never laughed at one of your ideas in my life and never shall,” he vowed.
“I thank you,” I said. Everything was all right between us again. “The crazy idea is this: Of those fifty microorganisms included in the IMP, I think about half could be inherited.”
He sucked in his breath. “My God,” he said, “you are incredible.”
“If I’m right,” I went on, “if twenty-five or thirty factors out of the fifty—particularly those in the respiratory tract—are inherited, then maybe if that mysterious blond ef who sucked Harris’ cock the night he was stopped isn’t actually in service in DOB, with an IMP on file, then maybe she’s related to someone who is. What do you think?”
He looked at me, shaking his head.
“Mary scares me, and you scare me,” he said. “What do I think? Definitely possible.”
“Yes. Now here’s what I want you to do while I’m gone. Take your construction of Harris’ IMP to the Computer Team. Tell them you’re running a preliminary blind test and see if they validate it. Then try input of the unknown blonde’s IMP. I know it’s incomplete , but try it. If the computer comes up with zilch, ask Jim Phelps if he can reprogram to give you a list of DOB people with identical , quanta on the IMP factors you do have on the blonde. Follow?”
“Of course. I’ll have it all for you when you return. You better get moving. Say hello to your parents for me.”
“Thank you, I will. I’ll be back in time for the Section meeting on Thursday. Meanwhile, keep the mill grinding.”
“Bastard!“ He laughed. He took Mary Bergstrom’s cassette from my TV set and started out. The tape cartridge reminded me of something.
“Paul.”
He turned back.
“This is for the Tomorrow File.”
He brightened. The TF was his baby.
“I know you weren’t watching the PM. That’s all right. But you heard Mary’s narration. Did you hear her say that the stomach was normal, the heart was normal, the pancreas was normal? And that the liver was slightly fatty but not pathologic?”
“So?”
“Paul, those organs were grossly normal. Microscopically, of course, they were totally infarcted. But if they had been totally normal, they would still be shoved back into the object and flamed. The waste! You know the figures oh donated organs, in spite of that last telethon. And production of artificial and cloned organs just isn’t enough. We don’t have the love we need to increase production. Patients are waiting, hopefully. And we’re going to flame a healthy heart, liver, pancreas, stomach. And every time anyone stops naturally and is flamed, we lose retinas, kidneys, hands, arms, legs, gonads, and ovaries we can use, that we need.” “Nick,” he said soberly, “you were the one who taught me the difference between what we should do and what we can do.” “I know, I know,” I said impatiently. “That’s why this is for the Tomorrow File. The first sanitation laws this country passed, more than two hundred years ago, established the government's interest in and concern for public health. Then laws, laws, and more laws. Sanitation, hygiene, drinking water, sewer systems, inspection of meat plants, then Medicare, then hospitalization insurance, government payment for kidney dialysis, genetic counseling, then national health insurance, then the Fertility Control Act, the licensing of procreation. It’s all been gradually, gradually evolving, coming to a time when we must realize the citizen’s corpus is the government’s responsibility. ’ ’
“And property?” Paul said.
“Well ... its concern, certainly. We should not flame healthy organs; that’s all I know. They’re too valuable. They could be used for research, transplant, or frozen for the nukewar bank. They’re a national resource and should not be wasted.”
Paul computed a moment.
“It would mean a federal license for stopping,” he said. “Government inheritability of the corpus.”
“I know.” I nodded.
“I thank you,” I said. Everything was all right between us again. “The crazy idea is this: Of those fifty microorganisms included in the IMP, I think about half could be inherited.”
He sucked in his breath. “My God,” he said, “you are incredible.”
“If I’m right,” I went on, “if twenty-five or thirty factors out of the fifty—particularly those in the respiratory tract—are inherited, then maybe if that mysterious blond ef who sucked Harris’ cock the night he was stopped isn’t actually in service in DOB, with an IMP on file, then maybe she’s related to someone who is. What do you think?”
He looked at me, shaking his head.
“Mary scares me, and you scare me,” he said. “What do I think? Definitely possible.”
“Yes. Now here’s what I want you to do while I’m gone. Take your construction of Harris’ IMP to the Computer Team. Tell them you’re running a preliminary blind test and see if they validate it. Then try input of the unknown blonde’s IMP. I know it’s incomplete , but try it. If the computer comes up with zilch, ask Jim Phelps if he can reprogram to give you a list of DOB people with identical , quanta on the IMP factors you do have on the blonde. Follow?”
“Of course. I’ll have it all for you when you return. You better get moving. Say hello to your parents for me.”
“Thank you, I will. I’ll be back in time for the Section meeting on Thursday. Meanwhile, keep the mill grinding.”
“Bastard!“ He laughed. He took Mary Bergstrom’s cassette from my TV set and started out. The tape cartridge reminded me of something.
“Paul.”
He turned back.
“This is for the Tomorrow File.”
He brightened. The TF was his baby.
“I know you weren’t watching the PM. That’s all right. But you heard Mary’s narration. Did you hear her say that the stomach was normal, the heart was normal, the pancreas was normal? And that the liver was slightly fatty but not pathologic?”
“So?”
“Paul, those organs were grossly normal. Microscopically, of course, they were totally infarcted. But if they had been totally normal, they would still be shoved back into the object and flamed. The waste! You know the figures oh donated organs, in spite of that last telethon. And production of artificial and cloned organs just isn’t enough. We don’t have the love we need to increase production. Patients are waiting, hopefully. And we’re going to flame a healthy heart, liver, pancreas, stomach. And every time anyone stops naturally and is flamed, we lose retinas, kidneys, hands, arms, legs, gonads, and ovaries we can use, that we need.” “Nick,” he said soberly, “you were the one who taught me the difference between what we should do and what we can do.” “I know, I know,” I said impatiently. “That’s why this is for the Tomorrow File. The first sanitation laws this country passed, more than two hundred years ago, established the government's interest in and concern for public health. Then laws, laws, and more laws. Sanitation, hygiene, drinking water, sewer systems, inspection of meat plants, then Medicare, then hospitalization insurance, government payment for kidney dialysis, genetic counseling, then national health insurance, then the Fertility Control Act, the licensing of procreation. It’s all been gradually, gradually evolving, coming to a time when we must realize the citizen’s corpus is the government’s responsibility. ’ ’
“And property?” Paul said.
“Well ... its concern, certainly. We should not flame healthy organs; that’s all I know. They’re too valuable. They could be used for research, transplant, or frozen for the nukewar bank. They’re a national resource and should not be wasted.”
Paul computed a moment.
“It would mean a federal license for stopping,” he said. “Government inheritability of the corpus.”
“I know.” I nodded.
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