Sam Hall
Poul Anderson
Click. Bzzzz. Whrrr.
Citizen Blank Blank, Anytown, Somewhere, U.S.A., approaches the hotel desk. “Single with bath.”
“Sorry, sir, our fuel ration doesn’t permit individual baths. One can be drawn for you; that will be twenty-five dollars extra.”
“Oh, is that all? Okay.”
Citizen Blank reaches into his pocket with an automatic gesture and withdraws his punched card and gives it to the registry machine. Aluminum jaws close on it, copper teeth feel for the holes, electronic tongue tastes the life of Citizen Blank.
Place and date of birth. Parents. Race. Religion. Educational, military, and civilian service records. Marital status. Occupations, up to and including current one. Affiliations. Physical measurements, fingerprints, retinals, blood type. Basic psychotype. Loyalty rating. Loyalty index as a function of time to moment of last checkup. Click, click. Bzzz.
“Why are you here, sir?”
“Salesman. I expect to be in New Pittsburg tomorrow night.”
The clerk (32 yrs., married, two children; NB, confidential: Jewish. To be kept out of key occupations) punches the buttons.
Click, click. The machine returns the card. Citizen Blank puts it back in his wallet.
. . .
