MINUS 098 AND COUNTING

It was after four when Ben Richards got to the main desk and was routed to Desk 9 (Q‑R). The woman sitting at the rumbling plastipunch looked tired and cruel and impersonal. She looked at him and saw no one.

“Name, last‑first‑middle.”

“Richards, Benjamin Stuart.”

Her fingers raced over the keys. Clitter‑clitter‑clitter went the machine.

“Age‑height‑weight.”

“Twenty‑eight, six‑two, one‑sixty‑five.”

Clitter‑clitter‑clitter

“Certified LQ. by Weschler test if you know it, and age tested.”

“One twenty‑six. Age of fourteen.”

Clitter‑clitter‑clitter

The huge lobby was an echoing, rebounding tomb of sound. Questions being asked and answered. People were being led out weeping. People were being thrown out. Hoarse voices were raised in protest. A scream or two. Questions. Always questions.

“Last school attended?”

“Manual Trades.”

“Did you graduate?”

“No.”

“How many years, and at what age did you leave?”

“Two years. Sixteen years old.”

“Reasons for leaving?”

“I got married.”

Clitter‑clitter‑clitter

“Name and age of spouse if any.”

“Sheila Catherine Richards, twenty‑six.”

“Names and ages of children, if any.”

“Catherine Sarah Richards, eighteen months.”

Clitter‑clitter‑clitter

“Last question, mister. Don’t bother lying; they’ll pick it up during the physical and disqualify you there. Have you ever used heroin or the synthetic‑amphetamine hallucinogen called San Francisco Push?”

“No.”

Clitter

A plastic card popped out and she handed it to him. “Don’t lose this, big fella. If you do, you have to start back at go next week.” She was looking at him now, seeing his face, the angry eyes, lanky body. Not bad looking. At least some in­telligence. Good stats.

She took his card back abruptly and punched off the upper right‑hand corner, giving it an odd milled appearance.

“What was that for?”

“Never mind. Somebody will tell you later. Maybe.” She pointed over his shoulder at a long hall which led toward a bank of elevators. Dozens of men fresh firm the desks were being stopped, showing their plastic LD.s and moving on. As Richards watched, a trembling, sallow‑faced Push freak was stopped by a cop and shown the door. The freak began to cry. But he went.

“Tough old world, big fella,” the woman behind the desk said without sym­pathy. “Move along.”

Richards moved along. Behind him, the litany was already beginning again.

Date: 2015-04-20; view: 894