Higher Education

by Charles Sheffield

  "Naw. Mick takes it. He's gonna hate losing that nine-forty. Fifteen percent—"

  "It is that. You do percentages in your head?"

  "Sure. That's useful, you need it to play the numbers."

  "An undoubtedly valuable skill. Now that you are out you will have more chance to exercise it. But suppose that you had stayed in school. At eighteen, you would graduate. Even with your minimal skills, you would receive your diploma.

  Then you emerge and offer your talents to a waiting world. Did you have any plans as to what you would do?"

  "Find a job, I guess. There's supposed to be plenty of jobs around."

  "In laundries, or fast food places. Or running a scanner, there are usually jobs in data entry. There's also the Job Corps, makework jobs cleaning litter from parks. Plenty of those. That sound good?"

  "Naw, but there's other stuff."

  "Not for you. The fact is that perhaps two dozen of your two hundred classmates—twelve percent, as you will readily confirm—have skills that anyone wishes to pay for. Of course, nearly everyone has the grades to go to junior college."

  Rick shuddered.

  "You wouldn't learn any more there than you have in school," Hamel continued. "But it would keep you off the streets, and separate you from the genuinely stupid. Better than nothing, but still leading to a dead end."

  "Bigger education incentive, too—it goes up to a thousand a month."

  "A thousand a month, to stay in junior college for two years. At the end of that time would you possess any saleable skills?"

  "I don't know," Rick protested. He shook his head. "The way you talk, I guess not. So who gets the real jobs?"

  "Who do you think? Those who have the real skills. A few of your classmates, perhaps, but mostly students from company schools. People who know something, people who have learned how to work hard." Hamel shook his head sadly.

  "It pains me that I have lived to see the transformation of the United States from a republic to a feudal aristocracy. Not pretty."

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "No, I don't suppose you do. That's part of the problem. You ask who gets the jobs. The answer is, people with knowledge and drive. There are jobs for them. Not for an arrogant, semiliterate, unfocused, troublemaking know-nothing. Not for an amoral, idle, cynical waster, which is what you'd be if you stayed here. I told you I had good news. Here it is: you are fortunate to be expelled from this school. Had you remained you would have wasted another two years, and at the end of it you'd have no more knowledge or capability than you have today."

  Rick stood up. "I don't need to take this crap from anybody. I'm going."

  "Very well. Going where?"

  Rick shook his head. "I dunno. Mick's going to kill me." He knew how it would happen. When they found out that the education incentive would stop, his mother would scream and her boyfriend—Rick's "stepfather," though he certainly wasn't—would tell her to shut her yap. Then they would start in on each other. Finally when the fight between them cooled off they would gang up and turn it all on him.

  "Going home, I guess. I got a truce with the gangs but I can't be out after dark unless I pay, and I don't have money."

  "And tomorrow morning, when you get up and school is closed to you?"

  "I don't know. Look for a street job."

  "Selling dope?"

  "I don't know, what else is there?"

  "Theft. Shoplifting. Working as a pimp. Admittedly those don't pay as well as being a pusher, but they stay out of jail somewhat longer. Live longer, too."

  Rick knew what that meant. Most rackets were controlled by gangs, or even by adult mobsters. Mick, his current stepfather, claimed to have good connections, but nobody believed him. Especially not Rick, because he had asked about getting set up in a good racket, and Mick kept stalling him. Rick was sure that Mick didn't know shit about real rackets. And if you didn't have connections you wouldn't last long. You'd get busted or shot, maybe both.

  Rick shook his head. "I guess I don't know what I'll do."

  "I assumed as much. However, I have a suggestion." Mr. Hamel handed Rick a small yellow card. "Can you read what is written there?"

  Rick stared at the card in the fading light. "Eight-one-five-two." He paused. The numbers were easy but the words were long and unfamiliar. At last he shook his head. "Not without a reader."

  "Then I will tell you. It says, 8152 Chatterjee Boulevard, Suite 500. Can you remember that, and find the place?"

  "Sure." Rick stared at the card. "Say it again."

  "Very well. 8152 Chatterjee Boulevard, Suite 500."

  "Got it." Now that he'd heard the words he could sort of read the card, at least enough to remind him.

  "If you go there tomorrow there is a possibility of useful employment."

  "A job?"

  "Exactly. Not an easy job, but a worthwhile one. The most rewarding jobs are always the most difficult ones. You may keep the card."

  Rick studied the words, silently mouthing them to himself. "I know how to get to Chatterjee Boulevard. If I went there tonight, would someone be in Suite 500?"

  "I cannot say." Hamel stood up. "I must go now. But you have the right idea. Action is usually preferable to inaction."

  Rick stood up too. He wanted somehow to thank Mr. Hamel, but he did not know how. "Why are you doing this for me?"

  Hamel paused. "Certainly it is not because I like you, Luban. I do not. As I said, you are a fool. And you are—"

  "Ignorant, cynical, amoral, and unthinking. I heard you."

  "Correct. Did I omit to say lazy? But you are not stupid. You are, I think, basically very intelligent. However, all forms of test that might suggest one student is more able or talented than another were long since judged discriminatory, and banished from our school system. Therefore, I have no objective basis for my conjecture. But I do hate waste. You and your friends have been wasting your lives."

  "I still don't understand. You just told me I'm good for nothing."

  "You are—today. I did not tell you that you lack potential. It is all relative, Luban. You believe that the antics of your friends are daring and wicked. You will be amazed to learn that this school, despite its many failings, does not come close to the bottom of the heap. Go south with me ten miles, and I will show you schools like armed camps, schools where student and staff murders and rape are a daily event. For you, with all your flaws, there may still be hope. I would like to think so."

  Hamel nodded and started to walk away, a small, stooped figure in the twilight. "Do you think I'll get a job?" Rick called after him.

  "I cannot say." Hamel did not pause or turn around. "But if you do, wait a while before you thank me for it."

  Chapter Three

  MR. HAMEL had sensed the truth: Rick could not face going home. The school might not have called his mother, but somebody would have contacted her to make sure she knew there wouldn't be any more education incentive money coming in. Nine hundred and forty a month. It would stop today. He never saw one cent of it, but they would make him pay. Mick would wait up for him, drunk or drugged but anyway in a foul temper.

  If only, when Rick finally had to go to the apartment, he could tell them that he already had some sort of job, some way to bring home some money. . . .

  It seemed like the thinnest of straws to grasp at as he descended from the overhead Public Vehicle at the corner of Chatterjee Boulevard and began to walk along toward Number 8152. He had to push his way through crowds of young men and women, standing or wandering aimlessly along the littered street. They were part of the Pool. Not more than one in ten of the Pool would have a job of any kind—ever. Yet many of them had graduated high school and junior college, and some of them from a real college. Rick had already known most of the things that Mr. Hamel had told him. He had just never thought about them.

  They didn't want us to think about them. Rick remembered what Mr. Hamel had said about self esteem. He'd heard some of that before, too, but it hadn't se
emed worth bothering with. They want us to feel good and not think about the future. And it works, too. Why should we?

  Number 8152 was a ten-story windowless building, its featureless walls made of grey lightweight carbon composite. Rick waited stoically as his ID was verified by the automatic guard and the card given to him by Mr. Hamel was read. It was close to eight o'clock at night. On the way here he had convinced himself that Suite 500 would be empty.

  That conviction grew when he at last stood outside the entrance of the suite. He could see through the shatterproof glass door that it was just one room. It had plenty of computers and displays and printers inside, but no people.

  He touched the attention panel anyway, and was astonished when after about ten seconds a woman's voice responded, "You are at an office of Vanguard Mining and Refining. Please identify yourself."

  Rick went through the ID process all over again. He showed the little card and stumbled through the explanation that it had been given to him by Mr. Hamel, and why. The woman did not say another word, but at last the door swung open. Rick went in. The door closed behind him and one of the television monitors came alive.

  "Sit down right here."

  Rick took the only seat near the monitor. Now he could see the woman on the screen. She was small, thin, and sharp-featured, and somehow reminded him of an animal. A rat? No. Not quite.

  She was examining something in front of her, not visible to Rick. "You are sixteen years old. You have been expelled from school. And it is eight o'clock, your time. Right?"

  Each of the statements was true enough, but taken together they made little sense.

  "That's right."

  "I want you to tell me exactly why you were expelled from school. Take your time and give as much detail as you can. I'll try not to interrupt. If I do there will be a delay of about five seconds between what you say, and my comment or question. So you may have to back up occasionally and say things over. Go ahead."

  There was a temptation to lie, or put things in a way more favorable to Rick. Some instinct warned him that would be a mistake. He recounted the whole episode, from the arrival of Willis Preebane to Rick's interrogation and expulsion by Principal Rigden. It was difficult to talk about the condoms and the booby trap. After the fact it sounded so stupid and pointless and unfunny. Rick was sure that any hope of employment with Vanguard Mining was evaporating with every word he said. He plowed on, ending with his decision to come to this office tonight even though it was so late.

  "Not late where I am," the woman replied. "I got up just two hours ago. But are you tired?"

  Just got up. She had to be somewhere on the other side of the Earth! The speech delay must be caused by the satellite link. "I'm not tired."

  "Good. Can you read?"

  "A little bit." But five seconds was far too long for a satellite link delay. Rick struggled to remember things that had never before been of the slightest interest to him. Radio signals traveled at the speed of light. But how fast did light travel?

  "Can you write?"

  "Just a few things."

  "Hell." The woman's opinion of his reply showed more in her tone of voice than in her comment. "Well, no matter. We'll manage. I want to give you a whole set of things called aptitude tests. First, though, we have to deal with a few formalities. You never had tests like this in school, because they're forbidden in public programs. We're a private company but still the tests can't be given to you without suitable consent. In the case of someone like you, less than eighteen years old, that consent has to come from a parent or guardian."

  Rick felt an awful sinking feeling. He was going to be sent home after all with nothing to tell except his expulsion from school.

  "Problem with that?" The woman must have been studying his face. "Tell you what. Suppose that we give you the tests anyway, see how you do. If the results are good you can get consent later and we'll postdate the tests. If they're not good, we purge the test results from our files and you're no worse off."

  What she was suggesting sounded illegal—but if that didn't worry Vanguard Mining, it sure didn't worry Rick. He took a deep breath.

  "I'm ready."

  "Any last question before we begin?"

  Rick shook his head, then changed his mind. "You said you just got up. Is it morning where you are?"

  "Morning, afternoon, evening, anything you choose to call it." The woman smiled, to show small, sharp teeth. Rick suddenly caught the right animal resemblance. Not a rat, but a weasel—though he had never actually seen a live weasel. Mr. Hamel had somehow taught Rick more biology than either of them realized.

  "I'm on CM-2, one of Vanguard Mining's translunar training stations," the woman went on, "about seven hundred thousand kilometers away from Earth. But the tests will be delivered where you are by a local program. I'll still be here if you get stuck. Don't call me unless you absolutely have to, though—the tests are timed. Ready to go?"

  Rick nodded. His heart was racing and his mouth felt too dry to speak.

  The woman's picture vanished from the screen and was replaced by a sequence of numbers.

  "Good luck," said her disembodied voice. "Do well on your tests—and one day maybe you'll come out here and see this place for yourself."

  Rick had painted a mental picture too good to be true: he would pass the tests, Vanguard Mining would offer him a job, and he would be whisked away at once to space and his new employment.

  It was a dreadful shock to learn that the first set of aptitude tests was no more than a beginning.

  "Not bad," said the weasely woman, whose name was Coral Wogan. She was studying a copy of Rick s efforts, and he was terribly aware that he had not managed to complete even one of the tests. "Not bad at all," she went on. "You did well enough that we'll put you on the company payroll while you take the next set."

  "Next set?" It was after midnight and his brain felt like mush.

  "More extensive tests. Mostly physical this time. They last about two weeks. Now, take these"—a linked batch of forms came stuttering out of a printer close to Rick—"and fill them out. All right?"

  Rick took the forms and glanced at the first one. He could see at once that it was full of words too hard for him to read, but he was not going to admit that to Coral Wogan. He'd get the help he needed, if he had to go back to school and beg for it. He nodded.

  "Three of them call for parental signature," Coral Wogan went on. "What's your father's name?"

  "My real father? Milo Luban. But he hasn't been around since I was three years old."

  "Your mother, then."

  "Dora Luban."

  "Right. Give her this, and tell her that there will be more coming when we receive the signed parental permissions. I rely on you to persuade your mother to sign."

  Another narrow form rolled out of the printer. This one Rick could read. It was a check, made out to his mother from Vanguard Mining. For two thousand! More than double the monthly nine-forty of the education incentive.

  "She'll sign."

  "Good. One thing more, then you can go home and get some sleep. How soon will you be ready to start?"

  Now—then I don't have to go home at all. But that would not work. He needed to fill out the stack of forms, and he needed his mother to sign.

  "Will tomorrow evening be all right?" He knew what would happen if Mick saw that check. One of two things. Either there would be a tremendous fight, or Dora Luban would agree to cash it and the pair would go off on a prolonged roller-coaster ride of drink and drugs. Either way, Rick didn't want to be home for the nighttime brawl.

  "Tomorrow evening should be fine," Coral Wogan said. "Here's the only other thing you'll need."

  One more piece of stiff paper scrolled from the printer. Rick grabbed it and studied it. This one looked like a ticket—an air ticket, to somewhere with a long name. He tried to spell the word out—A-L-B-U-Q—but it was too hard.

  "Albuquerque." Coral Wogan showed her first sign of impatience. "You fly there, then by
shuttle bus to our facility at Tularema. You are allowed to bring up to twenty kilos of personal possessions. Don't bother with additional clothes, they'll be provided. Have you ever been to New Mexico?"

  "Never."

  "You'll like it. Some of the tests, though, you won't like them. I guarantee that."

  She grinned—small mouth, sharp little teeth. "Any more questions?"

  Rick was tempted to ask what she meant about the tests, then decided not to. "No."

  "That's it then. Again, good luck."

  The screen darkened, leaving Rick clutching forms, check, and ticket. He wondered how he was going to find his way home safely in the dangerous early hours of the morning.