Nine by Laumer

by Keith Laumer

  Maldon set off, trying to look purposeful. Somewhere on this level were the Central Personnel Files, according to Glamis. It shouldn’t be too hard to find them. After that … well, he could play it by ear.

  A menu-board directory at a cross-corridor a hundred yards from his starting-point indicated personnel analysis to the right. Mart followed the passage, passed open doors through which he caught glimpses of soft colors, air-conditioner grills, potted plants, and immaculate young women with precise hair styles sitting before immense key boards or behind bare desks. Chaste lettering on doors read PROGRAMMING; REQUIREMENTS; DATA EXTRAPOLATION—PHASE III …

  Ahead, Maldon heard a clattering, rising in volume as he approached a wide double door. He peered through glass, saw a long room crowded with massive metal cases ranked in rows, floor to ceiling. Men in tan dust smocks moved in the aisles, referring to papers in their hands, jotting notes, punching keys set in the consoles spaced at intervals on the giant cabinets. At a desk near the door, a man with a wide, sad mouth and a worried expression looked up, caught sight of Mart. It was no time to hesitate. He pushed through the door.

  “Morning,” he said genially over the busy sound of the data machines. “I’m looking for Central Personnel. I wonder if I’m in the right place?”

  The sad man opened his mouth, then closed it. He had a green tag attached to the collar of his open-necked shirt.

  “You from Special Actions?” he said doubtfully.

  “Aptical foddering,” Maldon said pleasantly. “I’d never been over here in Personnel Analysis, so I said, what the heck, I’ll just run over myself.” He was holding a relaxed smile in place, modelled after the one Dean Wormwell had customarily worn when condescending to students.

  “Well, sir, this is Data Processing; what you probably want is Files . .

  Mart considered quickly. “Just what is the scope of the work you do here?”

  The clerk got to his feet. “We maintain the Master Personnel Cards up-to-date,” he started, then paused. “Uh, could I just see that I. D., sir?”

  Maldon let the smile cool a degree or two, flashed the blue card; the clerk craned as Mart tucked the tag away.

  “Now,” Mart went on briskly, “suppose you just start at the beginning and give me a rundown.” He glanced at a wall-clock. “Make it a fast briefing. I’m a little pressed for time.”

  The clerk hitched at his belt, looked around. “Well, sir, let’s start over here …

  Ten minutes later, they stood before a high, glass-fronted housing inside which row on row of tape reels nestled on shiny rods; bright-colored plastic fittings of complex shape jammed the space over, under and behind each row.

  “… it’s all completely cybernetic-governed, of course,” the clerk was saying. “We process an average of four hundred and nineteen thousand personnel actions per day, with an average relay-delay of not over four microseconds.”

  “What’s the source of your input?” Mart inquired in the tone of one dutifully asking the routine questions.

  “All the Directorates feed their data in to us—”

  “Placement Testing?” Mart asked idly.

  “Oh, sure, that’s our biggest single data input.”

  “Including Class Five and Seven categories, for example?”

  The clerk nodded. “Eight through Two. Your Tech categories are handled separately, over in Banks Y and Z. There …’’He pointed to a pair of red-painted cabinets.

  “I see. That’s where the new graduates from the Technical Institutions are listed, eh?”

  “Right, sir. They’re scheduled out from there to Testing alphabetically, and then ranked by score for Grading, Classification, and Placement.”

  Mart nodded and moved along the aisle. There were two-inch high letters stencilled on the frames of the data cases. He stopped before a large letter B.

  “Let’s look at a typical record,” Mart suggested. The clerk stepped to the console, pressed a button. A foot-square screen glowed. Print popped into focus on it: BAJUL, FELIX B. 654-8734-099-B1.

  Below the heading was an intricate pattern of dots.

  “May I?” Mart reached for the button, pushed it. There was a click and the name changed: BAKARSKI, HYMAN A.

  He looked at the meaningless code under the name.

  “I take it each dot has a significance?”

  “In the first row, you have the physical profile; that’s the first nine spaces. Then psych, that’s the next twenty-one. Then …” He lectured on. Mart nodded.

  “… educational profile, right here …”

  “Now,” Mart cut in. “Suppose there were an error—say in the median scores attained by an individual. How would you correct that?”

  The clerk frowned, pulling down the corners of his mouth into well-worn grooves.

  “I don’t mean on your part, of course,” Mart said hastily. “But I imagine that the data processing equipment occasionally drops a decimal, eh?” He smiled understandingly.

  “Well, we do get maybe one or two a year—but there’s no harm done. On the next run-through, the card’s automatically kicked out.”

  “So you don’t … ah … make corrections?”

  “Well, only when a Change Entry comes through.”

  The clerk twirled knobs; the card moved aside, up; a single dot swelled on the screen, resolved into a pattern of dots.

  “Say it was on this item; I’d just wipe that code, and overprint the change. Only takes a second, and—”

  “Suppose, for example, you wanted this record corrected to show graduation from a Tech Institute?”

  “Well, that would be this symbol here; eighth row, fourth entry. The code for technical specialty would be in the 900 series. You punch it in here.” He indicated rows of colored buttons. “Then the file’s automatically transferred to the V bank.”

  “Well, this has been a fascinating tour,” Mart said. “I’ll make it a point to enter an appropriate commendation in the files.”

  The sad-faced man smiled wanly. “Well, I try to do my job . . ”

  “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll just stroll around and watch for a few minutes before I rush along to my conference.”

  “Well, nobody’s supposed to be back here in the stacks except—”

  “That’s quite all right. I’d prefer to look it over alone.” He turned his back on the clerk and strolled off. A glance back at the end of the stack showed the clerk settling into his chair, shaking his head.

  Mart moved quickly past the ends of the stacks, turned in at the third row, followed the letters through O, N, stopped before M. He punched a button, read the name that flashed on the screen: MAJONOVITCH.

  He tapped at the key; names flashed briefly: MAKISS…. MALACHI … MALDON, SALLY … MALDON, MART—

  He looked up. A technician was standing at the end of the stack, looking at him. He nodded.

  “Quite an apparatus you have here …”

  The technician said nothing. He wore a pink tag and his mouth was open half an inch. Mart looked away, up at the ceiling, down at the floor, back at the technician. He was still standing, looking. Abruptly his mouth closed with a decisive snap; he started to turn toward the clerk’s desk—

  Mart reached for the control knobs, quickly dialled for the

  eighth row, entry four; the single dot shifted into position, enlarged. The technician, distracted by the sudden move, turned, came hurrying along the aisle.

  “Hey, nobody’s supposed to mess with the—”

  “Now, my man,” Mart said in a firm tone. “Answer each question in as few words as possible. You will be graded on promptness and accuracy of response. What is the number of digits in the Technical Specialty series—the 900 group?”

  Taken aback, the technician raised his eyebrows, said, “Three but...”

  “And what is the specific code for Microtronics Engineer— cum Laude?”

  There was a sudden racket from the door. Voices were raised in hurried inquiry. The clerk’s voice re
plied. The technician stood undecided, scratching his head. Mart jabbed at the colored buttons: 901 … 922 … 936 … He coded a dozen three-digit Specialties into his record at random.

  From the corner of his eye he saw a light blink on one of the red-painted panels; his record was being automatically transferred to the Technically Qualified files. He poked the button which whirled his card from the screen and turned, stepped off toward the far end of the room. The technician came after him.

  “Hey there, what card was that you were messing with … ?” “No harm done,” Mart reassured him. “Just correcting an error. You’ll have to excuse me now; I’ve just remembered a pressing engagement …”

  “I better check; what card was it?”

  “Oh—just one picked at random.”

  “But … we got a hundred million cards in here …” “Correct!” Maldon said. “So far you’re batting a thousand. Now, we have time for just one more question: is there another door out of here?”

  “Mister, you better wait a minute till I see the super—”

  Mart spotted two unmarked doors, side by side. “Don’t bother; what would you tell him? That there was, just possibly, a teentsy weentsy flaw in one of your hundred million cards? I’m sure that would upset him.” He pulled the nearest door open. The technician’s mouth worked frantically.

  “Hey, that’s”—he started.

  “Don’t call us—we’ll call you!” Mart stepped past the door; it swung to behind him. Just before it closed, he saw that he was standing in a four foot by six foot closet. He whirled, grabbed for the door; there was no knob on the inside. It shut with a decisive click!

  He was alone in pitch darkness.

  Maldon felt hastily over the surfaces of the walls, found them bare and featureless. He jumped, failed to touch the ceiling. Outside he heard the technician’s voice, shouting. At any moment he would open the door and that would be that …

  Mart went to his knees, explored the floor. It was smooth. Then his elbow cracked against metal—

  He reached, found a grill just above floor level, two feet wide and a foot high. A steady flow of cool air came from it. There were screw-heads at each corner. Outside, the shouts continued. There were answering shouts.

  Mart felt over his pockets, brought out a coin, removed the screws. The grill fell forward into his hands. He laid it aside, started in head-first, encountered a sharp turn just beyond the wall. He wriggled over on his side, pushed hard, negotiated the turn by pulling with his hands pressed against the sides of the metal duct. There was light ahead, cross-hatched by a grid. He reached it, peered into a noisy room where great panels loomed, their faces a solid maze of dials and indicator lights. He tried the grill. It seemed solid. The duct made a right-angle turn here. Maldon worked his way around the bend, found that the duct widened six inches. When his feet were in position, he swung a kick at the grill. The limited space made it awkward; he kicked again and again; the grill gave, one more kick and it clattered into the room beyond. Mart struggled out through the opening.

  The room was brightly lit, deserted. There were large printed notices here and there on the wall warning of danger. Mart turned, re-entered the duct, made his way back to the closet. The voices were still audible outside the door. He reached through the opening, found the grill, propped it in position as the door flew open. He froze, waiting. There was a moment of silence.

  “But,” the technician’s voice said, “I tell you the guy walked into the utility closet here like he was boarding a rocket for Paris! I didn’t let the door out of my sight, that’s why I was standing back at the back and yelling, like you was chewing me out for …”

  “You must have made an error; it must have been the other door there …”

  The door closed. Mart let out a breath. Now perhaps he’d have a few minutes’ respite in which to figure a route off Level Fifty.

  XIII

  He prowled the lanes between the vast cybernetic machines, turned a comer, almost collided with a young woman with red-blonde hair, dark eyes, and a pouting red mouth which opened in a surprised O.

  “You shouldn’t be in here,” she said, motioning over her shoulder with a pencil. “All examinees must remain in the examination room until the entire battery of tests have been completed.”

  “I … ah …”

  “I know,” the girl said, less severely. “Four hours at a stretch. It’s awful. But you’d better go back in now before somebody sees you.”

  He nodded, smiled, and moved toward the door she had indicated. He looked back. She was studying the instrument dials, not watching him. He went past the door and tried the next. It opened and he stepped into a small, tidy office. A large-eyed woman with tightly dressed brown hair looked up from a desk adorned by a single rosebud in a slim vase and a sign reading placement officer. Her eyes went to a wall clock.

  “You’re too late for today’s testing, I’m afraid,” she said. “You’ll have to return on Wednesday; that’s afternoon testing. Mondays we test in the morning.” She smiled sympathetically. “Quite a few make that mistake.”

  “Oh,” Mart said. “Ah … Couldn’t I start late?”

  The woman was shaking her head. “Oh, it wouldn’t be possible. The first results are already coming in …” She nodded toward a miniature version of the giant machines in the next room. A humming and clicking sounded briefly from it. She tapped a key on her desk. There was a sharp buzz from the small machine. He gazed at the apparatus. Again it clicked and hummed. Again she tapped, eliciting another buzz.

  Mart stood, considering. His only problem now was to leave the building without attracting attention. His record had been altered to show his completion of a Technical Specialty; twelve of them, in fact. It might have been better if he had settled for one. Someone might notice—

  “I see you’re admiring the Profiler,” the woman said. “It’s a very compact model, isn’t it? Are you a Cyberneticist, by any chance?”

  Maldon started. “No …”

  “What name is that? I’ll check your file over to see that everything’s in order for Wednesday’s testing.”

  Mart took a deep breath. This was no time to panic … “Maldon,” he said. “Mart Maldon.”

  The woman swung an elaborate telephone-dial-like instrument out from a recess, dialed a long code, then sat back. Ten seconds passed. With a click, a small panel on the desk-top glowed. The woman leaned forward, reading. She looked up.

  “Why, Mr. Maldon! You have a remarkable record! I don’t believe I’ve ever encountered a testee with such a wide—and varied—background! ”

  “Oh,” Mart said, with a weak smile. “It was nothing …”

  “Eidetics, Cellular Psychology, Autonomies …”

  “I hate narrow specialization,” Mart said.

  “… Cybernetics Engineering—why, Mr. Maldon, you were teasing me!”

  “Well . . Mart edged toward the door.

  “My, we’ll certainly be looking forward to seeing your test results, Mr. Maldon! And Oh! Do let me show you the new Profiler you were admiring.” She hopped up, came round the desk. “It’s such a time saver—and of course, saves a vast number of operations within the master banks. Now, when the individual testee depresses his COMPLETED key, his test pattern in binary form is transferred directly to this unit for recognition. It’s capable of making over a thousand yes-no comparisons per second, profiling the results in decimal terms and recoding them into the master record, without the necessity for activating a single major sequence within the master—and, of course, every activation costs the taxpayer seventy-nine credits!”

  “Very impressive,” Mart said. If he could interrupt the flow of information long enough to ask a few innocent-sounding directions …

  A discreet buzzer sounded. The woman depressed a key on the desk communicator.

  “Miss Frinkles, could you step in a moment? There’s a report of a madman loose in the building …”

  “Good Heavens!” She looked at Mart a
s she slipped through the door. “Please, do excuse me a moment …”

  Mart waited half a minute, started to follow; a thought struck him. He looked at the Profiler. All test results were processed through this little device; what if …

  A quick inspection indicated that the apparatus was a close relative of the desk-top units used at Applied Tech in the ill-fated Analogy Theory class. The input, in the form of a binary series established by the testee’s answers to his quiz, was compared with the master pattern for the specialty indicated by the first three digits of the signal. The results were translated into a profile, ready for transmittal to the Master Files.

  This was almost too simple …

  Mart pressed a lever at the back of the housing, lifted it off. Miss Frinkles had been right about this being a new model; most of the circuitry was miniaturized and built up into replaceable subassemblies. What he needed was a set of tools …

  He tried Miss Frinkles’ desk, turned up a nail file and two bobby pins. It wouldn’t be necessary to fake an input; all that was needed was to key the coder section to show the final result. He crouched, peered in the side of the unit. There, to the left was the tiny bank of contacts which would open or close to indicate the score in a nine-digit profile. There were nine rows of nine contacts, squeezed into an area of one half-inch square. It was going to be a ticklish operation …

  Mart straightened a hair-pin, reached in, delicately touched the row of minute relays; the top row of contacts snapped closed, and a red light went on at the side of the machine. Mart tossed the wire aside, and quickly referred to his record, still in focus on Miss Frinkles’ desk-top viewer, then tickled tumblers to show his five letter, four digit personal identity code. Then he pressed a cancel key, to blank the deskscreen, and dropped the cover back in place on the Profiler. He was sitting in a low chair, leafing through a late issue of Popular Statistics when Miss Frinkles returned.

  “It seems a maintenance man ran berserk down on Nine Level,” she said breathlessly. “He killed three people, then set fire to—”