Astounding Science Fiction (British edition) — page 6: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

+ _ ASTOUNDING SCIENCE FICTION your communication of the 14th inst., requesting my personal opinion of the new ID system, may I say that it is not a technician’s business to express opinions. The directive ordering that every citizen shall have one number applying to all his papers and func- tions—birth certificate, education, ra- tions, social security, service, et cetera —has obvious long-range advantages, but naturally entails a good deal of work in reconverting all our electronic records. The President having de- cided that the gain in the long run justifies the present difficulties, it be- hooves all citizens to obey. Yours, and so forth.” He smiled with a certain coldness. “‘There, that’ll fix him! I don’t know what good Congress is anyway, except to plague honest bureaucrats.” — Privately, June decided to modify the letter. Maybe a senator was only a rubber stamp, but you couldn’t brush him off so curtly. It is part of a secretary’s job to keep the boss out of trouble. “O.K., let’s get to the next,” said Thornberg. ““To Colonel M. R. Hu- bert, Director of Liaison Division, Central Records Agency, Security Police, et cetera. Dear Sir: In re your memorandum of the 14th inst., re- quiring a definite date for completion of the ID conversion, may I re- spectfully state that it is impossible for me honestly to set one. It is neces- sary for us to develop a memory- modification unit which will make the change-over in all our records without our having to take out and alter each of the three hundred million or so spools in the machine. You realize that one cannot predict the exact time needed to complete such a project. However, research is progress- ing satisfactorily (refer him to my last report, will you?), and I can con- fidently say that conversion will be finished and all citizens notified of their numbers within two months at the latest. Respectfully, and so on. Put that in nice form, June.” She nodded. Thornberg went on through his mail, throwing most of it into the basket for her to answer alone. When he was done, he yawned and lit another cigarette. ‘‘Praise Al- lah that’s over. Now I can get down to the Jab.** =: “You have some afternoon appoint- ments,”’ she reminded him. “TIl be back after lunch. See you.” He got up and went out of the office. Down an escalator to a still lower subterranean level, along a corridor, returning the salutes of passing tech- nicians without thinking about it. His face was immobile, and _ perhaps only the stiff swinging of his arms said anything. Jimmy, he thought, Jimmy, kid. He entered the guard chamber, pressing hand and eye to the scanners in the farther door. Finger and retinal patterns were his pass; no alarm sounded ; the door opened for him and he walked into the temple of Matilda. She crouched hugely before him, tier upon tier of control panels, in- struments, - blinking lights, like an Aztec pyramid. The gods murmured within her and winked red eyes at the tiny men who crawled over her monstrous flanks. Thornberg stood for a moment regarding the spectacle. Then he smiled, a tired smile creasing his face along one side. A sardonic memory came back to him, boot- legged stuff from the °40s and ’50s of the last century which he had read, French, German, British, Italian. The intellectuals had been all hot and bothered about the Americanization of Europe, the crumbling of old cul- ture before the mechanized barbarism of soft drinks, advertising, chrome- plated automobiles—dollar grins, the Danes had called them—chewing gum, conniclooolks.con