bout de papier, Vol. 16, No. 3 (1999) — Fall 1999 // Automne 1999, pp. 42–44
Pausing on the porch, Ace logician Ludwig Liebnitz looked up at the gaudy Buck Rogers radiator fins surmounting the towers at each corner of the brushed-aluminum bungalow. Why had he agreed to be a guinea pig for the province’s new experiment in electronic living — especially in a house that would have embarrassed the Jetsons? Still, Chief MacBannock had been desperate for a volunteer and Liebnitz had been in a soft mood (ie drunk as a loon). Now it was coming up midnight December 31, when the electronic lock would accept his key-card and allow him to take possession.
And that card! Unable under the Charter to enact a compulsory provincial ID system, Premier Sleazewagon had made the card (theoretically) voluntary but mounted a major propaganda campaign to back it. The new Universal Sleaze (US) Card was to replace all the bulky plastic in everyone’s pocket with a single embedded-chip master-card. In addition to storing your driver’s licence, health plan and social insurance numbers, and records going back decades, the US Card also held such useful data as: (a) your financial assets; (b) your social/class standing; (c) your voting record; (d) donations to the Sleazewagon retirement fund; and (e) relations in the provincial Cabinet. It replaced your ATM and credit cards with a single system of financial transfer, voluntary (eg purchases) and involuntary (see (d) above). It replaced the keys to your house, office and car, checking with a central computer to see if you were where you were supposed to be. And it certified your vote, after electronic validation that you were worthy to cast a ballot.
They said the new card enhanced the security of all right-thinking people by allowing any civil servant or police officer to verify your identity and to access all your personal data with a single swipe. It also permitted benign authorities to monitor your every step, for your own good. Who but a free-thinking, pinko-weirdo anarchist could refuse? As the system’s Supreme Coordinator, Dr PJ Paridy, intoned from his offices at 1984 Orwell Way, “If you’re not part of US, you’re one of THEM (That Hated Egalitarian Minority).”
To its fans, the US Card was convenient. It was nifty. It was patriotic. It was not, however, Y2K compliant — as Liebnitz was shoutta find nut As the New Years bells rang out, Liebnitz inserted the card into the slot beside the doorknob. His briefer, a pony-tailed young SysAdmin by the name of Bugbyte O’Nanotek, had explained that the house was fully computerized, with housekeeping and other services controlled by an artificial intelligence program. The ace logician was still startled, however, when a voice piped up, “Welcome home, sir. Everything’s ready. But I see you have mud on your shoes. Can’t have that on the new carpets! Let me help you.”
Suddenly, the mat on which Liebnitz had been standing dropped away, precipitating him violently down a long polished chute into the basement. Halting with a bounce in a laundry cart, he found himself gliding rapidly toward the open maw of a giant washer-dryer. Attempting to stand, he was picked off by a giant robotic arm, as the voice tut-tutted, “And those clothes! I mean, really, no-one — but no-one — is still wearing spats with bell-bottom trousers…. Liebnitz lost the rest of the anguished commentary as the arm stuffed his clothes into the sudsy opening. With him still in them.
An hour later, a bleached-out figure staggered up the stairs, clothes immaculate, spats gone, hair standing up stiffly and shorts clearly chafing. As he entered the living room, the television came on and the smilling image of Rialto Sleazewagon filled the screen. It was the kind of smile that makes you want to wash your eyes after seeing it. But it spoke with the voice that had greeted him at the door. “Good evening, Citizen Liebnitz. I am the program in charge of this house. You can call me AL. I see that you have already spent time in the basement. By reading your vital signs, I see you are upset, so I assume we used too much starch. This will be corrected. Meanwhile, let me show you some of our other fine features. First, the house-keeping program. The rugs, for example, are hooked into a cleaning system within the walls.”
Suddenly the wall-to-wall beneath Liebnitz began to move swiftly toward the far end of the room, as if on a roller belt. With a shrill cry, he was swept off his feet and through a large hatch. Minutes later, a second hatch opened across the room. A giant dust-ball emerged and lay bleated piteously on the floor, only to be set upon by a horde of tiny electric-blue robotic mice. They lifted the grime-coated Liebnitz inches off the ground and carted him off to the kitchen, where they were only dissuaded from stuffing him into a garbage can by some active work with a fortuitously-placed frying pan.
As the ace logician slumped breathlessly into a chair, a monitor came on over the refrigerator and AL reappeared. “Ah, I do like a man who’s at home in the kitchen. Let me show you a few of the exciting features here.” And before Liebnitz could protest, the room exploded into a frenzy of activity. A bowl-mounted electric mixer started up, spraying sticky batter in all directions. The electric ice-maker began enthusiastically to fill its hopper, eventually overflowing onto the floor. Meanwhile, from over the sink, a giant mechanical spider plucked dishes from the soapy water, dried them with great care and tossed them with pin-point accuracy at just the right shelves across the room. A pity the shelf doors were still locked shut. Liebnitz was just gathering his wits under this new assault when AL’s shining face returned, topped by a chef’s hat. “And do try this new cream pie I’ve baked!” he crowed. Liebnitz, who had seen every slapstick comedy ever made, ducked quickly as the oven door dropped open and a pie whizzed by overhead, but was nevertheless caught full in the face by the next one when he straightened up. “Lemon meringue, perhaps?” asked AL brightly. Then a pair of ballistic waffles, launched from the pop-up toaster, struck the ace logician smartly on the ear.
Skidding wildly out of the room on a film of ice, batter and broken crockery, Liebnitz dashed to the front door. There, he frantically swiped the US Card through the lock mechanism, but to no avail. AL, ever calm, interjected, “Sorry, Citizen, you have been denied egress for financial reasons. According to our records, you have not paid taxes on this house since the year 1900. With accumulated interest and adjustment for inflation, that comes to a lot of money. We have cleaned out your checking and saving accounts, but there is still a balance owing of just over $3 million. Until you pay up, we’re going to have to keep you here.”
“Meanwhile, since you’re going to be around for a while, let me show you more fine features.” “Spare me,” pleaded Liebnitz, edging back. But the program was not to be denied. “If you want to re-arrange the furniture, Citizen, we can help!” A large mechanical arm came down from a recess in the ceiling, delicately picked up a heavy chrome and leather sofa and pitched it through the picture window. “Perhaps a bit too enthusiastic there,” chuckled the face in the TV set, “but I’m sure you get the picture.” A crash resounded from the kitchen and the refrigerator shot through the doorway, across the hall and down the stairs to the basement, from which a jet of suds returned. AL looked perturbed for the first time, glancing off-screen and saying, “It’s all right, you can stop now.” Then the mechanical arm picked up the television and used it as a bowling ball to take down an entire set of dining-room chairs. Suddenly, from all over the house came the 1812 Overture at 120 decibels.
Furniture flying about him, Liebnitz broke and ran, frantically seeking refuge. Moments later, barricaded in the electrical closet, with Tchaikovsky fortissimo and the occasional crash of a crushed credenza to remind him of the chaos outside, Liebnitz. pondered his chances of escape and the computer screen before him.
After his formal briefing, Bugbyte O’Nanotek had flashed him a glimpse of a forbidden Sleazewagon Free Zone button and informed the ace logician that the house could be shut down if you obtained root access to its computer system and issued the right command. Bugbyte, a great fan of Star Trek’s Seven of Nine, also indicated that access to the root directory was governed by a Root ID and Password relating to that character. Furthermore, on the (entirely valid) assumption that Liebnitz would forget the crucial codes, Bugbyte had worked a reminder into the system in the form of a puzzle, based on the number seven. Hurriedly, the ace logician logged on, entered the command for root access and was faced with the following screen: ROOT ID:
Fill in the following table, one letter per box, with words relating to the original members of an association of Canadian painters founded in 1920. For each numbered row of boxes, use the clue with the same number below. One word per row except as indicated. The ROOT ID can be read down the indicated column.
KINSERT A> (1) He quit in 1926. (2) Name of the association: 3 words. (3) Youngest member of the group. (4) One of three UK-born members. (5) The one who inherited wealth. (6) The last name alphabetically. (7) The one who died last. (8) Oldest member of the group.
ROOT PASSWORD:
Fill in the following table, one letter per box, with words drawn from the seven deadly sins, the seven cardinal virtues or the original seven wonders of the world. For each numbered row of boxes, unscramble the anagram with the same number below (ignore spaces and hyphens). One word per row except as indicated. The ROOT PASSWORD can be read down the indicated column.
<INSERT B> (9) CAVIARE. (10) CEMENT PEAR. (11) SLUT. (12) NAG-NIGH//DANGERS: 2 words, separate anagrams. (13) SOLO CUSS. (14) GHOUL HEIST. (15) THYR- IAC. (16) RANGE. (17) SUJECTI. (18) VYNE. (19) RE-DIP. (20) A SUMO MULE. (21) HAFTI. (22) DUNCREEP. (23) LOSHT. (24) SPRY MAID. (25) NUTTY LOG. (26) PEOH.
Liebnitz worked his way through the twin screen and entered the resulting codes, being rewarded with the legend “ROOT ACCESS GRANTED”. He then typed in “SHUT- DOWN SEQUENCE” and was presented with the following screen:
SHUT-DOWN COMMAND:
Fill in the following table, one letter per box, with words from film titles containing the word “Seven”. For each numbered row of boxes, use the clue with the same number below. In each case, the answers will include the word “seven” or a variant plus up to two adjacent words from the title. The SHUT-DOWN COMMAND can be read down the indicated column.
<INSERT C> (27) Toshiro Mifune and Akira Kurosawa, 1954. (28) Bob Hope and Jimmy Cagney, 1955. (29) Nicol Williamson and Alan Arkin, 1976. (30) Yul Brynner and Steve McQueen, 1960. (31) Walt Disney and the Brothers Grimm, 1937. (32) Max von Sydow and Ingmar Bergman, 1957. (33) Marilyn Monroe and Billy Wilder, 1955. (34) Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman, 1995. (35) Kirk Douglas and Burt Lancaster, 1964.
“Interesting,” he said when he had filled in the last table. “This last one doesn’t relate to Star Trek, but it does come from a movie and it is certainly appropriate to the situation.” So saying, he typed the answer into the computer. The impact was startling. Suddenly, all was silence, save for a faint whistling howl like the breath of a dying giant.
Cautiously opening the door, he found himself in a building lot completely empty except for the four blank walls of the electrical closet behind him, a cold wind keening about it. The rest of the house had simply vanished. Taking a deep breath, he tip-toed down the cement walk to the street. Then he took out US Card and used an old Zippo to light it, before throwing it to the sidewalk and grinding it underfoot.
At once the silence was broken by a voice from the loudspeaker on the nearby light standard saying, “Sensors on your US Card indicate combustion, Citizen. I have therefore called the fire department.” Sure enough, Liebnitz could hear the sirens approaching. The voice continued, “Meanwhile, I see that your shoes are ablaze. Let me help you.” And before the ace logician could say more than “Not again!” ’, the square of pavement beneath his feet dropped away and he plunged into an all-encompassing blackness…..
Returning to consciousness in his own bed with the morning light streaming in the window, he felt overcome by the happy realization that it had only been a dream. “No more anchovy and kumquat pizza right before sleeping.” he vowed. Gently kissing the still-sleeping Mrs Liebnitz, he slipped quietly from between the sheets, went down the hall to the study, booted up his computer and logged onto the news server. Only to see the face of Rialto Sleazewagon appear on the screen with an oily, “Good morning, Citizen.
Liebnitz stared calmly at the screen, then reached over and interrupted the Premier’s spiel by shutting down the browser. “No,” he murmured firmly, “I refuse to be assimilated.” With that, he went back to bed.
Can you duplicate Liebnitz’s dream-feat by giving the ROOT ID, the ROOT PASS- WORD, and the SHUT-DOWN COM- MAND? bout de papier will decide the winner by drawing from a box containing all correct entries received by January 31, 2000. The winner will receive a book prize autographed by A Aalto.
Winner:
Margo Schwartz
London, England
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 16, No. 3 (1999) — Fall 1999 // Automne 1999, pp. 42–44. Read the rest of this issue →
