by Ben Bova
“Felon 1138 prefix THX identified and located.”
THX and SRT left the lift tube at the fourth level. The corridor here was practically empty. Quiet. The lighting was soft and restful.
A glowing sign on the wall opposite the tube entrance said: COMPUTER CENTRAL FILES.
Overhead, a lovely woman’s voice said gently, “Access to Computer Central Files is restricted to authorized personnel only. If you do not have a 5401 green badge, kindly step into the visitor’s registration area at the end of the corridor and apply for entrance to Computer Central Files. Thank you… Access to Computer Central Files is…”
“We can’t get in,” THX said, pulling up to a stop.
SRT tapped his bright green badge. “What do you mean we can’t get in? Where do you think holoshow actors get personal ratings and job assignments?”
“But… I can’t get in.”
Winking with such exaggeration that half his face seemed to fold over, SRT said, “Trust me, friend.”
The black man headed toward the end of the corridor, where an impressive pair of bronze doors stood firmly closed. THX jogged up alongside him.
“Why are you doing this for me? Why do you trust me? I was a prisoner… I might be a murderer…”
SRT grinned. “I was hungry and you gave me some of your food.”
“But—it was SEN. He was carrying the food.”
“Yeah, but he wasn’t going to give me any until you told him to. And besides, I know you’re not a murderer… you would never have been in jail. You’d have been destroyed, or put to work for the State.”
THX stared at him.
They came to the bronze doors, smooth gleaming metal stamped with the words COMPUTER CENTRAL FILES in sculptured letters. Above the doors was engraved the motto of the Computer Center: THINK.
Off to the left of the impressive bronze doors was a smaller, ordinary plastic door marked: VISITOR REGISTRATION.
SRT went to this door, pushed it open and looked cautiously inside. Over his shoulder, THX could see that there was a small anteroom in there. A single camera eye was set into one wall, with a speaker grill under it. Alongside the staring lens a tiny red light glowed dutifully to show that the camera was working. There were no people in the anteroom, but an overhead speaker was droning an econometrics lecture:
“Beyond this is the fact that the didactic design always states conclusions which allow the contrary-minded to build resistance. All in all, a fair-minded judge would conclude…”
THX automatically shut the woman’s near-hypnotic voice out of his consciousness.
Surprised that the anteroom was empty, he said to SRT, “where are the people?”
The black man grinned. “Hardly ever any people around here. The computer runs everything by itself, for itself. I get the feeling it doesn’t like having people around, bothering it.”
“But… they couldn’t leave it totally alone? Could they?”
“Pretty much. Oh, they got observers watching everything, but the computer runs itself. No people. Just visitors once in a while, like us.”
“Observers…”
Nodding, SRT said, “Now just keep quiet when we go in, stay still and do what I tell you. Got to sneak you past the observer.”
He edged the door open wider and stepped into the anteroom softly. THX followed right behind him. Holding a finger to his lips for silence, SRT nudged THX with his other hand so that THX stood plastered against the closed door, well out of range of the observer’s camera. SRT stepped in front of the camera. “Yes?” came a voice from the grill. “What is it?” Holding his badge very close to the camera lens and quickly stepping past the camera, he said, “SRT 5555, visitor permit 2892.”
The observer’s voice made no comment. Suppressing a laugh, SRT tossed his badge to THX in a high arc, over the field of view of the camera. THX caught it, held it in his hand so that his fingers partially covered the name on it, and imitated the black man’s maneuver.
“SDS 5153, permit 2886,” he said as he whisked past the camera, close enough to the lens so that his clothing brushed it.
“See?” SRT said as he took his badge back. “We made it with no sweat.”
THX grinned back at him, as they pushed through the plastiglass doors of the registration office and into the main room of the computer files.
“Where did you learn that trick?” he asked.
“Actors learn lots of tricks,” SRT said. “Somebody thought that one up for a detective story I played in. I was the murder victim.”
Now that they were in the files, THX hardly knew what to do. The files were enormous, seemingly endless rows of computer consoles, memory banks, with little desks spaced every twenty consoles. There were readout screens on the desks and keyboards for querying the computer.
LUH’s records are in here someplace, he knew.
“Now that we’re in,” SRT asked, “mind telling me what we’re looking for?”
“Records… personnel file for my… my roommate. She was sent to prison too, I think. I have to find out.”
SRT walked down one of the narrow aisles between computer modules. The bulky electronics cabinets seemed to stretch on for kilometers, humming to themselves, lights winking at some inside joke, long long rows of electronic memories and data processing constantly at work, sleepless, emotionless, vibrating constantly with the console modules that stood bulky and taller than a man.
From some of the modules, voices flickered at them:
“Relay to analysis. Backlog on case 6178821. We’ve lost contact with both of them…”
“Group unit forty-one report to correlation center. Group unit four one, repeat four one…”
“If the loan runs for thirty-seven unearned increments or more…”
Bewildered by the enormity and complexity of the computer files, THX wandered down one row after another, not knowing what to do next.
SRT was right beside him.
“What they put you in jail for?” he asked idly.
THX stammered, “Uh… drug evasion… and, eh, well—my roommate, she…”
“Oh.” SRT shrugged. “Hell, if they jailed everybody who did that… why’d they pick on you?”
Shaking his head, “I don’t know.”
“Well, come on, we can’t stay here forever. Ask the computer what you want to know.”
THX mumbled, “I’m… I’m afraid.”
“What?” Then realization dawned on SRT’s face. “Ohh… you’re afraid that if you ask about her, they’ll spot you here. That’s smart thinking.”
“No—” That thought had never occurred to THX. “Afraid… of finding out… what they did to her.” Before SRT could reply, a voice boomed from the overhead speakers:
“Warning! Warning! Hear This! Hear This! Escaped felon. THX 1138 and an unidentified accomplice have been observed on the fourth level, Computer Central Files area. All citizens be on the alert. The escaped felon THX 1138 may be dangerous. Police are converging on the area. Report any suspicious person to Mercicontrol at once!”
“Oh-oh,” said SRT, glancing ceilingward.
“You’d better get away while you can,” THX said.
The black man shook his head. “Won’t do any good. They must have my picture by now. Only a matter of time before they find out who I am.”
“No!” THX shouted, and he bolted down the nearest aisle, across several rows of modules, running at full speed, down a row that stretched on endlessly. They said he’s unidentified; he can still stay out of trouble if they don’t find us together.
He ran for what seemed like kilometers, flashing past the massive, stoic computer modules. Finally he stopped and leaned against a warm, humming console, breathing hard. SRT was nowhere in sight. THX listened for footsteps. None. But from somewhere he could hear:
“Assistance request from officers 1999, 2187. Searching in restricted computer files area. Request three additional officers.”
“Mindlock impossible. Computer file area sensitive to electric
fields. Proceed with search.”
Far, far down the row of modules he saw a chrome police robot step out, so distant and small that it looked like a toy. But it made his heart flame with fear. Slowly, quietly, THX edged down to the nearest aisle that cut across the module rows and ducked around its protective corner. He looked around carefully for more chrome faces and white hardhats. None in sight. Then he ran, hard as he could, away from the police robots.
He stopped finally, lungs raw with exertion, legs rubbery, and half-collapsed against a little desk set into the end of a row of computer modules. There was a viewscreen and keyboard on the desk. THX recognized it as an interrogation station, for asking the computer for information, data.
“LUH,” he gasped raggedly to himself. “Got to… find her…”
But if you ask the computer about her, they’ll get a fix on your exact location. The police will get you.
Still breathless, he answered himself, “They know… I’m here… anyway… Only a matter of… time…”
For an agonized time he stood at the little desk, leaning hard on it, catching his breath and struggling in his mind for a decision. Then, abruptly, he slammed down into the tiny plastic chair next to the desk and typed out:
LUH 3417. PRESENT LOCATION.
The letters and number appeared on the screen as he typed them.
He wiped a bead of sweat from his eyes as the computer viewscreen flashed: WORKING.
“I need her,” he muttered. “She needs me. I’ve got to get to her. Save her.” He wiped his eyes again. “This whole thing is crazy… I must be insane… What am I doing? Everything’s so mixed up… If only…”
Control saw THX from above, through the fisheye lens of a camera set into the Computer Central Files ceiling.
“He’s shown you exactly where he is,” Control said mildly to his desk communicator. “Take him.”
A deep, harsh voice answered, “Yessir.”
The computer screen showed THX a view of a Reproduction Center Clinic. Row upon row of fetuses in their clear plastic wombs, heads down, arms and legs curled, umbilical cords connected to nourishment tubes running above the racks on which the plastic jars sat.
The screen zoomed in on one container. It was labeled LUH 3417.
THX gnashed his teeth in fury. Stupid! Stupid, stupid system! He pounded on the keyboard:
LUH 3417 IS A 20-YEAR-OLD WOMAN. OBSERVER CATEGORY.
REPROCENTER IS GUILTY OF MISLABELING.
The computer screen went blank for a moment, then the picture of the fetus with her name on its container flashed on again. Typed alongside it appeared the words:
FELON LUH 3417, GUILTY OF SEXACT AND DRUG EVASION, DESTROYED PER EXECUTION ORDER 9374911. FETUS REMOVED AT AUTOPSY. NAME LUH 3417 TRANSFERRED TO FETUS IN INTEREST OF ECONOMY AND ACCURATE RECORD-KEEPING. FETUS TO BE USED FOR EXPERIMENTAL PURPOSES.
With a scream of purest agony, THX collapsed on the computer keyboard.
Chapter 18
The cathedral was vast and dark, as black as prison had been white. And it was nearly empty. SEN clung to the shadows, trembled in them, tried to wrap them around himself protectively while he looked everywhere for danger.
Dimly, off in the distant far end of the cathedral, holocameras stood on dollies, outlined by a glow of light that came from a huge glowing picture of OMM, atop a yellow figure eight. Thick cables crisscrossed the floor, SEN could see, and a tiny knot of cameramen and technicians clustered around the cameras.
Standing directly in front of OMM’s portrait, bathed in yellowish light, wearing a safiron robe, was a tall, gaunt monk with deepset, glittering eyes. He was saying into the cameras:
“And it all happened so slowly that most men failed to realize that anything had happened at all.
“They had never known what all know within, that to know is not to know; not to know, is to be known. To change is to circle without end.”
SEN crouched in the deepest shadows, watching the monk deliver his holosermon. Along these sacred walls, he knew, were paintings and sculptures and metal constructs of the rarest art, treasures to be revered and enjoyed by the masses. But the treasures of the masses were not for him. SEN knew he was a hunted man. But still… perhaps… perhaps something could be worked out…
“To remain still is to flow with the will of OMM,” the monk droned on. “The breath of OMM is infinitely slow, yet he breathes. Avail thyselves. Let us pray:
“Unify of mind, unit of thought, unity of behavior. Blessings of the masses. Thou art subjects of the divine.”
Suddenly the light flicked off, leaving nothing but a residual fluorescence from OMM’s gentle face. The monk and camera crews seemed to disappear. Somewhere off in that distance SEN saw a door flung open, letting in a shaft of dust-filled light. The door slammed shut again, echoingly. SEN flinched at the sound.
After a long time in silence and darkness, he began to creep along the wall, staying to the deepest shadows, but edging toward the still-radiating portrait of OMM.
Finally he was there, standing before the sad-eyed, bearded face that loomed five stories above him. The holocameras were clustered around him, their cables littering the floor. Stacked against the pulpit that the monk had used for his sermon were giant cards with huge letters stencilled on them:
BEFORE OMM WAS OMM
AFTER OMM WILL BE OMM
SEN stood trembling beore the portrait.
“I’ve always done what I knew was best—for everybody. I haven’t been like the rest of them: lazy, unthinking, thieves and liars. I’ve used the skills you gave me to lead other men, to make them better, to bring them closer to your perfection…
“I… I’ve just tried to make things easier—not change anything… or hurt you. That’s right, isn’t it? You never said it was wrong… Things don’t seem to make sense.”
Sinking to his knees, “Sometimes things get left out, or they don’t seem to fit… most people can’t see them, or they don’t know what to do. Sometimes just little adjustments can make all the difference.”
The portrait of OMM looked down on him placidly.
“I want to do the right things… I want to go back… I can start again. I can help. I just need to rest for a while.”
A door opened somewhere and footsteps clicked hurriedly on the hard plastistone flooring. Panicky, saucer-eyed, SEN jerked around to see who was coming. Dimly visible in the shadowy cathedral, a chubby little white-robed monk was coming toward him. SEN got to his feet, shaking all over, as the monk approached.
The monk called out, “You there! This is not the place for prayer.” His voice echoed sepulchrally.
“If you want to speak with OMM you must go to a prayer booth, or a unichurch. You know that. We’ve got to tape another holosermon here in fifteen minutes—”
“But I—”
“No, no. The camera crews will be back in a few minutes. Go pray at the proper stations.”
“Yes,” SEN muttered.
“What?” The monk was close enough now for SEN to see his eyes peering at him from under the white cowl. “Are you in any trouble?”
“No, no … I’m all right,” SEN answered hurriedly. “I’m going now.”
The monk put out a hand to stop him. “Where’s your badge? What’s your number and prefix. I’m going to have to put this in your record.”
“No, I’ll just leave.”
Holding him by the shoulder, the monk insisted, “I’m sorry, I have to report all intruders. Where is your identification badge?”
SEN glanced down at his empty lapel. “I lost it.”
“But that’s a violation. I’m going to notify the authorities. This is beyond my jurisdiction.”
The monk turned to head back toward wherever he came from. Frenzied with fear, SEN pounced on his back, knocked the white-robed figure to the floor.
“No! Give… give me time!”
The monk began shouting, struggling. SEN kicked at hun, dropped to all fours on top of him and grabbed at his
cowl.
“Time!” he snapped, his voice hoarse with violence and terror. “Time! Time! Time!” And with each word he pounded the monk’s head against the plastistone flooring.
When he stopped, the monk’s white robe was splattered with red and his eyes were staring up sightlessly at OMM’s benign face.
SEN rocked back on his heels, staring in horror at the monk. Slowly he looked up at the portrait.
“OMM… OMM… what have I done?”
He looked back at the body. In the struggle, some pills had spilled from the pocket of the monk’s robe. They were scattered around the floor now, red pills and blue, yellow and white. SEN scooped a handful of them indiscriminately and swallowed them with a huge, hard gulp.
THX sat slumped across the computer desk’s keyboard. He wanted to be dead, but he wasn’t even unconscious… He just stayed there, without the strength or will to move. Destroyed, she was destroyed. And the baby… they’re going to…
Suddenly a hand grabbed his shoulder.
He wheeled around. It was SRT, his black face very serious now. “Come on,” he said, “there must be a hundred police robots prowling around here. We’ve got to get out.”
“What difference does it make?”
SRT eyed him. “You want to get caught? Destroyed, maybe?”
Shakily, THX got to his feet. “No… not yet. I have to do something first.”
The Mercicontrol police dispatcher was sitting at a bank of viewscreens very similar to the station of an observer. But his screens showed what a platoon of police robots were seeing. Except that, in the main screen, directly in front of him, he had patched in the observer’s overhead view through the fisheye lens of THX and SRT.
His earphones were alive with calls:
“Both felons located in Computer Central Files, are 621B, Row 44-8-9. Apprehension pending.”
“I have a nonaccidental death in Cathedral 090, Con F. Are there any felons reported in that area?”
“Budget control, we need a cost analysis on the THX 1138 account. Include all interest and inflation percentages.”
