Timothy Zahn - Cascade Point

"Yes, but it was an accident—computer malfunction or human error or something."

"Should've corrected it last Saturday. Way too late now. Next!"

"Hold on! That's not fair—no one goes into work on weekends. We should be allowed one business day."

Ryon's frown lines deepened a bit. "The book says 'twenty-four hours.' If your boss is too lazy to pull a ten-minute computer overview on weekends, it's not our fault. Next!"

Charley didn't budge. "I want to see your superior."

"Forget it. I said you haven't got a case." His finger hovered over a button. "You gonna leave quietly or do we do this the hard way?"

Swallowing, Charley took the easy way.

He got off the elevator on the second floor which, as he'd surmised, was laid out like the first. For a long moment he hesitated, distaste and apprehension holding him back. But Whitney had been right; it only made sense to sign up. Picking a line at random, Charley took his place at the end.

Again, the line moved quickly. Watching the men and women at the keyboard, Charley could tell they were all familiar with this routine. Not only were they fast, but they all invariably skipped past the pages of instructions. Fidgeting uncomfortably, Charley tried to remember everything he'd ever read about the lottery.

Finally, it was his turn. Stepping up to the console, he pushed the "start" button.

TYPE YOUR NAME, NUMBER, AND PREVIOUS JOB CATEGORY, the machine instructed him. Charley complied, CATEGORY/REGION? it asked.

COMPUTER PROGRAMMER/BALTIMORE, Charley typed carefully. RANGE?

Range? What did that mean? Punching for the first page of instructions, Charley skimmed it and discovered the machine was asking the outer limit of his job interest. 20KM, he typed, picking a distance at random.

The machine answered with a screen full of company names, arranged alphabetically, each one followed by a string of incomprehensible numbers. NUMBER OF JOBS BEING APPLIED FOR IN THIS CATEGORY? appeared at the bottom.

Charley seemed to remember that the limit was ten. 10, he typed.

The computer's response was swift. DISALLOWED. MAXIMUM IS THREE (3).

Charley blinked. Three? Had they changed the law? Or was he—or programming in general—a special case? Gritting his teeth, he again called up the instructions.

The impatient rumbling behind him was growing stronger. "Hey, come on, would ja?" someone growled. "We ain't got all month."

"Put it in 'park,' " Charley shot back, tension adding snap to his tone. "I'm working as fast as I can."

"So put in new batteries, huh?" a different voice suggested. "Sign up and let someone else have a turn."

"I'll be happy to, as soon as I figure out how."

There was a loud groan. "Aw, c'mon, friend: you hitting senility early to avoid the crowds?"

Charley felt his face reddening. "Look—"

"If you don't know what you're doing, go up to fourth floor and get some help," someone else put in.

Charley hadn't realized help was available. "Yeah, okay," he muttered. Pushing the "cancel" button, he stepped away, the next man in line shouldering past with a growled profanity. Too embarrassed to even turn around, Charley pushed hurriedly through the crowd toward the elevators.

Surprisingly, the fourth floor was practically deserted. Several dozen cubicles like those he'd seen three floors up lined the walls, most of them darkened and apparently empty. Of the handful that were open for business, only about half were being used. The rest of Baltimore's citizenry, Charley reflected, must have learned the ins and outs of the lottery years ago. The thought made him feel old and a little bit silly. Choosing a cubicle with a sympathetic-looking older woman, he hesitantly approached. "Uh... excuse me?"

She looked up, folding up the portable thin-screen she'd been watching. "Can I help you?"

"I hope so." He sat down. "I was accidentally fired this weekend, and while my boss tries to get me reinstated I thought I'd sign up for the lottery—just to tide myself over. But I'm afraid I don't understand exactly how to go about it."

"What do you mean?" She frowned. "Are you trying to find a new category or something?"

"No, it's just that I've never had to use the lottery before."

Her eyes widened. "You're kidding. Never?"

"I like my job." He shrugged self-consciously. "I've been there for the past thirty-five years."

That awed look was still there, and Charley felt more than ever like a revived fossil. "Wow!" she breathed. "I didn't think there was anyone who hadn't gone through the lottery at least once." She seemed suddenly to realize she was staring and dropped her eyes. "Well, let's see what we can do for you," she continued in a more professional tone, swiveling the terminal screen so that they could both see it. "Could you give me your name, number, and previous job, please?"

He did so. She pushed a few keys, and Charley was faced with the third page of lottery instructions.

"Right, now, first let's figure out how many jobs you can sign up for," she said, tapping a paragraph with her pen. "The longer you've been unemployed, the more job lotteries you can be in. Since you've been out of work less than a week, you can only sign up on three lists. Anything over six months and you can be on twenty of them.

"Each job list is open for sign-up for a minimum of twenty-four hours. Once it's closed, all the names on the list are put in random order by the computer and the company in question hires the first person on it for, usually, at least one four- day week."

"After interviews, you mean?"

The woman blinked. "There aren't any interviews, Mr. Addison. This is an equal opportunity system; we don't allow discrimination over educational advantages any more than over race or religion." "But—" Charley floundered.

"It really does work," she assured him. "Maybe a bit slower than the old methods, but it spreads the jobs and wealth around more evenly and eliminates the need for a welfare system. And that saves all of us money."

She was repeating the same arguments that the developers of the system's precursor had used twenty years ago—the arguments, he remembered now, that had originally induced him to vote for it back then. It had seemed like a good idea at the time... but now he wasn't quite so sure. "I'll take your word for it," he told her. "What do I do next?"

"Sign up for your three jobs. Let's see..." She punched some keys, scanning the displays that flicked across the screen at the touch of a button. "Accounting looks pretty good today—here's a firm that has only thirty people signed up. Here's one with twenty-six."

"Wait a second—I don't know anything about accounting."

She frowned at him. "So? If they get down to your number the law says they will hire you for at least a week. Qualifications are irrelevant—equal opportunity, remember?"

"But what if, say, thirty short-order cooks and only one accountant sign up for the job. How is the company going to get the one they need before mid-August?"

"Oh, the law allows concurrent employment if all parties are willing. If the accountant they want is number nine in the lottery, they'd just hire him plus the eight people ahead of him. Those eight would get their week's salary and could leave right away; the accountant would begin work in his new job at the same time. See?"

"Very convenient." Also very expensive if the right person didn't make the top ten. No wonder Whitney always looked so harried when KDS was hiring. "How on Earth do small companies survive a financial shock like that?"

"The smallest companies are exempt from the lottery." She pressed a button and a different page of the lottery instructions appeared. "And there's an intermediate range where the company can hire applicants for only one, two, or three days instead of a full week." She pointed out the appropriate numbers, then turned back to the job listing she'd had on earlier. "You ready to try your luck now?"