LUH’s records are in here someplace, he knew.
“Now that we’re in,” SRT asked, “mind telling me what we’re looking for?”
“Records… personnel file for my… my roommate. She was sent to prison too, I think. I have to find out.”
SRT walked down one of the narrow aisles between computer modules. The bulky electronics cabinets seemed to stretch on for kilometers, humming to themselves, lights winking at some inside joke, long long rows of electronic memories and data processing constantly at work, sleepless, emotionless, vibrating constantly with the console modules that stood bulky and taller than a man.
From some of the modules, voices flickered at them:
“Relay to analysis. Backlog on case 6178821. We’ve lost contact with both of them…”
“Group unit forty-one report to correlation center. Group unit four one, repeat four one…”
“If the loan runs for thirty-seven unearned increments or more…”
Bewildered by the enormity and complexity of the computer files, THX wandered down one row after another, not knowing what to do next.
SRT was right beside him.
“What they put you in jail for?” he asked idly.
THX stammered, “Uh… drug evasion… and, eh, well—my roommate, she…”
“Oh.” SRT shrugged. “Hell, if they jailed everybody who did that… why’d they pick on you?”
Shaking his head, “I don’t know.”
“Well, come on, we can’t stay here forever. Ask the computer what you want to know.”
THX mumbled, “I’m… I’m afraid.”
“What?” Then realization dawned on SRT’s face. “Ohh… you’re afraid that if you ask about her, they’ll spot you here. That’s smart thinking.”
“No—” That thought had never occurred to THX. “Afraid… of finding out… what they did to her.” Before SRT could reply, a voice boomed from the overhead speakers:
“Warning! Warning! Hear This! Hear This! Escaped felon. THX 1138 and an unidentified accomplice have been observed on the fourth level, Computer Central Files area. All citizens be on the alert. The escaped felon THX 1138 may be dangerous. Police are converging on the area. Report any suspicious person to Mercicontrol at once!”
“Oh-oh,” said SRT, glancing ceilingward.
“You’d better get away while you can,” THX said.
The black man shook his head. “Won’t do any good. They must have my picture by now. Only a matter of time before they find out who I am.”
“No!” THX shouted, and he bolted down the nearest aisle, across several rows of modules, running at full speed, down a row that stretched on endlessly. They said he’s unidentified; he can still stay out of trouble if they don’t find us together.
He ran for what seemed like kilometers, flashing past the massive, stoic computer modules. Finally he stopped and leaned against a warm, humming console, breathing hard. SRT was nowhere in sight. THX listened for footsteps. None. But from somewhere he could hear:
“Assistance request from officers 1999, 2187. Searching in restricted computer files area. Request three additional officers.”
“Mindlock impossible. Computer file area sensitive to electric fields. Proceed with search.”
Far, far down the row of modules he saw a chrome police robot step out, so distant and small that it looked like a toy. But it made his heart flame with fear. Slowly, quietly, THX edged down to the nearest aisle that cut across the module rows and ducked around its protective corner. He looked around carefully for more chrome faces and white hardhats. None in sight. Then he ran, hard as he could, away from the police robots.
He stopped finally, lungs raw with exertion, legs rubbery, and half-collapsed against a little desk set into the end of a row of computer modules. There was a viewscreen and keyboard on the desk. THX recognized it as an interrogation station, for asking the computer for information, data.
“LUH,” he gasped raggedly to himself. “Got to… find her…”
But if you ask the computer about her, they’ll get a fix on your exact location. The police will get you.
Still breathless, he answered himself, “They know… I’m here… anyway… Only a matter of… time…”
For an agonized time he stood at the little desk, leaning hard on it, catching his breath and struggling in his mind for a decision. Then, abruptly, he slammed down into the tiny plastic chair next to the desk and typed out:
LUH 3417. PRESENT LOCATION.
The letters and number appeared on the screen as he typed them.
He wiped a bead of sweat from his eyes as the computer viewscreen flashed: WORKING.
“I need her,” he muttered. “She needs me. I’ve got to get to her. Save her.” He wiped his eyes again. “This whole thing is crazy… I must be insane… What am I doing? Everything’s so mixed up… If only…”
Control saw THX from above, through the fisheye lens of a camera set into the Computer Central Files ceiling.
“He’s shown you exactly where he is,” Control said mildly to his desk communicator. “Take him.”
A deep, harsh voice answered, “Yessir.”
The computer screen showed THX a view of a Reproduction Center Clinic. Row upon row of fetuses in their clear plastic wombs, heads down, arms and legs curled, umbilical cords connected to nourishment tubes running above the racks on which the plastic jars sat.
The screen zoomed in on one container. It was labeled LUH 3417.
THX gnashed his teeth in fury. Stupid! Stupid, stupid system! He pounded on the keyboard:
LUH 3417 IS A 20-YEAR-OLD WOMAN. OBSERVER CATEGORY.
REPROCENTER IS GUILTY OF MISLABELING.
The computer screen went blank for a moment, then the picture of the fetus with her name on its container flashed on again. Typed alongside it appeared the words:
FELON LUH 3417, GUILTY OF SEXACT AND DRUG EVASION, DESTROYED PER EXECUTION ORDER 9374911. FETUS REMOVED AT AUTOPSY. NAME LUH 3417 TRANSFERRED TO FETUS IN INTEREST OF ECONOMY AND ACCURATE RECORD-KEEPING. FETUS TO BE USED FOR EXPERIMENTAL PURPOSES.
With a scream of purest agony, THX collapsed on the computer keyboard.
Chapter 18
The cathedral was vast and dark, as black as prison had been white. And it was nearly empty. SEN clung to the shadows, trembled in them, tried to wrap them around himself protectively while he looked everywhere for danger.
Dimly, off in the distant far end of the cathedral, holocameras stood on dollies, outlined by a glow of light that came from a huge glowing picture of OMM, atop a yellow figure eight. Thick cables crisscrossed the floor, SEN could see, and a tiny knot of cameramen and technicians clustered around the cameras.
Standing directly in front of OMM’s portrait, bathed in yellowish light, wearing a safiron robe, was a tall, gaunt monk with deepset, glittering eyes. He was saying into the cameras:
“And it all happened so slowly that most men failed to realize that anything had happened at all.
“They had never known what all know within, that to know is not to know; not to know, is to be known. To change is to circle without end.”
SEN crouched in the deepest shadows, watching the monk deliver his holosermon. Along these sacred walls, he knew, were paintings and sculptures and metal constructs of the rarest art, treasures to be revered and enjoyed by the masses. But the treasures of the masses were not for him. SEN knew he was a hunted man. But still… perhaps… perhaps something could be worked out…