The Golden Globe

"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.

"Any cabbie in Oberon can take you there," the OPC added, thoughtfully.

"Ah. That's great," I said. I studied the slip of paper as if the answers to all my questions might be buried in it. "How do I know if this is... I mean, you'd love to lock me up, I don't expect you like me very much, so how do I know this is..."

"Honest? Square? Pukka? Veritas? The straight shit? Ask the fellow who was by here yesterday, left me this lamp. Said he'd given up on humans, and I could have the damn thing. Or consider that, (a), you would have found the account eventually so I'm only saving you a little time, and (b), that yes, I really don't like you very much—though I continue to be an admirer of your work—and anything that will speed your departure from this place without breaking any more of my laws sounds good to me."

"Your laws?"

"Who else do they belong to? You people write them, I have to live with them."

Well, I could cross that bridge when I came to it. Provisionally, I thought he might be telling the truth. Why would he... uh-oh. "So I go there, and the cops are waiting? Is that it?"

"Heavy sigh. No, Sparky. And you've not violated any banking laws by using an alias, because there is no provable criminal intent. You're free to use any alias you please, as marquee writers all over the system can attest. If you like, I can print out the portion of the penal code that prevents me from setting you up on an entrapment beef. And relating this conversation to your lawyer would certainly result in a dismissal. It is on public record, should it be needed to prove your i

I figured I'd call a by-the-minute legal service to check it out, but I was pretty sure he was telling me the truth.

"You said," the OPC went on, "that you couldn't imagine what I might bring up that you would wish to hear."

"Okay. I was wrong."

"You may be wrong again. You may not like the next thing I have to say, but I guarantee you'll be interested."

"Do I have to beg? Go on, what's the bad news?"

"Have you heard of a man, carrying a forged but extremely convincing Plutonian passport, by the name of Isambard Comfort?"

I let a moment pass. "Isambard... what an odd name."

"There, there, you see?" the OPC—I swear, on my honor—chortled. "That's what I mean when I speak about great acting. I could see that name came as a terrible shock to you, but that's because I can see in the infrared, so I know your cheeks and forehead grew warm, and my ears could hear your accelerated heartbeat. But onstage? No one would have known. Bravo, Sparky! If only you had stayed away from a life of crime."

It's true, sometimes one's greatest performances are made when there's no one around to appreciate them. Or when no one has the slightest idea you are putting on a performance. However, I never ignore a good review. "Thank you," I said.

"Oh, it was my pleasure, believe me. In my position one becomes quite a student of the human condition, as you might imagine."

I'd never thought of that. For a moment it almost distracted me. "I suppose you see some unusual drama, at that," I said.

"Not as much as you might suppose. Mostly I see the same depressing scenarios played out endlessly. I—"

"I just thought," I went on, "what a wealth of stories you must have. Why, if you wrote them down—"