Something funny was happening to his eyes. As THX approached the black man, saw him looming larger, grinning, hands on hips, the whiteness seemed to fray, to wrinkle and fade and turn gray.
The whole blank background of nothingness seemed to change as a camera changes focus, bringing objects that were blurred into invisibility suddenly into clear, sharp view.
There was a door, flanked on both sides by flashing varicolored lights! And it was set into a metal bulkhead, with steel ribs protruding from it and rivets in the ribs. THX put out a hand to feel its reality.
“What… what… how can it be?” He heard SEN breathless behind him.
“They must have done something to the way we see,” THX said uncertainly. “They did something to our eyes…”
“Or maybe the food cubes were drugged,” SEN suggested.
“Or hypnosis.”
SRT was grinning hugely. “I told you there was a door. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
He yanked the door open and an explosion of noise staggered THX. On the other side of the door was a main pedestrian thoroughfare, with torrents of people racing by on slideways or walking, scurrying like mice through an experimenter’s cage.
“Please move briskly. Do not stop or block the passageway.”
“Please hold the handrail and stand on the right; if you wish to pass, pass on the left.”
“Save time, save lives.”
“The level 6421 intermural stadium will have an open day on series 621TD.”
“Today only, hypo-credit may be transferred with a green optimal card.”
After the quiet and vastness of the prison, this pounding noise and rushing mass of faceless humanity was overpowering… frightening. SEN covered his face with his hands. THX hung on to the edge of the hatch, swaying weak-kneed, almost tempted to retreat back to the placidity of prison.
Where am I going, anyway? he asked himself. And the answer came back immediately. He knew. He was surprised that he had needed to ask.
“All right,” he shouted over the deafening roar of the masses, “let’s head for that door, across the corridor.”
He saw that SEN was standing rock-still, wide-eyed with terror. THX shook him. “Come on, we’re out of it.”
“No… we shouldn’t…”
Putting his mouth next to SEN’s ear, he shouted, “Do you want to stay in prison until the policemen come for you?”
SEN jerked once, involuntarily, then bolted through the hatchway with a keening, whimpering shriek in his throat. Immediately the crowd swallowed him up, bore him away like a scrap of paper in a flood tide.
THX jumped into the crowd after him, with SRT right behind.
“We’ve lost him!” THX yelled over his shoulder.
“What?”
A million voices were babbling, cackling, jabbering over theirs. The loudspeakers were droning their endless orders and instructions.
“Help reduce critical noise levels in this area. Be sure to report all decibel surges in excess of one point five.”
“Control twelve please.”
“Cybers call in; 6442 gate five, pick up on fourteen.”
“Agency for internal development moves forward two malthusian units. This is a new high for this series.”
The tide of humanity was sweeping THX and SRT along, pushing, elbowing, carrying them down the corridor. Like a mindless panicked stampede, the people who were so silent and obedient in tram cars, so docile and sedated on their jobs, so glazed and passive in their apartments, were snarling wild-eyed frenzied herd animals here in the high density pedestrian corridors of the shopping level. Shopping in the commercial plazas was their one true sport; stampeding through the corridors their only adventure.
“Lost SEN!” THX hollered to SRT. “He’ll never find us!”
SRT yelled back, “Too late… stay close.”
They struggled and battled sideways along the crowd’s main flow and made their way to the side wall of the corridor, hundreds of meters downstream from where they had entered the corridor. Panting, bruised, head aching from the noise, THX flattened himself along the corridor’s metal wall. It was warm from the reflected heat of surging human bodies. SRT lounged beside him, looking just as tired but less frightened.
After a few minutes, THX craned his neck for a look at where they were. No direction signs were in sight, and the color markers in this corridor were strange to him.
But there was a lift tube entrance down the wall a few meters, flanked by prayer booths. THX nodded toward the tube.
“Where you going?” SRT shouted.
Without answering, THX started for the tube.
The observer sat at his post, watching his fifty view-screens, earphones buzzing with the normal traffic of the busy city.
“I have a seal break. Vacuum debris repectacle 444. Entrance on con 65. Send investigator. Subject appears to be suicide victim.”
“Two inmates have fled detention block R, Habot 92. Missing since 3:32.16. 1138 prefix THX and 5241 prefix SEN. Recovery operation budgeted and scheduled. Report to Control when felons are in custody.”
“We have an accident in module dispersal center…”
The observer’s trained eye flicked to a viewscreen far up to his right. The interior of a lift tube cell. Numbers flashed across the screen showed it was heading upward from the commercial level toward the main computer filing center.
He transferred the picture to one of his four main screens. Yes, one of the two men in the lift cell wasn’t wearing a badge!
“I have a violation here,” the observer said crisply into his lip mike. “Lift tube cell 0848, heading for level four. Badgeless male Caucasian. Trespassing.”
“Checking.”
“Reference police records on badgeless individual.”
The observer ticked out a police query on his keyboard. Instantly, THX’s picture and record appeared on a viewscreen at his elbow.
“Criminal record indicated.”
But the observer squinted hard at the picture of THX and SRT in the lift cell. The cameras in those little cells were especially bad, the picture was distorted severely. The computer might have made a mismatch.
With a shrug, he muttered, “Not my decision to make. If the computer says it’s the felon THX 1138, it’s Mercicontrol’s fault if there’s a mistake.”
The observer touched the special stud on his keyboard that linked him with Control.
“Felon 1138 prefix THX identified and located.”
THX and SRT left the lift tube at the fourth level. The corridor here was practically empty. Quiet. The lighting was soft and restful.
A glowing sign on the wall opposite the tube entrance said: COMPUTER CENTRAL FILES.
Overhead, a lovely woman’s voice said gently, “Access to Computer Central Files is restricted to authorized personnel only. If you do not have a 5401 green badge, kindly step into the visitor’s registration area at the end of the corridor and apply for entrance to Computer Central Files. Thank you… Access to Computer Central Files is…”
“We can’t get in,” THX said, pulling up to a stop.
SRT tapped his bright green badge. “What do you mean we can’t get in? Where do you think holoshow actors get personal ratings and job assignments?”
“But… I can’t get in.”
Winking with such exaggeration that half his face seemed to fold over, SRT said, “Trust me, friend.”
The black man headed toward the end of the corridor, where an impressive pair of bronze doors stood firmly closed. THX jogged up alongside him.
“Why are you doing this for me? Why do you trust me? I was a prisoner… I might be a murderer…”
SRT grinned. “I was hungry and you gave me some of your food.”
“But—it was SEN. He was carrying the food.”
“Yeah, but he wasn’t going to give me any until you told him to. And besides, I know you’re not a murderer… you would never have been in jail. You’d have been destroyed, or put to work for the State.”
THX stared at him.
They came to the bronze doors, smooth gleaming metal stamped with the words COMPUTER CENTRAL FILES in sculptured letters. Above the doors was engraved the motto of the Computer Center: THINK.
Off to the left of the impressive bronze doors was a smaller, ordinary plastic door marked: VISITOR REGISTRATION.
SRT went to this door, pushed it open and looked cautiously inside. Over his shoulder, THX could see that there was a small anteroom in there. A single camera eye was set into one wall, with a speaker grill under it. Alongside the staring lens a tiny red light glowed dutifully to show that the camera was working. There were no people in the anteroom, but an overhead speaker was droning an econometrics lecture:
“Beyond this is the fact that the didactic design always states conclusions which allow the contrary-minded to build resistance. All in all, a fair-minded judge would conclude…”
THX automatically shut the woman’s near-hypnotic voice out of his consciousness.
Surprised that the anteroom was empty, he said to SRT, “where are the people?”
The black man grinned. “Hardly ever any people around here. The computer runs everything by itself, for itself. I get the feeling it doesn’t like having people around, bothering it.”
“But… they couldn’t leave it totally alone? Could they?”
“Pretty much. Oh, they got observers watching everything, but the computer runs itself. No people. Just visitors once in a while, like us.”
“Observers…”
Nodding, SRT said, “Now just keep quiet when we go in, stay still and do what I tell you. Got to sneak you past the observer.”
He edged the door open wider and stepped into the anteroom softly. THX followed right behind him. Holding a finger to his lips for silence, SRT nudged THX with his other hand so that THX stood plastered against the closed door, well out of range of the observer’s camera. SRT stepped in front of the camera. “Yes?” came a voice from the grill. “What is it?” Holding his badge very close to the camera lens and quickly stepping past the camera, he said, “SRT 5555, visitor permit 2892.”
The observer’s voice made no comment. Suppressing a laugh, SRT tossed his badge to THX in a high arc, over the field of view of the camera. THX caught it, held it in his hand so that his fingers partially covered the name on it, and imitated the black man’s maneuver.
“SDS 5153, permit 2886,” he said as he whisked past the camera, close enough to the lens so that his clothing brushed it.
“See?” SRT said as he took his badge back. “We made it with no sweat.”
THX grinned back at him, as they pushed through the plastiglass doors of the registration office and into the main room of the computer files.
“Where did you learn that trick?” he asked.
“Actors learn lots of tricks,” SRT said. “Somebody thought that one up for a detective story I played in. I was the murder victim.”
Now that they were in the files, THX hardly knew what to do. The files were enormous, seemingly endless rows of computer consoles, memory banks, with little desks spaced every twenty consoles. There were readout screens on the desks and keyboards for querying the computer.
LUH’s records are in here someplace, he knew.
“Now that we’re in,” SRT asked, “mind telling me what we’re looking for?”
“Records… personnel file for my… my roommate. She was sent to prison too, I think. I have to find out.”
SRT walked down one of the narrow aisles between computer modules. The bulky electronics cabinets seemed to stretch on for kilometers, humming to themselves, lights winking at some inside joke, long long rows of electronic memories and data processing constantly at work, sleepless, emotionless, vibrating constantly with the console modules that stood bulky and taller than a man.
From some of the modules, voices flickered at them:
“Relay to analysis. Backlog on case 6178821. We’ve lost contact with both of them…”
“Group unit forty-one report to correlation center. Group unit four one, repeat four one…”
“If the loan runs for thirty-seven unearned increments or more…”
Bewildered by the enormity and complexity of the computer files, THX wandered down one row after another, not knowing what to do next.
SRT was right beside him.
“What they put you in jail for?” he asked idly.
THX stammered, “Uh… drug evasion… and, eh, well—my roommate, she…”
“Oh.” SRT shrugged. “Hell, if they jailed everybody who did that… why’d they pick on you?”
Shaking his head, “I don’t know.”
“Well, come on, we can’t stay here forever. Ask the computer what you want to know.”
THX mumbled, “I’m… I’m afraid.”
“What?” Then realization dawned on SRT’s face. “Ohh… you’re afraid that if you ask about her, they’ll spot you here. That’s smart thinking.”
“No—” That thought had never occurred to THX. “Afraid… of finding out… what they did to her.” Before SRT could reply, a voice boomed from the overhead speakers:
“Warning! Warning! Hear This! Hear This! Escaped felon. THX 1138 and an unidentified accomplice have been observed on the fourth level, Computer Central Files area. All citizens be on the alert. The escaped felon THX 1138 may be dangerous. Police are converging on the area. Report any suspicious person to Mercicontrol at once!”
“Oh-oh,” said SRT, glancing ceilingward.
“You’d better get away while you can,” THX said.
The black man shook his head. “Won’t do any good. They must have my picture by now. Only a matter of time before they find out who I am.”
“No!” THX shouted, and he bolted down the nearest aisle, across several rows of modules, running at full speed, down a row that stretched on endlessly. They said he’s unidentified; he can still stay out of trouble if they don’t find us together.
He ran for what seemed like kilometers, flashing past the massive, stoic computer modules. Finally he stopped and leaned against a warm, humming console, breathing hard. SRT was nowhere in sight. THX listened for footsteps. None. But from somewhere he could hear:
“Assistance request from officers 1999, 2187. Searching in restricted computer files area. Request three additional officers.”
“Mindlock impossible. Computer file area sensitive to electric fields. Proceed with search.”
Far, far down the row of modules he saw a chrome police robot step out, so distant and small that it looked like a toy. But it made his heart flame with fear. Slowly, quietly, THX edged down to the nearest aisle that cut across the module rows and ducked around its protective corner. He looked around carefully for more chrome faces and white hardhats. None in sight. Then he ran, hard as he could, away from the police robots.
He stopped finally, lungs raw with exertion, legs rubbery, and half-collapsed against a little desk set into the end of a row of computer modules. There was a viewscreen and keyboard on the desk. THX recognized it as an interrogation station, for asking the computer for information, data.
“LUH,” he gasped raggedly to himself. “Got to… find her…”
But if you ask the computer about her, they’ll get a fix on your exact location. The police will get you.
Still breathless, he answered himself, “They know… I’m here… anyway… Only a matter of… time…”
For an agonized time he stood at the little desk, leaning hard on it, catching his breath and struggling in his mind for a decision. Then, abruptly, he slammed down into the tiny plastic chair next to the desk and typed out:
LUH 3417. PRESENT LOCATION.
The letters and number appeared on the screen as he typed them.
He wiped a bead of sweat from his eyes as the computer viewscreen flashed: WORKING.
“I need her,” he muttered. “She needs me. I’ve got to get to her. Save her.” He wiped his eyes again. “This whole thing is crazy… I must be insane… What am I doing? Everything’s so mixed up… If only…”
Control saw THX from above, through the fisheye lens of a camera set into the Computer Central Files ceiling.
“He’s shown you exactly where he is,” Control said mildly to his desk communicator. “Take him.”
A deep, harsh voice answered, “Yessir.”
The computer screen showed THX a view of a Reproduction Center Clinic. Row upon row of fetuses in their clear plastic wombs, heads down, arms and legs curled, umbilical cords connected to nourishment tubes running above the racks on which the plastic jars sat.
The screen zoomed in on one container. It was labeled LUH 3417.
THX gnashed his teeth in fury. Stupid! Stupid, stupid system! He pounded on the keyboard:
LUH 3417 IS A 20-YEAR-OLD WOMAN. OBSERVER CATEGORY.
REPROCENTER IS GUILTY OF MISLABELING.
The computer screen went blank for a moment, then the picture of the fetus with her name on its container flashed on again. Typed alongside it appeared the words:
FELON LUH 3417, GUILTY OF SEXACT AND DRUG EVASION, DESTROYED PER EXECUTION ORDER 9374911. FETUS REMOVED AT AUTOPSY. NAME LUH 3417 TRANSFERRED TO FETUS IN INTEREST OF ECONOMY AND ACCURATE RECORD-KEEPING. FETUS TO BE USED FOR EXPERIMENTAL PURPOSES.
With a scream of purest agony, THX collapsed on the computer keyboard.