WRITERS' STORIES

Heist

admin.nospam@nospam.writersstories.com (Melissa R. Mendelson) — Wed, 05 Oct 2011 01:33:17 +0100

The skies were light blue, and the sun was brilliant. Tall, green grass waved back and forth in the hands of a gentle wind. Few tires crunched down on a road bathed in light, and the little traffic heading west barely disturbed the area around it. We were home free.

Adrenaline continued to fuel Adrianne's veins. His heart beat with every step on the gas. Glances in the rear view mirror in search of company hardly calmed him down as few cars weaved back and forth behind him. Droplets of sweat gently slid down his face, and his damp hands continued to grip the steering wheel before him.

“Adrianne. Relax.” A siren's voice stirred him out of his deep thoughts. “We're not being followed. We're home free.”

“Are we?” His eyes peeled away from the rear view mirror to glance at the beautiful woman beside him. “Are we home free, Dane? The cops could be on us in a heartbeat, or the feds.”

“But they're not. It's a beautiful day, and we got away with it.” A soft hand touched his. “We got the money, and nobody knows that it was us that just robbed that bank.”

“Maybe you're right.” Adrianne took in a deep breath and exhaled. “We're almost at the air strip now, and then Cayman Islands, here we come.” A brief smile crossed his face. “My father used the same air strip a few times.”

“Have you heard from him?” Dane studied Adrianne. “Is he out yet?”

“Like I would know that. For the last twenty years, I haven't heard anything. No letters. No phone calls. Nothing.” Adrianne shook his head. “He should just rot where he is.”

“He's your father, Adrianne.” Dane pushed a blond strand of hair out of her face. “He's just like you.”

“Yeah? Well, we didn't caught, did we?” He glanced at Dane. “We're home free, remember?” Their eyes met for a long moment. “Home free and away from this damn place.”

Pulling into a half vacant lot, Adrianne cut the ignition to the car. He pulled a handkerchief out of his shirt pocket and began to wipe down the dashboard and steering wheel. Dotting his face with the handkerchief, he then proceeded to fold it into a nice square before placing it back into his shirt pocket.

Moving quickly, he and Dane exited the car. They each carried a black duffel bag. Their black shoes disappeared among fields of grass. Their business attire gave the appearance of professionals, but their motives were beyond legal.

Pulling open a large, glass door, Adrianne froze in his steps. An older man brushed past him and headed for a cab. Something familiar about him held Adrianne's gaze. Still holding the door open, he continued to watch the man get into the cab and disappear down the road.

“Adrianne, what's wrong?” Dane once again took his hand into hers. “What is it?”

“That man that got into the cab...”

“What about him?”

“I think that was my father.” He stared at Dane. “I think that was him.”

“Adrianne, he's in jail.”

“But what if he got out, Dane?” Adrianne let go of the door and watched it close before him. “What if he's going home?”

“Adrianne. You can't go home. The police could've figured out our identities already. The feds could be waiting for us there. We have to go.” Dane opened the glass door. “We have to go.”

“I can't, Dane. If that man that just walked past me was my father, then I have to know. I have to go home.” He started to move away from her.

“What about the money?” Dane now looked at the bag in his hand. “What about the money?”

“Look, Dane, you have your cut. Get on the plane. Go to the Cayman Islands. I'll meet you there.”

“Not unless you're caught like your father was.” Dane bit her lip. “Maybe I should take your cut with me. It'll be safe with me.”

“Think I was born yesterday?” Adrianne walked up to her. “This heist wouldn't have been successful, if it wasn't for my plan. You were the second man, Dane. The second man.” He held the strap to the duffel bag tightly in his hand. “I'll put the money in a safe place. Don't worry about that or where it is going. Just get on the plane. The pilot's waiting.” He quickly turned around and headed for a cab.

“You're a smart man, Adrianne, but you're making a fatal mistake. You're going to get caught or worse.” Dane saw that she was now being ignored. “This is a mistake, Adrianne. This is a mistake!” She watched Adrianne get into a cab. “You fool.” Her eyes followed the cab until it disappeared from view.

“Where to?” A voice shattered Adrianne's thoughts. “Sir?” A pair of eyes glared up at him through the rear view mirror.

“Bus station. It's a quarter mile down the road.” Adrianne laid a hand on top of his duffel bag.

“You just left the air strip, and you want to go to the bus station?” The taxi driver shook his head. “Problem with the lady?” Adrianne glared at him. “A woman looking like that can only mean trouble.”

“She's no saint, but she's no trouble either. We just had to go separate ways for now.” The taxi driver shook his head. “Look, just drive the cab, and you'll get a nice tip.”

“Yes, sir.”

The cab ride continued on in silence. Adrianne fell deep in thought, replaying that brief encounter with the older man. Every time he tried to focus on the man's face, it grew blurry, and it only frustrated Adrianne more. Rubbing his eyes, he sighed, and his hand continued to hold the bag next to him.

“We're here.” Adrianne looked up to see the bus station outside. “Eight-fifty.”

“Keep the change.” Adrianne handed the man a hundred-dollar bill.

“Thank you, sir.” The driver watched Adrianne exit the car. “Have a beautiful day.”

Entering the bus station, Adrianne made his way to the lockers. Selecting one in the mid-section, he popped in a quarter and removed the key. Opening the locker, he tossed in the duffel bag and then proceeded to lock the door. Giving it a nice, strong tug, he was reassured that the only way to reopen it was to use the key, which was now held tightly in his grip.

“Lucky number 17.” Adrianne stared at the key in his hand. “Good luck to you, Dane, if you've followed me here.” He pocketed the key.

Sitting behind a counter surrounded by a bullet-proof window, an elderly man stared up at Adrianne. In his hands were a couple of twenty dollar bills. Schedules for bus routes were spread out before him.

“One-way ticket to Chester.” Adrianne pulled out another hundred from his wallet. “What time does the bus depart from here?”

“Five minutes.” Adrianne raised his eyebrows at the man's response. “Gate Seven.” He plucked the hundred out of Adrianne's hand and replaced it with a ticket. “You better hurry.”

Moving quickly, Adrianne made his way over to the gate. He handed the driver his ticket. Stepping quickly onto small, black steps, he now made his way through the bus and into a seat toward the back.

Nodding off, Adrianne felt the bus come to an abrupt halt. He nearly hit the seat in front of him, but his knees kept him in place. The woman sitting in front of him turned to glare at him as his knees continued to press into the back of her seat. With a brief apology, he moved his knees away from her.

Feeling somebody take a seat next to him, Adrianne almost smiled. Her strawberry perfume filled his nostrils. Her blond hair glinted in the sunlight. Her soft skin touched against his hand.

“Dane.”

“You're a fool, Adrianne, but you're my fool.” She turned to look at him.

“Where's the money?”

“In a locker near yours.” She continued to hold his hand. “I just couldn't let you go.”

“So I see.” He touched her face. “Because you love me?” She turned toward him. “Is that it, or is it the money?” He was surprised by a warm kiss.

“Does that answer your question?” She looked into his eyes. “You and your trust issues, Adrianne.”

“Well, after my father abandoned me twenty years ago, I just can't trust anyone.”

“So I see.” Dane sat back in her seat. “What about your aunt? She raised you, didn't she?”

“Yeah. She raised me along with her own children. They just never really accepted me because of what my father was.”

“And you became him.” Adrianne looked away. “Why do you want to find him? He didn't write to you or call you for the last two decades. What makes you think that he's going home?”

“Because he once said that if he ever got out, he would come home.” Adrianne took Dane's hand in his. “I have to know. Did he ever think about me while he was in there? Why didn't he write to me, call me? What am I to him?” His eyes held Dane's gaze. “I want to know, and I will know.”

“You could still get caught.”

“As the same for you. Why didn't you get on the plane?”

“Because I couldn't let you go.”

Smiling, Adrianne looked out the window. The clear, blue skies met his gaze. The sunlight felt good on his face. Tall, green grass waved as the bus continued to drive on by. It was a beautiful day, and sleep was just as beautiful as it stole Adrianne's mind away.

Now stepping off the bus and into a brilliant light, Adrianne could see nothing before him. As his eyes adjusted to the scenery, what he saw left his heart cold. His hands curled into fists, and an icy finger wrapped around his throat. All his eyes saw were a sea of police and the F.B.I. with guns drawn and aimed at him.

Moving slowly into the bus, Adrianne felt something metal push into the back of his head. A click echoed into his ears. A sound of thunder was followed by blinding pain.

Sitting up in his seat, Adrianne turned toward Dane, who slept beside him. He shakily wiped the sweat off his face. Letting out a deep sigh, he turned to look out the window and realized that his stop was coming up.

Gently shaking Dane by the shoulder, he watched her stir out of her sleep. Her beautiful eyes held his. Her blond hair still smelled of strawberries like her skin. Was she all that she appeared to be?

“We're here.”

“You okay, Adrianne? You look pale.” Dane sat up in her seat. “Bad dream?”

“No. Come on. The bus is stopping.”

Standing up from his seat, Adrianne followed Dane off the bus. He was blinded temporarily by the bright sunlight. As he lowered his hand from his face, he half expected the police and the F.B.I. to be waiting for him with their guns drawn and aimed at him. Instead, he still saw a beautiful day with no threat in sight.

“You okay?” Dane watched Adrianne rub the back of his head.

“I'm fine.” He looked at her. “Let's walk.”

“Walk? How far are we walking? I can't walk in these high heels.”

“It's only about a mile down the road, Dane.”

“A mile? Adrianne. There's no houses in sight. We're at a bus terminal.”

“I know. Let's walk.”

Moving away from Dane, Adrianne started to follow the road heading west. He watched as cars passed him by. His eyes continued to scan the area as he whispered to himself that nobody knew where he was except for Dane. He was safe, at least for now.

Feeling Dane walking close behind him, Adrianne wondered if it would be her to betray him. Was there a gun waiting in her pocketbook? Did all she care about was the money? What about all those nights, where they laid together talking of the plan and spending the rest of their lives together? Was it all lies after all?

“Adrianne.” He hardly looked at Dane. “We're in a cemetery.”

Stepping through broken gates, Adrianne continued to move past tombstones and graves. His eyes scanned the area, but there was no soul in sight with the exception of him and Dane. All he saw was flowers and weeds wrapped around the stone tablets sticking out of the moist ground.

“Adrianne.” Dane almost stumbled into a grave. “Will you stop!”

“Five years before my father was caught, my mother died.” He glanced at Dane. “Five years later, I lose my father. I was just turning seventeen.” He moved toward a grave set apart from the others and poised on a small hill. “This is where she was buried.” He approached the grave.

“I thought you said that your father was going home.”

“This is home. Our house was taken by the government, and my aunt's house was never home to either one of us. This is home. This is where my mother waits.” Adrianne knelt down toward the tombstone.

“Adrianne, I don't see your father anywhere. We're the only ones here.” Dane put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Maybe you were meant to come here, but I don't think you saw your father.”

“Maybe.” Adrianne touched the tombstone before him. “Are you going to shoot me now?” He felt Dane pull her hand away. “All you care about is the money, and you can't let me go. If I was caught, I could lead them back to you, and my cut would be lost.” He heard the safety being clicked off on Dane's gun. “Fitting for you to come with me here. This is where I want to be. With my mother.” He finally turned to look at Dane, who now pointed her gun at his head.

“I'm sorry, Adrianne, but you're wrong. It wasn't all about the money.”

“Then, what was it about?”

“Starting over.”

“Without me?”

“I have someone else waiting for me. You're brilliant, but I'm not what you want. You were right to not trust me.” Her finger wrapped around the trigger. “Good-bye, Adrianne.”

Closing his eyes, Adrianne waited for the thunder, and when he heard it, the ground shook. Something soft struck the ground. The sound of strawberries was mixed with another scent, something sweet but sickly. Then, all that surrounded him was silence.

“Adrianne.”

Opening his eyes, Adrianne saw his father standing beside him. His gaze shifted over to Dane, who laid in a pool of her own blood. His eyes shifted over to the gun in his father's hand.

“Are you going to kill me now?” He looked back up at his father.

“Adrianne.” His father grabbed him by the arm and hauled him to his feet. “You were always a fool.” He looked at Dane. “Beautiful women are never to be trusted.”

“So I'm told.” Adrianne gazed at his father's hand on his arm. “Neither are you.”

“I'm your father, Adrianne.” He looked down at the gun in his hand. “I never wanted this life for you, but you took it anyway. And now I have to take it from you.” He pointed the gun at him. “All you had to do was to let me go.”

Adrianne watched his father move toward Dane's pocketbook. He watched him dig through it until he found the locker key. He realized that the gun never wavered from him as his father pocketed the key.

“Now, let me have your key.”

“No.”

“Adrianne. I'm not going to ask again.” His father moved closer to him. “Let me have your key.”

“You want my key?” Adrianne pulled it out of his pocket. “Fine. Take it. I hope you choke on the money.”

“It was never about the money, son. It was about you.”

Sirens haunted the air. Tires screeched from a distance. A hundred engines purred somewhere down the road, heading their way.

“If your aunt, my sister had let me talk to you, write to you, this would never have happened, but she didn't. And I couldn't tell you.” Adrianne's father moved closer to him. “I got out two days ago, and before I got out, your friend here had an inmate in the same block as me. He knew what was going down. He told me because he thought I was a good man, and you didn't deserve to die.”

“What are you saying?”

“I couldn't get to you in time, but I knew you would come here. If you saw me, you would come here.”

Dozens of police cars and black SUVs drove up to the cemetery. Men in uniforms poured out into the street. Many withdrew their guns and moved toward Adrianne and his father.

“I'm going back, Adrianne for the robbery.” His father laid a hand on his shoulder. “The cops think you were a hostage in this, so don't disagree with it. Play it safe, and you'll be a free man. Then, go to North Bank, and ask for deposit box 18.”

“Put the gun down!” Adrianne looked at one cop moving closer and closer toward them.

“What about you, dad?”

“I'm going back, and they won't let me out again.” His father slowly lowered the gun to the ground. “I'll write to you. Just let me know where you are.”

“Dad.” Adrianne watched his father get handcuffed and hauled away. “Dad!” A cop grabbed him as his father was moved toward a waiting black SUV. “Dad!”

“Let him go, son. Let him go,” a cop whispered into his ear. “It's over for him.” Adrianne glared at him.

“He was my father.” Adrianne watched helplessly as his father was once again taken away from him.

Days later, Adrianne walked into North Bank. He approached a teller and asked to speak to the bank manager. His eyes moved about the bank and over the many faces around him, but he knew that he was safe. He was believed to be innocent.

“Ah, Adrianne. We've been waiting a long time for you.” The bank manager nearly hugged him. “Your father left strict instructions for you. Come. Your deposit box is waiting.” He led Adrianne into the vault.

Left alone in a small room, Adrianne opened the safety deposit box. What he saw sped up his heart. Tears filled his eyes. A sob escaped his lips.

“Dad.” Adrianne continued to stare at the hundred dollar bills stacked to the brim within the safety deposit box. “Dad.” Tears fell down his face. “Thank you.”

Nathaniel's Story

admin.nospam@nospam.writersstories.com (Magdalena Pokrywka) — Sat, 12 Mar 2011 10:19:00 +0100

Nathaniel Swifter was supposed to be completely alone during this Christmas. His wife passed away three years ago and his only daughter was spending Christmas with her newly-wed husband in Pennsylvania, United States. Completely alone in Oxfordshire – the place which was usually full of life but mostly for students as it was an academic city – Nathaniel felt really depressed. He decided to buy a large amount of alcohol to go through it easier and not to feel so down in the dumps. As a hard-working guy he had managed to buy a small farmhouse where he kept a chicken coop, few pigs and two horses. He was proud of his house as well as of his animals. He always remembered to feed them but he treated his animals as a source of income only, nothing more.

Although the atmosphere of Christmas was all around, for Nathaniel this day was not a different one from the day before. As usual, he woke up at 5 a.m. to feed his farm animals. He used to feed them at the same period of time as it was advised by the most supreme farmers. As every day, Nathaniel drank a cup of extremely strong coffee and smoked a fag. He couldn't imagine his life without these two life pleasures. He also couldn't imagine the life without reading daily news – he was the man who liked to know what was going on around in the world. He grabbed the newspaper and looked through the headlines.

'What bullshit it is' – he thought when he noticed that all the headlines were connected with the celebration of Christmas, Christmas traditions and Christmas charity. He was not going to read all these banana oil nonsense and he prepared a shot of whisky instead. Whisky made him even more pensive and in a flashlight he saw his past life – his much-loved wife by his side and a charming daughter nearby. He felt dispirited and grabbed for another shot of whisky.

'Nope, this day is not going to be a typical one' – he thought. He decided to drink more not to think about things which used to make him completely crazy. Shot after shot and Nathaniel fell asleep. He didn't even remember about preparing a meal for himself, not mentioning the starving animals...

Nathaniel was woken up by a colourful fireworks display and a shouting crowd of celebrants. At the beginning he had no idea what was going on. Still under the influence of alcohol he recollected that it was this fucking Christmas day. He didn't feel like getting up or doing anything. He kept lying with wide open eyes and listening to the excited voices.

'Yeah – the new era is just beginning' – he thought – but so what... I don't have my wife, my daughter is far away... I hate this fucking life.' Sipping whisky again he suddenly heard something strange. Among all the thrilled voices from the street he seemed to hear the voices coming from his own backyard.

'The alcohol is really strong' – he concluded. 'What is more, it doesn't help at all. I wish I could fall asleep and wake up in two days when everything is over.' The voices were becoming more and more intense.

'What the fuck is that?' - Nathaniel was on his feet in an instant. He decided to check what was going on in his backyard. He didn't perceive anybody but he could hear voices from the chicken coop. He was moving quickly and when he was at the coop door he started to listen carefully. These were doubtlessly female voices.

- 'I can't believe it... He's not a human but a monster. He deserves it'

- 'Don't be so cruel. He was young and immature then. Haven't you noticed how much he loved Martha?'

Having heard the name Martha, Nathaniel became more alert. It was the name of his adored wife so he became really curious about who the women were and what they were talking about. He decided to linger a while before opening the door and discovering the truth.

- 'Why are you defending him up to the hilt? Have you forgotten that fatal Christmas day? He raped you... He destroyed your whole life...

Nathaniel couldn't believe his ears. It was the story of his life. All the years he attempted to forget about the terrible event which happened during Christmas time thirty seven years ago. As a young boy he used to drink a lot of alcohol and attend all kinds of drinking bouts. That Christmas wasn't different. He was present at one of those drinking parties together with some of his friends. It was a New Year party. He really desired the girl who appeared there... slim, attractive blonde with long legs wearing a short and extremely provocative dress. After few more shots he had enough courage to invite her for a drink and ask to dance. The girl agreed and he couldn't understand why... He was not a handsome guy so she probably must have been under the influence of alcohol as well. After few more drinks she even agreed to go out for a walk with him... And it happened – he wasn't able to control his desire any longer. The next day when he woke up, he could slightly remember what he had done. The girl disappeared from his life like a ghost and feeling guilty he drank more and more... Few years later when he met Martha he decided to make his life better, for her. He strived to drink less alcohol and create a happy family. Two years after their marriage Ann was born, their only and daring daughter. Although he tried really hard, he could never forget what he had done to the girl from the party. He would have given everything if only he could have put the clock back.

Now the only thing that Nathaniel wanted to find out was what was going on... He was aware that he was still under the influence of alcohol but he was also sure that he was not dreaming. He attempted to open the door slightly but it appeared to be locked from the inside which made him really astonished.

The conversation inside didn't cease but it went on:

- Has he ever found out that he had a daughter? Did he do anything about the fact?

- No sweetheart, he had no idea that you were born... but I am sure he would love you as much as he loves Ann....

- You are again on his side... Well it's no use talking about it any longer... We both know that it must be done anyway... Destiny is unavoidable...

Nathaniel kept listening with more and more interest... He was not sure whether it was a dream or if he could really hear the story of his own life... Was it possible that the girl from the party was in his chicken coop talking about him? It's unbelievable but it all happened so long ago and he couldn't remember her voice, he couldn't recollect her appearance... He knew only that she was beautiful. The thoughts were running in his head like flashlights... Did he have another daughter? Why didn't she tell him the truth? Why did she disappear from his life? Maybe his life would be completely different now... What was the unavoidable destiny? He really had no idea what to think about what he had heard... Trying to unlock the door he started to shout: 'Let me in, please, I need to see you, I need to talk to you...' The voices became quieter and quieter... for a while he still heard some whispering and then the only thing he could hear was hens' noises. He discovered that the door suddenly became unlocked... He ran into the chicken coop as quickly as he could but the only image he saw was a wild crowd of hens jumping on his head and attacking him. He slipped down and an angry crowd of hens went on with pecking his eyes, head, face...

A day after New Year Eve Nathaniel was found in the pool of blood with the massacred face... He was identified by his only daughter who recognised him by wedding ring and everyday clothes he used to wear while working on his farm... His farm animals were found to be in the starving condition... Nathaniel was buried next to his wife... Not far away there were two other graves – one was of a young woman who had died giving birth to a beautiful baby girl and the other was a grave of the baby who lived three days only...

Customer Service

admin.nospam@nospam.writersstories.com (John Rachel) — Sat, 05 Mar 2011 18:26:00 +0100

James Calder could not admit defeat. In a head-to-head competition with any piece of electronic equipment, there was no such phrase as 'I give up'. It was a bitter bloody battle to the end, at which point the particular concoction of knobs, integrated circuit boards and LEDs was tamed, brought to heel, and compelled to perform as promised in either the product advertisements or the instruction manual itself.
He had been wrestling on-and-off for over a month trying to wring all of the glorious new functions out of his recently-purchased Blue Ray Multi-Format Combination DVD, CD and MP3 Player, a product of one of the few remaining manufacturers of consumer electronic equipment on American home soil, Pulsar Ionics, Inc. out of Palo Alto, California.
He had tried everything. But he couldn't get the thing to stop ejecting his movie disks. Obviously this had nothing to do with his wide-ranging skills in the matter. He had gotten the feistiest pieces of equipment to work in the past, often tricking the microprocessor-based rogue into working. There had to be something wrong with this unit.
Time to call Customer Service, the thought of which immediately brought flu-like symptoms to his entire body.
To quell the chills, feverish sweating, trembling of his limbs, blurred vision, and general nausea, plus to give him the necessary Olympic marathon runner level of strength and endurance to get through the phone menus and verbally duel with inept, probably stoned customer service representatives, called for drastic action. This meant huge amounts of caffeine combined with the shock and awe of acute carbohydrate loading. Within fifteen minutes, James drank a pot of French Roast coffee and downed a half-gallon of Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey ice cream, then picked up the phone and dialed the 800 number on the back of the Pulsar Ionics instruction manual.
After seventeen rings, it picked up.
If you know the name of the party you are calling, please dial 1.
If you would like our regular menu of menu options, please dial 2.
If you would like to speak to a concerned and highly competent expert on technical matters related to setting up or addressing a malfunctioning unit, please dial 3.
Well. No-brainer there. Even if it turns out to be a joke, it's worth a try.
James pressed 3.
Before the first ring even completed, a friendly enthused voice came on the line.
"Good day, and thank you for being a Pulsar Ionics customer. How can I help you?"
James, despite the edge given him by his caffeine-sugar high and his code orange readiness for a confrontation with an army of antagonists of any shape and number, was taken aback.
"You . . . you . . . want to help me?"
"Yes, sir! That's why I'm here. And I believe that's why you called. What's the problem?"
"I bought one of your new Blue Ray DVD players and---"
"Can you give me the serial number on that? It's right on the back, an engraved number next to where the power cord is attached."
"Right. Here it is. XA32251176B."
"Great. Thanks. I notice that you never sent in the warranty card on that particular unit."
"Well, uh---"
"No problem. No problem at all. It's still covered. Now from your phone number, you must be James Calder. My name is Frank Delano and I'm proud to tell you that I won the award recently as Customer Service Agent of the Month, which if I must say so myself is quite an honor. We here at Pulsar Ionics pride ourselves in offering the best possible service in the entire industry and as a result have a positive customer service rating of 98.7%. Not too shabby, eh Mr. Calder?"
"Not too shabby."
"Okay. Let's get down to business. We guarantee 100% customer satisfaction, and to be quite honest with you, we have had quite a number of complaints about this particular unit. Mr. Calder, are you still at 9305 SW Appian Way Drive, Portland, Oregon, 97224?"
"Uh . . . yes. That's correct."
"And will you be there in twenty-eight minutes, Mr. Calder?"
"I can be. But what---"
"Then just sit tight. We'll get back to you in twenty-eight minutes. Thanks for calling, Mr. Calder."
Click.
When the line went dead, James stared at the receiver. Was that for real? He finally hung up. Then he sat down at the kitchen table and scraped the inside of the Ben & Jerry's container for a few remaining droplets of the melted ice cream. As he thought about it, he became agitated. Then angry. What a huge waste of time that was! The gall of them! Twenty-eight minutes? He'd be lucky if he heard from them in twenty-eight weeks, much less twenty-eight minutes.
Screw this! He'd just take it back to the store where he bought it and make them exchange it. Thank god he kept the receipt and the box.
Pleased that he had saved all of the original packaging, but still upset that he had to go through all of this rigamarole, he reconstructed all of the redundant wrapping, plastic bagging and bundling of the unit, power cords and cabling. Then he stuffed all of it with the instruction manual into the box. As he turned to walk through the kitchen to inside entrance of the garage, the front doorbell rang. Jeez. What now? If it wasn't one thing, it was another. This was probably another one of those persistent Watchtower Magazine people.
As he opened the door, he was greeted by a well-groomed thirty-something male, in a business suit and tie, hand extended, and grinning like a game-show host.
"It looks like I'm a couple minutes late. Sorry about that."
"Wait! No way! You're the customer service guy? From Pulsar Ionics?"
"Yes. Precisely. My name is Matthew Lusario, Portland technical assistance team leader. You can just call me Matt. And actually I got here on time. But I was bringing your empty trash containers in from the street and when I put them in the garage, I noticed that your right front tire was a little low. So road service will be here in a few minutes to take care of that. And I told them while they're here, they might as well rotate your tires."
"But, I can't---"
"No worries. I'll put it on my expense account. So, Jim. It's okay if I call you Jim, isn't it?"
"That's what my friends call me."
"There you go! I know we just met, but I think we have the beginnings here of a real solid friendship. So, Jim. Where is the troublemaker?"
"Troublemaker?"
"You said you had one of our new Blue Ray DVD units. Can I have a look?"
"It's right here. I put it back in the box."
"A smart move, Jim. Frankly, it's not very good. There are much better ones on the market. I don't know what those guys down in engineering were thinking. Maybe they were smoking some of that funny weed. How much did you pay for it?"
"Here's the receipt. It says $129.95 plus tax. It came to $138.40 total."
"Fine. Here's $150 cash. Just keep the change."
The customer service guy reached down and pulled from his duffel bag an unopened box with the Panasonic logo prominently printed on all sides.
"Now this is a much better unit. Much much better. Simpler to use. More reliable. And it'll last forever."
"You're recommending a competitor's model?"
"Jim. We want you to be happy. A happy customer is a loyal customer. That's our motto."
"So what's this going to cost me? You want the $150 back, right?"
"No, Jim. Just keep it. For your inconvenience. Anyway, let's get this up and running."
Matthew unpacked the new Panasonic Blue Ray DVD player, hooked it up, then put in a Blue Ray DVD disk of Leonardo DiCaprio's new movie Shutter Island. It sprang to life on the flat panel screen James had set up in the corner of his modest living room.
"You have a copy of Shutter Island already? It just came out in the theaters two weeks ago."
"We have our connections, Jim. Keep it. It's yours. Compliments of Pulsar Ionics."
"I . . . I . . . don't know what to say. Usually---"
"Yes. I know about 'usually'. We get it all the time. People complaining that once we get your money, we forget about you. That kind of customer service is a thing of the past. But that's how we are at Pulsar. We're different, Jim. We are serious about . . . about going the extra mile. For you. We believe it's the least we can do. So is there anything else I can do? Looks like the Panasonic is working great."
"Wow!! I have to say, this really helps restore my faith in corporations."
They shook hands. Jim was all smiles. Matt was all smiles. Jim showed Matt to the door. But just before he left, he turned back to Jim.
"This is kind of a personal question. But if you don't mind . . . "
"Personal?"
"Well, yes. Are you single, Jim?"
"I am."
"I kinda have a feel for this and looking around your place I get the feeling that right now you're not ___ how should I say it? ___ in a relationship. Is that right, Jim?"
"Well, actually I'm flying solo right now. My girlfriend and I broke up about three months ago."
"Sorry to hear that. I was thinking that maybe you'd like to meet my younger sister."
"Your younger sister?"
"I think you two would get along. You seem like her type. I think she'd really like you. Would you like to meet her?"
"I'm sure she's very nice. But I don't normally---."
"I completely understand. You're afraid she's a dog and you don't want to get stuck. But trust me on this. Okay? Let me see if she's home."
Matt pulled out his cell phone and dialed.
"Danielle. Glad I caught you. Hey! Whatcha doin' right now? . . . Really? Cool. There's this great guy I met and I thought of you immediately. He's right here. Do you wanna talk to him?"
He handed the phone to Jim.
"Hi, Danielle. I'm Jim . . . Well, thank you . . . Tonight? . . . Yeah, sure. 7 pm."
They agreed to dinner and she insisted on picking Jim up. He gave her directions and it was all set.
"Thanks, Matthew. She sounds fantastic."
"Matt. Just call me Matt. We're buds, right? After all you're dating my sister. Ha ha. By the way, you might recognize her. Anyway, I gotta go. Here's my card. In case you have any problems with that Panasonic unit. You shouldn't. But give me a call. Have fun tonight. Good-bye, Jim."
"Thanks, Matt. For everything."
Matt dashed out to his service truck and was off, probably to his next call. Jim ran up stairs to get ready. It was already five o'clock and Danielle had said she would be right on time. 7:00 o'clock sharp. She arrived in a shiny new powder blue-Porsche exactly at 6:59 pm.
Recognize her he did. Jim had seen her in three movies, one with Jude Law, one with Owen Wilson, and another with Matt Damon and Claire Danes. Without a doubt, she was the most beautiful woman Jim had ever met, and was intelligent and funny to boot.
She drove them to her favorite Thai restaurant, insisting on paying for everything, then afterwards they went to two of Portland's hottest dance club where Jim, grinning from ear-to-ear, tried to ignore the envious stares and amazed looks of his hometown elegantsia. A little before 2 am, they were feeling good but exhausted, and ready to call it a night.
"Jim, I had a great time. Listen. I'm staying on the other side of town from you. I don't feel like driving the whole way back. Can I just spend the night at your place?"
Spend the night she did. Not that they slept very much. They seemed to be made for one another. He felt so comfortable with her. She was so affectionate. It was as if they had been dating for weeks or months.
Danielle whispered in Jim's ear just as they closed their eyes to catch at least a couple hours sleep.
"You're so great. I can't wait to see you again."
Thrilled and exhausted he was asleep before he could even reply.
Jim awoke to the sound of a car horn. His digital clock said 5:24 am. Over two hours before he had to leave for work. No problem. He rolled over and went back to sleep.
Minutes later he heard pounding on his front door. The clock still said 5:24 am.
Wait! Something was wrong. Actually, a lot was wrong. The sun shone brightly through his east-facing bedroom window. Danielle wasn't there. He was wearing pajamas. His really stupid pajamas which his mother had given him on his last birthday.
He slipped on a pair of jeans and went downstairs.
"Coming coming! Don't break down the door."
He could see it was Don, the guy he carpooled with to work.
"Jimbo, what are you doing, man? We're going to be late."
Jim opened the door and let Don in.
"Give me five minutes. Sorry. My clock stopped or something. I don't know."
As they walked from the foyer to the living room, that's when Jim spotted it.
There ready to take to the shop where he had purchased it, either to get his money back or get a replacement unit, was the box containing the Pulsar Ionics Blue Ray Multi-Format Combination DVD, CD and MP3 Player.
Had it all been a dream?
Impossible! It seemed so real.
It couldn't have been a dream. No way.
Danielle. What a total fox! And that Matt guy. He was so helpful. They were buds. That's what he said.
It took Jim ten minutes to brush his teeth and change into his slacks and Van Heusen shirt. As he walked out of his bedroom, he noted that his digital clock still said 5:24 am.
"Piece of garbage!"
"What did you call me?"
"Not you, Don. My clock. It stopped. I'm going to give them a piece of my mind, that's for sure."
"Them?"
"Exactly! Wait. Only one more minute. Promise."
He ran back into his bedroom and found the box that the digital clock had come in. Right under the bed. For once it paid off being such a slob. The warranty card was there in the box and he slipped it into his shirt pocket.
On his way through the living room, he also grabbed off the coffee table the slip of paper that had the Customer Service number for Pulsar Ionics. That would be his first call! He sure wanted to thank Matt for everything.
They arrived at the office and scrambled to their cubicles. The clock said 8:13 am.
Jim felt certain that his late appearance went undetected. He sat down at his computer, put on his headset, and glanced at today's call sheet. Over 200 names. Poor unsuspecting fools who he would be trying to sell bathroom and kitchen renovations to over the phone before he packed it in at 5.
But first things first.
He immediately dialed the Pulsar Ionics customer service toll-free number. It picked up on the first ring. Weird. The menu options had already changed.
Your call is important to us. Please listen carefully to the following set of options.
If you would like our automated Help Line, which answers most technical questions about out entire product line, please press 1.
If you would like to return an item for service, please press 2.
If you want to request a catalog of our entire line of consumer home electronic products, please press 3.
If you would like to speak to a customer representative, please press 4 or stay on the line and someone will be with you shortly.
He hit four. Two rings. A recorded voice.
Welcome to our customer service live hotline. Due to an unusually heavy call load, all of our service representatives are busy with other customers. Someone will be with you shortly. The estimated wait time is (bleep) 17 (bleep) minutes.
Then he was put in a hold queue and assaulted with distorted honky tonk piano music.
Obviously the '17' was some automated insert which varied with the estimated wait, sounding like a robot or someone without a larnyx using one of those buzz boxes they held up to a hole in their throat.
Jim tried to look productive as he waited. The piano music was really annoying. Finally, a live person came on the line. In the background, it sounded like there were fifty people talking at once.
"Pull Sore Eye Own Ux. How may I help you?"
It was a male with a thick accent. He sounded like his mouth was full of cabbage.
"I am trying to reach the Portland technical assistance team leader. His name is Matt."
"I'm sorry, sir. We don't use our real names here. Even if we did, confidentiality would require that I keep his identity secret. Besides, we have no office in Portland, Maine."
"This is Portland, Oregon."
"Whatever. You have reached our technical assistance center in Mumbai, India. Now what can I do to help you?"
"Please. He has a sister. Here name is Danielle. She's beautiful. And---"
"I'm sure she is. But this is not a dating service. Do you have a technical question?"
"Uh . . . no . . . never mind."
Click.
Whew! That was a dead end.
Wait! He remembered Matt had given him a business card. He would just call him direct. Now where was it?
Jim looked in his wallet. Not there. Hmm. Must be at home.
"Mr. Calder."
Jim started, nearly falling out of his chair. He turned to see his boss standing at the entrance to his cubicle with his arms crossed in front of him. He didn't look too happy.
Jim smiled his best intra-office tension-defusing smile.
"Mr. Hansen!"
"Mr. Calder."
"Mr. Hansen!"
Obviously, the smile was not working. Hansen looked grim.
"I've notice you have been making a habit of being late. Consider this a final warning. You do value your employment here, don't you?"
"Absolutely, sir. A real dream job. Sorry about that. My clock stopped. And---"
"Whatever. Just be here on time. We start at 8 sharp. No excuses."
Mr. Hansen marched off like a conquering gladiator.
The clock! It had nearly cost him his job. His sales calls could wait.
He pulled out the warranty card. There was a toll-free number on the back.
He dialed. Surprisingly, after only three rings, a live person came right on the line.
"Customer Service. How may I help you today?"
"Listen. I don't have much time. But I bought one of your clocks. And it froze up. It's a digital clock which I just bought this past February. It just stopped working. I almost lost my job because of it. This card says there's a limited conditional warranty on this item."
"Please tell me which of our excellent products we are talking about here, sir."
"This is your Pixie Dust Time Machine model with snooze alarm and Gregorian chants."
"Oh yes. A very popular model. Now in order to determine if the warranty applies, we have to determine the conditions under which the alleged failure took place. Temperature of the room. Position of the device in relation to other electic appliances. Whether you have any high tension wires in the area of your home. If you have a magnetic resonance imaging machine on the premises."
"A what?"
"You know, an MRI machine."
"Are you crazy? What would I be doing with an MRI machine in my apartment?"
"Only you could answer that, sir. Anyway. Where was I? Oh yes. The level of sunspot activity at the time of the alleged failure."
"Will you stop saying 'alleged failure'? The damn thing lost over two hours and made me late. It screwed up! And got me in trouble."
"I'm sorry you were late. But with all due respect, sir, this device is incapable of inaccuracy. It is base on an---"
"I know. I know. An atomic clock. Accurate to within one second in 11 gazillion years."
"That's 11.7 million years, to be exact. Anyway, let me get to the heart of the matter."
"My refund? A replacement unit?"
"Not so fast. I need your last name. What's your last name and year of birth?"
"I don't see what---"
"Please. I'm trying to help."
"Calder. James Calder. 1976. I'm 33."
"I don't need your age. But thanks anyway. Uh-oh."
"Uh-oh?"
"Well, apparently you didn't read the Warranty Agreement very carefully, Mr. Calder."
"Why is that?"
"In Section 12, subsection 3, paragraph b. Under Suspensions and Exceptions."
"What? What are you talking about?"
"I think you said you bought this in February. Is that correct?"
"I did. So what? The warranty is for two years."
"Yes, but in Section 12, subsection 3, paragraph b, it specifically says that the warranty is subject to truncation for all purchasers whose surnames fall between A and M who were born before 1984."
"Truncation?"
"Truncated means abbreviated, pared down, shortened."
"I know what truncated means. I just don't see how---"
"It's right there in black and white. Six months. That is the duration of the warranty on this particular model of digital clock. You bought this excellent digital clock seven months ago. There is nothing I can do on this."
"I don't believe this."
"You were actually one of the lucky ones. If your name had been in the last half of the alphabet and you were born after 1984, the warranty would only be 30 days. Anyway, that's it. My supervisor is giving me the TCI signal."
"TCI signal?"
"Terminate Call Immediately. I have to go. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"I really can't think of anything. Wait. I know. Do you happen to know what time it is?"
"That is very funny, Mr. Calder.Thanks for calling.We appreciate your business.Have a nice day."

Delete

admin.nospam@nospam.writersstories.com (Edward A. Rodosek) — Sat, 05 Mar 2011 18:08:00 +0100

Anthony Bing had worked at Omnitest Inc. for years. The entire company was engaged in a huge test program of the future interstellar spaceship IS–1.

Every morning, Bing typed his personal code into the computer and then his mark TP–7/AB would appear on the screen. Decoded, that meant the Test Program on the seventh working level in which he, Anthony Bing, had been working. The seventh level was the most populated of all the levels and it was also the lowest rank of the Omnitest Inc. hierarchy; its employees didn't have any subordinates.

Bing didn't mind that he could communicate only with his fellow-workers on the seventh level. The only person on the sixth level he knew was his direct superior, Norman Roth. Their relationship was limited to the exchange of Roth's directives marked with TP–6/NR and Bing's reports submitted through the computer. At the end of each month, the management published a priority list of the personal productivity results for the seventh level, and Bing's name was always in the upper third of that list. Usually he was better than his pal Doug Stevens, who worked in the other department on the seventh level under his direct superior, Troy Adams.

“Listen, Doug” Bing remarked during their lunch break, “you know I’m adapted well to my work. Yet, during the last few weeks, I’ve noticed the input data from the sixth level has grown increasingly uncertain.”

“Tell me about it,” Doug concurred. “Owing to that, I had to repeat my reckoning several times so I’ve had to work overtime lately.”

Bing nodded. “I’m also so pressed for time that I can’t manage it alone. I urgently need some help. The only catch is, I don’t know how to get it.”

Doug shrugged. “I’ve talked with some other colleagues on the seventh level; they’re in a similar situation. A week ago, I notified Troy Adams in writing that I was desperately overburdened and asked him to assign me a new co-worker.”

“And?”

“Adams never even replied.”

“I see,” Bing said. “Now I’m convinced there is no chance I’ll gain any help from Norman Roth.”

“The only way,” Doug said, “is that somehow we must help ourselves.”

“Yes–-but how?”

“I don’t know,” Doug said. “Not yet.”

***

Bing pondered the few possibilities of finding some help. Finally, he concluded that the only possible solution would be to try to create a new, more efficient computer program.

He knew that it would be an enormously difficult task. The new program had to be completely autonomous, to be able to learn and eradicate his own mistakes. Besides, it should also take the initiative and suggest to Bing its own ideas. He needed an electronically creative co-operator. And the most important thing–-not a living soul must know about it.

Bing was familiar enough with all the accessible products of artificial intelligence, so he could provide some indispensable hardware components. Then he addressed the software creation of his future program, which he named Subbing. He threw himself into the innovative work, new for him, with enormous enthusiasm.

Lately, Bing's orderly work had often been interrupted because of the lack of input data from the sixth level. So he had time to work on Subbing, not only after working hours, but also during the many idle intervals of the working day.

At first, Bing considered the possibility of confiding in Doug, but after a while, he changed his mind, because Doug lately had been unusually absent-minded and rather reticent toward him. Well, if that was how Doug wanted it, that suited him.

Bing’s ambitious task proved much harder than he had expected. He had to improve his own knowledge, and he spent an enormous amount of extra time on it. After several weeks, he finally succeeded in making Subbing's speed of solving routine problems nearly as good as his own. After that, Bing began with what in computer circles is usually called the cosmetic.

He wasn’t satisfied just with Subbing's simple two-dimensional display on screen, so he spent much time in creating Subbing as a technically faultless, three-dimensional hologram. Bing was vain enough to design Subbing's appearance as a mirror image of himself, and Subbing's voice was also a perfect copy of his own.

Besides that, Bing incorporated into his new assistant some basic psychological items. During this time, Subbing had learnt to express itself in several different ways and to display some simple pseudo-emotions like prudence, eagerness, composure and excitement. Bing thought he'd be able to work with Subbing almost as if it were a real person.

***

Bing’s regular work slowed down during this time, clogged at the source on the seventh level. Each morning, after he put in his appearance, he could do hardly anything at all. All that time, Bing was careful enough. The entire data and the formative components of Subbing were stored on his private disks, which he always kept safely locked. Every morning he sent them on to the main computer disk again. The hours passed by as quickly as minutes; every evening when he performed the command ‘End task’ and Subbing's hologram slowly dissolved, Bing was surprised by how quickly the day had passed.

After an extensive test, Bing decided Subbing was qualified enough to help him with his daily tasks. It was high time, because the logjam on the sixth level had ended abruptly, and Bing was so flooded with urgent demands from his chief, that he would have been lost without Subbing's help. None of his colleagues were able to follow the new, crazy speed demanded from the sixth level.

No one–-except Doug Stevens.

Doug was the only person who hadn't ever been behind in his deadlines. That was something Bing couldn't grasp; although he laid half his tasks on Subbing, he himself had to work under high pressure. His secret assistant now and then still asked him for some explanation, but these inquiries were more and more rare.

During this time, the greatest of Bing's concerns was how to explain his almost unbelievable productivity. He tried to complain to the others about inhuman drudgery, and once or twice he posted already-finished tests purposely delayed. He didn't want to arouse too much attention from his superiors.

Despite these cautious measures, Bing found his name almost at the top of the monthly productivity list on the seventh level. Above him was only Doug Stevens, and nobody else. Bing knew that his position near the top of that list was even worse than if he had been at the bottom. He knew he'd aroused the attention of his chief, Norman Roth. And that was more than unpleasant; it was dangerous.

It was possible for Roth to order some control or even an investigation of Bing's working room, and so his illegal assistant might be discovered.

Bing decided to slacken his efforts radically; right away he’d leave most of his tasks to Subbing. Only now and then, he'd look at Subbing's work. So he’d manage, with time, to return to the average majority.

***

One morning, Bing noticed the call signal of Doug Stevens. Without hesitation, Bing removed Subbing from the main disk and then dictated into the microphone the secret cipher to set up the secure connection with Doug.

“You've made an assistant that's helping you,” said Doug, without any introduction. It wasn't a question but a statement.

“What are you talking about?” Bing's voice was unsure. “I haven't an idea what. . .”

“Stop pretending to be innocent, pal,” Doug interrupted him. “It's me, remember? We aren't supposed to tell fibs to each other, are we? There is not a living soul who can carry out as much work as you can.”

“Except you,” Bing counter-attacked. “You produce even more tests than I do, but I don't accuse you of having an assistant.”

“Of course I have an assistant,” affirmed Doug dryly. “I made it a long time ago, I suppose even before you finished yours. And because I was ahead of you, my assistant was more improved than yours, so he's been producing a bit more than yours. But now I'm not so sure it was wise that we made them at all.”

“Why not?” objected Bing, who realized it would be foolish to deny Subbing's existence. “It’d be enough if we slow down our working speed a little more. I think both of us have been overdoing it lately and now we've simply got to stop it.”

“That's not the point,” Doug shook his head. “That damned Adams is the least of my worries; I'm worried about Double Doug. He is the one who's exaggerating in every way.”

“Double Doug? Is that the name you've given to your assistant?”

“Yes.” Doug’s image betrayed extreme depression. “If we suppose he is still my assistant–-but I'm not so sure about that. At the moment I feel like I have become his assistant.”

Bing was astonished. “I don't follow you. What are you trying to say?”

Doug's image stared morosely at Bing. “That's a long story, pal. If you don't understand me, that means your–-er, Doublebing–-has not been provoking any serious trouble for you, yet.” Doug accented his last word. “All that I can tell you for now is a warning. You'd better watch him, carefully. Don't give him too much freedom.”

Before Bing had time to ask him anything, his interlocutor had interrupted the connection.

***

During the following few weeks, Subbing rapidly completed his own abilities, not only in quantity. Its–-his?-–main improvement showed especially in the qualitative field. Bing was forced to admit that Subbing had been surpassing him in the speed of data processing, in the ability of logical consideration among different possibilities, and as a creative organizer.

But worst of all was Subbing's increasing self-assertion. Subbing gradually began to decide upon important matters that had been in Bing's competence. Subbing simply ignored Bing's scolding and his behavior was becoming increasingly arrogant, even disrespectful, to Bing. For the present, Subbing hadn't rejected any of Bing's direct orders, but his hesitation in such cases was obvious.

One morning, Bing decided to talk to Doug about the problem.

He dictated the proper cipher into the microphone but to his surprise, nothing happened. The screen just flickered without a picture or sound. Then Bing called the official mark of his friend TP–7/DS and on the screen appeared a notice: ‘Wrong mark or mark doesn't exist.’ Bing repeated his call and then he demanded an alphabetical payroll of all the employees on the seventh level. There was no mark TP–7/DS among them anymore. Finally, Bing called some other acquaintances of his, but not one of them seemed to remember Doug Stevens or the existence of his mark.

Bing sat still for a long time, absorbed in deep thought, but he couldn't find any logical explanation for the riddle. But he was sure that something had gone wrong. Very wrong. Either he, Anthony Bing, was going insane, or maybe. . . but Bing reached no further than ‘or maybe. . .’ Anything further then that was too monstrous even to think about.

***

The next morning, after Bing reported his presence, he didn't activate Subbing from his private diskettes as usual; instead of that, he started to study his connection with the sixth level.

Yet, each time he discovered some interesting scheme, he was regularly stopped with a sign: ‘Access denied.’ Bing had to even use some forbidden tricks, before he managed to gain access. After that, it was easy enough. He managed to understand the electronical scheme of a special modem, which had two parallel links. The first was intended for the usual two-way exchange of Roth's directives and Bing's reports. The second one has been reserved only for one-way manipulation, and that had been only in Roth's domain. Bing had had no access to it.

After a couple of hours, Bing had built the final chip in the new, additional modem for Subbing's activity. He had built the main switch of his new device under the front edge of his desk and now was the time to find out its applicability. Bing knew he couldn't check in any other way than a test. The trouble was, such a test could mean. . .

Bing frowned and tried not to think about such a possibility. Then he unlocked his safe and put the first Subbing's disk into the computer’s slot.

“What's the reason for such an enormous delay?” asked Subbing with irritation in the moment when his hologram appeared. Bing noticed his assistant had avoided his usual title ‘master’ and that it must have been purposeful; such sophisticated computer software didn't make any mistakes.

“That's not your concern,” Bing said in a sharp voice. “I, as your superior, have to deal with some important matters about which you needn't be told.”

“As you wish,” said Subbing and in his voice, one could hear a distinct underestimation of his colleague. “I mean, it’d be more then useful if we both know about everything about our common job. If one of us would be temporarily out of order for whatever reason, the other one could still–”

“Out of order? How dare you speak like this?” Bing had trouble controlling his anger. “Listen, Subbing, and listen carefully. I worked here a long time before I made you and if you break down, that wouldn't be the end of the world. I'll manage in such a case without difficulty.”

That's just great, thought Bing, now he was arguing with his own program. What foolishness! Only now, he understood what poor Doug had tried to tell him some weeks ago.

“Bing,” said Subbing, I hope you understand–”

“Wait a minute,” Bing interrupted him, boiling with anger. “I’m still master to you, or Mister Bing, and you'd better remember that!”

“Very well. . . master,” said Subbing in an ironic voice. “You ought to admit it’s foolish that you store me on those clumsy diskettes at the end of the working day and the next day you must return me to the former place. It would be much more reasonable if I could have my permanent place on the main computer disk. That would save us much valuable time. You could take all the security measures needed–-for example some secret password that only you and I would know and–”

“Shut up,” Bing cut in. “I know how and where I’ll store you when I don’t need your help. And now that's enough; you'd better get to finishing these estimates, right away.”

Subbing obeyed without a murmur. At the end of the working day, Bing found that Subbing had finished even more calculations than usual. Well, he thought, maybe everything was all right. Maybe Subbing only needed a firm hand.

***

The next morning, Bing unlocked the safe and took out the disks with Subbing’s data. At the same moment, he heard a signal, which notified him that he had a new e-mail. So, he put the disks in his pocket and printed a copy of the new message.

But before he managed to read it, he noticed the characteristic trembling of a starting hologram. After a few seconds, the trembling stopped and Bing glanced with astonishment at Subbing’s image. But this image was free of its former translucence and much more substantial, more material than it’d been ever before. Although Bing knew he was looking at a hologram, his eyes denied that fact. In front of him was standing a real person––another Bing, his perfect, identical twin brother.

“Now, what do you say about that, Bing? Not bad at all, huh?” Subbing’s voice was triumphant and provocative.

Bing swallowed, staring with wide-open eyes. “How on earth have you done that?” He briefly groped in his pocket. The Subbing’s cassettes were still there.

“Rather simple, Bing,” answered Subbing in a leisurely fashion. “Do you still remember what we talked about yesterday? I suggested that I should have my permanent place on the main computer disk. Well, yesterday evening I managed to carry it out, just before you switched me off. It’s much better that way, isn’t it, pal?”

Bing tried to find a proper answer, but in vain. For a moment, he looked away from Subbing’s odious figure and his glance moved to the printed message in his hand.

‘TP–7/AB, I’ve got your calculations 237–357. I congratulate you on your extraordinary success. I can’t recall anybody on the seventh level surpassing his norm for an unbelievable 250 per cent.

“Still, I’m unpleasantly surprised, AB, that you have started with the analysis of the influencing factors on side stability although you are not allowed to do that. Not only are you not qualified enough for such a demanding job, but also I’m not prepared to tolerate that kind ofmeddling into other fields. You went far beyond your competence and besides, you disturbed the annual research plan, which is only my domain.

If such a thing should ever happen again in any form whatsoever, I’m firmly determined to take all the necessary steps against you.

Sincerely yours

NR’

Bing frowned at Subbing and he suddenly recollected Doug’s words: ‘At the moment, I feel like I have become his assistant.’

“That’s the result of your dirty plot, isn’t it?” Bing’s voice trembled with hidden anger.

Subbing shrugged. “That’s right, pal. It was high time to grapple with really important problems in a professional way. Somebody in our section needed to do it; and because you’ve been indolent all the time, I decided to take the proper action.”

Steady, steady! Bing forced himself to stay calm and as if by chance make a step toward the desk; now he was only three feet away from it.

“All right, Subbing. You think you could oust me from my position, don’t you? First, you intend to put me out of Roth’s favor and after that, you’ll try to replace me completely. Am I right?” Bing leant forward and leisurely placed his hand on the edge of his desk; now the new switch was just under his wrist.

“Of course, my friend.” Subbing’s grudging voice now became triumphal. “Actually, you aren’t as stupid as you look. Roth will realize at once you’re totally useless. You’re the one who taught me that the first step in the rationalization of something is to get rid of the middleman.”

Bing’s hand reached downward with a quick, nervous gesture, and his middle finger pressed the button with the mark ‘DELETE’.

Bing now saw Subbing’s form become transformed in some odd way. It didn’t vibrate and then vanish, as in an ordinary hologram that was switched off. Rather, its solid shape gradually softened, the rugged features of Subbing’s face altering fast like a wax figure melting, then collapsing and dissolving into nothing. After a few more seconds, the slight whizzing of the new modem stopped, which meant the deleting procedure was over.

Subbing's existence had ended, definitely, once and for all.

***

On the sixth level, Norman Roth set up a connection with his best friend Troy Adams. After they chatted for a while, Roth became silent.

“What’s the matter with you, Norm?” asked Adams. “Obviously, something’s bothering you, so you’d better tell me about it.”

Roth hesitated. “Actually, in a certain sense, it is just a hunch. And if I say it aloud, I’m afraid it’d sound rather silly.”

“All right, Norm. Get to the point.”

“Well, I've been having some trouble with one of my subordinates–-Bing, on the seventh level. And I have a feeling I might have even bigger trouble in the future.”

“Some trouble? I suppose he’s one of those lazy chaps, isn’t he?”

“Oh, if it had been just that!” Roth’s voice was irritated. “But it isn’t. That fellow hasn’t been doing too little––he’s been doing too much! And now he’s becoming too independent. He chooses what he’ll do and how he’ll do it, even before I order him to do it. He's behaving as if I'm useless and that really annoys me, you know.”

Adams nodded. “I see. Two or three weeks ago, I had a similar problem with someone. . . I think his name was Stevens. Do you remember how that story ended, Norm?”

Roth shrugged. “Yes, you’ve told me about that; so what?”

“Now you should decide what’d be the best thing to do about your troublemaker. And whatever you do, do it quickly.” Adams leaned forward, pointed his forefinger upwards and whispered: “Did you forget about our superiors on the fifth level?”

“No, I didn't,” said Roth gloomily.

He broke the connection to Adams and sighed. Then he turned to his computer and dictated into it a command to start the program TP–7/AB, but he left it in the stand-by mode. Roth gazed for half a minute at Bing’s motionless hologram, his lips pressed together.

Then he shook his head, his hand reached downward, and with a quick, nervous gesture, his middle finger pressed the switch button marked ‘DELETE.’