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Science Fiction
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"I was driving a dynamite truck when I was 14 years old in North Carolina."
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Are you the right person for your job?
. . neuroses arising from job tension,” he read at random. “Thus, the Adjusted worker enjoys the deep-down satisfaction which comes from Doing a Job, free from conflict-inducing nonproductive impulses and the distractions of feckless speculative intellectual activity . .
Don't you wish Adjustment was available where you work?
Fortunately, Mart found a way around the Adjustment:
“Strip to your waist, place your clothing and shoes in the basket, remove all metal objects from your pockets, no watches or other jewelry must be worn,” he recited in a rapid monotone. “When you are ready, lie down on your back—” he slapped the cot — “hands at your sides, breathe deeply, do not touch any of the equipment. I will return in approximately five minutes. Do not leave the stall.” He whisked the curtain aside and was gone.
Mart slipped a flat plastic tool kit from his pocket, opened it out, picked the largest screwdriver, and went to work on the metal panel cover set against the wall. He lifted it off and looked in at a maze of junction blocks, vari-colored wires, bright screwheads, fuses, tiny condensers.
He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket, compared it to the circuits before him. The large black lead, here ... He put a finger on it. And the matching red one, leading up from the 30 MFD condenser . . .
With a twist, he freed the two connectors, reversed them, tightened them back in place. Working quickly, he snipped wires, fitted jumpers in place, added a massive resistor from his pocket. There; with luck, the check instruments would give the proper readings now — but the current designed to lightly scorch his synapses would flow harmlessly round and round within the apparatus.
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