The Tomorrow File by Lawrence Sanders Read Free Book Online

changes of government departments were not made by whim. They were decreed by the Office of Linguistic Truth, OLT, formerly the Office of Governmental Euphemisms, OGE.)
    The following morning, Angela Teresa Berri returned from her threeday in California. I met her by chance in the corridor outside her office. We chatted casually, all-colored zipsuits moving by us on both sides.
    Finally, the corridor reasonably clear, she murmured, “Anything?”
    “No,” I whispered in return. “Not yet. It’s very complex. I’ll contact you when I have something. Or nothing.”
    “Who else knows?”
    “Paul Bumford.”
    She looked at me steadily. Greenish, flecked eyes.
    “You trust him, Nick?”
    “Of course.”
    She nodded, and was gone.
    Late that afternoon, A Lab returned my little plastic envelope with their report. They had identified the inclosed object as a standard Somnorific seal. Hardly earth-shaking news. But on the underside of the seal they had discovered minute quantities of a substance they “believed to be” (typical scientific hedging, there) 5-HT.
    Now, 5-HT—5-Hydroxytryptamine—is known to biochemists as serotonin. Nanogram amounts of platelet-bound iso-serotonin were found. And platelets are particles suspended in human blood, formed by bone marrow, and necessary in the clotting of blood and the sealing of injured blood vessels.
    It was interesting.
    The following morning, at 1030, Paul Bumford, Mary Bergstrom, and I were in my apartment, seated in plastivas slings drawn up around my new 3-D TV set (leased). The shades were down, the door locked, the flasher disconnected. The set was switched to Tape.    ,
    I leaned forward so I could see her, past Paul.
    “Mary, what lens did you use?”
    “Infinite focus,” she said in that cold, toneless voice of hers. “Wide angle. Electronic zoom by voice-actuated switch. But no' sound. There was no need for sound.”
    “Of course not,” I said. I leaned back, pressed the Start button of my control unit.
    The guard glass flickered. Wild images. Then, as the lasers took hold, the holograph image steadied in the box. We were looking at the pain-racked features of the stopped Frank Lawson Harris. Focus was sharp, colors were lifelike—or rather, unlifelike.
    The naked corpus was stretched out on a stainless steel table, slightly tilted, with a run-off channel at the bottom. Mary stood behind the table, masked, gowned, gloved, scalpel in hand.
    She gave us a running commentary, in person, her voice flat, without inflection.
    “Closeup of features. Contorted. Agonized. Notice lips drawn back from teeth. Rictus. Long view of total anatomy. Limbs twisted. More than normal rigor. Notice hands half-clenched. Now this—close-up of lateral scratches in thoracic area. Analysis of tissue under object’s fingernails proved scratches self-inflicted. Clawed at chest. Long shot again. Here—close-up of genitalia. Penis and testicles flaccid. Now . . . autopsy begins. I’m going in. Butterfly incision. Firm skin. Good muscle tone.”
    I was fascinated. I was aware that Paul Bumford was not watching.
    “Everything normal,” Mary continued tonelessly. The camera zoomed in to show her knife at work. ‘ ‘Now I’m going into the chest cavity. Heart normal but aorta unusually small to the touch. My first clue. Liver somewhat fatty but not pathologic. Here’s a close-up. Healthy.”
    I watched the tape hum along. I admired her technique. She was sure, deft, unhurried. She removed the organs swiftly, put them gently aside.
    “Now I’m into the stomach cavity. Normal. Except for that abdominal aorta. Unusually tortuous. You’ll see a close-up in a second. There it is. Rigid, nodular. Now I’m at the pancreas. Everything out. Everything normal. Intestinal tract normal. Within four hours prior to stopping object had consumed proveal, propep, natural starch—possibly spaghetti—red petrowine, and a few other things. I have it all on my taped report. Now I’m in the