"A pity. I like to fancy that, in the next life, I'll return as a seagull. Have you ever watched a seagull fly? Gorgeous."
"Would that be a step up for you, or a step down?" I asked.
"Good question. Up, definitely up. The job I have in this life stinks on ice."
"And why is that?"
"Because, to finish answering your question, your only real problem is looking at yourself every morning when you shave. A problem of guilty conscience, as it were. This appeal is aimed at your conscience."
"My conscience is out right now. Can I take a message?"
"You've already heard it. Change your evil ways before it's too late."
"Let me be sure I'm hearing you right," I said, carefully. "Other than the anguish I'm forced to live with day after day as a result of my evil deeds, I'm not in any trouble here?"
"Alas, because of the Ariadne Compact... no."
"Then fuck off."
A short silence followed, during which I tried to believe the damn machine would leave me alone.
If you're not sure what the Ariadne Compact is, don't feel bad. Only an Oberoni would know. But it is a legal principle embedded in the law-enforcement hardware of every computer in the system... so far. If you hail from Luna, think of the Archimedes Declaration. On Mars it would be the Fourteenth Point. All these enumerations of civil rights spring from the American Bill of Rights. But since this isn't 1789 we have to go a little further.
"I will, shortly," the machine said. "But first I have a little more business to attend to. Once more, I offer to you the chance to give yourself up. I will be happy to guide you to the appropriate precinct for surrender."
"I heard something about a deal."
"You mean the offer of limited clemency."
"Whatever. Put your cards on the table."
"Unfortunately, I don't have a lot to offer. The presiding judge would be told of your decision to repent of your sins, and would sentence accordingly."
"And I'd get time off? How much?"
"It's averaging... two to three years."
"And how much am I facing?"
"Served concurrently, twenty years. If you like I could read the bill of particulars—"
"I know my rap sheet, thank you." It was my turn to pause. Apparently the OPC thought I was actually considering it.
"You'll feel much better about yourself. No more being constantly on the run. No more looking over your shoulder. A time of quiet, of contemplation, a chance to reform yourself. The Oberoni prison system is famous for its liberality. The accommodations are not as plush as your present surroundings, of course, but you will have a private cell, hot nourishing meals, regular exercise. You can learn a trade. Why, I think I could—"
"Listen," I interrupted. "Why don't you send me a brochure, or something? Care of the Lambs Club, King City, Luna."
"You're making fun of me. I take it, then, that the answer is no?"
"You take it right."
The computer version of a deep sigh. "Well, I had to try."
"Did you? It seems a big waste of time to me."
"Not at all. I spoke to you in the first place because of a new measure passed last year in a plebiscite. When I become aware of the presence of a wanted criminal, I am obliged to offer him or her the chance to come in peacefully."
"They put that to a vote? What a waste of time."
"You'd be surprised how many accept the offer. Especially people like you, who have been evading the law for a long time. There seems to be a human need to confess."
"Well, thank God it didn't get into my genes."
"Yes," the OPC said. "I knew your father."
"Leave my father out of this."
"I am a great admirer of his work. And yours, as well. The Sparky show was so much better than most children's television. When I became aware of your arrival I watched all the episodes again."
Well, what are you going to say to that? I never dreamed I had fans in the cybertech population.
"So you are the only one aware of my presence? You didn't pass this on to the police?"
"I am, of course, forbidden to divulge most of the information I collect."
And there were the magic words that had kept me out of jail.
We could be living in the most regulated, totalitarian state ever seen by mankind, except for things like the Archimedes Declaration. It may still happen one day. There is a solid core of about thirty percent of the voters on most planets who are willing and always have been willing to let the state be privy to every secret of every person. About one percent of them actually are that saintly; the rest would be in for an unpleasant surprise if the Let's Stop Coddling Criminals measures that pop up every four or five years were to pass. The other seventy percent is aware of its own personal failings and shortcomings and dirty little secrets, and so far has always voted for freedom.
If you lead a reasonably legal life you probably don't spend a lot of time thinking about it, but when it comes time to vote on it again, I urge you to give it some consideration. Like most things that revolutionize our lives, the growth and influence of planetary computers brings with it a lot of blessings, and plenty of opportunities for mischief. The OPC, or on Luna the CC, or the ARCC on Mars has its eyes and ears literally everywhere. When you join your mistress the OPC is in the room with you. It's looking over your shoulder when you do your taxes. It hears every phone conversation you make, knows your credit history and your medical record. It knows how many lumps of sugar you take in your coffee, it sees you dancing and singing like a fool in front of the stereo or in the shower. It watches you when you trim your toenails and pick your nose. When you sit on the toilet, the OPC is looking up your ass. It sees you when you're sleeping, it knows when you're awake. The eyes of Texas are upon you, pardner. For goodness' sake!
The price society pays for preserving individual freedoms is the one it always pays. People like me sometimes don't get caught. If you're careful, if you know the ropes, if you know how to move undetected—by anyone but the OPC—it is still possible in this regimented world to find a crack here and there to hide in. Like a rat? If you insist. I'd rather think of myself as a timid little church mouse desperately trying not to get stomped by the big boys.
Since crime is low in all our planetary democracies, we can still allow ourselves this luxury. If crime ever gets to be a serious problem, though, hold on to your hat. It would be so damn convenient, wouldn't it? Just round up all the criminals in one big swoop, literally overnight. Put them away. Now the world is safe for upright citizens like us. But don't forget, he knows if you've been bad or good, and he's always watching.
"Well," I said, "now that you've satisfied the legalities—do you want me to sign a release or something? Prove you made the offer?"
"It won't be necessary."
"Fine. Adios. Don't let the door bump your ass on the way out."
The next pause was long enough that I thought he might really be gone this time. Guess again.
"There are two other matters I'd like to take up with you. Perhaps a bit more to your liking."
"I can't imagine what that might be."
"Try, Jasper Fitchmueller. Account number 932-990-192743—"
"Wait, wait! Let me get a pencil."
"Not necessary—6554. Stratford Savings and Loan. Current address, Thirty-first Degree, Twelfth Minute by Left Mile 5.34. Currently moving out at 0.3 miles per hour.
A paper copy of the address popped out of the desk before my eyes. I figured I could decipher it all later... if it seemed wise.