It Isn't Fair
by
Stephen Mark Golden
Copyright
© August 24, 1987
“Doot!” the console piped.
Bleary
eyed, the operator raised his head from where it had been resting on the table.
“What
is it?” he protested, being quite annoyed by not being allowed to rest. It seemed the computer just knew when a body
needed rest the most, and refused to cooperate, Marc thought.
Of
course, the console didn’t reply — other than to spit out another belligerent “Doot!” He read the
message on the console.
“Oh,
maayan!” Marc moaned, “load check agaaain?”
“Tapes! Blasted sequential file, error prone, ditt persnickerty, cartridge
damned dirty data tapes!” Marc
thought. He thought several other
strings of words as he walked out onto the machine room floor to correct the
situation. Complaining came easily at
02:30 AM.
“You
would think after all the technological advancement in the last one hundred
years, they would have done away with data storage on sequential tape
media!” His mind continued, “And then,
there’s Graveyard Shift! What a God
forsaken time of day — or night — to have to work! Ugggh!” Marc was not pleased to be working at night,
it would seem.
“And
these ‘Super-Duper-Double-Fantastic-ass-blasted-gowel-dourned-Tape-Auto-Loaders
don’t work worth a pitt! Just as well go back to the days of the
manual loading — using real people! For
all the times these farging things mess up, I end up
loading the peeccking things myself anyway!”
That
was an exaggeration, and Marc knew it, as he walked down the matrix of the four
thousand ninety six tape autoloading devices, each of which serviced four tape
drive units — a thousand tapes per autoload device. Quite the amazing system, if taken in the
light of day. As it was, early AM, Marc
just didn’t see it quite that way. Each
time one of the more than sixteen million tapes had a problem, it was a major
annoyance. Marc’s favorite thought of
comfort was that, with all these machines and mechanization, it still took a
real person to keep them running properly.
“Let’s
see, row able-dog, device two-fox. Here
it is. What’s the matter, your fingers
getting slippery? You don’t even have a
tape in your silly claw!” He hit ‘reset’
and issued the tape request manually from the control panel. The drive responded normally,
and loaded the tape.
Marc
looked in disgust, “You just wanted to make me work
didn’t you? You’re jealous ‘cause I don’t have to be ‘online’ all the time.”
On
his way back to the console room, he took a glance at the machine room terminal
and noticed another autoloader was experiencing a load check.
“How
kind,” he thought, “for you to mess up while I’m on the floor! I give you my sincerest gratitude device
baker-charley-able-four.”
Unfortunately,
Marc hadn’t yet realized that device BCA4 was on the other side of the machine
room floor. About one hundred and fifty
meters from where he was standing, and approximately two hundred meters from
the console room. By the time Marc had
traversed the maze of machines, and reached the device, he was no longer giving
thanks to the autoloader, but threatening its life — except that it didn’t have
one.
“Cheese-us!”
he fumed. “Who in the sam-hell put you way out here?” It was in the perfectly logical location
based on its numerical assignment. “This
stupid thing is nearly in the Direct Access Storage Room!”
The
Direct Access Storage Room, or DASD room, as it was known, was a virtual
refrigerator (no pun intended). It was
kept cooler than the tape section because the devices performed better in the
cold air. The Central Processor Room was
kept even colder — below freezing — for the same reason.
“I
almost need to go back and get my coat!” Marc exclaimed. “So, Mister, what’s your problem?”
As
he examined the device, he found the autoloader had missed the cartridge port,
and had smashed the tape cartridge into the side of the tape drive. Needless to say, the
cartridge was ruined.
“You stupid machine!
What happened to your touch sensitivity?”
Marc
thought about kicking the side of it, but knew quite well it had no feelings,
and that his foot did. He had learned
that lesson some time ago.
The
usual procedure was to log the damaged tape and replace it with a scratch
tape. By logging the tape, the
programmers and designers could tell just what data had to be re-created to
replace the information on the destroyed tape.
“What
a pain!”
Marc
— well let’s just say — wasn’t always the most conscientious computer operator
all the time. He pitched the tape — no
log. “Probably was a scratch tape
anyway.”
He
finally returned to the console room, where it was considerably warmer than the
machine room tape floor. He had just
started to settle down into a relaxed state where the eyes are just closed, but
you think you’re still alert, except that your mind is starting to adventure
into another area of consciousness. He
began to dream . . . .
“Mr.
Williams, wake up!!” Oh no! Marc
thought. It was H. G., the BOSS.
“I
want you to meet your new replacement:
Craig-X-1. I know you’ll be as
impressed with him as I am. He never
grows tired, and can spot problems almost before they
start. Doesn’t need to eat, or go to relieve himself! Just replace his rechargeable battery pack
once a day with an alternate pack, and he’s ready to go for another twenty four hours.”
Marc
just sat there staring in disbelief.
“This couldn’t be for real,” he thought, “could it?”
His
boss continued, “And, you’ll have to admit, he looks quite human! Nothing to annoy the executives in his
appearance. Always looks sharp in his
freshly pressed shirts and suit. Oh, you
can turn in your badge as you leave your shift this morning. Yes, with these units, we’ll be replacing all
but the very essential people — I mean those who think for a living!”
Marc
felt himself begin to boil. He just
stared at H. G. and thought, “So, you
think you can take humans out of the work place, do
you? What will you do when they make a
model that can do your job?” he sneered to himself. “It certainly doesn’t take much thinking to
fill your shoes! Perfect imbecile!”
“Doot!” inserted the console.
He
jerked to wakefulness. “What is it now?”
he demanded. He looked quickly around
the room. “Whew!! It was just a dream! What a dream, though,” he thought. “But they’ll never be able to make a machine
that can take variable information like this, inspect the situation, and know
just what to do.”
Marc
read the message: ‘IEH14326I - MISSING
INTERRUPT HANDLER, INTERFACE CONTROL CHECK.’
‘IEH14327I - DEVICE FF3A TAKEN OFFLINE BY SYSTEM - CONTACT SERVICE
REPRESENTATIVE’.
In
a way, he was glad this happened. He
could call Dick Navarre, the graveyard service representative for IDM/IDC. Marc always enjoyed the evening more when
someone was present, and Dick was one of the most interesting people Marc had
ever met. Navarre had worked for IDM
most of his life. Always seemed to have
such a pleasant attitude toward life, even at oh-three-hundred.
Mark
quickly placed the service call. This
was the only thing he could think of that was good about the night shift. Things were different on the day shift as far
as the service rep’s went. They were
entirely businesslike. Not all that
friendly, and never got personal with anyone.
Oh, they were pleasant enough, but they just didn’t seem real. There was something uncanny about them. All in their same starched white shirts, and
“power ties,” dark slacks, sometimes even suspenders! Never had a hair out of place. “Gad,” he thought, “they all had those
communicators that went “Blee-de-blee-de-bleep!” He had to give a little chuckle at the
thought. You could always know when one
was near. Now that Marc’s mind was on
the thought, the idea suddenly came to him that they were all young, appeared
to be not older than thirty two, and they all wore the same smile. It was enough to make you sick!
“Where
did they find them?” he queried to himself.
One
of Marc’s lady friends commented once that she thought he ought to dress like
that. He had replied it would take more
money than he was making here to be able to afford such an affluent wardrobe.
It
even seemed they never made a mistake, too!
I guess that’s why IDM hired them.
Who wouldn’t want their employees to give the companies they serviced
the impression they were infallible. He
could just imagine some top executive in BIG BLUE TOWER saying, “It’s the air
of confidence!”
Well,
Dick didn’t give that impression, but he was one damn good customer service
rep! Why, Marc would have wagered on Ol’ Navarre against one of those stiff boys any day of the
week!
Just
then, the security buzzer sounded. Marc
checked the video monitor, saw it was Navarre, and passed him on through. “All right!” he thought, “Dick’ll
have that box fixed in no time, and he’ll probably spend an hour chatting about
the good old days!”
Navarre
walked into the room, without the usual smile he wore.
“What’s
the problem tonight, Marc?” he said, none too cheerfully.
“Missing
interrupt handler, interface control check on FF3A.
But what’s wrong with you?
Somebody die or somethin’?”
“Well
Marc, the company’s been leaning hard on my service record lately. I think they’re trying to get me to quit, or retire or something. I mean, I am sixty five. I just don’t know what I’d do though, if I
couldn’t work. Probably die within three
weeks of termination.”
Marc’s
mouth had dropped, and was still open with no sound
coming out. Navarre quipped, “Tryin’ to catch flies? Ought to take you out to my stables, you could
catch some there!”
Dick
had often talked of his horses, though Marc had thought it a rather difficult
story to swallow. No one raised Aaanimals any more! Marc even thought it might be against the law
or something, so he had never encouraged Dick to talk about it. Yet, there was something about it, perverse
as it might be, that Marc found intriguing.
He thought he’d love to ride, or even own a horse some day like the
western range traders with their laser guns holstered at their sides, and
shooting-out the Porsche Baron Bandits!
(Too many flicks?)
“What’s
wrong with your service record? You’re
always right on the money, and aren’t bad with the
time it takes to replace the parts either!”
“Why,
remember the time, you told me about, back in ‘85 when there was that disabled
spin loop? Only ninety seconds to
diagnose the problem before IML became required. You diagnosed the problem in thirty seconds,
hit hard stop, went out and replaced the failing card, came back in, and
started the system with seventeen seconds to spare! System never knew what hit it!” Marc was filled with pride in his recounting
of the story.
“Well,
Marc, I didn’t quite do that all by myself actually,” Dick said with his eyes
downcast as his voice trailed off.
“Anyway, I am slowing up some, and those young fellas just seem to have
a knack I can’t explain. They diagnose instantly, and are never wrong. They repair with such skill,
I can’t tell their repair work from factory install! And then, I mean, look at me! I’ve been placed on permanent night shift
until I do retire, because the corporation wants to give their best image
during the day, when all the big shots are around.”
“Something
isn’t right!” thought Marc.
“It
isn’t fair!” he shouted emphatically, as he snapped around to face Dick.
“Oh,
hey, Marc, I’ve got to get to work — fox-fox-three-able, you said? Right!”
Navarre moved out of the console room, disappeared behind the tape
autoloaders, and into the DASD room.
Marc
began to think, “What about these young guys?”
Where were they coming from?
Through the past several generations, job after job has been replaced by
automation, even in computer operations!
It now only takes one operator where in previous times it would have
taken hundreds. But now, they were
replacing the human jobs with “pretty people.”
Where were these perfect people coming from? It seems it’s harder and harder for the
average guy to get a decent job.
As Marc continued to ponder the point, he
wondered how it could be possible so many perfect people were appearing
everywhere. Each one of them content to
perform whatever job is given to them.
Even the store clerks seem so far above average — so perfect. It seems like the normal average collection
of students are still going into the college training camps. His brother had gone to one, and when he had
finally come out, he was an entirely different person. He still looked like his brother, sort
of. Marc continued to wonder, “It seems
the graduates coming out of the college training camps are . . . not . . .
quite . . . .”
Just
then, Dick Navarre came strolling back.
Something was different. He
looked younger. A sickly
sweet smile was on his face, the kind Marc had seen all too often
before. Something was dead wrong. He was being escorted by two of the younger rep’s. Where had they
come from? And they were being followed
by two more who were carrying a box — a
DASD box — four by four by six.
Oh
God, no . . . !