Timothy Zahn - Cascade Point

"Down the hall, second door on the right," she said, her voice noticeably cooler.

"Thank you." Wondering what he'd said, Charley left the room and headed down the corridor.

The sign on the door said Employment Office, and the young man behind the anteroom desk had the busy look of a man clawing his way up the corporate ladder. "Yes?" he said as Charley stepped up. "Name, please?"

"Charles Addison. I was called yesterday—"

"Right." The junior exec took a piece of paper from a stack beside him and handed it over. "Sign it and you can have your chit."

Frowning, Charley took it and read the first paragraph. It was a contract stating that he was withdrawing from the lottery for job #442-0761-3228-764 in exchange for a cash payment. "I think there's been a mistake," he said. "I'm here about the programmer job."

The other looked up, mild irritation on his face. "And there's your release. Sign it and you'll get your money."

"But I don't want any moneys—I want the job."

The younger man stared up at him in disbelief. "What are you trying to pull?" he demanded.

"Nothing. But I'm number eight in the lottery and I'm qualified for the job, so I'd like to take a shot at it."

"But—" the other sputtered. "You can't; we've already hired the woman we wanted."

"Then why did you call me? Wait a minute. What was her lottery number?" Anger was beginning to grow in Charley's mind; anger and a conviction that someone was trying to cheat him. "Well?"

The junior exec hesitated, then took refuge in his intercom. "Mr. Girard; there's someone here I think you'd better see."

A moment later the inner door opened and a broad-faced man strode into the anteroom. "Yes? Is there some problem?"

"This man refuses to sign the lottery release," his subordinate said, pointing at Charley.

Girard's eyebrows rose fractionally. "Is that true, Mr.—?"

"Addison; Charles Addison. Yes, it is. I've worked in computers since I was twenty-three, and I want to take this job."

"I see. Would you step into my office, please?" Charley followed him inside, sat down in the proffered seat. "Now, Mr. Addison," Girard said, perching on a corner of his desk, "I'm sure you understand the computer industry these days; how fast things are changing and all. I don't doubt that you're an excellent worker, but we need someone fresh from the leading edge of research in the field."

"Mr. Girard, you don't seem to understand. I'm not just someone who wandered in off the lottery—up till a week ago I was chief programmer at Key Data Services. I know I can do the job."

"Yes, I'm sure you could—with proper training. But we can't afford to take the time."

"Not even a week? I'm legally entitled to a week, you know."

Girard shrugged. "Quite frankly, Mr. Addison, you'd be wasting both your time and ours. The higher-ups have already decided who they want, and they would be the ones to decide whether or not your work had been satisfactory."

Charley stared at him. "And it wouldn't be, of course," he said bitterly.

The other spread his hands. "It's standard company policy, designed to speed up the employment process. I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do."

Charley grimaced, a sour taste in his mouth. This was something his reading hadn't prepared him for, and he didn't know how to fight it. Suddenly realizing he was still clutching the release form, he raised it and began reading. A number caught his eye. "This says you're only going to pay me three hundred fifty to drop out of the list. A week's salary for a twenty-five-kay job should be five hundred, shouldn't it?"

"Oh, well, that's standard policy, too. You see, if you're actually hired for a job, even concurrently and only for a week, you lose your buildup of unemployed time. Most of the people we pay off are up to the twenty-listing level and don't want to start over again at three. They're willing to take less money to simply drop out of line and therefore maintain their status."

A status that apparently enabled them to avoid work entirely while still making money. The welfare system hadn't died, Charley realized; it had merely been given plastic surgery and sent out under a new name. "Cute. Probably legal, too."

"Of course." Girard reached into his pocket. "So if you'll just sign the agreement—"

"But I'm not one of your professional moochers," Charley interrupted him. "I prefer to work for my living, even if only for a week at a time."

Girard froze halfway through the motion of handing Charley a pen. "I... well, I suppose that would be all right. I guess your status doesn't matter much when you've only been out a week, eh? I'll just get a concurrent-employment agreement—"

"That's not good enough," Charley said calmly. The rules of this game, he was learning, were far different than he'd expected. It was time to find out if they would bend for him, too. "Maybe working here would be a waste of time—but I've got plenty to spare. If you and your new whiz kid don't want to sit around for a week, you'll have to make it worthwhile for me to drop out."

Girard's eyes narrowed. He was silent a long moment, searching Charley's face. "How much?" he said at last, some of the starch seeming to go out of his backbone with the words.

Pay dirt. Anticipating business as usual, Dundalk Electronics must have jumped the gun. Their new programmer was probably hard at work already—and Charley was suddenly in a strong position. Maybe. "I want two weeks' salary," he told the other, daring greatly. If Girard called his bluff and refused, Charley wasn't at all sure he could get official attention to the case—or even whether the government really prosecuted cases like this.

But Girard didn't refuse. "Wait here," he growled and left the room. Within two minutes he was back with an electronic transfer chit and a new form, both of which he thrust at Charley. Skimming the paper, Charley learned he had accepted a week's concurrent employment at a "special payment rate" of a thousand dollars. The chit was made out in the proper amount; pocketing it, Charley signed the agreement.

"Okay. Now get out," Girard growled as he took back the paper.

Charley stood up. "I don't want you to think I'm deliberately trying to cheat you," he said. "As far as I'm concerned, you're entitled to two weeks' worth of my services. I'm sure I could be of help around—"

"Forget it. And if you ever wind up on one of our lists again, don't think you'll be able to pull this trick twice. Troublemakers like you go onto our computer, and it carries grudges a long time."

"I'll keep that in mind. Good-bye, Mr. Girard." It was a small victory, Charley realized as he walked outside, and not one he was particularly proud of. Still, getting paid for not working was the next best thing to actually having a job. He just hoped it wouldn't get to be a habit.

—

"Will, I'm rapidly going nuts. Isn't there anyone else you can try?"

Whitney's face, even given the limitations of telephone pictures, looked pretty haggard. "I tell you, Charley, I've gone the whole route. I've talked to everyone in the local Employment Office and half of the button-pushers in Washington. Apparently no one but the director himself can do anything at this point, and he's already refused to intercede. Ignores my letters and calls completely now."

"Maybe you should write to the president," Charley suggested, only half- jokingly.

"Of the United States? I already did. Also the Secretary of Labor. They each sent me back a form letter and list of the administrations accomplishments." Whitney shook his head tiredly. "Look, if you need to borrow some money or something—"

"Aw, no, it's not that," Charley assured him. "I'm making a little bit now and my savings account is still healthy. I just can't stand this business of collecting money for doing absolutely nothing. I thought I'd get used to it, but I'm not. How do people do this for years at a time? Five weeks and already I feel like a cross between a parasite and a professional gambler."