Metropolis

"Mister Jones?" asked the elevator from the frail figure in front of it.

"Indeed." replied the shadow of a man.

"There is no such thing as certainty in logical thinking, Sir. Put your right thumb on the telescreen."

Jonas could not help but to do what he was asked.

"You may occupy the elevator." said the mechanical voice after some hesitation.

Mr. Jones was a software developer at IBM Electronics. As he entered the elevator, that began speeding upwards on the sheer face of the glass sky-scraper, he suddenly remembered, that he had forgotten at home the tiny microchip his monthly work was on.

"There are no mistakes to be made, Mr. Jones!" the mechanical voice rang above his head.

The man grew pale, yet he knew he couldn't hide from these machines even if he were a drop of water in an ocean. The machines seemed to be taking care of everything. His blood sugar was analyzed each morning from his urine, his eyesight checked by the mirror he looked into, even the movies that were meant to entertain him were carefully chosen after a psychological evaluation.

As he looked at the other building from the climbing elevator, he saw one of the commercials that were now everywhere.

"FEEL GOOD, THE AIR IS CLEAN" said the running electronic letters. Other phrases that resembled this one, meant to keep up the daily humor of the population, consisted of similar simple, stupid phrases. "CHEERIO SNACKS THE ONES YOU CRACK."

There were exactly for these all pervasive obtrusions of privacy that humans were losing their minds. None of them was sane anymore, yet the machines that were staring with a wide look into everything, couldn't care less. The battle had been long lost for humans. The electronic circuits stuck together like the threads of a spider web, and there was no escape from them.

As days passed by, with the sugar-sample, the eye-checks, the godforsaken movies, Jones grew thinner, his face ever paler, and one day he snapped. He decided to make a run for his life.

That morning he didn't use the bathroom, carefully covered the electronic mirror with a shirt, and sprayed the camera in the ceiling with shaving foam. He called a cab and told it he wanted to visit the Art Gallery, which was located in the outskirts of the city. They rode past glass buildings, streets filled with people dressed in the customary blue uniforms, and finally arrived at the location. It was beautiful out here. The setting sun cast a reddish light on the trees that were cut at the top, and looked like green balloons, the blue sky hung low, and he could have sworn he heard chirruping birds.

Jones sat down on the sidewalk, and waited. He did not have to wait too long. From somewhere above the trees, a calm voice sounded. "Mr. Jones, you didn't ask for a leave!"

THE END

Bio: Botond Teklesz is an English single major Hungarian by mother tongue. Botond says of himself "I love to write and to translate. I am a fool for Sci-fi and have read most of Bradbury and Asimov. I mean Hamlet is great but it never made me laugh."

E-mail: Botond Teklesz

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