Day five.
05:47, put the water on. 3 grams of pre-rain, 80 degrees, pour, 3 smells, pour it out. Yesterday's ink is still in the well of the inkstone; I grind 20 circles and write today's date. The strokes are still tight.
06:12:00, the commuter car pulls in, empty. 06:12:08, the doors close. The maintenance notice is still up in the elevator, 1 corner curled a centimeter, curled 3 years now. 19 seconds from B2 to floor 1.
07:00:00, the desktop lights. First in the queue, 77413.
The reroute order pops up after it and sits in the lower right. The clock field has hit zero, and under it a new line in black:
> Status: Overdue > Overdue by: 14 hr 09 min > Clock: running
Clock: running. I read the 4 characters twice. The system keeps timing an item that is already overdue; who the resulting numbers are for, the interface doesn't say.
Morning stamping as usual. A water-system retrofit for an old building in the south of the city, human impact Grade 3, 103 names in the annex, I count 103. Stamp.
09:02, the gate reader at the Zone C entrance chimes once.
Not one of ours. The hall's gate reader is muted for the review tier; it sounds for outsiders. I look up: 2 people coming in through the entrance, a woman in front, dark gray coat, hair tucked behind her ears, a tablet in one hand, a kraft bag under her arm. A badge hangs at her left breast, black on white: Audit Office, and under it a number, JH-0117.
She doesn't look for the duty desk and doesn't ask directions. She walks straight into Zone C and stops in front of my desk.
She says: HZ-4471.
I say: Yes.
She says: Audit Office, Ji Lan. A rerouted item has gone overdue. I need to ask you about the situation.
She said you — the formal word. Nobody inside the review tier used it.
She says: Keep working. I'll watch a while.
She stands 2 steps off my right, saying nothing, watching me stamp. Seal up, seal down, the out-slot swallows the document, the next one floats up. Her eyes follow the seal, follow the hand; they don't follow the document. She stands there a little over 3 minutes. In a little over 3 minutes I stamp 96 items.
09:15:02.
My hand trembles. 0.4 seconds. The seal stops in midair, comes down again, the face square.
She says: What's wrong with the hand.
I say: Old habit.
She says: How long.
I say: 20 years.
She says: Reported at the physical.
I say: Reported. It isn't on the report.
She says: 0.4 seconds.
I say: 0.4 seconds.
She says: You've timed it.
I say: Timed it.
She says: Error margin.
I say: Under a second.
She enters every one of those numbers. When she's done she looks up and says: This item is unrelated to the matter at hand.
I say: I know.
She says: I entered it anyway.
She taps the tablet a few times, looks up, says: Could you stop for a moment.
I put the seal back in the third compartment.
She says: Find somewhere we can talk.
At the end of Zone C there's an interview room, frosted-glass door, a usage schedule taped to it. The schedule is printed on 1 sheet of A4; the most recent booking is September, 6 years ago — the requester field carries a stamp, and so does the review field. In 6 years, nobody has booked the room.
She glances at the schedule and says: Here is fine.
Inside: 1 table, 2 chairs, 1 port on the table, a plastic cap over the port, dust on the cap. She plugs in the tablet; it lights, and its desktop throws onto the old screen on the wall. She brings up a form.
> Audit Office inquiry record > No.: JH-2125-1108-037 > Person questioned: HZ-4471 (review tier, Zone C) > Matter: rerouted item 77413 overdue and unhandled > Overdue duration: 16 hr 11 min (as of 09:02) > Basis: Review Tier Operations Manual 7.9.1, 7.9.3 > Statement field: (stated by the person questioned, entered by the auditor) > Conclusion field (single choice, required): > □ Resolved □ Procedural defect □ Equipment error □ Individual fault (explanation required) > □ Other (system notice: this option is unavailable)
She says: This inquiry is recorded in full. I enter the statement field; after entry you may request verification. If it verifies, sign here.
She lays a pen on the table. The pen is the Audit Office's; a number is engraved on the barrel.
I say: Who decides the conclusion.
She says: I enter it. The division decides it.
I say: And if none of the 4 boxes fits.
She says: Pick the closest one.
I say: Closest isn't the same as correct.
She says: It isn't the same as wrong either.
She says: 77413, category R3, red light, a 72-hour limit, expired yesterday at 16:51. The fourth field of the reroute order is empty. Why.
I say: I didn't reroute it.
She says: I know you didn't reroute it. I'm asking why.
I say: I'm looking into it.
She says: Looking into what.
I say: The objector cited a clause of law. It isn't in the current law.
She says: Which clause.
I say: Article Zero.
Her fingers stop on the tablet. They stop for about 3 seconds.
She says: The Natural Person Review Act, text currently in force. Article 1, Article 2, 1 supplementary provision. There is no Article Zero.
I say: Yes.
She says: Then you're looking into a clause that doesn't exist.
I say: I'm looking into why it doesn't exist.
She looks at me once and enters the sentence in the statement field. She enters it without changing a word — types out even the 3 characters of does not exist. When she finishes she doesn't look up.
I say: One more thing.
She says: Go ahead.
I say: The acceptance date on this objection is April 11, 2085. Annex 2 is a death registration, registered February 9, 2083.
She says: I saw it.
I say: The death precedes the objection by 2 years.
She says: Problems with the scan go to the proposal tier.
I say: Yes.
She enters that half-answer too.
She says: Can you recite 7.9.3.
I say: A reviewer shall not process a red-light document in any other manner.
She says: What counts as any other manner.
I say: Any processing that isn't rerouting.
She says: Such as.
I say: Including not processing it.
She looks at that one for 2 seconds and enters it.
She says: Do you know the objector.
I say: I don't.
She says: Ever seen them.
I say: No.
She says: Then who are you looking into it for.
I don't answer.
When the entry is done she pushes the tablet aside and draws a printed sheet out of the kraft bag. On it, my own things: gate log, hall-leave register, desktop operation log.
She says: Yesterday, 07:47, you left the hall. Reason: lookup. Expected return 08:30. Actual return 11:10. Out of the hall 3 hours 23 minutes — 2 hours 40 minutes over.
I say: Yes.
She says: Looking up what.
I say: Archives.
She says: What archives.
I say: The Legislative Notes to the Natural Person Review Act.
She writes that line down, writing slowly. When it's written she raises her head.
She says: Did you find it.
I say: I found one sentence.
She says: Which sentence.
I don't answer.
She waits about 5 seconds, puts the pen down, doesn't ask again. The room is quiet a while; the vent hums steady. This is the Audit Office's way: the one asking doesn't hurry, and the one answering fills in the blanks. I've watched 20 years of silence from inside the review tier; this kind of silence I know. What I never had in 20 years is this: to be the one standing at its other end.
She switches tack, pulls the tablet back over, brings up a chart.
She says: This is your stamp-pressure curve.
A single line. The horizontal axis runs 07:00 to 16:51; the vertical axis is pressure, in newtons. Every stamp is one peak, and between peaks the line is flat.
Two fingers, and she enlarges the chart. Once, twice, 3 times, until single peaks are visible.
The peaks are one height, one width, one spacing. She swipes left across the whole day: the peaks all alike. Swipes back right: the same. At the 09:15 stretch she stops for 2 seconds, then swipes past.
I say: What's wrong with that stretch.
She says: Nothing is wrong with it.
She swipes right again, to the tail of the line. After 16:51 the line is straight, flat all the way to the next day, 07:00.
She says: What is this stretch.
I say: After seal return the hall needs no one.
She says: I'm asking why the line doesn't break.
I say: The equipment keeps sampling.
She says: The equipment samples. Whether anyone is there, the chart can't tell.
I say: It can't tell.
She doesn't enter that half-answer. She only looks at the chart a long time.
She swipes back and points at a place on the chart.
She says: Once a day, 15:37, you get up.
I say: The manual requires that continuous stamping not exceed 90 minutes; one should interrupt on one's own initiative.
She says: You interrupt 6 times a day. Only once did you walk 40 steps.
I say: Getting water takes walking.
She says nothing. She lays the tablet face-down on the table.
After a while she turns the tablet over, brings up the statement field, and reads it to me:
> Statement field (excerpt) > Q: Why was the reroute not completed within the time limit. A: I'm looking into it. > Q: Looking into what. A: The clause the objector cites, absent from the current law. Clause: Article Zero. > Q: That clause does not exist. A: I'm looking into why it doesn't exist. > Q: The death registration in Annex 2 predates acceptance by 2 years. Does it affect acceptance. A: Yes. > Q: Do you know the objector. A: Don't know them. Never seen them. > Q: Checking on whose behalf. A: (no answer)
She says: Verify it.
I say: It's all correct.
She says: One place I don't understand.
I say: Which place.
She says: What you're looking into isn't whether this item should be rerouted. It's a person from 40 years ago. Am I right.
I say: I'm looking into the legal basis.
She says: The basis isn't in the case file.
I say: I know.
She doesn't take that up. She turns the tablet around and reads the lines she entered, start to finish, like reading something written by someone else.
Partway through she goes out to take a call. Before going she lays the tablet face-down and says: Wait here. I sit in the room for 7 minutes. The old screen on the wall is dark and holds my reflection. For those 7 minutes I think about the one thing due tomorrow: the original of 77413. I don't have it.
She puts the tablet away, stands, walks to the door, hand on the handle.
When I open my mouth I don't know what I'm going to say.
I say: Ji Lan.
She says: Go ahead.
I say: Natural person — how does the law define it.
She stops.
She says: Even that you have to ask.
I say: I'm asking for the definition.
She recites one: A decision touching the rights and interests of natural persons at Grade 3 or above shall have no effect unless sealed by a natural-person reviewer.
I say: That one is about the force of review. Not about the natural person.
She recites another, the one on to whom the Act applies.
I say: I'm asking about the natural person.
She says: The supplementary provision. "Natural person" in this Act carries its ordinary meaning.
I say: Ordinary — whose ordinary.
She clamps the tablet under her arm and turns around. This time she dropped the formal word.
She says: Shen Yan. Definitions aren't for reciting. A natural person is a natural person.
I say: I've done natural-person review for 20 years. Those 4 characters are engraved on my seal and hung at the city hall door.
She says: Then you should know it better than anyone.
I say: I don't know.
She looks at me for 3 seconds. In 20 years I've watched plenty of people look at me: Lao Zhou looks at my hands, Lao Ge at my seal face, Xiao Zheng at the standings screen. What she's looking at is none of these.
She says: Tomorrow morning, the case file on 77413 goes to the Audit Office. The original.
I say: Will a copy do.
She says: The original.
I say: What time.
She says: Before ten.
I say: What floor is the Audit Office.
She says: Floor 12, 1204.
I say: I'll bring it up.
She says: I'll come down for it.
The door shuts. The interview room's old screen is still lit, throwing the inquiry form on the wall; all 4 boxes of the conclusion field are empty.
Back in Zone C. Passing my desk, Xiao Zheng leans out from 2 rows over for a look, then pulls back. Once I'm seated he comes over with his cup for water, stands 2 seconds, says: Shen, the auditor — gone? I say: Gone. He says: What did she ask about. I say: An old item. He says: Oh. After a while he says: You were out yesterday, and not one of us asked where you went. I say: I know. He says: Good. He takes his water and goes back.
At lunch in the canteen I don't sit beside Lao Ge. Master Xu from Zone B passes with her tray and says: I saw the Audit people. I say: Mm. She says: Don't talk to them standing. Sit down to talk. I say understood. She moves off with her tray. The hydroponic plant on her desk has fresh water today; the glass jar is new.
Afternoon stamping. At 15:37 I'm up for water, 40 steps there and back; the water sits at my right hand, not one sip.
16:44, day-close.
> Reviewer: HZ-4471 > Stamps today: 8,212 > Net time: 4 hr 57 min > Average: 2.17 sec/item > Errors: 0
I pass the standings screen without looking. First time in 20 years.
Before end of shift Lao Ge is putting his paperweight away at his station. Today he doesn't leave it on the desk. As I pass he says: The Audit people are gone.
I say: Gone.
He says: Came for an item.
I say: Came for an item.
He says: What item.
I say: An old item.
He gives an mm, puts the paperweight in his bag, zips it. Before leaving he glances at my desk and says a thing with no head and no tail: When a seal lands on people, the people have to be there.
I say: What.
He says: Nothing.
He goes. This one sounds more like an explanation than The seal keeps the man did. It doesn't explain anything.
On the way home I go through the day's sentences, there in the commuter car. I said I'm looking into it. I said Article Zero. I said the death precedes the objection by 2 years. All 3 went into the statement field, not one character changed. Twenty years — every word I've put on documents has had consequences. This is the first time my words didn't land on paper. They landed in someone else's record.
The pothos is watered. 2 leaves dropped today.
The inkstone doesn't get washed. I write 3 characters: natural person. When they're written I crumple the sheet, in with yesterday's, into the bin.
Before sleep I open the drawer, pull Lao Zhou's sheet out from under the paperweight, and read Rule 7. Once through, then back under the weight. Rule 7 says: A file that means trouble — don't argue with it.
Tomorrow's delivery is the original. I don't have the original.