Orwell's Other Nightmare

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Is t was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Marlboro Smith surveyed his desk with satisfaction. The monthly reports were done and he’d responded to all recent requests under the Public Accountability Act. His workload was current once more.

Smith enjoyed being a public employee, even though he knew he should be ashamed of that fact.

He carefully assumed a pained expression and turned toward the omnipresent Public Oversight camera. It was mounted to look over his shoulder so that it could record exactly what Marlboro wrote, read, or filed away. The placard beneath the lens warned:

Smith sensed someone standing just outside his office. There was no door; no government official had worked behind a closed door since the Governmental Scrutiny Amendment’s ratification.

“May I help you?”

Discovered, the other man entered, his expression one of undisguised distaste. “I’m here in an official capacity, Bureaucrat Smith.”

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