by Carol Thomas
‘Not one kid has yelled abuse at me, and they should, because I’m Ms President’s son and she’s mucked up their day.’
‘They wouldn’t do that.’
‘No,’ agreed Ariel. ‘They wouldn’t do it because nothing gets this lot agitated does it? No-one is angry. There’s no oomph! Not even a major change in routine upsets people. They just go along with it, and maybe get a teensy bit annoyed.’
‘Hmm,’ said John noncommittally. ‘So?’
‘So?!’ exclaimed Ariel. ‘Without emotion, a spark, some verve, we’re just bugs. Here we are, top of the food chain, a nice big brain, and we’re turning into…I dunno, gormless blobs.’
‘Hey!’
‘John, we may have saved this gormless city from a terrible fate.’
The student crowd thickened around them in the hallway, and Ariel went quiet. John gallantly waved Joanne and Nita into the classroom, and the boys followed them in.
‘Good morning class.’
Their English teacher didn’t look too happy. Ariel tried not to smirk. Today was not a scheduled teacher day.
‘We have a change in routine today, as per this instruction,’ said their English teacher. She waved a sheet of paper as if it were a dirty tissue.
‘In summary, usual lessons are suspended because of Operation Red. The three morning lessons will be compressed into one. You will stay in this room and be provided with a set of questions and a problem, as sent to the school this morning for our part in…this event. Your task will be to come up with some answers to these tasks, using the—tsk—the rather discredited technique of brainstorming. This is where students work in groups and talk about whatever pops into their heads, in relation to the question at hand, and someone in the group writes it all down. How such a loose procedure helps critical thinking, I do not know. However, that is our instruction, and that is what we shall do. Despite the fact that I had a superb comp-vision lesson on the hidden beauty of internet poetry planned for today; well, no matter, you shall do that tomorrow.’
‘Good. I loathe internet poetry,’ muttered John.
‘Its hidden beauty is extremely well hidden,’ agreed Ariel.
‘I have four copies of the task, so I want four groups,’ continued the teacher. ‘Nita, Penny, Voula, John, come up please.’
She waved the papers at the students coming towards her.
‘You will each lead a group and nominate a student to write the group’s ideas. Choose your group—Nita! What’s the matter with you?’
Nita chittered nervously as she stooped to pick up the dropped papers.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘Not used to papers. They’re flat. And thin.’
‘Good heavens girl, get a grip, as we used to say. Now, you have the rest of the morning to complete these questions. At the lunch bell, I will take your answer sheets. Very good. Proceed.’
The teacher slunk back to her desk, flicked open her computer and immediately went online to browse her favourite internet poetry site, Itmustrhyme.
Ariel frowned at her and was about to say something when John nudged his arm.
‘Don’t worry about it, mate,’ John said quietly.
‘But, she’s on the internet. You’re not supposed to be on the internet today, remember?’
‘Oh, that. Yeah. Maybe she’s forgotten.’
‘Hmm,’ Ariel looked unconvinced.
The four leaders began to gather their friends into groups.
Ariel studied the teacher while John got organised.
‘Mrs Keats?’
The teacher looked up warily.
‘How do you think schools will go today?’ he asked innocently. ‘Not being able to use the computers and all?’
‘There have been some dispensations, Ariel,’ replied the teacher dryly. ‘As you will see when you read your questions.’
Ariel nodded. He joined his group. Out the corner of his eye he saw the teacher huffily close the computer. He didn’t suppress a smile.
The teacher didn’t suppress a scowl.
John slowly leafed through several pages.
‘Let’s see the questions, John,’ Ariel said impatiently. ‘What do we have to do?’
‘Hmm. Doesn’t look too bad. Some calculations, a bit of science, some reading, a group writing task about thinking, and The Problem.’
‘Which is?’ said Ariel.
‘Let’s do the calc first, eh?’ said Pino.
‘What’s the main problem, John?’ said Ariel.
‘I’ll tell you what it is,’ said John importantly, ‘so we can all think about it. But we’ll do the other tasks first, starting with the mathematics.’
‘Excellent,’ said Pino.
‘Right,’ continued John. ‘The Problem. The new solar power station in Volt Town has been operating for ten months, but it has not yet reached its power output targets. In fact, outputs have been steadily falling since the plant opened. Research the plant’s operating data on the internet, using the references supplied, and then brainstorm this problem. Edit your brainstorm and write suggestions to solve this problem. Submit to your supervising teacher at the close of the session. Students please note that internet research is allowed today for this specific purpose.’
‘Aha. I knew it would be a real problem,’ said Ariel to the group. ‘That’s a good one.’
‘Shall we begin?’ asked Pino, eyeing the papers held firmly in John’s hand.
‘I could start looking at the solar data now,’ suggested Ariel, opening his computer.
‘Stay on task, there’s a good lad,’ said John. ‘We’ll work on each question together.’
He winked at Ariel, and the group settled down to calculations.
At The Counting Clown First School, Kara was busily making creative breakfast snacks before the students arrived. She could hear Timbo moving furniture and sneezing in the storage room. Eventually, he shuffled into the small kitchen.
‘First time I’ve had a good look through the back room,’ he wheezed. ‘Most interesting.’
He picked a large cobweb off his red suit and sneezed delicately.
‘Dusty, eh?’ Kara asked.
‘Oh yeah. And packed with boxes of stuff they used to use when this was a kindergarten. I’ve pulled out some blocks and balls and story books. Look at this book, you’d have to sit down to read the thing.’
He showed her a huge book with happy cows on the cover.
‘Could be fun,’ he said, reading the back cover. ‘Daisy loves to dance among the daisies, until, one day, Gertie the goat eats all the daisies. Where will Daisy dance now? Hmm, excellent question, which shall be answered later today. Do you fancy reading some of these to our clientele today? We could take turns.’
‘Love to,’ said Kara. ‘What else have you got planned, with the Story Wall out for the day?’
‘Activities,’ said Timbo thoughtfully. ‘Physical stuff. Tire them out with painting and playdough and maybe they’ll sleep longer this afternoon.’
‘What’s playdough?’
‘You’ll see.’
‘So, when they’re tired out and sleeping off the activities, you can carry on in peace and quiet designing your next computer game?’ Kara asked playfully.
‘Nooo,’ Timbo said seriously. ‘I’d like to, but, no, that’s not in the spirit of the day. Even though Ms President would never know what’s going on all over the city. I think. No, I’ll go along with the intention of Operation Red, to wean us off our supposed technological dependencies.’
‘Good for you,’ said Kara. ‘Have some fairy bread.’
‘Yum! I haven’t had this for—a long time! Fairy bread got the thumbs down from nutritionists years ago because the preservatives in the—whaddya call these things—the coloured dots, yeah, they were making kids too hyperactive. A little bit can’t hurt. We’ve swung radically in the other direction. First School kids do stuff all activity and eat nothing that’s bad for them.’
‘Fairy bread has absolutely no nut
ritional value, but it’s a bit of fun,’ said Kara.
‘For everyone,’ chortled Timbo. ‘May I have another, Miss Kara?’
‘You certainly may, Mr Timbo. So, you found some paints and this stuff called playdough?’
Timbo rolled his eyes.
‘Wasn’t easy, but, yes, I bought up big when I finally found this really terrific shop with a whole stack of arty stuff for kids. I didn’t even know such places existed. I’ve got the boxes in the car, and a couple of bean bags.’
‘Bean bags. I’ve heard of them but I’ve never seen one.’
‘They’ll be good for the kids to snuggle into while we read them a story or two.’
‘Oh, yes! I’d forgotten. The First Chairs can’t be used either, can they?’
‘Nope,’ replied Timbo. ‘No technology today. We sit on the bean bags and the floor.’
The First Chairs had recently been donated by an enthusiastic parent. In these small, firm chairs, students could plug into virtual worlds of entertainment and learning. The chairs talked to the students, offering facts and fiction as ordered by the sitter, through earphones and an interactive screen. When the sitter grew tired of learning, the chair automatically responded by softening the seat, switching to lullaby mode, and gently swaying like a hammock, until the young students slipped into sleep.
‘There could be tears,’ said Kara.
‘Haha! I’m sure there will be. And here come the first floor sitters now. Good morning, Sonia! Good morning, Shruti! Have a piece of fairy bread. It’s not good for you.’
‘Okay, we’re making good time here,’ said John. ‘We’ve got fifty five minutes left, and that’s everything but The Problem done. Fine work team.’
‘We could do some extension calculations on that second question,’ said Pino. ‘It’s not quite right.’
The group groaned with one voice.
‘It’s okay, Pino,’ said John. ‘That’s our answer. Feel free to copy it and take it away to work on though.’
‘Ooh, yeah,’ said Pino grabbing some paper and jumping at the offer. ‘I can make it perfect with a bit of tweaking.’
‘Off you go then’, said John condescendingly. ‘But I expect you to be listening while we talk about the solar problem.’
‘Sure, I’m listening,’ Pino said, scribbling. ‘I can do two things at once.’
‘Finally, we get to the good part,’ said Ariel.
‘Everyone open your computers and let’s have a look at the data they’ve referred us to,’ said John. ‘Let’s say twenty minutes for that, then we’ll put our heads together and brainstorm solutions.’
Ariel looked admiringly at his friend.
‘I think you like playing teacher, mate,’ he said. ‘You’re good at it too.’
‘Thanks,’ said John. ‘I think.’
Kara placed the paintbrush in Sonia’s little hand, and mimed a painting movement.
‘That’s it,’ she said approvingly, as Sonia swiped a yellow blob across the paper and over the edge into her lap.
‘Lucky you remembered the aprons,’ she said to Timbo, who was painting his own picture beside Sonia.
‘I didn’t, the shop did,’ Timbo answered. ‘I had no idea, so I let myself be led. Aprons, rags, paper, water jars, brushes, etcetera etcetera. Creativity is a complicated and messy business.’
He put a final flick of royal blue onto his paper, and looked at it admiringly.
‘Observe,’ he said to Kara. ‘The art cover for my next game. Great, eh? More fun than creating it in Photomegastore.’
‘Fabulous,’ answered Kara. ‘Any chance you could give Dave and Tran a hand with washing their—’
‘Ooops. Too late,’ said Timbo, scuttling over to clean up the spill. ‘Never mind lads, painting is all about fun. And mess. From the mess emerges the genius. We’re having a good time, aren’t we?’
Dave looked longingly towards the dark Story Wall.
‘Don’t need that,’ said Timbo, cutting off the unspoken thought. ‘We have…paint! Oh, lovely paint. The colours, the textures, the wonderful feel of hues squishing through your fingers. You can move paint around, and slide it about, make trees and houses and cars. Make a lump or a dot. Or a line, sublime. Good fun. Right, we’re all clean in the hands. Let’s get you some fresh paper, and set you up again. Brushes or finger painting?’
Timbo watched the boys gain confidence with the paints. Dave wasn’t comfortable with the messiness of finger painting, so Timbo gave him a brush. But Tran was beginning to enjoy it. Timbo looked around the room. Most kids seemed to be enjoying this unusual experience. Some were even talking and showing each other their works. Kara caught his eye and he gave her the thumbs up.
‘It’s more work than the you know what,’ he said quietly, indicating the silent line up of First Chairs in front of the Story Wall.
‘More fun too,’ she added.
‘Miss Kara,’ Timbo said solemnly, ‘I do believe you’re right about that. We may have to do this again.’
He selected a large sheet of paper, dipped his index finger into a plastic tub of vermillion, and quickly drew an abstract squiggle.
Dave and Tran inspected Timbo’s paper.
‘What do you see?’ asked Timbo. ‘Anything?’
Tran leaned in clumsily and his paint covered finger smudged a line that joined parts of Timbo’s squiggle.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘That’s ok, Tran. I see a horse where there was no horse. Do you see it too?’
Tran nodded.
‘I made it.’
‘Yes, you did,’ said Timbo. ‘Looks like a big old draft horse. Now, this is bringing back a few memories.’
He looked at the boys and they looked curiously at him.
‘Once upon a time,’ Timbo said slowly. ‘Before comp-vision, there was television, and on television there was a man called Mr Squiggle. Actually, Mr Squiggle was a puppet, and his nose was a pencil…’
‘Tom!’ bellowed Ms President from her office door. She looked out over a sea of people and paper. The big office was a control centre in mild meltdown. Tom emerged from a huddled discussion about the role of androids in Operation Red and walked over to the Presidential office.
‘Everyone’s looking a little harassed, Tom,’ said Ms President. She seemed pleasantly unconcerned by her own observation. ‘What’s your assessment of the situation in the city?’
‘Ms President, it’s hard to tell. It’s a shemozzle out there. CyberCity CBD is gridlocked with traffic. Office workers feel like they are being forced to work slowly without technological help. Only the essential services are running normally, thanks to their exemption from Operation Red. The schools are positive though. The Second and Third Schools that I called expect students to get their answers in to the Think Witted Team around 1pm.’
‘All exactly as expected. Well done, Tom. Keep it up. We’re almost half way there.’
Back in her chair, she picked up the visi-phone to call Ariel.
‘Hey, you can’t answer that,’ said John.
The teacher looked over, scowling again.
‘It’s a presidential call,’ said Ariel loudly. ‘Government business. Mum said she’d try and call to see how we’re going.’
‘Suppose that’s okay,’ said John.
‘Hi, Mum,’ said Ariel. ‘Yeah, okay here. We’re not blitzing the brainstorm, but I think we’ve done the rest okay. Yes. Yes. No. Ok, bye.’
‘How’s things at her end?’ asked John absently, looking at the scribbled brainstorm on the floor.
‘She doesn’t look worried,’ said Ariel.
‘She never does,’ said John. ‘Well, let’s finish this off. I reckon we take the best bits from the brainstorm, list them and hand that in. What do we all think?’
The group agreed.
John began to select ideas from the scrawled collection, and Ariel wrote them down.
‘Have solar panels facing the sun. Duh. More panels. More sun. No, that’s a s
tupid one, take that out. Put panels in outer space. Check wiring. Put up mirrors to reflect sun and double effect. Hmmm.’
He scanned the paper and then sat back, satisfied.
‘That’s it. Hand it in.’
‘What about cleaning the panels?’ said Ariel, tapping the brainstorm. ‘Your own idea. Go on, that’s a good suggestion.’
‘As if they wouldn’t do that, Ariel. Yeah, okay. All our ideas are whacked.’
He stood up and stretched. Ariel handed him the set of answer papers.
‘We’re done, Mrs Keats.’
The lunch bell rang.
‘The ability to think, Tom, is what separates us from the lower life forms.’
Ms President stood before her ultra wide window, gazing over CyberCity. She held the 3pm report in her hand.
‘Any of those people out there can be taught to do just about anything technological. Operating a computer. Writing a program. Running a system. It can all be taught, and learnt. By rote, by following simple steps. But, add a complication, a variation, and there’s trouble. Why? Because that’s when they have to think. All those people—’ she waved her hand over the city’s skyscrapers—‘have information without knowledge. Knowledge requires thought, gutsy critical lateral thought, Tom. That’s our problem.’
‘That seems to be true, Ms President,’ Tom said.
‘I should have done something about this when I took office. I saw the problem, and I let it go. Now I have to be the ogre.’
Ms President looked over Tom’s shoulder into the big office. A commotion was coming their way.
‘Ms President!’
A beaming young woman barrelled into the presidential office and pulled up at the last second. Ms President took a step back to regain her personal space.
‘Gloria. Good afternoon. You have some good news it would seem.’
Ms President held out her hand and the excited head of the Think Witted Team thrust a crumpled paper into it.
‘Volt Town solar station clean panels robot malfunction checked seven millimetres,’ Ms President read aloud. ‘Lovely, Gloria. What does it mean?’
‘Oh, Ms President! It means Operation Red is a huge success!’
Ms President smiled affectionately.
‘Spill it,’ she said.
‘Those notes,’ Gloria began, ‘a jumble, I know. Everything happened so fast, let me explain. We were working our way through the Third Schools’ answers. Marking them, and, as you suggested, testing the answers as we went with the relevant authority. One of the solar station’s engineers, Misho, was with us, and, as you suggested, we discussed each one. Well, except for the really crazy ones.’