The Probability Broach by L. Neil Smith Page B

theory. A glance down the sidewalk, and there it was, my first sensible idea for the day—lower and wider than I was used to, with tinted panes in a wrought-iron latticework, and a fancy Kremlinesque spire pointing skyward:

    TELECOM
     

    Whatever that meant. Nothing orients you faster in strange territory than browsing through the phone book. There wasn’t any door. I took two steps down into the booth and the street noises went away. It also seemed cooler inside, but I could tolerate an air-conditioned phone booth if the Secretary of Energy could.
    No phone book. Just like back home. No telephone, either: just a simple matte-finished panel like sandblasted Corning-ware. Underneath was a keyboard. I plunked myself down on the broad upholstered bench and abruptly the screen had letters on it:

    -NEED ASSISTANCE?—
The Grand Combined Director of
Greater Paporte!
Gray, Bell, & Acme Communications Systems
     

    which changed in a few moments to:

    INSTRUCTIONS: Please enter party you wish to ’com. Number will be indicated by a pulsing cursor dot. Enter A for Accept and remit payment. For information, please enter 0 for Operator. For free map displays, enter Map plus address desired. Thank you for choosing our services.
    Gray Telecom System, Ltd.
Bell Telephone Co., Ltd.
Acme Communications, Ltd.
     

    Now there was something: a polite phone company! Three polite companies, and the service argued Messrs. Gray, Bell, and Acme might be bucking pretty lively competition.
    I could have tried the local fuzz, but I figured I owed the thrill to my alma mater. The screen hadn’t mentioned Long Distance, so I examined the keyboard. It wasn’t laid out like a typewriter, but at this point, I felt lucky they were the same letters. It was back to hunt and peck after years of perfecting my own two-finger method. Finally, I decided on O.
    So help me, an animated drawing answered, a pleasantly stereotypical old-timey operator, crisply pretty in a high-collared blouse and headset—like Betty Crocker’s kid sister. “May I help you?”
    I’d never talked to a cartoon before, but this seemed like the day for it. “Could you give me Long Distance? The Denver Police, two-six-six, two-four-two-one. And reverse the charges. This is Lieutenant Win Bear.”
    “One moment, please Lieutenant Bear.” The screen blanked, then she reappeared. “I’m sorry, we have no records for a Denver Police in either local or trunkline memories. Are you sure you’re using the correct name?”
    That stopped me. “What do you mean? Try ‘Denver, City, and County of.”’
    Her face registered good-natured exasperation. “I’m very sorry, sir. I’ve accessed 36,904 listings: but no ‘Denver, City and County of.”’
    The 3-D display made it almost irresistible to try strangling her cute little cartoon neck. But something catastrophic had resulted in a brand-new calendar. Hell, Denver could be in a different country by now! “Hold on! How far away—if that’s the way to put it—is your directory good for?” Back home you still can’t dial lots of places—try calling Moscow for a little excitement at the FBI’s expense.
    She hesitated. “Sir, we list over seven billion individuals and organizations currently contracting with some twelve thousand telecommunications companies on this planet, the Moon, Mars, and Ceres Central. I am confident to sixteen decimals that there is no ‘Denver, City and County of’ in the known solar system. May I be of further assistance, or would you prefer a live operator?”
    There was a definite “asshole” at the end of that sentence. “No,” I answered dizzily, “that’s enough.” The screen returned to NEED ASSISTANCE? I certainly did—oxygen and a saline drip. So much for The Next Best Thing to Being There.
    Okay, Denver was obliterated. They’d finally Pushed the Button, and at least 117 years ago, judging by the university sign. Ragnarok’s a pretty good reason to start a new calendar. Yet this