It was hot in the test cubicle. Maldon shifted on the thinly-padded bench, looking over the test form:
1) In the following list of words, which word is repeated most often: dog, cat, cow, cat, pig. . . .
2) Would you like to ask persons entering a building to show you their pass?
3) Would you like to check forms to see if the names have been entered in the correct space?
"Testing materials are on the desk," a wall-speaker said. "Use the stylus to mark the answers you think are correct. Mark only one answer to each question. You will have one hour in which to complete the test. You may start now. . . ."
Back in the Hall twenty minutes later, Maldon took a seat on a bench against the wall beside a heavy-faced man who sat with one hand clutching the other as though holding a captured mouse. Opposite him, a nervous youth in issue coveralls shook a cigarette from a crumpled plastic pack lettered granyauck welfare—one daily ration, puffed it alight, exhaled an acrid whiff of combustion retardant.
"That's a real smoke," he said in a high, rapid voice, rolling the thin, grayish cylinder between his fingers. "Half an inch of doctored tobacco and an inch and a half of filter." He grinned sourly and dropped the cigarette on the floor between his feet.
The heavy-faced man moved his head half an inch.
"That's safety first, Mac. Guys like you throw 'em around, they burn down and go out by theirself."
"Sure—if they'd make 'em half an inch shorter you could throw 'em away without lighting 'em at all."
Across the room a small man with jug ears moved along, glancing at the yellow or pink cards in the hands of the waiting men and women. He stopped, plucked a card from the hand of a narrow-faced boy with an open mouth showing crowded yellow teeth.
"You've already passed," the little man said irritably. "You don't come back here anymore. Take the card and go to the place that's written on it. Here. . . ." he pointed.
"Sixteen years I'm foreman of number nine gang-lathe at Philly Maintenance," the man sitting beside Mart said suddenly. He unfolded his hands, held out the right one. The tips of all four fingers were missing to the first knuckles. He put the hand away.
"When I get out of the Medicare, they classify me J-4 and send me here. And you know what?" He looked at Mart. "I can't pass the tests. . . ."
"Maldon, Mart," an amplified voice said. "Report to the Monitor's desk. . . ."
He walked across to the corner where the small man sat now, deftly sorting cards. He looked up, pinched a pink card from the stack, jabbed it at Maldon. Words jumped out at him: NOT QUALIFIED.
Mart tossed the card back on the desk. "You must be mixed up," he said. "A ten-year-old kid could pass that test—"
"Maybe so," the monitor said sharply. "But you didn't. Next testing on Wednesday, eight A.M.—"
"Hold on a minute," Mart said. "I've had five years of Microtronics—"
The monitor was nodding. "Sure, sure. Come back Wednesday."
"You don't get the idea—"
"You're the one that doesn't get the idea, fellow." He studied Maldon for a moment. "Look," he said, in a more reasonable tone. "What you want, you want to go in for Adjustment."
"Thanks for the tip," Maldon said. "I'm not quite ready to have my brains scrambled."
"Ha! A smart-alec!" The monitor pointed to his chest. "Do I look like my brains were scrambled?"
Maldon looked him over as though in doubt.
"You've been Adjusted, huh? What's it like?"
"Adjustment? There's nothing to it. You have a problem finding work, it helps you, that's all. I've seen fellows like you before. You'll never pass Phase Two testing until you do it."
"To Hell with Phase Two testing! I've registered for Tech Testing. I'll just wait."
The monitor nodded, prodding at his teeth with a pencil. "Yeah, you could wait. I remember one guy waited nine years; then he got his Adjustment and we placed him in a week."
"Nine years?" Maldon shook his head. "Who makes up these rules?"
"Who makes 'em up? Nobody! They're in the book."
Maldon leaned on the desk. "Then who writes the book? Where do I find them?"
"You mean the Chief?" the small man rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "On the next level up. But don't waste your time, friend. You can't get in there. They don't have time to argue with everybody who comes in here. It's the system—"
"Yeah," Maldon said, turning away. "So I hear."