CRASH and ICU

The guy did a somersault into my cube, just as I was about to crack the address problem. His eyes were wild, and his hair was bright. Or the other way around, but he really looked crazy, and it just shattered my concentration. No, really. I'm sure I had the address thing whipped. This time.

He arose, babbling incoherently for a minute and looking very hunted. But I was having none of it.

"Just who the hell are you?" I demanded. "And what are you doing in my cube? And where did you come from? And how did you do that somersault thing?"

At that, the man seemed to focus.

"Sure got a lot of questions, don't you?" he countered. "And I'll answer all of them, but first, please just answer me one: What year is it?"

Oh, great, I thought. A dodo bird, as well. "2009," I replied with little sarcasm. "Du-uh!"

"Whoo-hoo!" cried the stranger. "It worked!"

"Uh, what worked?" I asked, regrettably curious.

"My time machine," chirped the stranger. "I'm from the year 2109, and am I glad to see you!"

"Um, I'm confused," I said.

"I'm sorry," said the 2109 guy, extending a hand. "I'm Iggy. Let me explain. I came in a time machine. It's this thing I'm wearing that looks like a backpack."

"Uh, how efficient," I cut in. "But I'm very busy, and you're really messing me up here. I have a status report due by close of business."

"No, listen," Iggy continued. "I have to tell you this! Life in the 22nd Century is really horrible. There's no freedom at all. The World Government watches everything you do, listens to everything you say, reads everything you write. You can't pee without it being witnessed, recorded, measured, and analyzed."

I didn't really believe that this Iggy was a time traveler, but I didn't want to tell him that, in case he was dangerous. So I said, "I don't really believe you're a time traveler, but if I did, how would this 'World Government' monitor you so closely?" D'oh! I'm not at my best under pressure.

Iggy waved away my doubts. "Of course, you're skeptical. But never mind that. They have this really robust, draconian database. It's called the 'International Control Unlimited' database, or 'ICU.' And boy, does it. It has detailed, accurate information about everyone on the planet. I just had to get away, and fortunately, I had this idea of how to build a time machine. and - thank God! - it worked. They were at my door when I pressed the button."

"Look, um, Iggy," I said as tactfully as I could, "this is all very interesting, but I have a lot of work to do. As I said before." I said this very pointedly. "You think you have problems! Well, listen to this! I have to make this clunky, recalcitrant database application work, and ... and ... it's a mess! There's not just one intractable problem. There're two! Listen to this. Here's one: We can't keep our addresses straight."

"Do tell," said Iggy encouragingly. "What kind of place is this?"

"Oh," I replied, surprised at his interest. "This is BSCWA, the Big State Child Welfare Agency. Our job is protecting children."

"And your database?" prompted Iggy.

"It's called the 'Child Responsibility And Safe Homes' system. The CRASH database."

"So what's the deal with the addresses?" asked Iggy.

"We have at least three for every kid in the system," I said, "and more types than you can keep track of: primary this, secondary that, mailing something-or-other, residence whatsis, you name it. We can't be sure where any particular kid lives, and when we mail something, we're never sure where it's going, never mind whether the intended recipient will get it."

"Hmm, interesting," said Iggy.

"And if you think that's something," I continued, "I haven't told you about person merge!"

"You haven't," said Iggy. "Please go on."

"We keep re-entering the same kids into the database, and every time we do, we give them a new ID number. Then, later, someone notices that one kid has two or three IDs, so we merge them. Then we can't find all of the information on the kid." I paused for breath. "But that isn't even the worst part. Sometimes, we merge records for two different people. Then it's a complete mess."

"Well, don't you just correct the mistake, then?" asked Iggy.

"Well, ... sort of," I sighed. "We can undo the bad merge, but that doesn't work right, either. Each of the original kids winds up with some of the other kid's data."

"Could you show me the code?" asked Iggy.

"I'm sorry," I replied. "It's proprietary."

"Proprietary?" he scoffed. "The crappy code that doesn't work? But listen. I happen to be a programmer, too, and I might be able to help you fix it."

Now, that was just a little too tempting to pass up. I brought the code up on my computer screen. Iggy produced a flash drive, seemingly from nowhere, and deftly copied it down. Then he disappeared.

Well, there's a thing, I mused. Now what? Five minutes later, another person popped into my cube.

"Who the heck are you?" I screamed. "And where do you think this is, Kennedy International?"

"It's me, Iggy," said the new stranger.

"No way!" I objected. "Iggy was this tense, wild-haired, crazy-looking paranoid guy. You look positively placid, not to mention sane."

"Nevertheless," said Iggy, for it was he, "it's me."

"How is that possible?" I cried.

"A time machine is a very handy thing," smiled Iggy. "I took your code - for which, thanks - to the year they started developing ICU and persuaded the developers to give it a try. More flexible, I told them."

"So, ... there's no ICU in the 22nd Century now?" I guessed.

"Oh, they have it," said Iggy. "It just doesn't work."

"And what about my problems?" I asked. "You were going to help me, remember?" But he had disappeared again.

So here I am, back where I started, drowning in addresses and person merges, with a status report due in a couple of hours. I don't know what else to put, but I can tell you one thing: I'm listing "saving the world" under "accomplishments."