The Tomorrow File Read Free

of my bronze-colored zipsuit for my pill dispenser.
    About a year previously I had become aware of a curious and bothersome mental irregularity. It first occurred after my annual hippocampus and amygdala treatment. In effect, my memory, triggered by a sight, sound, smell, or almost any other input, ran wild. I could not control a flood of associative memories that engulfed my brain and temporarily extirpated my ability to respond normally to subsequent stimuli, or to learn, deduce, or fantasize.
    After the second attack, I went to my Memory Team leader, a molecular neurologist, and described the symptoms. He was not at all surprised. I was suffering from RSC, Random Synaptic Control. It was fairly common in both ems and efs who had been memory-conditioned in the 1975-1985 period. It was due to an inaccurate stereochemical configuration of the hormone administered. Therapy was by ingestion of a corrective hormone isomer.
    If Proust could write a novel of that length inspired by a piece of madeleine soaked in tea, you can appreciate why a plate of food derived from petrochemicals and artificial flavorings might drive my synapses out of control. The memories came flooding in. . . .
    . . . my father’s shrewdness. He was a successful toy manufacturer with a BS in chemistry. When the production of protein from petroleum was announced as commercially feasible, he had immediately put a lot of love into companies producing spices, flavorings, and seasonings. He made a bundle, and then, as he followed the chemical journals carefully and noted the inevitability of synthetic salt, pepper, thyme, tarragon, garlic, curry, mustard, dill, etc., he withdrew with a tremendous orgasm that made him a decamillionaire in new dollars.
    . . . my mother’s adamant refusal to consume any synthetic food or drink, and especially artificially flavored whiskies made from petrochemicals. She existed in an alcoholic stupor maintained with a rare Eastern vodka produced from natural potatoes.
    . . . Millie’s service. The young ef was a CF-E, an embryo-cloned female with a Grade E genetic rating. She was a packer in the Qik-Freez Hot-Qizine factory in Detroit. It was possible she had packaged the prosteak I was about to eat. Millie and I were users.
    . . . almost atavistic memories of the taste of farm-fresh eggs, vine-ripened melons, cucumbers, fresh beef, gravel-scratching chickens, wine made from grapes. . . .
    I popped my RSC pill. Paul watched me sympathetically.
    “Bad?”
    “Not too,” I said. “There are some memories I can do without. ”
    “Tememblo?”
    “Too gross,” I said. “It erases everything.”
    Tememblo (Temporary Memory Block) was a restricted drug we had developed. Given by injection, it produced complete forgetfulness, either immediately before or after the events, for periods of one to forty-eight hours, depending on its strength. But the duration of the effect was limited.
    Paul was instantly alert and interested.
    “You’re suggesting a specialized memory inhibitor?” he said. “To block, say, a color memory without inhibiting a scent memory?”
    “Something like that.” I nodded. “But we can’t take it on now. Better put it in the Tomorrow File.”
    We no longer smiled at that, though it had started as a joke.
    Soon after Paul Bumford joined DIVRAD, he sent me a memo tape suggesting that every individual in the US have his BIN (Birth Identification Number) tattooed on his forearm. The idea was preposterous, but I admired the organization of his argument.
    I called him in and explained why his suggestion was impractical for social and political reasons.
    “If it’s the cosmetic effect of the tattooing that might offend, ’ ’ he offered, “we could use a skin dye visible only under ultraviolet light.”
    “Paul, you’re not computing. We still have some objects in this country who have harsh memories of Germany’s Third Reich, the concentration camps, the arm tattoos. If I suggested such a program, all