the thinning crowd. Objects were waving, calling, departing. I smiled my way into that chintzy sitting room. John Quincy Adams’ third eye had been repaired.
Then fingers touched my wrist.
“Nick,” Grace Wingate said. Somewhat breathlessly. “I haven’t had a chance to thank you.”
I looked down upon that soft hand laid upon my arm. She drew me gently into an alcove. We were both smiling determinedly: hostess and guest in a polite and inconsequential dialogue.
“I don’t know how you did it,” she said, “and I don’t want to know. But she’s gone, Nick. She’s gone!”
I nodded.
“I don’t know how I can ever repay you,” she said.
“You look lovely, Grace,” I told her.
Too ingenuous to accept praise casually. Her hand rose automatically to her gathered hair. Fingers poked at floating tendrils. I thought she flushed with pleasure, suddenly conscious of her body. She,glanced down at the glittering overskin.
“Nick, is it—is it too—”
“No,” I assured her gravely. “It isn’t too.”
If she was suddenly conscious of her body, I was suddenly conscious of my. . . .
“Do you ever walk out?” I asked. The fool’s smile still pulling my face apart.
“Walk out?”
“Casually. Shopping. A museum. A matinee.”
Then she understood.
“I don’t,” she said. “I can’t,” she said. “I won’t,” she said. “Lovely party!” someone cried. Drifting past. Grace lifted a hand. Head turning. Tilted.
I couldn’t breathe. That line of completion enclosed her like a sharp halo. She was an ancient child. As fresh and knowing. The open, tender parts of her, pristine, might exude a scent of new worlds. I had dangerous visions of mad profits. Reason fled.
“I couldn’t,” she murmured.
Blackmail was not beyond me. At that moment. Nothing was. “After what I—” I said. And paused
“The Beists,” she said. Finally. “Paul is a member. Can you come to Washington? He can bring you. I’ll be there. Nick?” Suddenly we were up to our assholes in idiots. Chattering and laughing. All I could do was stretch my smile to pain and nod at her over the heads of surrounding guests. She had tossed me a crust. I would have taken a crumb. I watched the hostess move, laugh, throw back her glistering snake head. I entered into that vulval ear and rested.
Paul and I started back for GPA-1 at 0215. We traveled through the new day. Languid with exhaustion.
“Listen,” Paul murmured, “do you think they took me seriously?”
“I don’t know if they did,” I said. “I did.”
“Did I frighten them?”
“Probably.”
“Good. But it served. Didn’t it, Nick? We got what we wanted.”
“Yes,” I said.
At that point in time, mid-November, it seemed to me the whirligig increased speed. I, who had opted for action, became aware of the lure of rapid movement for its own sake. Without reason or destination. I felt a curious unease. The world on a fulcrum. Teetering.
During that period I suffered a severe attack of Random Synaptic Control that lasted almost five minutes and left me riven.
Even more disquieting was Hyman R. Lewisohn’s lack of affirmative response to parabiotic therapy. Unless his vital readouts showed a sudden and unexpected upcurve, my prognosis was negative. The physioanalytic computer concurred. I returned, once again, to my contingency plan.
We had exhausted conventional protocols long ago. Arabinosyl-cytosine. 6-Thioquanine. Daunorubicin. L-Asparaginase. Vincristine IV. Prednisone. 6-Mercaptopurine. Methotrexate. Cyclophosphamide. Ara-C. Hydroxyurea. We had tried them all in dozens of combinations and protocols suggested by the pharmacoanalytic computer.
In addition to therapy for the acute myelogenous leukemia, Lewisohn had been and was being treated for leukemic infiltration of the nervous system. This called for intrathecal (injection into the spinal fluid) of' methotrexate and aminopterine, as well as oral pyrimethamine. We had ended radiation therapy.
We had shifted to more experimental compounds of limited value. With no better results. Although, for a brief period, the object responded to 1-2 chlorethyl-3, cyclohexyl-l-nitosourea.
We had tried unblocking antibodies with a compound based on the original Moloney regressor sera. We had then turned to immunization with tumor antigens, utilizing living tumor cells pretreated with Vibrio cholerae neuraminidase. Nothing served.
The penultimate therapy, in which we were then engaged, parabiosis, was an attempt to transfer immunity with lymphocytes from immunized donors. The donors had underachieved the norm. In fact, the second had unaccountably developed leukemic symptoms from Lewisohn’s infected blood.
I have presented this brief precis of Lewisohn’s therapy to justify what lay ahead for him: the final step in my contingency plan. I had become convinced it would prove absolutely necessary. There was no choice.
Shortly after the hookup with the third donor, I went down to Alexandria to scan the most recent computer printouts. I saw no indications of improvement; the em was going. All the staff of Group Lewisohn concurred. I took their signed statements to this effect.
I was sitting in Lewisohn’s room, close to his bedside. A roll of printout on my lap. But I wasn’t scanning it. I was staring at him, computing what had to be done. The place. The time. How many objects would be needed. The chances of success. It never occurred to me, of course, to tell him what I planned. I could imagine his reaction. The horror.
He was somnolent. Heavily drugged. He had not stirred when I entered the room. I sat patiently, wondering if Paul had been correct. He had said all contingency plans have a built-in defect: the author wants to ultimize them, to see if they’ll serve. That dictum was just operative enough to disturb me.
Lewisohn’s eyes opened. Finally. He was staring directly at me. “Jack the Ripper,” he rasped. He made a weak gesture. “Where do those tubes go? The ones to the wall?”
“I told you a dozen times. We’re monitoring your blood. Instant analysis. It looks good.”
“Thank you, Doctor Pangloss,” he said wearily. And looked away.
I nodded toward the stack of books at his bedside.
“What are you serving on?” I asked him.
“Go to hell,” he said. “Besides, it isn’t important.”
“What
is
important?”
“The weakness,” he said. “I can’t think. It’s draining me. Give me a pill.”
“What for?”
“I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired. One pill. An injection.”
“No way,” J said. “We’re not through with you yet.”
“What good am I to you? My brain is mush.”
“It’ll come back,” I told him.
“When?”
“Soon. Soon.”
“My brain is dying.”
“No,” I said. “The corpus. Not the brain.”
He turned his head slowly. Looked at me. I feared I had said too much.
“You devious devil,” he whispered. “What are you plotting?” “I’m planning to make you well,” I said. “To end your pain and your weakness. Is that so bad?”
He began to curse me then. Forgetting his suspicions. Which was what I wanted.
During November and early December, Paul Bumford and I spent an increasing number of hours in Washington, D. C.
Out of all the confused and contentious meetings and conferences and colloquies of those weeks, the scenario for the Department of Creative Science was slowly structured. We could not have come to the necessary compromises without the knowing counsel of Joseph Tyrone Wellington. Of all objects! The Chief Director’s Public Relations Chief.
I had always thought the em a microweight. With his petrobon complexion. Wirewool muttonchops. “Nick baby!” A breath of cold cigars. Shallow, blue eyes. Lips remarkably rosy, brown-rimmed. A smile on the face of the tiger.
But the Chief Director did not surround himself with fools. Soon after Wingate’s go decision, Joe Wellington took me aside and cautioned me not to take public relations lightly. “The trick,” he said, “is to cross-fertilize substance and image so the resultant hybrid has the strengths of both and the weaknesses of neither. Example: God as substance, Jesus Christ as image. Think of the crucifixion as a PR scenario, and you’ll compute what I mean.” With his aid, the following proposals were drafted for the Chief Director’s consideration:
1. I would remain as Deputy Director of Satisfaction Section, Department of Bliss. But I would be appointed to Director (Temp.), enabling me to wear a crimson tab on the right shoulder epaulette of my silver zipsuit. The purpose of this promotion was to signal Congress and the public the importance the Chief Director attached to proposed legislation establishing a Department of Creative Science.
I would continue to reside in the compound at GPA-1, but make frequent trips to Washington, D. C.— two or three times a week—to rule the DCS operation there and to consult with the Chief Director and his staff. This arrangement would also ensure my continued rule of Project Phoenix, the Fred III research, the UP project, personal care of Lewisohn, and several other restricted projects.
2. Paul Bumford would be promoted to Deputy Director (Temp.), -with the crimson tab on his bronze zipsuit. A small office would be established in the Capital, ruled by Paul, and he would take up permanent residence in Washington.
Paul’s main responsibility would be personal relations with Congress and members of committee staffs. Via Sady Nagle. My main responsibility would be public relations with rulers and organizations of all scientific disciplines. Joe Wellington would manipulate lecture tours, convention addresses, symposia, TV appearances, planted magazine articles, perhaps a ghost-written book, etc.
3. At the same time we pushed the concept of a Department of Creative Science, we would also urge the establishment of a Joint Committee on Creative Science by both houses of Congress. To oversee the budget, plans, and activities of the new Public Service department. Something for everyone.
The Chief Director approved of the main thrust of our program
in toto,
making only a few minor adjustments. For instance, we had suggested Paul’s Washington office be established in the headquarters of the Department of Bliss. Wingate rejected this, pointing out that it would give the impression of DCS being ruled by or an offshoot of DOB. He wanted DCS to parturiate as completely new and independent. He was right.
Paul’s service as AssDepDirRad was taken over by Edward Nolan, formerly leader of the Memory Team. Mary Bergstrom was moved to Washington to serve as AA in the DCS office. Paul and I, jointly, leased a furnished home in the Chevy Chase section. The new Metro link extended out there. Since a Metro link was also operating to Alexandria, transportation to Hospice No. 4 would be simplified.
The house Paul and I shared in Chevy Chase was pleasantly decrepit. It was an obso structure, brick with wood trim, badly in need of pointing and painting. The furnishings seemed to have been accumulated rather than selected: they were of all periods, in various stages of disrepair. But the house was adequately heated, undeniably comfortable, and had more rooms than we would possibly need. Shortly after we took possession, Paul asked me if Mary Bergstrom could take over one of the bedroom-nest suites since she was not happy in the studio apartment she had found on Franklin Street. I saw no reason to object. Mary moved in.
We had a carefully programmed housewarming, of course. Catered. A pro forma invitation was sent to the Chief Director and Mrs. Wingate. They sent their regrets. A previous engagement. But everyone else we invited put in an appearance. Even the Chairman of the Senate Government Operations Committee and two influential members of the House Government Operations Committee.
More important, we had an excellent turnout of media reps, Congressional administrative assistants, and general counsels and staff members of both GO Committees. Their cooperation was essential if we were to win preliminary approval of the DCS and move enabling legislation onto the floors of both Houses for debate and vote.
Sady Nagle served as hostess, and Joe Wellington had brought over his entire staff to make certain things moved smoothly. It was a large, friendly, noisy party; we hadn’t skimped on alcohol, cannabis, or food. Everyone recognized it as a lobbying ploy, but the AA’s and committee staff members were flattered by the attention we paid them and the importance we obviously attached to their goodwill.
I limited my drinking and played the genial host strenuously. As did Paul Bumford. We had previously agreed I was to manipulate the media reps while Paul concentrated on the pols. The arrangement served well.
“Good party,” Herb Bailey assured me. “As parties go in this town. At least the booze isn’t watered.”
“What do you think, Herb?” I asked him. “Have we got a chance?”
“Don’t be so impatient,” he told me. “You’ll learn that there’s time, and then there’s Congressional time. No one's in a hurry in this town. Or they might get all the nation’s business cleaned up in a month or two, and have to go back home to their constituents. Who the hell wants to do that? By the way, I never thanked you for the lead on the DOB shakeup. Thanks. Got anything else for me?” “Yes,” I said. Solemnly. “Something very big indeed.”