Gordon R. Dickson Read Free

breeze of the lake was cool and brisk, although it was late May. To
save time, he caught an air cab at the entrance, dialed dispatcher information
and explained his problem.
    "Complain
Section Aj493," said the cab speaker. It took off, flitted for some fifteen
minutes between tall buildings, was halted for beam-check at an entry point,
and then allowed to continue, flying low and following a rigid route to a low,
white building overlooking the lake itself.
    "Complaint
Section," announced the cab, landing before the entrance and opening its
door. Kil read the meter, took a roll of credit units
from his packet and tore off a strip of the soft metal tabs. The meter gulped
them with a click and thanked him. He got out and went inside the building.
    Within
the front door, he found himself in what looked like a large, low-ceilinged
auditorium, all broken up into small booths and compartments. The first row of
these facing him, was nothing more than half-cubicles, like open visor-phone
booths, each one having a panel containing a speaker slot and microphone. As
Kil stepped into the nearest one, and pressed liis Key into the waiting cup, a
little light went on at the top of the panel.
    "State
your complaint," said the speaker slot. "It will be electronicaly
sorted and you will be directed to the proper human interviewer for detailed
interview."
    "My wife is
missing," said Kil.
    "Missing
person," echoed the slot. The panel swung back, revealing a hallway with
rows of numbered doors. "Go directly to the interviewer in room 243. Use
your Key. Room 243 is the only door that will open to it."
    Kil
walked through. Behind him, the panel swung shut, to await the next
complainant. He went down the hallway, reading the door numbers until he came
to 243. It was a door like all those that he had been familiar with since childhood,
perfectly blank except for the Key-sensitive cup in the center of it.
    He
lifted his Key and pressed it into the cup. The door swung noiselessly back
before him and he stepped into a small room, where a good-looking blonde girl
sat behind a desk banked with coder keys. She smiled professionally at him.
    "Sit
down," she said, waving him to a single chair facing the desk. "My
job's to take down the details of your complaint and find out what officer you
ought to be assigned to for action. Name?"
    "Bruner, Kil
Alan," he answered.
    "Occupation?"
    "Engineer,
Memnonics."
    "Stab?"
    "Class A."
    "Let's
see your Key." She leaned over and inspected it, reading off Kil's
individual number, the number under which Kil was known to the computer memory
of Files. Kil watched her tap it out on her coder keys. He had not thought of
it until now, but suddenly he realized that her keys must connect directly
with Files itself, and that his case would be passed
on and decided by Files. And, abruptly, at the thought of this living, human
problem of his and Ellen's, going for decision before this great electronic
monster, used to it as he was in all aspects of his life, he felt a sudden
panic and a shrinking.
    But the girl was going on
with her questions.
    "Last residence? Last job? Name of missing person? Stab rating
of missing person? Her occupation? Last seen? Describe
in detail . . ." The questions continued in the girl's low pitched,
dispassionate voice, and her fingers danced remotely over the coder keys as if
they were something as detached from the human equation as Files itself.
    Finally,
the questions and answers came to an end. The girl pressed the decision button
and sat back. On the flat desk screen before her, numbers began to click out,
one by one, appearing at regular and emotionless intervals. When the screen was
filled and the numbers had stopped, she sat reading them, for the first time
showing a hint of puzzlement in her eyes. She looked curiously at Kil, then
back at the screen and pushed a key down twice, two hard, quick jabs of her
forefinger.
    The
numbers flicked off the screen and flicked back on, unchanged.
    "What's