James showered, put on a black wrap-around tunic and fed the stack of soiled towels into the laundry chute.
From the kitchen in the east wing of the house, he got a fresh, hot cup of coffee and returned to the sofa to listen to another selection of music. He tried to relax as he sipped the hot coffee.
He wasn't really proud of the choices he had made in the past but he felt it was necessary to survive and he chose to do it in the best possible way. He had earned a good living and had helped his son's family achieve social status. Rachael had been ill and he wanted this house for her. The System made it easy for him to provide it for her. She had everything he could possibly give her. But the price he paid for his success was another matter.
James set the coffee cup on the computer console and went back to the window. The fog had dissipated and the illuminator shone brightly on the dying man's white shirt. The blood stain seemed to glisten. It was evident the man was slowly bleeding to death. It was strange that this incident stirred lost feelings of sympathy and compassion in James. Since he lost Rachael, he hadn't felt much of anything...except loneliness.
James looked down at his hands. Once they were smooth and soft now they were rough and calloused. Once again he could feel the icy-hot beam as the machine printed the invisible vertical computer stripes of varying widths in the palm of his right hand. Invisible and indelible. He rubbed the palm of his right hand as if trying to smear the print, but he knew in his heart it would always be there. He could cut off his hand, but the mark would remain a part of him. It was a truth he had learned to live with, just as he had learned to live with the fact he had joined the government his father died rejecting. He looked out into the darkness. The night sky seemed to echo his aloness.
"The file," he whispered to himself. A new spark of interest twinkled in his eyes as he hurried into the living room. He removed the disc and pushed several buttons on the console. While he waited for an answer, he drank the remainder of the lukewarm coffee. As he set the cup down on the console, the face of an old, white-haired gentleman came on the screen.
"Hall of Records," the old gentleman reported.
"How late do you stay open?"
"I'll be here for another twenty-six minutes."
"I'll be there in ten. Thank you."
James pushed a button and the picture faded as he hurried to change clothes.
In twelve minutes he was standing in front of an old building in the pre-war part of town. He could almost hear the tired red bricks shouting for renewal. A white board with the words 'Hall of Records' painted in sloppy black letters, hung over a small wooden door. Above the sign, a scanner exposed its round black eye from between the bricks. James inserted his I.D. key in the keybox and waited. The scanner panned the area then focused on him. Instinctively, he straightened his jacket then let his hands hang limply at his side. Somewhere in the world of machines the identification contained in the I.D. key was being mechanically compared with his records and the visual of James himself. The identification, time and location was mechanically logged in his computer record. Every move he made, every credit he earned and every item he had ever purchased had been recorded. If he failed to be properly identified or if he tried to use someone else's key, the action would prove to be most unfortunate. It might be possible for him to gain admittance to the building but he would definitely leave it escorted by officers of the System. It made little difference to the System whether he walked out with them or was carried out by them. Whether he was breathing or not.
The door opened and James returned the key to his pocket. The room he entered was large and filled with shelves and shelves of paper. It was dusty and smelled of musty old paper. On each side of the long room, two bare light bulbs hung from fraying electric cords. To his left there was a desk where the old gentleman sat looking through a folder. Quickly and quietly James approached the desk.
"Have you located the file I requested about two weeks ago?" he inquired.
The old gentleman continued to read so James patiently waited for an answer.
Several seconds passed before the old gentleman finally looked up at James and smiled. He had a gold cap on his front tooth and his thin, white hair looked as if it had never been combed.
"Yes, Mr. Marshall, I called as soon as I located it but you weren't at home. I was going to leave a message but I wasn't sure you would want me to do that."
"I've been pretty busy but I'd like to see it now if I could."
"You know this entire filing system is being fed into the computer, don't you?"
"Yes, I'm aware of that but I would like to see the file while it's still on paper if you don't mind showing it to me."
"Very well. Follow me please."
The old gentleman yawned as he led James to a shelf near the far end of the room. He took a red marker from a basket at the end of the shelves, removed a folder from the shelf just above his head and inserted the marker in its place. He laid the folder on a small table and motioned for James to sit down in the chair. Obediently, James pulled out the chair and sat down in it. The old gentleman stood with his hands on the table and leaned toward James as he spoke.
"This file is government property. It must be replaced before you leave. Do not tamper with the contents in any way. To do so will result in death."
"I understand completely."
"I'm sure you do, Mr. Marshall," he said as he eyed James' uniform, "but I'm required to tell everyone."
"Are you very busy here?"
"Do you mean work or customers?"
"Both."
"You're the second customer today. As for work, I have to load two transports a week. There files have to be in order and delivered to the computer complex every Tuesday and Friday without fail. I have to finish up now. It's almost time to close."
"I'll only be a few minutes."
"Don't worry about it. I'll let you know when it's time to go."
The old gentleman went back to his reading and James opened the folder. Inside were several photographs and a stack of documents concerning an experiment. The poor lighting made it difficult to read so he decided he would have to take the papers home where he could study them.
Quickly, he looked around the room for a scanner but didn't see one. He quietly straightened the stack of papers and concealed them inside his coveralls. Leaning back in the chair, he took an equal amount of papers from the nearest file and laid them neatly on the open folder. Just as he closed the folder on the alien papers, the old gentleman called out that it was time to close. James stood up carefully and pushed the chair close to the table.
"I've just now finished reading," he said as the old gentleman approached. Smoothly, James picked up the file, placed it on the shelf, removed the marker and put it back in the basket.
"How do you like this weather we've been having?" James knew it was the oldest line in the world, but he had to keep talking in case the papers rattled inside his uniform.
"Not bad for this time of year," the old gentleman answered as they walked toward the door. "I'm up for vacation soon and it will probably rain or snow."
Outside the door, James stood in full view of the scanner as the old gentleman checked to make sure the door was locked.
"Enjoy your vacation and be careful, now."
"I sure will, Mr. Marshall. Thank you."
James hurried home, eager to savor his steal. It had been a long time since he had seen photographs of his parents and the information he carried inside his uniform should prove to be very interesting.
He parked the Super-charged cruiser inside the garage and went straight to his dressing room. After closing the door, he took the papers out of his uniform and looked carefully at each photograph.
his parents appeared to be very young, possibly in their early twenties. The photograph had been taken in a laboratory of some kind, probably in the medical research lab at the old university. On the back, printed in bold black letters was the inscription, 'Dr. and Mrs. James Emmerson Marshall, III'.
He didn't recognize the young couple in the next photograph but it was taken in the same location as the photograph of his parents. The inscription on the back read, 'Dr. and Mrs. Kevin Michael Dane'.
Next was a photograph of a newborn child in a hospital nursery. The inscription read, 'James Emmerson Marshall IV, Three days old'.
The boy in the next photograph was holding a mans hand. It too, had been taken in the lab. The inscription read, 'James Emmerson Marshall IV - nineteen months old'.
The young man in the last photograph was about to eat a chocolate ice cream cone. In the background was a desk and chair but there was no clue as to where the photograph was taken. It was inscribed, 'James Emmerson Marshall IV, - six years old - mother died two months ago'.
Slowly James laid the papers on the dresser and changed into his tunic. He turned on the shower in the bathroom, letting the water run while he proceeded to examine the papers.
His birth certificate seemed to be accurate and appeared to be authentic. There was little doubt in his mind it was anything but true. Documents could be forged easily enough but there was no reason for him to suspect forgery in government papers. Especially in documents as old as these.
There were several reports on experimental procedures, too lengthy to be read in detail at this time. There were several examination reports, tests and results, consent forms, objectives, speculations, prognoses and a hand full of certified statements. It would take more time than he could afford to read each paper. He chose one of the papers marked 'Objectives' and put the rest of the papers back on the dresser. He didn't have any trouble understanding the medical jargon as he carefully read the report.
Frustrated and almost in a panic, he grabbed the stack of papers and leafed through them one at a time. His eyes searched each page for some kind of clue. There had to be another paper or another file somewhere. Every detail of the experiment had been noted, regardless of how insignificant it seemed. It was possible there had been another part to the experiment but without some kind of clue it would be impossible to know where to look.
Somewhat discouraged and disappointed, he stacked the papers neatly on the dresser. Now he might never know the rest of the story. The unknown factor would remain lost forever in time and mountains of dusty paperwork.
If only I had Rachael, he thought. If she were here, nothing else would matter.NEXT
