Гарри Гаррисон - 50 in 50

"In that case you must obtain form 276/po(67), which is an application to the proper authorities for the required information." He pushed the papers with what he hoped was a smile. "You can obtain an application for this form—"

"I will die first," the old woman screamed and threw all her papers into the air so that they fluttered down around her like filthy confetti. "I have not eaten for a week. I demand justice. I must have money for food…"

It was all quite distasteful. "I wish I could oblige, madam, but I have no authority. You should apply for the form of application to see the Emergency officer…"

"I will be dead first!" she shouted hoarsely, and thrust her face toward his. He could smell her sour breath and quickly withdrew. "Have you no pity on someone my age? I could be your mother."

"Thankfully, madam, you are not. My mother has the proper forms…"

"Forms!" Her voice screeched higher and higher until it cracked. "You care more for forms than for human life. I swore I would kill myself unless I obtained money for food today. Save me!"

"Please do not threaten. I have done what I can." Had he? Was there some authority he should summon? Was he correct—?

"Better a quick death than one of slow starvation. Money — or I die!"

She had a large bread knife now and was waving it before him. Was this a threat? Did it call for the guards?

"I cannot…" Howards gasped, and his fingers hovered over the keys in an agony of indecision. Guards? Doctor? Police?

"Then I die, and it is a world I do not regret losing." She held one hand on the counter, palm up, and with a savage slash of the knife almost severed the hand from the wrist. Thick blood spurted high.

"What have you done?" he shouted and reached for the keys. But she began to scream and wave her arm and blood spattered him and gushed over the counter.

"The Book!" he gasped. "You're getting blood on the Book! You cannot!" He pulled it away and began to dab at it with his handkerchief, then remembered that he had not yet summoned help. He hesitated, torn, then put the Book in the farthest corner and rushed back to his position. There was blood everywhere — had he made a mistake? — and the woman had sunk from sight but he could still hear her moans.

"Medical assistance," he said quickly into the microphone. "First aid needed. At once."

Should he do something for her? But he could not leave his station. And the blood, everywhere, on his hands and shirt. He held them out in horror. He had never seen so much blood, human blood, before. .

And at nine o'clock, precisely, the post office would open. Another day, just like any other.

What was wrong with his hands? Was there something he should remember? Like a vanishing echo a memory rushed away — a memory of what? There was nothing wrong: he was at his position where he belonged, with his Book close at hand and the shining mass of the multifrank before him. He belonged, of course he belonged — then why, again, a fleeting, fading, frightening memory that it was wrong?

Why was he looking at his hands? Howards shivered and unlocked the machine and cleared it, flipped the test and operational switch so the light glowed green, checked the cleared reading and set up 4,999. .

This was not right. Why had he done it? With a furtive glance over his shoulder he quickly cleared the machine. The long black hand of the clock clicked one notch forward and was vertical and an immense queue of people formed outside his position. They were jammed solid, all looking at him, quiet now, though there was a murmur from the rear.

"Good morning, sir," he said to the red-faced gentleman who headed the line. "What may I—"

"None of your conversation. I want service not chatter. This letter, special delivery, at once, to Capitello, Salerno, Italy. What will it cost?"

"That depends," Howards said, reaching for the envelope, which the man pulled back.

"Depends upon what, damn it? I want to mail this thing, not talk about it."

There was a murmur of impatience from the waiting people and, smiling insincerely, Howards said, "It depends upon the weight, sir. Special-delivery letters are delivered by orbiting rocket and the charge varies according to the weight."

"Then you can damn well stop talking about it and weigh it," he said, thrusting the letter forward.

Howards took it, dropped it into the slot, then read off the price.

"Too damn much," the man shouted. "Mailed a letter to Capitello yesterday and it cost less."

"It probably weighed less, sir."

"I wanna mail this package," a small child said, thrusting an untidy bundle onto the counter.

"Are you calling me a liar?" the red-faced man shouted, growing even redder.

"No, sir — just a minute, sonny — I simply stated that if it cost less it weighed less…"

"Damn nerve, call a man a liar, ought to thrash you. Wish to see your supervisor at once."

"My supervisor does not see the public. If you wish to file a complaint the Complaint Office is in room eight-nine-three-four— don't do that!" he added as the child pushed the package further across the counter so that it slid off the inner edge and fell to the floor. Something inside broke with a loud plop and an awful stench seeped out.

"You broke it!" the child screamed.

"I did not; take it at once," Howards said, picking it up by an end of string and dangling it outside. The child ignored it and began to cry loudly.

"Man ought to be horsewhipped, treating a child like that!"

"Room eight-nine-three-four," Howards said through clenched lips, hoping the man would leave.

A tall young man with red hair was bobbing up and down behind the weeping child. "I would like to send a telegram to my uncle saying, 'Dear Uncle, Need at once credits one hundred—' "

"Would you please fill out the telegraph form," Howards said, pressing the switch that delivered a printed form into the dispenser outside.

"Bit of difficulty," the young man said, holding up both of his hands, which were swathed in bandages and plaster. "Can't write, but I can dictate it to you, won't take a moment. 'Dear Uncle—' "

"I am very sorry but I cannot accept dictated telegrams. However, any public phone will take them."

"Bit of trouble getting the coins in the slot. 'Dear Uncle—' "

"Cruel and heartless," the young girl next in line sniffed.

"I would like to help you," Howards said, "but it is forbidden by regulations. However I am sure that someone near the end of the line will write your telegram for you, then I will be happy to accept it."

"How very smart of you," the young girl said. She was exceedingly attractive and when she leaned forward her breasts rested tidily on the counter's edge. She smiled. "I would like to buy some stamps.” she said.

Howards smiled back, with utmost sincerity this time. "I would be extremely happy to oblige, miss ;except for the fact that we no longer issue stamps. The amount of postage is printed directly on the envelope."

"How clever of you. But isn't it possible to buy commemorative stamps still held in the postal vaults?"

"Of course, that is a different matter. Sale to the public of commemorative issues is authorized in the Book by Reference Y-23H/48."

"How very intelligent of you to remember all of that! Then I would like the Centenary of the Automatic Diaper Service—"

"Nerve, damned nerve, trying to get rid of me," the red face said, thrusting across at him. "Room eight-nine-four-four is closed."

"I have no doubt that Room eight-nine-four-four is closed," Howards said calmly. "I do not know what is in Room eight-nine-four-four. But the Complaints Office is in Room eight-nine-three-four."

"Then why in blazes did you tell me eight-nine-four-four?"

"I did not."

"You did!"