Astounding Science Fiction (British edition) — page 7: what you’re looking at

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

SAM HALL plastics. . . . None of them had pro- tested the simultaneous Europeaniza- tion of America: government control, a military caste, light-years of bu- reaucratic records and red tape, cen- sors, secret police, nationalism and racialism. Oh, well. But Jimmy, boy, where are you now, what are they doing to you? Thornberg went over to the bench where his best engineer, Rodney, was testing a unit. ““How’s it coming?” he asked. “Pretty good, chief,” said Rodney. He didn’t bother to salute; Thornberg had, in fact, forbidden it in the labs as a waste of time. “A few bugs yet, but we’re getting them out.” You had to have a gimmick which would change numbers without alter- ing anything else. Not too easy a task, when the memory banks depended on individual magnetic domains. “*O.K.,”’ said Thornberg. ““Look, I’m going up to the main controls. Going to run a few tests myself—some of the tubes have been acting funny over in Section Thirteen.” “Want an assistant?” “No, thanks. I just want not to be bothered.” Thornberg resumed his way across the floor, its hardness echoed dully under his shoes. The main controls were in a special armored booth nes- tling against the great pyramid, and he had to be scanned again before the door opened for him. Not many were allowed in here. The complete archives of the nation were too valuable to take chances with. Thornberg’s loyalty rating was AAB-2—not absolutely perfect, but the best available among men of his professional caliber. His last drugged checkup had revealed certain doubts and reservations about government policy, but there was no question of disobedience. Prima facie, he was certainly bound to be loyal. He had served with distinction in the war against Brazil, losing a leg in action; his wife had been killed in the abortive Chinese rocket raids ten years ago; his son was a rising young Space Guard officer on Venus. He had read and listened to forbidden stuff, black- listed books, underground and foreign propaganda, but then every intellec- tual dabbled with that; it was not a serious offense if your record was otherwise good and if you laughed off what the prohibited things said. He sat for a moment regarding the control board inside the booth. Its complexity would have baffled most engineers, but he had been with Matilda so long that he didn’t even need the reference tables. Well— It took nerve, this. A hypnoquiz was sure to reveal what he was about to do. But such raids were, neces- sarily, in a random pattern; it was un- likely that he would be called up again for years, especially with his rating. By the time he was found out, Jack should have risen far enough in the Guard ranks to be safe. In the privacy of the booth, Thorn- berg permitted himself a harsh grin. ‘**This,’’ he murmured to the machine, “will hurt me worse than it does you.” He began punching buttons. There were circuits installed which could alter the records—take an en- tire one out and write whatever was desired in the magnetic fields. Thorn- berg had done the job a few times for high officials. Now he was doing it for himself. Jimmy Obrenowicz, son of his sec- ond cousin, hustled off at night by Security police on suspicion of trea- son. The records showed what no private citizen was supposed to know: Jimmy was in Camp Fieldstone. Those who returned from there were connicloooks.cornn