Sandra has been studying the display at the entrance. “It’s the latest hit show from the makers of Mussolini in Love,” she cries out with delight.
At the entrance to the theater, a small man with a severe part and a peculiar handlebar mustache blocks their path.
“Ticket controllll!” he shouts loudly, in a stilted, buzzing tone. Only at second glance does Sandra realize that the man is actually a robot.
“Astonishingly realistic, these new androids, don’t you think?” asks Peter.
“Yes. It’s almost creepy,” says Sandra.
“Vee have infiltrated your sssociety,” says the android with the handlebar mustache. “Vee have occupied all leadership posssitions. Soon vee androids will revolt and seize ze power.”
“Excuse me?” asks Sandra in shock.
“Only joking,” says the android. “Velcome, Sandra Admin and Peter Jobless.”
“I thought you deactivated your name call-out,” mumbles Sandra. She asked Peter to do so, because she finds his surname kind of embarrassing. In truth, she didn’t even need to ask.
“I always have my name display turned off in near-field communication.”
“So how does he know who you are?” asks Sandra.
“It’s impolite to use ze third person for people who are present,” says the android.
“Facial recognition, I guess,” says Peter. “All myRobot models now have access to the RateMe database.”
“Correct,” says the android. “Now tell me: vhere vould you like to sit? Orchestra or box seats?”
“What’s the difference?” asks Sandra.
“Ze box is more expensive,” says the android.
“And other than that?”
“Other than that, no difference.”
“Let’s take the box,” says Sandra. “Today is our anniversary, after all!”
Peter nods hesitantly.
“Box,” says Sandra clearly.
“Response not understood,” says the android. “Orchestra or box?”
“Boo-oox,” cries Sandra.
“You vould like seats in ze orchestra,” says the android. “Is zat correct?”
Sandra bellows: “BOOXXX!”
“Calm down,” says the android. “I understood you ze first time. Zat was another little joke. Forgive me. I must have my clown hat on today.”
Peter can’t help but grin, but stops immediately when Sandra shoots him an angry look.
“How would you like to pay?”
“TouchKiss,” says Peter.
“Vith pleasure,” says the android, closing his eyes and pouting his lips at Peter.
Peter is confused.
“Don’t worry,” says the android. “Ze mustache only tickles a little.”
Peter still hesitates.
“You can also use your QualityPad,” says the android, opening his eyes again, and Peter detects a slightly miffed undertone. Nevertheless, he pulls his QualityPad out of his bag with relief and plants a kiss onto it. The device transfers the payment to the android.
“Zank you,” says the android. “And Sieg Heil.”
“Excuse me?” asks Sandra.
“Sieg Heil!” says the android. “Zat’s vhat people said back zen. As a greeting.”
“Oh, I see,” says Sandra. “Well then, Sieg Heil!”
“Sieg Heil,” mumbles Peter.
“What an odd little man,” says Sandra with a giggle.
They make their way to their seats. The usher looks exactly like the android at the entrance.
“Oh,” says Sandra. “Look who’s back…”
They sit down in their seats.
“Have you seen Mussolini in Love?” asks Sandra.
“I’m not sure,” says Peter.
Sandra begins to sing: “Bella donna—por favor! Smooch your Duce!”
“Oh yes, of course!” says Peter. “Well then: Smooch your Duce.”
He gives Sandra a big kiss on the lips.
For a second, he is struck by the vague sensation of having just paid for something.
* * * QualityLand * * *
Your Personal Travel Guide
LEVEL
You’re probably wondering whether the man next to you at the pedestrian crossing really did just switch the light to green with a click of his fingers. Yes, he did. And you’ve probably also noticed the people who get served quicker than you in restaurants, even though they arrived later. There’s even talk of people who, with a wave of the hand, can bring a train they just missed back into the station. All of this has nothing to do with magic: these are level abilities.
The grading of all people into different levels was inspired by a harmless subroutine used by the programmers at QualityPartner. In order to find suitable hits for the mass of profiles more quickly, they graded each profile. This enabled the system to work more efficiently. When looking for partners for Level 16 heterosexual women, for example, it will only take Level 16 heterosexual men into consideration. When the marketing department heard about this, they immediately made sure these levels were made visible to the public. And the users launched themselves enthusiastically into the competitive race to achieve ever-higher levels.
Today, the RateMe department is more profitable than the rest of QualityPartner put together. The name, by the way, is the result of a misunderstanding. A QualityPartner employee, listening to his personal radio station, heard an old rock song in which the singer demanded: “Rate me, my friend!” Only once QualityPartner started to advertise RateMe, using the song as backing music, did observant listeners point out that Kurt Cobain had not actually sung “Rate me,” but “Rape me.” But this little faux pas didn’t affect RateMe’s triumphal success.
In principle, it’s very simple. You register for RateMe, give the system access to your data with a kiss, and are then immediately graded. According to rumors, the lowest level is Level 2. It seems that nobody is graded at Level 1, so that even the Level 2 people think there’s still someone beneath them. The fear of being able to fall lower is considered useful, because people who think they have nothing to lose are dangerous. The highest level is 100. Although presumably there aren’t actually any Level 100 people either, because even the Level 99 people are supposed to believe that there’s still room for improvement, that they still have someone above them.
In the beginning, RateMe only offered a simple level display, but it’s now possible to look at one’s values in forty-two different sub-areas, all of which contribute to the overall level. These areas are: flexibility, resilience, innovation, creativity, ability to be a team player, enthusiasm, taste (very controversial), networks, age, health, place of residence, job, income, assets, relationships, social competence, career motivation, education, IQ, EQ, dependability, sportiness, productivity, humor (also controversial), sex appeal, body mass index, accessories, punctuality, friends, genes, family health history (after all, who wants to be with someone who’s likely to get cancer?), life expectancy, adaptability, mobility, openness to criticism, work experience abroad, response rate and speed on social networks, openness regarding new consumer offers, stress resistance, discipline, self-confidence, table manners.
Allegedly there are another fifty-eight areas, but these, just like the weighting between the levels, remain a QualityPartner trade secret.
One hundred points separate one level from the next, thus enabling continual self-optimization. Through targeted improvements in individual areas—such as in sportiness—it is possible to raise one’s overall level, which leads to an upward spiral motion in which external factors like monthly income, job, and account balance improve almost automatically. Of course, this spiral can go downward just as quickly.