RANGE?.

Range? What did that mean? Punching for the first page of instructions, Charley skimmed it and discovered the machine was asking the outer limit of his job interest. 20KM, he typed, picking a distance at random.

The machine answered with a screen full of company names, arranged alphabetically, each one followed by a string of incomprehensible numbers.

NUMBER OF JOBS BEING APPLIED FOR IN THIS CATEGORY? appeared at the bottom.

Charley seemed to remember that the limit was ten. 10, he typed.

The computer's response was swift. DISALLOWED. MAXIMUM IS THREE (3).

Charley blinked. Three? Had they changed the law? Or was he-or programming in general-a special case? Gritting his teeth, he again called up the instructions.

The impatient rumbling behind him was growing stronger. "Hey, come on, would ja?" someone growled. "We ain't got all month."

"Put it in 'park,' " Charley shot back, tension adding snap to his tone. "I'm working as fast as I can."

"So put in new batteries, huh?" a different voice suggested. "Sign up and let someone else have a turn."

"I'll be happy to, as soon as I figure out how."

There was a loud groan. "Aw, c'mon, friend: you hitting senility early to avoid the crowds?"

Charley felt his face reddening. "Look-"

"If you don't know what you're doing, go up to fourth floor and get some help," someone else put in.

Charley hadn't realized help was available. "Yeah, okay," he muttered.

Pushing the "cancel" b.u.t.ton, he stepped away, the next man in line shouldering past with a growled profanity. Too embarra.s.sed to even turn around, Charley pushed hurriedly through the crowd toward the elevators.

Surprisingly, the fourth floor was practically deserted. Several dozen cubicles like those he'd seen three floors up lined the walls, most of them darkened and apparently empty. Of the handful that were open for business, only about half were being used. The rest of Baltimore's citizenry, Charley reflected, must have learned the ins and outs of the lottery years ago. The thought made him feel old and a little bit silly. Choosing a cubicle with a sympathetic-looking older woman, he hesitantly approached. "Uh... excuse me?"

She looked up, folding up the portable thin-screen she'd been watching. "Can I help you?"

"I hope so." He sat down. "I was accidentally fired this weekend, and while my boss tries to get me reinstated I thought I'd sign up for the lottery-just to tide myself over. But I'm afraid I don't understand exactly how to go about it."

"What do you mean?" She frowned. "Are you trying to find a new category or something?"

"No, it's just that I've never had to use the lottery before."

Her eyes widened. "You're kidding. Never?"

"I like my job." He shrugged self-consciously. "I've been there for the past thirty-five years."

That awed look was still there, and Charley felt more than ever like a revived fossil. "Wow!" she breathed. "I didn't think there was anyone who hadn't gone through the lottery at least once." She seemed suddenly to realize she was staring and dropped her eyes. "Well, let's see what we can do for you," she continued in a more professional tone, swiveling the terminal screen so that they could both see it. "Could you give me your name, number, and previous job, please?"

He did so. She pushed a few keys, and Charley was faced with the third page of lottery instructions.

"Right, now, first let's figure out how many jobs you can sign up for," she said, tapping a paragraph with her pen. "The longer you've been unemployed, the more job lotteries you can be in. Since you've been out of work less than a week, you can only sign up on three lists. Anything over six months and you can be on twenty of them.

"Each job list is open for sign-up for a minimum of twenty-four hours. Once it's closed, all the names on the list are put in random order by the computer and the company in question hires the first person on it for, usually, at least one four- day week."

"After interviews, you mean?"

The woman blinked. "There aren't any interviews, Mr. Addison. This is an equal opportunity system; we don't allow discrimination over educational advantages any more than over race or religion.""But-" Charley floundered.

"It really does work," she a.s.sured him. "Maybe a bit slower than the old methods, but it spreads the jobs and wealth around more evenly and eliminates the need for a welfare system. And that saves all of us money."

She was repeating the same arguments that the developers of the system's precursor had used twenty years ago-the arguments, he remembered now, that had originally induced him to vote for it back then. It had seemed like a good idea at the time... but now he wasn't quite so sure. "I'll take your word for it," he told her. "What do I do next?"

"Sign up for your three jobs. Let's see..." She punched some keys, scanning the displays that flicked across the screen at the touch of a b.u.t.ton. "Accounting looks pretty good today-here's a firm that has only thirty people signed up. Here's one with twenty-six."

"Wait a second-I don't know anything about accounting."

She frowned at him. "So? If they get down to your number the law says they will hire you for at least a week. Qualifications are irrelevant-equal opportunity, remember?"

"But what if, say, thirty short-order cooks and only one accountant sign up for the job. How is the company going to get the one they need before mid-August?"

"Oh, the law allows concurrent employment if all parties are willing. If the accountant they want is number nine in the lottery, they'd just hire him plus the eight people ahead of him. Those eight would get their week's salary and could leave right away; the accountant would begin work in his new job at the same time. See?"

"Very convenient." Also very expensive if the right person didn't make the top ten. No wonder Whitney always looked so harried when KDS was hiring.

"How on Earth do small companies survive a financial shock like that?"

"The smallest companies are exempt from the lottery." She pressed a b.u.t.ton and a different page of the lottery instructions appeared. "And there's an intermediate range where the company can hire applicants for only one, two, or three days instead of a full week." She pointed out the appropriate numbers, then turned back to the job listing she'd had on earlier. "You ready to try your luck now?"

"Well... I guess so. You really think I should try for that accounting job?"

"Absolutely." She scanned the listing. "The one's up to thirty-two people; the others. .h.i.t thirty now, Only six hours to go for each one, too-unless a bunch of people notice how empty they are you should have a good shot at making some money on either one.""How do you know about that six hours?" Charley asked, squinting at the screen.

She tapped a number with her pen. "Here's the closing date and time: May 8, 1700 hours. This column gives the opening date and time; this one's the job ID number; this one's the yearly salary; and here's the current number of people on the list. Now, what'll it be-one or both?"

Charley pursed his lips. After all, he was just looking for something to tide him over until he could get back with KDS. "I guess I'll sign up just on the shorter list."

"Okay." She showed him how to line up the display pointer on the proper job and then how to officially get on the list. "You've got two more chances coming to you. Any preferences?"

He chose two computer programming jobs that would also close at five that evening, ignoring her warning that with three hundred people already signed up for each one he had little hope of making any money from either of them. When he had finished, she showed him how to confirm he was properly registered by calling up his Secure Government Personal File and checking his newly acquired job list.

"You can drop out of contention for any of the jobs at any time, by using the display pointer and 'cancel' key. And don't forget, once you've been out of work one to three weeks you can be on five lists at a time."

"Right." Charley made a mental note to find a quiet corner at the library later and read over all these regulations more carefully. "What do I do now?"

"Go home and wait, I guess," she shrugged. "If you've got a computer tie-in on your phone you'll be able to find out your standing on the lottery lists as soon as they close; otherwise, you can find out on the terminals downstairs. If you're high enough, the company'll contact you. If you're really low on the lists, you might as well drop out and sign up on a new list; you'll be automatically dropped as soon as the job is permanently filled, anyway. Any other questions?"

"Well... I guess not. Thanks for your help."

"Oh, no problem." She smiled brightly, shaking her head. "Imagine-thirty- five whole years in the same job."

She was still clucking with amazement as she opened up her thin-screen again and settled back to watch.

It was almost lunchtime when Charley left the National Employment Office building, feeling something like a worn-out paper towel. Not really hungry yet, he decided it would be a good time to do some research on the lottery. A munic.i.p.al lot was right around the corner, with a handful of the little in-town cars still available. Presenting his driver's-credit card to the attendant, he watched to make sure it was logged correctly into the computer and then drove out of the lot, heading for the nearest branch of the venerable Enoch Pratt Library. Traffic was brisk, but with the city-wide ban on internal combustion engines finally in effect, fighting the crowds was at least no longer a suffocatingly noisy task. Remembering the city of his youth, Charley's irritation at the government eased somewhat.

Occasionally, their schemes made life a bit easier.

He emerged from the library about two hours later, slightly boggled at the number of laws and regulations the lottery had generated over the years and completely discouraged as to his chances of finding a loophole he could use. His one half-formed idea-that of setting himself up as a one-man "consulting firm"

which KDS could exclusively retain-was scotched early in his reading, and he hadn't been able to come up with anything else that offered even a spark of hope.

The National Employment Office had had two decades to close the loopholes, and they'd done a good job. Squinting up at the early-afternoon sun, Charley flipped a mental coin. Lunch lost; climbing into his car, he headed back to KDS.

Will Whitney was off somewhere when Charley arrived, but was expected back momentarily. "I'll wait," Charley told Whitney's secretary. "I haven't got much else to do."

"I heard," she said sympathetically. "We're all pretty upset about it. I hear the people in Programming are missing you already."

"Thanks," Charley grunted. "It's nice to be needed."

Whitney barreled through about ten minutes later. "Charley, hi; come on in,"

he called as he pa.s.sed.

"I just stopped by to see if you had anything new," Charley said as he sat down across from Whitney's desk.

"Afraid not," Whitney said distractedly, shuffling through a mound of papers on his desk. "d.a.m.n GM chip's got a glitch in it Sanders can't find. Did you give me the preliminary stat sheet yet?"

"Last week," Charley told him. "Look, why don't I go and give Sanders a hand with the debugging?"

"Great. No-wait." Whitney looked up, frowning. "No, you'd better not. I mean, you're no longer on the payroll...." He trailed off.

"You don't need to pay me," Charley a.s.sured him. "Come on, Will-I want to help. Consider it a public service to keep my brain from atrophying."

"Believe me, I wish I could let you. But... I don't think we can risk it. If someone found out-I mean, there's no way we could prove I wasn't going to pay you under the table."

Charley sighed. "Yeah; and then blam goes a big government fine. I suppose you're right." He stood up awkwardly. "Well, then, I guess I might as well go on home."

"Okay." Whitney had found the paper he wanted. Clutching it, he headed for the door, his free hand sweeping Charley along with him. "Look, I'm still trying to get you back, so keep in touch, okay?"

"Right." Standing in the corridor, Charley watched his boss-his ex-boss- hurry away. Feeling vaguely as if he'd just lost part of his family, Charley turned and trudged toward the exit. A short time later, having turned in his car to the lot at the train station, he was on his way home.

At exactly 5:01 that evening he keyed his phones computer tie-in and, holding his breath, checked his standings. The list for the accounting position had swelled to one hundred seventy-six since he'd signed up; the computer job rosters hovered near the five-hundred mark. On none of them had he even made it above a hundred.

The next few days settled easily-too easily-into a dull routine. Each morning Charley headed into the city-cursing the fact that the job lottery wasn't accessible from home tie-ins-and fought the crowds at the National Employment Office building. After a few disappointing experiences with the high-paying jobs that attracted lots of applicants, he became adept at flipping through page after page of job listings, scanning for medium-paying ones that were being largely ignored. As a matter of pride, though, he made sure he was always listed for at least one computer-oriented job, even though they were generally long shots. Once signed up, his "work" was done for the day. At first he spent his new free time constructively: catching up on all the journals he'd been promising himself to read, working out at the fleeball courts, and carrying out needed maintenance on his condo. But as the days went by he found himself drifting from self-improvement toward self-indulgence. The trend didn't worry him particularly; sitting in front of his wall thin-screen, he told himself that things would be all right again once he was back at work.

And exactly one week after losing his job, a break finally came. Not the one he'd hoped for, but a break nevertheless.

The receptionist at Dundalk Electronics looked up as Charley came in. "May I help you?" she asked pleasantly.

"My name's Charles Addison; I'm here about the programmer job."

"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 ent.i.tled to a week, you know."