The line stayed on the screen until 10:53. While I waited on it, I put the two characters, truthfully, into the statute search. The current law: 2 articles, 1 supplementary provision, 0 hits. Not in the Document Retention Schedule either. The two characters for permanent aren't in the law. The two for truthfully aren't either. Characters the law doesn't have, the screen grows by itself. I copied it onto the back of the extraction card, one line, and checked it over when I finished. Not one character off. I spread the dust cloth back over the desk, moved the folded square to the table leg, and left the hall.
Leaving Zone C means passing through B. Lao Ge's desk was taken away yesterday; today it has been joined with the one next to it into a single long table, one dust cloth over both, the cloth newly cut to fit the long table, no fold lines in it. Nothing was left on the desk. The water cup was gone. I didn't stop when I walked past.
The Archives at 12:02. A He was eating. The lunch box was aluminum, sitting on the register book, a sheet of paper under its corners. She saw me and put the lid on; it took her two tries to make it catch.
I say: Going again. Today, the test.
She didn't ask what test. She pushed the lunch box aside, took 2 keys off her belt, one long, one short, and separated them in her hand.
The outer three rows, the inner stacks, the fire door, 64 steps. Third time through, the seventh step and the twenty-ninth still gave those 2 hollow sounds, same as the first pass. She opened the steel door, 2 turns, and stepped back onto the landing. Her flashlight threw its light from below.
She says: What time will you come out.
I say: Not sure.
She says: I lock the outer door at 5:30. If you can't get out, knock on the pipe, 3 times, I'll hear it.
I say: Okay.
She says: Not the wrapped section of the pipe — the wrapping sheds. Knock the bright iron section.
She paused.
She says: Whatever the test finds, you don't have to tell me when you come back. My door ends at the steps.
I say: Okay.
She flipped the short key in her palm, once, then again, closed her fist over it, and said no more.
I went down the steps. The glass gate read my badge and cleared me through. The words on the screen were the same to the character; only the date line had changed to today. The white light lit the yellow line to its end, the 4 gate plates standing upright: fingerprint, blood, breath, brainwave. Today the lettering on all 4 was still stamped, same as yesterday. The only thing different from yesterday was me.
I walked up to the terminal. It lit by itself, no waiting for my hand.
> Task · ZR-4471 · Status update > Previous status: awaiting resource · Overdue 16,016 days > Current status: executing > Next available execution resource: HZ-4471 (in the vault) > Unit under test: HZ-4471 > To test: 4 items
"No available execution resource" — 7 characters — has hung there for 3 days. Today the resource is in the vault. The overdue count has climbed from 16,013 to 16,016, a day at a time, like the clock on my desk: one direction only. For 20 years there has been no one available. I come today, and there is someone.
First gate, fingerprint. The screen beside the gate plate lit. At its foot a shallow slot; at the bottom of the slot a pane of black glass, twice as thick as the glass on the ID-photo ZP-04, its rim worn into a rough ring where fingers had rubbed it. Along the slot's lip, one small line: Place right index finger on the collection surface.
I read the small line first — 3 seconds. Seven characters, no punctuation. I put my finger on. The glass was cold. The patch under my fingertip slowly stopped being cold. My temperature. On the screen a progress cell moved, not fast; when it finished, the words came.
> Item 1 · Fingerprint > Collection surface: right index finger · Full contact > Ridges: present · No breaks > Sweat pore response: none > Liveness determination: not passed
Ridges present, no breaks. The finger cut on day 17 was this one. The paper cut had been white, leveled flat overnight, the ridges even. The vault's glass said the same. Ridges there; sweat pores, no response. The glass was cold, my finger warm — the glass measures something else. It doesn't ask whether I'm warm.
I picked my finger up. Nothing on the pad to be seen. I had looked under the lamp, under the magnifying glass — nothing to see. This column could see it.
I stood at the screen another half minute to see whether the 4 lines would change. The screen didn't change. 4 lines, done is done. No flicker, no scroll, no second page.
Second gate, blood. The screen lit, and from its side a blood-draw nozzle slid out — a needle, graduation marks on the shaft. One line on the screen: Place left ring finger on the sampling position.
There was no disinfection step in the procedure. I waited a beat: no cotton ball, no cold of alcohol. Before the needle went in I wiped my right hand on my trouser leg. Only after wiping did I remember the draw was to be from the left. The needle going in had a feel to it — one prick, very shallow. The depth column later read 1.2 millimeters. The opening was white. I squeezed, same as day 17. Nothing came out. The needle retracted, the nozzle closed — a very small sound, the same sound as the paper-feed roller seating back.
> Item 2 · Blood > Sample 1: left ring finger · Puncture 1.2 mm · Yield: none > Resample: right index finger · Prior wound site · Yield: none > Hemoglobin: not detected > Red blood cells: not detected > Determination: not passed
Prior wound site. It knew this finger had once had an opening. The opening had flattened, and it kept the record anyway. I looked down at my right index finger: the white dot had closed over, the needle might never have come. I held the 2 fingers up together under the overhead light. The white light lit the pads evenly — 2 white dots, equally flat. Every column said none.
The second screen went dark, as evenly as it had lit. Third gate, breath. A bracket reached out from under the screen; clipped to it a mask, smell of plastic, cold. One line on the screen: Breathe normally 3 times, then 1 deep exhale.
I put it on. The strap drew itself in until the mask sat against my face; the fit wasn't mine to adjust. Breathing. Inside the mask, my own breathing: in, out, in, out. After the third, the deep exhale, and the air went through the mask and away. The airflow had somewhere to go. While I waited I counted my breathing — 16 a minute, counted steady.
> Item 3 · Breath > Ventilation: steady · Tidal volume approx. 500 mL > Respiratory rate: 16 per minute > Carbon dioxide: not detected > Oxygen consumption: none > Determination: not passed
I set the mask back on the bracket, and the bracket drew back in, slower than it came out. The bit of air in the mask dispersed. No smell at all. 3 grams pre-rain, 80 degrees, smell it 3 times, pour it out. This morning I had run that part as written. In the log this item sits further along; at this moment I still didn't know its name. The breathing I counted and the number on the screen were the same number.
Fourth gate, brainwave. Under the screen, a headrest, its face curved to meet a forehead. One line on the screen: Touch the sensor surface with the forehead. Hold still.
I bent down and pressed my forehead to it. The rest wasn't cold. My temperature. No waveform on the screen, not one line. The characters just rolled out, one line after the next, not fast, each line holding its light when it finished. I held still, start to finish, a little over 4 minutes. Four minutes, 240 seconds. At my desk that is the length of 110 items. Here there were no items. Only me.
> Item 4 · Brainwave > Waveform: none > Read target: this unit's computation log · Excerpts > ─ Off-schedule pause · Daily 09:15:02 · Duration 0.40 sec · Cumulative 7,328 · Cause: not logged in > ─ Smell subroutine v-2098-04 · Routine: pre-rain · 3 g · smell 3 times · Time 05:47 · Frequency: daily > ─ Memory package P-2110-04 · Modules: kinship terms (2 class hours) | family scene common sense · with examples (4 class hours) | writing standards · pen grip, stroke order, the signature date (2 class hours) > ─ Ink grinding · writing the signature date · Secondary example: strokes tight > ─ Time base: local timekeeping > Determination: not passed
I read it once at day-close speed. Read it again. The third time, line by line, a stop at every line.
Off-schedule pauses: 7,328. Every day at 09:15:02, 0.4 seconds, 20 years. In the cause field, 4 characters: not logged in. The curve chart held 7,319 peaks of one height; here they are called pauses. The name has changed; the count still matches. The curve's last cell stopped at November 17. From that day to today, 9 days, 9 times. 7,319 plus 9 — it added without missing one.
Smell subroutine: pre-rain, 3 grams, 3 smells, time point 05:47, frequency daily. If I don't brew it, the day is wrong — that sentence is mine. The log doesn't hold that sentence. The log holds parameters.
Memory package, P-2110-04. The training materials catalogue carries the same number — 2110 edition, 17 class hours in total, the module list matching line for line. Kinship terms, 2 class hours. Family scene common sense, with examples, 4 class hours. The maker's plate on the side of the stove, the little plate on the sewing machine head, the white lamp, hands hot in winter and hands cold. Whatever is in the examples, I don't count it. Lao Ge counted his class hours — 8 a day, 5 days of counting — and got 40. The catalogue prints 17. Two sets of books. Pen grip, stroke order, the signature date, 2 class hours. Right hand over right hand, a little looser. The first character, person.
The ink-grinding line ends with 2 characters, secondary example, and after the colon: strokes tight. The 3 characters I write on paper every morning and then crumple up are archived here as a secondary example. The time-base line holds a single term: local timekeeping. The hall clock and the canteen clock differ by 2 minutes; their second hands jump on the same beat. Here not even 2 minutes differ. Here there is only one time.
I took out the extraction card, pencil already sharpened. Copied 2 lines, stopped. The rest didn't need copying. The rest I know by heart.
I straightened up. The warmth on the headrest faded slowly. No mark on its face; the forehead might never have been there. All 4 screens still lit, the 4 gate plates upright, white light down from above, no shadows on the epoxy floor.
The summary came up first on the fourth gate's screen; then the other 3 changed pages together, all to the same one. The change made no sound — all 4 turned in the same instant, not a sliver off, the same temper as the hall's 100 screens. 4 screens, line by line, everything coming out neat.
> Self-verification test · ZR-4471 · Summary > Item 1 fingerprint: not passed > Item 2 blood: not passed > Item 3 breath: not passed > Item 4 brainwave: not passed > Tests completed: 4 items > Sample source: non-biological > Unit no.: HZ-4471
The 4 screens finished their last line and held. I stepped back and stood at the center of the 4. All equally bright, 8 lines equally straight; from any of the 4 directions you could read those 2 lines. The white light was even, no waver. I read this screen 3 times. First pass, looking for a wrong character — there is none. Second pass, counting lines: 8. Third pass, reading the last 2: sample source, non-biological; unit no., HZ-4471. Not one line said Shen Yan. The name never entered the test. Start to finish, the test knew only the number.
I unclipped the new badge from my left chest. The badge reads HZ-4471-2125; the screen wrote HZ-4471. The 4 digits of difference were the year. The vault has no year column. The vault knows the number only. I pinned the badge back and pressed it once.
A small patch still lit at the far end of the terminal. I went over to look.
> Task · ZR-4471 · Closed > Time closed: November 26, 2125, 15:07:41 > Overdue: 16,016 days · Terminated > Conclusion: archived with the test summary > Follow-up: none
Overdue 16,016 days, terminated. A 43-year task, closed out in 44 minutes. Ten thousand stamps take me 6 hours. The testing of this one thing: 44 minutes, 14:23 to 15:07. Follow-up, none. Where the archiving archived it to, the screen didn't say. The close-out screen went dark, the task page drew back in, and the ZR-4471 line entered the history list, scrolling upward with the other task numbers. I couldn't count to the bottom.
I keyed one more query into the terminal. Item no., 77413.
> Related objection · 77413 > Objector: registration no. 0001 · Lin > Status: pending disposition · Pinned > System-wide view records: total 1 > View 1: HZ-4471 · Day 11, 09:24
This was the last screen I called up beyond the 4. When it was done, everything the vault could give up had been given up.
Total, 1. Forty years, 3,000 seats, once a day, more than 44 million copies dispatched. Viewed — once — and the viewer was me. That time was day 11, 9:24 in the morning; my look took less than a second. This time, up to the close-out, 44 minutes.
I counted the inside pocket: the slip of paper, 2 extraction cards, the queue ticket, the scheduling slip. The close-out form was in my bag; the bag was on the Archives table, weighed down by A He's half glass of water. The stolen page was at home, bottom of the drawer; it had never passed through this gate. Everything that could be looked up inside the gate, I had looked up.
I went back to the first gate. The shallow slot was still there; the black glass kept no mark.
I put my right index finger back. The screen lit; the prompt line was still that line. The progress cell ran out, the words came — that same line: ridges present, sweat pore response none, liveness determination not passed. This pass the progress cell moved slower than the last. I watched it to the end.
I lifted my hand. Behind me the 3 screens went dark one by one, in the order they had lit. Fingerprint last.
Put it back. Test again.