Mr Bauer was just walking past and, noticing my look of disbelief, explained that Mr Vandas had send this report to the papers as part of a bet he'd made with someone that people would believe almost any nonsense about computers. He wrote this story, sent it off — and won.
Computer programmers love practical jokes. Once Mr Klíma added some built-in commands to the master programme used by Mrs Rybová. Suddenly, her terminal emitted a bubbling sound and a message flashed on the screen: Water is entering your computer/ Shut off mains water at once! Rybová ran out of her office, yelling for someone to turn off the water. In addition to playing jokes on each other, the programmers play tennis, go on long
weekend hikes, and occasionally get together, drink wine and tell stories, all so they won't go crazy from constant conversation with their computers.
I walked through the offices, but they were all empty. I put the catalogue on Miss Kosinová's desk; the gaudy cover looked out of place among the test reports and specialist magazines. Miss Kosinová was a group leader at this site, and I wasn't surprised that the catalogue was for someone else; she was always finding things for someone else. I couldn't imagine her wasting her time leafing through a catalogue. She had never married, they said, because a family would interfere with her work. But the real reason, it seemed to me, was her kindness. She was so kind, so concerned for others, that she could not serve two masters; the feeling that she was neglecting one of them would have been unbearable.
The next hall contained only a small desk-top computer, and it was there that I found them all, including Miss Kosinová and the only member of the Communist Party in the institute, Mrs Rybová. In the middle of the room, seated at the computer, was Mr Vandas with his younger daughter on his knee. His good-natured, bearded face showed tension or more likely pain. The coloured monitor displayed a two-lane highway with cars flashing by in opposite directions. Mr Vandas directed his car with subtle movements of his joystick, passing on the left, rejoining the flow while adroitly avoiding the cars that were hurtling towards him. Brightly lit cities, petrol pumps, bridges and side-roads flashed by, and silhouetted on the horizon were high mountains, perhaps the Rockies themselves, where the driver was heading.
The others in the room were so intent on the game that
they didn't notice me come in. I was somewhat surprised, for I was used to finding the programmers in their own cubicles or, when they managed to get some time on the mainframe computer in Strašnice, on Letni or in Vršovice, they were scarcely here at all. Mr Vandas had just successfully cut in on three cars in a row while the onlookers breathed sighs of relief, and it was then I understood that they'd all gathered here to show him their support, since his wife had just had an operation.
The moment I stepped into the room, I was aware of an unusual atmosphere full of kindness and compassion. As a matter of fact, whenever these people asked me to deliver something that it was part of my job to deliver anyway, they always asked first whether they weren't putting me to too much trouble, then hastened to assure me they were in no hurry and if it was inconvenient now, I could bring them the tapes tomorrow. The kindly Miss Kosinová was certainly one of the reasons for this exceptional atmosphere. Several times, when I saw her dispirited by the sheer number of impediments she and her colleagues faced, I wanted to tell her that she was creating something far greater than a bunch of programmes. Moreover, the work they were doing here was important. To make light of the impediments was to make light of the work.
At last Mr Klíma noticed me and asked if I wanted to sit down at his computer and practise WordPerfect for a while, now that his terminal was free. So as not to offend him, I agreed and he led me away to his office. Usually Mr Klíma didn't talk much, but on the way he told me they'd operated on Mrs Vandas the night before. Everything had turned out well, she was in intensive care now but they expected to transfer her to a regular ward the next day. He
switched on his computer, stepped back and with a smile of encouragement, said, 'It's all yours.'
The first time he sat me down at his computer, he had complained that they only had two terminals here, and that this was one of them. Two computers for twenty programmers! 'In the West, anyone who wants can buy something like this for a month's wages. But they can't import them because of the embargo. And for my monthly wages, the most I could buy over there would be a box of diskettes. This computer,' he informed me, 'was smuggled here all the way from Taiwan.'
If that were the case, I asked, why couldn't we manufacture computers here ourselves?
He explained to me that we could probably manage the electronics, but we'd still have to import hard disks. They aren't embargoed, but no company can get the currency to buy them. And Mr Klíma waved his hand dismissively, as though he were driving away an oppressive dream. I had only a vague notion of what he meant by a hard disk, but I understood that the programmers' work was not proceeding according to plan. In that, at least, it was not unlike the work of most of us have to do.
I sat down at the keyboard, slipped a system disk into the upper drive and a file disk into the lower. Messages began appearing on the screen, following one another so rapidly that I had no time to read them. When I got the A> sign, I wrote, as I had been instructed several days before, A: WP, and then I sent this strange code into the machine's innards by pressing the key marked 'Return'. The diabolical machine immediately announced, in English: 'Bad Command or File Name!' But it offered no advice about what to do. I repeated my command, and the machine,
with astonishing speed, repeated its message. I stared helplessly at the screen and waited, afraid to turn around because I was certain I'd forgotten something quite basic and, in asking Mr Klima's advice, would somehow betray the kind effort he had exerted on my behalf. 'You forgot to replace the system disk with the programme disk,' he said finally, behind me. 'How is it supposed to call up WordPerfect if it doesn't have it?'
I changed the disks and sent my commands to the computer, which now whirred and clicked, reminded me that it was from Utah (where, unlike Spain and Italy, I had once been) and then presented me with a blank screen, an invitation to write.
So I wrote: Dear Mr President
I looked around. A satisfied smile appeared on Mr Klima's round, clean-shaven face. 'Go ahead and write whatever you feel like,' he said. 'We can wipe it out later.' And he sat down at his desk and began to leaf through some computer print-outs.
You are probably used to getting a lot of requests and complaints, I continued. I didn't like this introductory sentence, so I gave the computer instructions to wipe it out and it did so with a speed that still astonished me. Then I wrote:
I know that you are very busy, but I am not writing with a request or a complaint. I would only like to express the sympathy, or rather the regret, that you cause me to feel. I remember your inauguration ceremony, when you took your oath of office and were evidently moved to tears. At the time, I thought how hopelessly isolated you must be if you had no one around you to point out how inappropriate your
tears were. After all, you accepted your position at a time so full of sorrow and despair that it brought shame rather than glory to your name. I have tried, several times, to listen to your speeches, for I was curious about the message you wanted to convey to us. After all, I am a citizen of this country and I also try (though I am forbidden to do so) to convey something to the people who live here. So I listened to you and shared with you the horror, the despair of a man who accedes to the throne and surveys his invisible subjects, to whom he may, indeed to whom he must, convey something, and at the same time does not know what to say because he has nothing to say.