make any sense of this," he called.
Annika passed by her office and dumped her bag, coat, scarf, and mittens. Her sweater felt sticky in the armpits, and suddenly she was conscious of not having had a shower that morning. She pulled the jacket tighter around her, hoping she didn't smell.
Janet Ullberg, a young freelance reporter, and Ingvar Johansson were both leaning over one of the newsroom computers that had a fast modem installed.
"Janet hasn't been able to get hold of Christina Furhage all day," he said while typing something. "We've got a number that's supposed to work, but there's no answer. According to the Olympic Secretariat, she's in town, probably at home. So we wanted to look up her address and go and knock on her door. But when we enter her data, nothing happens. She's not in there."
He pointed to the information on the screen. No Christina Furhage— "The name does not exist for the given data." Annika squeezed in behind Janet and sat down on the chair in front of the keyboard.
"Of course she's here, everybody is," Annika said. "You've done a too narrow search, that's all."
"I don't get it," Janet said in a faint voice. "What are you doing?"
Annika explained while typing away. "The Public Register, the government department for citizen information— people's births, deaths, marriages, and addresses— usually goes under the name of the PubReg. It's not even state owned anymore; they sold it to some Anglo-French company. Anyway, here you can find every person in the country— their identity numbers, addresses, previous addresses, and places of birth of Swedes and immigrants who've been given identity numbers. Before, you'd be able to find family ties as well— children and spouses— but that was stopped a couple of years ago. Now, using the modem, we log in to something called the Info Market, look… You can choose from a number of databases, the National Vehicle Register and the Register of Limited Companies, for example, but we want the PubReg. Look here— you type " 'pubreg" up here where the prompt is…"
"I'll go back to my desk. Call me when you're done," Ingvar Johansson said and left in the direction of the newsdesk.
"…and, hey, presto! We're in. Here we can choose between a number of different functions, things we want to enquire about. See? Use F2 if you have the personal number and want to know whose it is, F3 if you have a birth date but not the four ID digits, F4 and F5 are off limits— family ties— but we can use F7 and F8. To find out where a person lives you hit F8, name enquiry. Voilà!"
Annika pressed the command and a document appeared on the screen.
"So, we're looking for Christina Furhage, living somewhere in Sweden," she said, typing in the necessary data: sex, first and second names. She left the fields for approximate date of birth, county code, and postal code empty. The computer did its thinking, and after a few seconds, three lines appeared on the screen.
"Okay, one at a time," Annika said, pointing at the screen with her pen. "Look here: 'Furhage, Eleonora Christina, born 1912 in Kalix, hist.' That means the data is historical. The old lady is probably dead. Dead people stay in the register for about a year. It can also mean that she has changed her name; she could have married an old geezer from the home. If you want to check that, you highlight her name and press F7, for historical data, but we won't do that now."
She moved her pen down to the bottom line.
" 'Furhage, Sofia Christina, born 1993 in Kalix.' A kid. Presumably a relative of the first one. Unusual surnames often pop up in the same place."
She moved the pen again. "This will be our Christina."
Annika typed a "v" in front of the line and gave the command.
"My God…!" she said, leaning closer toward the screen as if she didn't believe her own eyes. A very rare piece of
Annika passed by her office and dumped her bag, coat, scarf, and mittens. Her sweater felt sticky in the armpits, and suddenly she was conscious of not having had a shower that morning. She pulled the jacket tighter around her, hoping she didn't smell.
Janet Ullberg, a young freelance reporter, and Ingvar Johansson were both leaning over one of the newsroom computers that had a fast modem installed.
"Janet hasn't been able to get hold of Christina Furhage all day," he said while typing something. "We've got a number that's supposed to work, but there's no answer. According to the Olympic Secretariat, she's in town, probably at home. So we wanted to look up her address and go and knock on her door. But when we enter her data, nothing happens. She's not in there."
He pointed to the information on the screen. No Christina Furhage— "The name does not exist for the given data." Annika squeezed in behind Janet and sat down on the chair in front of the keyboard.
"Of course she's here, everybody is," Annika said. "You've done a too narrow search, that's all."
"I don't get it," Janet said in a faint voice. "What are you doing?"
Annika explained while typing away. "The Public Register, the government department for citizen information— people's births, deaths, marriages, and addresses— usually goes under the name of the PubReg. It's not even state owned anymore; they sold it to some Anglo-French company. Anyway, here you can find every person in the country— their identity numbers, addresses, previous addresses, and places of birth of Swedes and immigrants who've been given identity numbers. Before, you'd be able to find family ties as well— children and spouses— but that was stopped a couple of years ago. Now, using the modem, we log in to something called the Info Market, look… You can choose from a number of databases, the National Vehicle Register and the Register of Limited Companies, for example, but we want the PubReg. Look here— you type " 'pubreg" up here where the prompt is…"
"I'll go back to my desk. Call me when you're done," Ingvar Johansson said and left in the direction of the newsdesk.
"…and, hey, presto! We're in. Here we can choose between a number of different functions, things we want to enquire about. See? Use F2 if you have the personal number and want to know whose it is, F3 if you have a birth date but not the four ID digits, F4 and F5 are off limits— family ties— but we can use F7 and F8. To find out where a person lives you hit F8, name enquiry. Voilà!"
Annika pressed the command and a document appeared on the screen.
"So, we're looking for Christina Furhage, living somewhere in Sweden," she said, typing in the necessary data: sex, first and second names. She left the fields for approximate date of birth, county code, and postal code empty. The computer did its thinking, and after a few seconds, three lines appeared on the screen.
"Okay, one at a time," Annika said, pointing at the screen with her pen. "Look here: 'Furhage, Eleonora Christina, born 1912 in Kalix, hist.' That means the data is historical. The old lady is probably dead. Dead people stay in the register for about a year. It can also mean that she has changed her name; she could have married an old geezer from the home. If you want to check that, you highlight her name and press F7, for historical data, but we won't do that now."
She moved her pen down to the bottom line.
" 'Furhage, Sofia Christina, born 1993 in Kalix.' A kid. Presumably a relative of the first one. Unusual surnames often pop up in the same place."
She moved the pen again. "This will be our Christina."
Annika typed a "v" in front of the line and gave the command.
"My God…!" she said, leaning closer toward the screen as if she didn't believe her own eyes. A very rare piece of
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