Free A Silly Millimeter by Steve Bellinger Page A

a goddamn about your specs. My house is too big—”
    “Sir,” Bell interrupted, “our records show that your home is equipped with a mnemonic replicating system computer.”
    “Yes, but what has that got to do with this?”
    “You really shouldn’t swear in front of it. It will mimic you.”
    “Listen, asshole,” Hank steamed. “My house is too damn big. Now, what are you going to do about it?”
    “What do you want us to do?”
    “I want you to fix it!”
    “It must have expanded,” Bell shook his head. “Expansion is not covered in your warranty.”
    “And why the hell not?”
    “Your house is made of Dwellform multi-polymer. It does not expand. City codes, you know.”
    “But it did expand—look, what would a re-form cost?”
    “Well,” Bell paused to think, “ we could come out with a macro mold and re-form your house, but, if it really is too large, that won’t help because the mass will still be the same. If we squeeze the millimeter from the sides, the house would exceed height limits.”
    “So do a complete re-form, including the roof.”
    “Can’t. It would make the interior walls bulge and the inside area would then be less than city codes allow. That carries an even bigger fine, I think”
    “So what the hell do I do?”
    Bell scratched his chin. “Well, back before multi-polymer, we used to have this problem all the time. We could come out, re-form the sides, peel the roof back and shave the difference off the top of the walls. Now, that would fix things!”
    Hank smiled for the first time, “That’s it! How much?”
    Bell looked down at the console, “A million five.”
    “A million five?” Hank screamed as he slammed his fist on top of the console, breaking the connection, and the vidphone.
    *
    The door chime rang.
    “Computer,” Hank called from his chair, “who’s at the door?”
    “The son-of-a-bitch,” the computer responded.
    “What?”
    “Apologies,” the computer said. “It is Mr. Bemis of Code Enforcement.”
    “Let the son-of-a-bitch in.”
    Bemis, a portly little man with almost no hair, entered through a door that appeared in a wall in the living room. “I wish you wouldn’t swear in front of your computer. I really don’t like being addressed that way.”
    “Thanks for dropping by,” Hank said flatly.
    “Your fine is up to five thousand dollars, Mr. Banks. Of course it will be voided if you fix the problem.”
    “A goddamned millimeter! You clowns are just mad because the color is different.”
    “You may have to apply for a variance on the color next year. They’re amending the ordinance to allow only certain parts of the spectrum—with no grandfathering. Chances are they’ll make you change it.”
    Hank stood so he could look down on Bemis. “When was the last time you had your measuring equipment checked?”
    “Insulting a city official is punishable by a fine of no less than—”
    “Okay, okay. How much time do I have?”
    “Five days,” Bemis looked at his wrist computer. “When the fine reaches ten thousand it becomes due.”
    “And if I don’t pay?”
    “Oh, you’ll pay all right. You’ll pay!”
    * * *
    Bemis was ecstatic. Going after violators was fun, but cracking down on scofflaws like Banks was almost as good as sex. As his two-wheeler sputtered around the corner and approached 445TR6, his smile faded. The house was no longer pastel green. Banks must have believed that crap about the color ordinance, Bemis thought. No matter. Bemis had checked with the Dwellformers. No work had been done at this address. The house was still out of spec. He would issue the citation and collect the money. Cash or credit—made no difference. He’d still get his commission in a week. He hopped out of the bicar and walked up to the front wall. He could hear the computer announce his presence—in a more cordial manner this time—and the wall opened.
    “Well, Mr. Banks,” Bemis tried to hide his elation. Will that be cash, check or credit