by Timothy Zahn
Charley stared at the floor for a moment, then sighed and got to his feet. "Yeah, you're right. I guess I'd better. I'll check back with you later."
"Yes, please do." Whitney came around from behind his desk and gave Charley a warm handshake. "Good luck."
—
The world seemed darker when Charley emerged onto the sidewalk. He paused for a moment, feeling a mild disorientation that seemed part of the numbness in his brain, and then turned east and began walking. He still couldn't believe this was really happening to him, that a lifetime of conscientious work could be threatened by something as meaningless as a burp in a bubble-memory somewhere.
Walking in a private fog, he almost passed right by the Baltimore branch of the National Employment Office, a modern building he'd seen often from the commuter but never entered. Steeling himself, he joined the stream of people at one of the revolving doors and made his way inside.
It was unlike anything he'd ever seen, and for a moment he stood rooted in place, taking it all in. The entire first floor seemed devoted to rows and rows of computer terminals. Each machine had a line of people waiting in front of it; around these relatively stable promontories swirled a sea of people traveling to or from other terminals or the huge display boards that lined the walls. In the center of the floor ran a pair of escalators; through their openings he could see that the second floor seemed laid out like the first, and was just as crowded. To his right, on the wall by the entrance, was a building directory, and Charley worked his way across the stream of people until he was close enough to read it. COMPLAINT DEPT. was listed as Room 702. Spotting a bank of elevators, he pushed his way into the crowd. Minutes later, he was on the seventh floor.
Room 702 had nothing of the wide-open spaces of the ground floor, consisting instead of eight boxed-off cubicles with strategically placed upright panels directing the flow of traffic. There were about sixty people ahead of him, so Charley chose one of the shorter lines and settled down to wait. Surprisingly enough, the lines moved quickly, and within a half hour of his arrival he was sitting down across from a tired-looking middle-aged man with frown lines stamped across his face. "Good day, Mr. Ryon—" Charley began, glancing at the desk nameplate.
"Name, number, and previous job category?" the other snapped, fingers resting on his terminal keyboard.
Charley gave them. "What happened, you see, was that I was fired accidentally—"
"Just a minute," Ryon interrupted peevishly. "Your file's not on yet."
Charley subsided. He should have expected a delay; after being at the same job for so long, his records were probably on one of the "low-use" tapes in Washington's master files, and an operator would have to be sent to get it. The way things were going, of course, his file would probably be moved to a more accessible tape on the next adjustment run.
"Says here you were terminated as of Friday, 8 May 2009, from Key Data Services, Baltimore," Ryon said at last. "That true?"
"Yes, but it was an accident—computer malfunction or human error or something."
"Should've corrected it last Saturday. Way too late now. Next!"
"Hold on! That's not fair—no one goes into work on weekends. We should be allowed one business day."
Ryon's frown lines deepened a bit. "The book says 'twenty-four hours.' If your boss is too lazy to pull a ten-minute computer overview on weekends, it's not our fault. Next!"
Charley didn't budge. "I want to see your superior."
"Forget it. I said you haven't got a case." His finger hovered over a button. "You gonna leave quietly or do we do this the hard way?"
Swallowing, Charley took the easy way.
He got off the elevator on the second floor which, as he'd surmised, was laid out like the first. For a long moment he hesitated, distaste and apprehension holding him back. But Whitney had been right; it only made sense to sign up. Picking a line at random, Charley took his place at the end.
Again, the line moved quickly. Watching the men and women at the keyboard, Charley could tell they were all familiar with this routine. Not only were they fast, but they all invariably skipped past the pages of instructions. Fidgeting uncomfortably, Charley tried to remember everything he'd ever read about the lottery.
Finally, it was his turn. Stepping up to the console, he pushed the "start" button.
TYPE YOUR NAME, NUMBER, AND PREVIOUS JOB CATEGORY, the machine instructed him. Charley complied, CATEGORY/REGION? it asked.
COMPUTER PROGRAMMER/BALTIMORE, Charley typed carefully. RANGE?
Range? What did that mean? Punching for the first page of instructions, Charley skimmed it and discovered the machine was asking the outer limit of his job interest. 20KM, he typed, picking a distance at random.
The machine answered with a screen full of company names, arranged alphabetically, each one followed by a string of incomprehensible numbers. NUMBER OF JOBS BEING APPLIED FOR IN THIS CATEGORY? appeared at the bottom.
Charley seemed to remember that the limit was ten. 10, he typed.
The computer's response was swift. DISALLOWED. MAXIMUM IS THREE (3).
Charley blinked. Three? Had they changed the law? Or was he—or programming in general—a special case? Gritting his teeth, he again called up the instructions.
The impatient rumbling behind him was growing stronger. "Hey, come on, would ja?" someone growled. "We ain't got all month."
"Put it in 'park,' " Charley shot back, tension adding snap to his tone. "I'm working as fast as I can."
"So put in new batteries, huh?" a different voice suggested. "Sign up and let someone else have a turn."
"I'll be happy to, as soon as I figure out how."
There was a loud groan. "Aw, c'mon, friend: you hitting senility early to avoid the crowds?"
Charley felt his face reddening. "Look—"
"If you don't know what you're doing, go up to fourth floor and get some help," someone else put in.
Charley hadn't realized help was available. "Yeah, okay," he muttered. Pushing the "cancel" button, he stepped away, the next man in line shouldering past with a growled profanity. Too embarrassed to even turn around, Charley pushed hurriedly through the crowd toward the elevators.
Surprisingly, the fourth floor was practically deserted. Several dozen cubicles like those he'd seen three floors up lined the walls, most of them darkened and apparently empty. Of the handful that were open for business, only about half were being used. The rest of Baltimore's citizenry, Charley reflected, must have learned the ins and outs of the lottery years ago. The thought made him feel old and a little bit silly. Choosing a cubicle with a sympathetic-looking older woman, he hesitantly approached. "Uh... excuse me?"
She looked up, folding up the portable thin-screen she'd been watching. "Can I help you?"
"I hope so." He sat down. "I was accidentally fired this weekend, and while my boss tries to get me reinstated I thought I'd sign up for the lottery—just to tide myself over. But I'm afraid I don't understand exactly how to go about it."
"What do you mean?" She frowned. "Are you trying to find a new category or something?"
"No, it's just that I've never had to use the lottery before."
Her eyes widened. "You're kidding. Never?"
"I like my job." He shrugged self-consciously. "I've been there for the past thirty-five years."
That awed look was still there, and Charley felt more than ever like a revived fossil. "Wow!" she breathed. "I didn't think there was anyone who hadn't gone through the lottery at least once." She seemed suddenly to realize she was staring and dropped her eyes. "Well, let's see what we can do for you," she continued in a more professional tone, swiveling the terminal screen so that they could both see it. "Could you give me your name, number, and previous job, please?"
He did so. She pushed a few keys, and Charley was faced with the third page of lottery instructions.
"Right, now, first let's figure out how many jobs you can sign up for," she said, tapping a paragraph with her pen. "The l
onger you've been unemployed, the more job lotteries you can be in. Since you've been out of work less than a week, you can only sign up on three lists. Anything over six months and you can be on twenty of them.
"Each job list is open for sign-up for a minimum of twenty-four hours. Once it's closed, all the names on the list are put in random order by the computer and the company in question hires the first person on it for, usually, at least one four- day week."
"After interviews, you mean?"
The woman blinked. "There aren't any interviews, Mr. Addison. This is an equal opportunity system; we don't allow discrimination over educational advantages any more than over race or religion." "But—" Charley floundered.
"It really does work," she assured him. "Maybe a bit slower than the old methods, but it spreads the jobs and wealth around more evenly and eliminates the need for a welfare system. And that saves all of us money."
She was repeating the same arguments that the developers of the system's precursor had used twenty years ago—the arguments, he remembered now, that had originally induced him to vote for it back then. It had seemed like a good idea at the time... but now he wasn't quite so sure. "I'll take your word for it," he told her. "What do I do next?"
"Sign up for your three jobs. Let's see..." She punched some keys, scanning the displays that flicked across the screen at the touch of a button. "Accounting looks pretty good today—here's a firm that has only thirty people signed up. Here's one with twenty-six."
"Wait a second—I don't know anything about accounting."
She frowned at him. "So? If they get down to your number the law says they will hire you for at least a week. Qualifications are irrelevant—equal opportunity, remember?"
"But what if, say, thirty short-order cooks and only one accountant sign up for the job. How is the company going to get the one they need before mid-August?"
"Oh, the law allows concurrent employment if all parties are willing. If the accountant they want is number nine in the lottery, they'd just hire him plus the eight people ahead of him. Those eight would get their week's salary and could leave right away; the accountant would begin work in his new job at the same time. See?"
"Very convenient." Also very expensive if the right person didn't make the top ten. No wonder Whitney always looked so harried when KDS was hiring. "How on Earth do small companies survive a financial shock like that?"
"The smallest companies are exempt from the lottery." She pressed a button and a different page of the lottery instructions appeared. "And there's an intermediate range where the company can hire applicants for only one, two, or three days instead of a full week." She pointed out the appropriate numbers, then turned back to the job listing she'd had on earlier. "You ready to try your luck now?"
"Well... I guess so. You really think I should try for that accounting job?"
"Absolutely." She scanned the listing. "The one's up to thirty-two people; the others hit thirty now, Only six hours to go for each one, too—unless a bunch of people notice how empty they are you should have a good shot at making some money on either one." "How do you know about that six hours?" Charley asked, squinting at the screen.
She tapped a number with her pen. "Here's the closing date and time: May 8, 1700 hours. This column gives the opening date and time; this one's the job ID number; this one's the yearly salary; and here's the current number of people on the list. Now, what'll it be—one or both?"
Charley pursed his lips. After all, he was just looking for something to tide him over until he could get back with KDS. "I guess I'll sign up just on the shorter list."
"Okay." She showed him how to line up the display pointer on the proper job and then how to officially get on the list. "You've got two more chances coming to you. Any preferences?"
He chose two computer programming jobs that would also close at five that evening, ignoring her warning that with three hundred people already signed up for each one he had little hope of making any money from either of them. When he had finished, she showed him how to confirm he was properly registered by calling up his Secure Government Personal File and checking his newly acquired job list. "You can drop out of contention for any of the jobs at any time, by using the display pointer and 'cancel' key. And don't forget, once you've been out of work one to three weeks you can be on five lists at a time."
"Right." Charley made a mental note to find a quiet corner at the library later and read over all these regulations more carefully. "What do I do now?"
"Go home and wait, I guess," she shrugged. "If you've got a computer tie-in on your phone you'll be able to find out your standing on the lottery lists as soon as they close; otherwise, you can find out on the terminals downstairs. If you're high enough, the company'll contact you. If you're really low on the lists, you might as well drop out and sign up on a new list; you'll be automatically dropped as soon as the job is permanently filled, anyway. Any other questions?"
"Well... I guess not. Thanks for your help."
"Oh, no problem." She smiled brightly, shaking her head. "Imagine—thirtyfive whole years in the same job."
She was still clucking with amazement as she opened up her thin-screen again and settled back to watch.
—
It was almost lunchtime when Charley left the National Employment Office building, feeling something like a worn-out paper towel. Not really hungry yet, he decided it would be a good time to do some research on the lottery. A municipal lot was right around the corner, with a handful of the little in-town cars still available. Presenting his driver's-credit card to the attendant, he watched to make sure it was logged correctly into the computer and then drove out of the lot, heading for the nearest branch of the venerable Enoch Pratt Library. Traffic was brisk, but with the city-wide ban on internal combustion engines finally in effect, fighting the crowds was at least no longer a suffocatingly noisy task. Remembering the city of his youth, Charley's irritation at the government eased somewhat. Occasionally, their schemes made life a bit easier.
He emerged from the library about two hours later, slightly boggled at the number of laws and regulations the lottery had generated over the years and completely discouraged as to his chances of finding a loophole he could use. His one half-formed idea—that of setting himself up as a one-man "consulting firm" which KDS could exclusively retain—was scotched early in his reading, and he hadn't been able to come up with anything else that offered even a spark of hope. The National Employment Office had had two decades to close the loopholes, and they'd done a good job. Squinting up at the early-afternoon sun, Charley flipped a mental coin. Lunch lost; climbing into his car, he headed back to KDS.
Will Whitney was off somewhere when Charley arrived, but was expected back momentarily. "I'll wait," Charley told Whitney's secretary. "I haven't got much else to do."
"I heard," she said sympathetically. "We're all pretty upset about it. I hear the people in Programming are missing you already."
"Thanks," Charley grunted. "It's nice to be needed."
Whitney barreled through about ten minutes later. "Charley, hi; come on in," he called as he passed.
"I just stopped by to see if you had anything new," Charley said as he sat down across from Whitney's desk.
"Afraid not," Whitney said distractedly, shuffling through a mound of papers on his desk. "Damn GM chip's got a glitch in it Sanders can't find. Did you give me the preliminary stat sheet yet?"
"Last week," Charley told him. "Look, why don't I go and give Sanders a hand with the debugging?"
"Great. No—wait." Whitney looked up, frowning. "No, you'd better not. I mean, you're no longer on the payroll...." He trailed off.
"You don't need to pay me," Charley assured him. "Come on, Will—I want to help. Consider it a public service to keep my brain from atrophying."
"Believe me, I wish I could let you. But... I don't think we can risk it. If someone found out—I mean, there's no way we could prove I wasn't going to pay you under the table."
/> Charley sighed. "Yeah; and then blam goes a big government fine. I suppose you're right." He stood up awkwardly. "Well, then, I guess I might as well go on home."
"Okay." Whitney had found the paper he wanted. Clutching it, he headed for the door, his free hand sweeping Charley along with him. "Look, I'm still trying to get you back, so keep in touch, okay?"
"Right." Standing in the corridor, Charley watched his boss—his ex-boss— hurry away. Feeling vaguely as if he'd just lost part of his family, Charley turned and trudged toward the exit. A short time later, having turned in his car to the lot at the train station, he was on his way home.
At exactly 5:01 that evening he keyed his phones computer tie-in and, holding his breath, checked his standings. The list for the accounting position had swelled to one hundred seventy-six since he'd signed up; the computer job rosters hovered near the five-hundred mark. On none of them had he even made it above a hundred.
—
The next few days settled easily—too easily—into a dull routine. Each morning Charley headed into the city—cursing the fact that the job lottery wasn't accessible from home tie-ins—and fought the crowds at the National Employment Office building. After a few disappointing experiences with the high-paying jobs that attracted lots of applicants, he became adept at flipping through page after page of job listings, scanning for medium-paying ones that were being largely ignored. As a matter of pride, though, he made sure he was always listed for at least one computer-oriented job, even though they were generally long shots. Once signed up, his "work" was done for the day. At first he spent his new free time constructively: catching up on all the journals he'd been promising himself to read, working out at the fleeball courts, and carrying out needed maintenance on his condo. But as the days went by he found himself drifting from self-improvement toward self-indulgence. The trend didn't worry him particularly; sitting in front of his wall thin-screen, he told himself that things would be all right again once he was back at work.
