I have no answers, he said abruptly. I feel it is for the better, or I would not be associated with it. I could be wrong, though. I will admit that. But some means has to be found to record and regulate all the significant features of a society as complex as ours has become. If you think of a better way of running the show, tell me about it.

I was silent. I lit a cigarette and waited for his next words. I did not know at the time that he only had about six months of life remaining to him.

Did you ever consider buying out? he finally asked.

What do you mean?

Resigning. Quitting the system.

I'm not sure that I understand ...

We in the system will be the last to have our personal records programmed in.

Why?

Because I wanted it that way, in case anyone came to me as you have today and asked me what you have asked me.

Has anyone else done it?

I would not say if they had, to keep the intended purity of the thing complete.

'Buying out.' By this, I take it that you mean destroying my personal data before someone enters it into the system?

That is correct, he said.

But I would not be able to get another job, with no academic record, no past work history ...

That would be your problem.

I couldn't purchase anything with no credit rating.

I suppose you would have to pay cash.

It's all recorded.

He swiveled back and gave me a smile. Is it? he asked me. Is it really?

Well, not all of it, I admitted.

So?

I thought about it while he lit his pipe, smoke invading wide, white sideburns. Was he just kidding me along, being sarcastic? Or was he serious?

As if in answer to my thought, he rose from his chair, crossed the room, opened a file cabinet He rummaged around in it for a time, then returned holding a sheaf of punchcards like a poker hand. He dropped them onto the desk in front of me.

That's you, he said. Next week, you go into the system, like everybody else, and he puffed a smoke ring and reseated himself.

Take them home with you and put them under your pillow, he said. Sleep on them. Decide what you want to do with them.

I don't understand.

I am leaving it up to you.

What if I tore them up? What would you do?

Nothing.

Why not?

Because I do not care.

That's not true. You're head of this thing.

He shrugged.

Don't you believe in the value of the system yourself?

He dropped his eyes and drew on his pipe.

I am no longer so certain as once I was, he stated.

If I did this thing I would cease to exist, officially, I said.

Yes.

What would become of me?

That would be your problem.

I thought about it for a moment; then, Give me the cards, I said.

He did, with a gesture.

I picked them up, placed them in my inside coat pocket.

What are you going to do now?

Sleep on them, as you suggested, I said.

Just see that you have them back by next Tuesday morning.

Of course.

And he smiled, nodded, and that was it.

I took them, went home with them. But I didn't sleep.

No, that's not it. I wouldn't sleep, couldn't sleep.

I thought about it for centuries, well, all night long, pacing and smoking. To exist outside the system ... How could I do anything if it did not recognize my existence?

Then, about four in the morning, I decided that I should have phrased that question the other way around.

How could the system recognize me, no matter what I did?

I sat down then and made some careful plans. In the morning, I tore my cards through the middle, burned them, and stirred the ashes.

Over a minute must have gone by; then, All right, tell us the whole story, he said.

I obtained this job through a placement bureau, I told him. I accepted it, came to work, performed my duties, met you. That's it.

It has been said for some time, and we believe it to be true, that the government can obtain permission, for security reasons, to create a fictitious individual in the central records. An agent is then fitted into that slot in life. If anyone is able to check on him, his credentials appear to be bona fide.

I didn't answer him.

Is that true? he asked.

Yes, I said. It has been said that this can be done. I don't know whether it's true or not, though.

You do not admit to being such an agent?

No.

Then they whispered to one another for a time. Finally, I heard a metal case click open.

You are lying.

No, I'm not. I maybe save a couple guys' lives and you start calling me names. I don't know why, though I'd like to. What have I done that's wrong?

I'll ask the questions. Mister Schweitzer.

I'm just curious. Perhaps if you would tell me ...

Roll up your sleeve. Either one, it doesn't matter.

Why?

Because I told you to.

What are you going to do?

Administer an injection.

Are you an M.D.?

That is none of your business.

Well, I refuse it, for the record. After the cops get hold of you, for a variety of reasons, I'll even see to it that the Medical Association is on your back.

Your sleeve, please.

Under protest, I observed, and I rolled up the left one. If you're to kill me when you've finished playing games, I added, murder is kind of serious. If you are not, I'll be after you. I may find you one day ...

I felt a sting behind my biceps.

Mind telling me what you gave me? I asked.

It's called TC-6, he replied. Perhaps you've read about it. You will retain consciousness, as I might need your full reasoning abilities. But you will answer me honestly.

I chuckled, which they doubtless attributed to the effects of the drug, and I continued practicing my yoga breathing techniques. These could not stop the drug, but they made me feel better. Maybe they gave me a few extra seconds, also, along with the detached feeling I had been building up.

I keep up on things like TC-6. This one, I knew, left you rational, unable to lie, and somewhat literal-minded. I figured on making the most of its weak points by flowing with the current. Also, I had a final trick remaining.

The thing that I disliked most about TC-6 was that it sometimes had a bad side effect, cardiac-wise.

I did not exactly feel myself going under. I was just suddenly there, and it did not feel that different from the way I always feel. I knew that to be an illusion. I wished I had had prior access to the antidote kit I kept within a standard-looking first-aid kit hidden in my dresser.

You hear me, don't you? he asked.

Yes, I heard myself saying.

What is your name?

Albert Schweitzer, I replied.

There were a couple of quick breaths taken behind me, and my questioner silenced the other fellow, who had started to say something.

Then, What do you do? he asked me.

I'm a technician.

I know that much. What else?

I do many things ...

Do you work for the government, any government?

I pay taxes, which means I work for the government, part of the time. Yes.

I did not mean it in that sense. Are you a secret agent in the employ of any government?

No.

A known agent?

No.

Then why are you here?

I am a technician. I service the machines.

What else?

I do not ...

What else? Who else do you work for, besides the Project?

Myself.

What do you mean?

My activities are directed to maintaining my personal economic status and physical well-being.

I am talking about other employers. Have you any?

No.

From the other man, I heard, He sounds clean.

Maybe. Then, to me, What would you do if you met me somewhere and recognized me?

Bring you to law.

... And failing that?

If I were able, I would hurt you severely. Perhaps I would kill you, if I were able to give it the appearance of self-defense or make it seem to be an accident.