The Tomorrow File Read Free Page A

hell would break loose.”
    “Obsoletes,” he said. “They can be manipulated.”
    “Obsos,” I agreed. “And they probably could be manipulated if I felt the project was important enough. But I don’t. Do you know how long it took us to get the National Data Bank accepted? Five years! By a massive-all-media effort to convince objects it was not a computer but just a highly sophisticated filing system. Files, not dossiers. And it was only after the Fertility Control Act was passed that we were able to assign Birth Identification Numbers. You must learn that what is practical and useful scientifically is not necessarily practical and useful socially, ethically, or economically. And especially politically.”
    “I still think it’s a good idea,” he said stubbornly.
    “As a means of personal identification? Well. . . maybe. About as good, and bad, as fingerprints, I’d guess. But we’re working on something much better.
    He came alive. “Genetic codes?”
    “No good. Not in the case of identical twins or clone groups. Ever hear of forensic microbiology?”
    “No.”
    “Suggested about 1970. But nobody did anything about it at the time because most of the biomedical research then was therapy-oriented. But this could be big. Right now I have only one object serving on it. Mary Bergstrom, a neurophysiologist. She’s good, but she needs help on the microbiology. I want you to serve with her.”
    “Will she rule me?”
    “No. You’ll be equals, reporting only to me. I’m very interested in this. I’ll code you and Mary the IMP Team, for Individual Microbiological Profile.”
    He reached for his memo tape.
    “Then I guess I can erase this.”
    “Don’t do that.” I smiled, putting my hand on his. “Have it transcribed and filmed. “It’s not a bad idea. But for the future. Put it in the Tomorrow File.”
    “The Tomorrow File?” He liked that. He smiled.
    We became users that night.
    Since then, whenever we—together or separately—came up with an idea that could not be developed because of the current social, economic, or political climate, we put it in the Tomorrow File. Paul kept the film spindles in his office safe.
    We finished our dinner.
    “How do you feel?” Paul asked. “The spansule work?”
    “Fine, ” I said. "So far. Knock on wood." I rapped the table top.
    “That’s plastic,” Paul said.
    “Old habits stop hard,” I said.
    “Yes.” He nodded. “That’s the problem.”
    We went back to my apartment. Paul wanted to watch the AGC Network—Avant-Garde Cable. They were presenting Walter Bronkowsky on the Leopold Synthesizer, playing his own symphony, Variations on the Rock of Ages Mambo. We watched and listened to about five minutes of Bronkowsky twiddling his dials and flipping his switches. Then Paul and I exchanged grimaces. He tried other channels.
    It was a new laser-holograph three-dimensional set, with a one-meter box. But all we could get were sit-coms, talk shows, and the tenth rerun of Deep Throat. So we went to bed.
    Paul’s mucus membranes were gainfully tender. Our investment had endured long enough for each to be attuned to the physical and mental rhythms of the other. We were, for instance, able to go into alpha together.
    Recently, almost as a hobby, Paul had been researching ESP. He had evolved a theory that during sexual arousal, as during moments of other emotional stress—fear, anger, etc.—the ESP faculty was intensified.
    We had been conducting a series of experiments to test this out. Before sexual relations, Paul or I would write a single word or simple phrase on a piece of paper, keeping it hidden from the other. During using, the sender attempted to transmit mentally the word or phrase he had written, and the other to receive mentally the identical word or phrase.
    Results had been inconclusive but encouraging enough to continue. That night Paul was sending.
    After we summited, and our respiration and cardiac rates had returned to normal, Paul asked,