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you now.
I would say that, for a number of years-until your guilt or innocence is
proven-this is the last private conversation that you will ever have."
'Are you trying to scare me?"
"I hope so. If you are involved in anything-get out. We'll never know, and I
for one prefer it that way. But if your hands are soiled we are going to get
you. Yes we will-as certain as the sun rises in the east."
Thurgood-Smythe crossed over to the door and opened it. He turned as though to
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add something, then thought better of it. He turned and left and the door
closed heavily behind him.
Jan closed the window; he was getting chilled.
Fifteen
The only thing to do now was to appear normal~ry to act naturally in every
way. Jan unpacked his bag, knowing that Thurgood-Smythe had undoubtedly gone
through it, apprehensive lest something incriminating had been slipped in by
accident. There was of course nothing; but he still could not displace the
niggle of fear. It stayed with him while he bathed and changed, went down to
dine, talked with old acquaintances in the bar. The feeling stayed with him
all night and he slept little.
He checked out early the next morning and began the long drive back to London.
It was snowing again, and he had no leisure to think of anything else as he
drove carefully down the winding Highland roads. Luncheon was beer and a pasty
in a roadside pub, then on until he came to the motorway. Once the computer
took control he could relax-but did not. He felt more uneasy if anything.
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Sitting back, blinded by the torrent of snowflakes against the window, yet
completely safe under electronic control, Jan finally faced up to what was
disturbing him. There, right before him, was the evidence. The circle of tiny
holes around the center of the steering wheel. Monitoring his breath. He could
not drive and escape them. Inlets to an analyzer that detected the parts per
million of alcohol on his breath, that only permitted him to drive the car
when he was legally sober. An intelligent idea to prevent accidents: an
insinuating, humiliating idea when viewed as part of the bigger picture of
continuous observation. This, and his other personal data, were stored in the
car's memory, could be transmitted to the
file:///F|/rah/Harry%20Harrison/Harrison,%20Harry%20-%20To%20The%20Stars%20Tri
logy%20(UC).txt (53 of 234) [5/21/03 1:29:01 AM]
file:///F|/rah/Harry%20Harrison/Harrison,%20Harry%20-%20To%20The%20Stars%20Tri
logy%20(UC).txt highway computer-and from there to the Security memory banks.
A record of his breath, his drinking, his reaction time, where he drove, when
he drove-whom he drove with. And when he went home the Security cameras in the
garage and halls would follow him carefully to his front door-and beyond.
While. he watched TV the set would be watching back, an invisible policeman
gazing out from the screen. His phone monitored, indetectable bugs planted in
the wiring. Find and remove them-if possible-and his voice within the room
would then be monitored by focusing a laser beam on the glass of his windows.
Data and more data would be continuously fed to some hidden secret file-where
all of the rest of the facts of his life were already recorded.
He had never thought seriously about it before, but he realized for the first
time that he existed as two people.
The flesh and blood person, and the duplicate electronic file. His birth had
been recorded as well as all pertinent medical information. His education, his
dental record, financial record, and purchases. What books he bought, what
presents he gave. Was it all on file someplace? With a sinking feeling he
realized that it probably was. There was physically almost no limit to the
amount of information that could be stored in the new molecular memory cores.
Molecules flipped one way or another to record bits, bits forming bytes, bytes
forming words and numbers. More and more and more. An encyclopedia in a piece
of material the size of a pinhead, a man's entire life in a pebble.
And nothing he could do about it. He had tried, done his bit for the
resistance, helped in a small way. But now it was over. Raise his head and it
would be chopped off. Life wasn't that bad. Be glad he wasn't a prole,
condemned to that existence for all the days of his years.
Must he stop? Couldn't it be changed? But even as the rebellious thoughts
possessed him he realized that his heartbeat had increased, the muscles in his
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arm tensed as he made an inadvertent fist. Physiological changes that could be
monitored, observed, considered.
He was a prisoner in an invisible cell. Make one step out of it and it would
be the end. For the first time in his life he had the realization what freedom
was, what he did not have. What lack of liberty was really about.
The drive home was dull and uneventful. The weather improved, when he passed
Carlyle the snowstorm had ended and he drove under leaden skies. There was a
play on the fifth channel and he turned it on but did not watch it; his head
was too filled with the turbulence of his thoughts. Now that he could no
longer take part in the resistance he realized how important it had become to
him. A way to work for something he had come to believe in, to expiate the
guilt he was just learning to feel. All over. By the time he reached home he
was in the darkest of moods, scowling at the innocent lift attendant and
slamming through his front door. He locked it and turned on the lights-and the
bulb in the one important lamp did not come on.
So quickly? Someone had been in the flat while he was away.
He was innocent, he had to keep thinking that, innocent. And they could be
watching him right now. Jan looked around slowly; nothing visible of course.
He tried the windows, one by one, but all were closed and locked. Then he went
to his wall safe and pressed the combination, flipped through the papers and
cash inside. Everything looked in order. If Security had been her~it had to be
them-they would surely have
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Harrison, Harry - To the Stars Trilogy.txt found his simple alarm system.
Having it wasn't illegal, in fact it was a precaution most of his friends
used. Now, there must be a natural reaction. He went to the phone, looking as
angry as he felt, and called Building Management.
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