of more tries and he’d have it. “1653230. 1653230,” he repeated in English. Caucasian male, brown hair, height 1.8 meters, weight 68 kilograms, date of enlistment, date of discharge. It was all there, including a copy of his Selective Service System Registration Certificate. His Social Security number was 433-54-3937.
“1563230, 433-54-3937,” Hoken said to himself. He closed his eyes and said out loud, “Serial number 1653230. Social Security number 443-54-3937.”
He opened his left eye to check. “Oops,” he said. “433-54-3937.” He repeated three times.
Gunnerr continued his seemingly never-ending narration of #1’s perpetual failures. “Shortly after his discharge from the service he suffered a significant personal failure that caused him to emotionally unravel; he just couldn’t cope. He attempted suicide by slashing his left wrist.”
Gunnerr paused, and said with a quick, cynical laugh. “Fortunately for him and for us, although unfortunately for everyone else, the attempt was foiled by acquaintances.”
Gunnerr stopped. “Sorry about that, Major. I shouldn’t inject this personal opinion, but the guy’s such a failure he can’t even commit suicide and get it right.”
A little macabre humor in situations like this just can’t be avoided, thought Hoken. And he’s absolutely right; this man is scum. And I’m going to assume his existence.
“After this,” continued Gunnerr immediately getting back to business, “he spent considerable time in a hospital recuperating.
“After two years of what can only be described as just existing, he married a woman from an authoritarian country much poorer than the United States. It was, as they say on Earth, a situation where they used each other. What he gained was a women more handsome and intelligent and with empathetic qualities than he could otherwise ever hope to attain, and with the marriage, she was able to immigrate to the United States. They have two female children, June and Audrey, the latter born just one month ago. As with all of the personal relationships in his life, his marriage is a failure. Major, everything this man touches turns to saud (sxxx in English).”
Hoken just shook his head, and nodded silently in agreement.
“Major, we’re starting to assemble some information on his neighbors, acquaintances, and co-workers. You can see the files and pictures of Michael Paine and Buell Frazier on your console. We’re sure we’ll have images for other people important in his personal life, such as Gladys Johnson, Earline Roberts, Ruth Paine and Lennie Randle, before you reach Earth.
“Now that we know which individuals to monitor, we should be able to pick up a few personal conversations.
“Getting back to his wife,” said Gunnerr. “They quarrel frequently. She has no respect for him. She probably despises him. I really don’t blame her, but that’s what happens when you do things for expediency, rather than because they’re the right thing to do. They’re currently estranged; an arrangement that makes them both happier, although that’s kind of stretching that word. He provides little to no financial support, forcing her to live with and on handouts from friends, because they feel sorry for her and the children. By mutual agreement, they see each other only on weekends. He currently resides at a boarding house for young males at 1026 North Beckley, not far from his place of employment.”
The border of one of the screens flashed to show Hoken what would be discussed next.
“He has held one menial, unsatisfying, boring job after another,” said Gunnerr as he continued on with the seemingly infinite detailing of #1’s faults. “He leaves after several months or is released, fired. Once, he was escorted to the door by security and literally thrown out. There’s no stability, only continued wandering, looking for something he will obviously never find.
“He’s never happy with his job, and I assure you, Major, the feeling is mutual. His employers and supervisors are never satisfied with his performance, and for good reason. His work is slow, inattentive, and sloppy. The product is always inadequate. He’s uniformly disliked by his coworkers, at least in part because he continually harangues them with his extremist political views and criticizes their religious beliefs. In spite of being a loser with a capital L, he feels the world owes him something.”
This man has all of the faults, and even more, and none of the positive qualities of Rennedee, thought Hoken.
“Because of his activity and involvement in several political fringe organizations, we’ve been able to obtain about five minutes of an audio, which on Earth they call radio, transmission of his voice. Major, these transmissions are via electromagnetic radiation, a technology we’ve not used on Oria for more than five hundred years, since we developed virtual photon transmissions. Earth’s radio transmissions are either by amplitude modulation, called AM, or frequency modulation, called FM. In the U.S., the radio transmission stations are identified by three or four letters of the Roman alphabet.
“Major, we’re really lucky that we were able to obtain a five minute clip of his voice from a broadcast three months ago from a radio station with the call-letter designation WDSU. The first voice is the interviewer, the second is our man.”
Hoken now had a voice to go with the picture. To help himself get even more in the mood, he set his face with the smirkish frown. He listened intently. There was an intermittent crackle—like rubbing your hair right next to your ear—but the recording was otherwise clear, the words easily understandable. After the interviewer, speaking in the typical staccato Walter Winchell newsman style, provided some background and introduction, he asked, “How long has your group had an organization in this area?”
Human #1 responded, “We have had members in this area for several months now. Up until about two months ago, however, we have not organized our members into any sort of active group. Until, as you say, this week, we have decided to feel out the public, what they think of our organization, our aims, and for that purpose we have been, as you say, distributing literature on the street…”
Hoken shook his head in disbelief. He was stunned; stunned because he was so impressed. Since Hoken’s father was the chief political officer of the planet, he had heard hundreds of interviews. For a man in his early twenties, #1 could hardly have done a better, more polished, job. He was composed; he answered the questions quickly, accurately and succinctly, with obvious forethought. He had a solid vocabulary and a wide knowledge base. Questions that were clearly asked in a way to throw him off guard or probe for weakness or that were even meant to provoke him were easily, almost effortlessly, handled. Hoken admitted to himself that #1 did a better job at the interview than he could have done.
Hoken would replay this clip as many times as possible over the next three days on the trip to Earth—while he ate, while he exercised, sometimes even during his formal English lessons. He wanted to quickly memorize the content so he could talk along with the recording. This is where the computer’s voice recognition program would so useful. It could display visually the entire sound context of Hoken’s pronunciation of a word next to that of Human #1’s, and then give instructions, such as use a higher or lower tone, roll the R, don’t pronounce the T as hard, etc. He had to be able to mimic every intonation, every inflection, so that by the time he reached Earth, he would sound as much like Human #1 as possible. He would never be able to fool the computer, all he needed to do was to be able to fool co-workers, friends and family.
Everyone has “catch phrases,” things that for whatever reason they use over and over, as fillers for the conversation, such as “and so on and so forth.” Hoken noted #1 would often say “as you say.” He wanted to say as little as possible, but when he had to talk, he’d try to add “as you say” to the conversation.
