The Great Jones Coop Ten Gigasoul Party (and Other Lost Celebrations). Paul Di Filippo
along the line into scientific paradigms: vast, multiplex systems for explaining all physical phenomena.
“These paradigms—slow to change, overlapping but existing mainly one at a time—have been all-pervasive, especially in our century. A paradigm seems to be something a human, as currently constituted, cannot live without. Although a common factory worker might not be able to tell a quark from a quack, he still bases his life on such verities as cause and affect, and the laws of thermodynamics, whether he calls them by name or not. These verities are exactly what flashers seem intent on demolishing. Every contradictory gadget that is released by the NIS—and release them they must, for such is their entire rationale for existing—is greeted by authorities with outraged cries denying its possibility, in the face of its manifest existence. This outrage and despair is communicated to the layman, resulting in the mental crisis known as aparadigmatic psychosis.
“The brains of the sufferers of this psychosis are undergoing as drastic a change as those of the flashers—but a malignant change. Responding to events, their brains are flooding with dopamine and cortico-tropin releasing factor, stimulating the development of permanent schizophrenia and stress reaction. Eventual catatonia is the inevitable result. Traditional drugs such as chlorpromazine seem to have little affect on those who succumb. Already hospitals are filling up with intractable patients.
“What is the solution to this dilemma? It seems a situation where we must break through or break down. We cannot suppress cheep. Already there are rumors that private synthesis, at home and abroad, is underway. Can we effectively dose the entire population of the world forever? Even if logistically possible, it seems that governments would not stand for such uninhibited creativity among the populace at large. The actions of the NIS, backed by the highest echelons of our government, are indication enough that governments will always try to control such a source of potential anarchy. And also, we must consider that CEEP in its present form induces only temporary psychic alterations, and in fact promotes a tolerance with constant use.
“On the other hand, we certainly cannot continue on our present course…”
Tinker laid down the mic. The recitation had tired and depressed him, making concrete the exact dimensions of what seemed an insoluble problem. The stale odors of cooking that always filled his building penetrated his consciousness and further lowered his spirits.
Suddenly realizing exactly how many days it had been since he had seen Helen, Tinker decided to go visit.
He missed the bus and had to walk. The December streets were full of frigid slush and aimless wanderers. Christmas window-displays radiated a false cheer totally at odds with the pervading gloom.
One of the sleek new null-gee cars with federal plates zipped by, the wind of its passage like a breeze from one of the frigid circles of hell. No one but Tinker even swivelled his eyes to look.
At Helen’s door he knocked and knocked, but there was no answer. He turned to go, but something stopped him.
A revoked credit card served to jimmy the door of her off-campus apartment. The front room and kitchen were empty. Helen lay naked in the bedroom in a fetal position atop the unmade bed. On the bedside table was a lopsided stack of physics texts, marked with furious underlining and increasingly incoherent notations.
When Tinker peeled back her eyelids, only whites showed, and he began to cry.
That was when he decided to return to the Institute and beg.
* * * *
The location of the National Institute of Synchrogenesis was a subtle statement of its aims.
Most people expected the agency responsible for the forced transfiguration of the world to be housed in one of its own products, a quasicrystal palace or pseudolife building that would serve as advertisement for its achievements. But the director of the agency, Tinker knew from bitter experience, was a master of corporate symbolism. When consulted on where to locate the agency, he had convinced his superiors that only one place would do.
Reluctantly, they had agreed.
The National Patent Office was soon emptied. The old-fashioned structure, with its high ceilings, marble corridors and panelled offices, served perfectly to illustrate the goals of the NIS on a subverbal level that was immediately felt by all visitors.
The NIS was out to destroy the past, to colonize the psychical and physical territory staked out by the once-dominant post-Einsteinian paradigm of how the universe worked.
As in any territorial battle, they were meeting with resistance along the way. The columned facade of the building was scarred from the three bomb-blasts that had been triggered despite the massive security. But the crude attacks of the opposition were feeble in comparison with the sophisticated forays launched from inside the NIS.
The last terrorist action had been six months ago.
The NIS felt quite confident of victory.
Tinker could sense the atmosphere once he was inside the building. The feel of the place had changed immensely since his departure. Whereas once there had flourished an unspoken notion that everyone here was laboring to satisfy the needs and desires of the whole world—to transform a globe full of hostility, want and misery into one of peace, plenty and happiness—now instead Tinker intuited from the scurrying workers that everyone felt him- or herself to be a member of an elite shock-troop bent on occupying and civilizing a race of savages. A definite us-or-them mentality was at work here, the exact opposite of what was needed to heal the spreading rift in humanity.
How a group of people privileged to daily behold the intimate totality of all existence could be so deluded was more than Tinker could fathom.
Walking toward the elevators, Tinker knew he had no time to inspect the Institute as he would have liked. He had gotten into the Institute only after much cajoling and emphasis on his past connections. Of course he had had to undergo a strip-search. Now he moved under strict security monitoring, with the understanding that he would proceed directly to the office of Director Thorngate. Any deviations, and he would be swiftly surrounded by guards.
At the bank of elevators, Tinker halted. The cessation of movement was bad, since it allowed him to think. Thinking was what he had been trying to avoid over the past few days.
Specifically, thoughts of Helen, and how he had left her in the clamorous, overburdened hospital with its antiseptic odors mingling with those from the self-soiled bodies of autistic children and adults, and the tired sweat of nurses, doctors and volunteers who were rapidly coming to resemble their patients.
An elevator arrived with a ping, and Tinker rode it alone to the fifth floor. There, he came to an anteroom where Thorngate’s secretary sat. Two burly men whose suits looked like uniforms on their rigid frames stood flanking the inner door to Thorngate’s sanctum. A new fixture.
“Mister Tinker,” the secretary said. “Please have a seat. The Director is meeting with the President now. “
Stunned, Tinker dropped to a cushioned chair. How had they ever let him in here during such a meeting? He had arrived with the notion of himself as some sort of vital force opposed to the plans of the NIS (although what alternatives he might offer, he could not say). True, he had intended to beg—but not for himself, for humanity in general. He had arrived with a certain humble dignity intact.
Now he suddenly realized how he most look to others: a venal failure returning with his tail between his legs, helpless, hopeless, harmless. In that instant he was swept by rage. He felt like hurting someone, leaping upon the President when he emerged, holding him hostage until the leader agreed to put an end to this madness.
Quickly as it came, his rage left. The sight of the Secret Service men by the door was enough to restore his rationality. He felt an impulse toward ironic laughter, picturing himself making any move that they wouldn’t instantly thwart.
The inner door opened and the President appeared with Director Thorngate. The two men stopped to shake hands, and the bodyguards closed upon their charge, shielding him from whatever insane move Tinker might have been inclined to make. In the next few seconds the famous,