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So Y.T."s mom has clacked up the stairs in her black pumps and gone into her office, actually a large room with computer workstations placed across it in a grid. Used to be divided up by partitions, but the EBGOC boys didn"t like it, said what would happen if there had to be an evacuation? All those partitions would impede the free flow of unhinged panic. So no more partitions. Just workstations and chairs. Not even any desktops. Desktops encourage the use of paper, which is archaic and reflects inadequate team spirit. What is so special about your work that you have to write it down on a piece of paper that only you get to see? That you have to lock it away inside a desk? When you"re working for the Feds, everything you do is the property of the United States of America. You do your work on the computer. The computer keeps a copy of everything, so that if you get sick or something, it"s all there where your co-workers and supervisors can get access to it. If you want to write little notes or make phone doodles, you"re perfectly free to do that at home, in your spare time. And there"s the question of interchangeability. Fed workers, like military people, are intended to be interchangeable parts. What happens if your workstation should break down? You"re going to sit there and twiddle your thumbs until it gets fixed? No siree, you"re going to move to a spare workstation and get to work on that. And you don"t have that flexibility if you"ve got half a ton of personal stuff cached inside of a desk, strewn around a desktop.
Robert Neville jerked the gear shift into reverse.
‘Curse it, there’s the sun,’ I heard Archie cry. It was true, for the clouds were rolling back and the centre of the heavens was a patch of blue. The storm was coming — I could smell it in the air — but probably it wouldn’t break till the evening. Where, I wondered, would we be by that time?
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