JUSTIFICATION
#
The trolley rumbled and swayed over the old freeway foundations, steel wheels singing against steel tracks as it whizzed out of Old Town and into the vast spread of cityscape that covered the once vital farmlands. Tuleburg was now bigger than the L.A. basin, with Money and Business drawn around the big space ports like iron filings to a magnet. The sprawl of the California Central College campus was visible miles before the swaying green trolley reached the station, giving the impression that the trolley was barely creeping along. This was pure illusion, as they were traveling in excess of 70 miles per hour. Dale was standing, holding onto a rail and squinting through the windows, when the brakes were applied. He was thrown forward and would have gone tumbling had he not grabbed on with his other hand.
The walk from the station into the campus had him exhausted before he was anywhere near his destination. He had a headache and he was dizzy and his legs felt like they were going to collapse beneath him. The students milling about all looked impossibly young. He couldn’t tell if they were 14 or 24.
One tower stood out from the rest. He entered and rested on a bench in front of the elevators for a while, mentally preparing himself for the interview. Almost five years ago Lagrange 5 Corp.
had suggested he take up teaching – he only hoped that it wasn’t too late. By teaching the young, he could easily justify his existence.
His watch beeped and said, “You’d better hurry up, your appointment is in five minutes.” Dale sighed, said, “Oh, shut up,”
to the watch, and wearily got to his feet. He touched the button for the elevator and the doors opened. He stepped inside, announced his destination as the 22nd level, and nearly toppled to the floor as the elevator swooped upwards toward the top of the tower.
On the 22nd floor, he managed to find his way to Virginia Mergle’s office, which was a large hardwood door with a sign that read “PERSONNEL.” Beyond was a waiting room with a large information screen in a corner and seats all around. A computer voice said, “State your name and business,” as soon as he entered.
Dale spoke up in a nervous voice, and the computer acknowledged him and said, “Miss Mergle will see you in one minute, seventeen seconds.” The information screen showed several different views of the campus, a scrolling list of job opportunities, and a documentary on keeping full sized whales in captivity.
When the countdown to his appointment reached zero the door swung open by itself and the computer announced, “Miss Mergle will see you now.” Dale stepped into the inner office and saw a smooth-skinned black haired woman reclining in a chair behind a huge desk. Her eyes were closed, and eight data cables trailed from her head like an octopus’s tentacles. “Come in, Mr. Bently,”
she said without opening her eyes. Her voice had an unpleasant, too-relaxed quality about it. Despite her clear enunciation, it sounded like she was talking in her sleep. “Please, sit down and relax.”
Dale sat but he didn’t relax. “I’m here about a job teaching zero-gravity engineering.”
“We have an opening,” Virginia said in her sleep-voice.
“What are your qualifications?”
“I have a degree in zero-gravity and low gravity engineering from the Tuleburg Institute of Technology, and ten years of practical experience with L5 Corp.”
“Yes,” she said, her eyes still closed. “I am reviewing your records now.”
Dale swallowed, his throat dry. Silent seconds passed while data streamed in and out of the woman’s brain. She breathed slowly, her breasts heaving up and down with dream-like calm.
“You have no teaching credentials,” she said finally.
“I have practical experience, things that–-”
“You have no teaching experience, either. I’m sorry, but I can’t give you any teaching position at all without a degree. I am searching for other employment possibilities now.”
Again, Dale found himself waiting silently and watching the woman’s breasts ease up and then down again.
“Your physical records indicate you would not be able to do any heavy labor. I’m sorry Mr. Bently, but I just don’t have anything for you at all.”
Dale sighed, and stood up.
“Mr. Bently, I’m curious. Your records indicate you have not been in any schooling nor work for years. Why the sudden interest in teaching? You could have spent all this time enrolled and getting your credentials.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t been feeling that well.”
“Your five year life evaluation has come up with the Census Bureau, hasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You need real help, Mr. Bently. Professional help. There are lawyers who specialize in life justification. I strongly advise you to see one.”
“Thank you.”
“I can recommend one in particular, if you like. His name is Vlad Breenwood. Here is his address and phone number.” There was a whirring sound, and a piece of paper slipped out of a printer and into a tray.
Thanking her once again, Dale took the paper and shuffled out of her office.
#
Vlad Breenwood worked out of a small office in a backwater corner of Tuleburg’s 8 story shopping mall. Vlad was a balding man in his fifties with a plastic smile and a jerky, bird-like nervousness about him. But his voice was strong, and he quickly convinced Dale that he knew what he was talking about. “You’ve really backed yourself into a corner,” Vlad was telling him.
“Something inane like, ‘I think therefor I am’ is not going to wash with the Department of Life Evaluation, especially considering you’ve become a 40 year old shut in. What do you do with your time, anyway?”
“I watch television.”
“Do you ever take notes?”
“Notes?”
“What kind of shows do you watch, anyway?”
“Well, um, entertainment type shows–-”
“Like what? Give me some titles. What are your ten favorites, ones that you never miss?”
“Oh, uh, Android Sluts, uh … Full Tilt, Onion Man, Goddesses of Lust, Zoo Keeper’s Daughter–-”
“No docu-dramas? No historic recreations? No educational programming whatsoever?”
“… no, I’m afraid not.”
“Do you have any hobbies? Do you build anything, like model trains or anything like that?”
“No.”
“Do you watch birds, or keep an ant farm, or have a dog?”
“No.”
“Nothing like that?”
“No.”
“Do you pay anyone’s bills besides your own? Are you supporting anyone?”
“No.”
“Do you have any family whatsoever?”
“No.”
Vlad shook his head, and got up and paced back and forth behind his desk. “We don’t have a lot to work with, Dale.”
“I know.”
“There’s only one chance. We’re going to have to cheat.”
“How?”
“I’m going to make something up for you, and write your essay for you. You’re going to copy it down–-”
“But I thought that–-”
“Yes, it’s true. They make you write it in your own handwriting so that a computer program can analyze it and determine if you’re being truthful. That’s the key, there, though: If you believe you’re being truthful – that is, if your subconscious believes you’re telling the truth – then you’ll fool the computer program.”
“How am I going to believe?”
“Well, it’s tricky, and there’s no absolute guarantee, but I’ve had people hypnotised into believing their justification essays and they’ve passed without a problem. But the important thing you have to do even before we begin this is make a solid commitment to become a honest, worthy citizen after we get you past your five-year evaluation. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I’ll make the arrangements, you work on positive thinking. I’ll call you at your home when I set up the appointment with the hypnotist. Okay?” They shook hands, and Dale left his office feeling much better.
#
Two days later, Dale was right in the middle of the newest episode of Wide Open Beavers in Mexico when his phone rang and Vlad announced that an appointment had been made. Dale quickly wrote down the details and hung up, rushing to get dressed and ready so he could make the next trolley at the station.
It had been raining off and on that day, but at the moment the sun was shining through a hole in the clouds and the streets and sidewalks sparkled with water droplets. The world looked clean and fresh, and Dale took it as a good omen. It darkened again as he boarded the trolley, and was pouring down in god-awful torrents when he reached his destination. It was a small ground-level station on Harding Way, deep within the Old Town. Buildings of brick and concrete a hundred years old stood quietly crumbling amid the hustle and cries of street salesmen. Dale passed prostitutes who had current wires braided through their hair and into their scalp, and skinny teenage boys offering little bags of pale blue powder, a drug called “Carny” which was actually the processed spoor of some South American beetle. “It’s like going to a circus!” one told Dale. An Asian man in a black coat stood in a doorway, watching him, and Dale realized the doorway belonged to the address where he was supposed to meet Vlad.