Profession, Page 2

  But then it all ended when a woman’s voice sounded loudly over the public address system. There was instant silence everywhere. George dropped his fists and forgot Trevelyan.

  “Children,” said the voice, “we are going to call out your names. As each child is called, he or she is to go to one of the men waiting along the side walls. Do you see them? They are wearing red uniforms so they will be easy to find. The girls will go to the right. The boys will go to the left. Now look about and see which man in red is nearest to you—”

  George found his man at a glance and waited for his name to be called off. He had not been introduced before this to the sophistications of the alphabet, and the length of time it took to reach his own name grew disturbing.

  The crowd of children thinned; little rivulets made their way to each of the red-clad guides.

  When the name “George Platen” was finally called, his sense of relief was exceeded only by the feeling of pure gladness at the fact that Stubby Trevelyan still stood in his place, uncalled.

  George shouted back over his shoulder as he left, “Yay, Stubby, maybe they don’t want you.”

  That moment of gaiety quickly left. He was herded into a line and directed down corridors in the company of strange children. They all looked at one another, large-eyed and concerned, but beyond a snuffling, “Quitcher pushing” and “Hey, watch out” there was no conversation. They were handed little slips of paper which they were told must remain with them. George stared at his curiously. Little black marks of different shapes. He knew it to be printing but how could anyone make words out of it? He couldn’t imagine.

  He was told to strip; he and four other boys who were all that now remained together. All the new clothes came shucking off and four eight-year-olds stood naked and small, shivering more out of embarrassment than cold. Medical technicians came past, probing them, testing them with odd instruments, pricking them for blood. Each took the little cards and made additional marks on them with little black rods that produced the marks, all neatly lined up, with great speed. George stared at the new marks, but they were no more comprehensible than the old. The children were ordered back into their clothes.

  They sat on separate little chairs then and waited again. Names were called again and “George Platen” came third.

  He moved into a large room, filled with frightening instruments with knobs and glassy panels in front. There was a desk in the very center, and behind it a man sat, his eyes on the papers piled before him.

  He said, “George Platen?”

  “Yes, sir,” said George, in a shaky whisper. All this waiting and all this going here and there was making himnervous. He wished it were over.

  The man behind the desk said, “I am Dr. Lloyd, George. How are you?”

  The doctor didn’t look up as he spoke. It was as though he had said those words over and over again and didn’t have to look up any more.

  “I’m all right.”

  “Are you afraid, George?”

  “N—no, sir,” said George, sounding afraid even in his own ears.

  “That’s good,” said the doctor, “because there’s nothing to be afraid of, you know. Let’s see, George. It says here on your card that your father is named Peter and that he’s a Registered Pipe Fitter and your mother is named Amy and is a Registered Home Technician. Is that right?”

  “Y—yes, sir.”

  “And your birthday is February 13, and you had an ear infection about a year ago. Right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you know how I know all these things?”

  “It’s on the card, I think, sir.”

  “That’s right.” The doctor looked up at George for the first time and smiled. He showed even teeth and looked much younger than George’s father. Some of George’s nervousness vanished.

  The doctor passed the card to George. “Do you know what all those things there mean, George?”

  Although George knew he did not he was startled by the sudden request into looking at the card as though he might understand now through some sudden stroke of fate. But they were just marks as before and he passed the card back. “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  George felt a sudden pang of suspicion concerning the sanity of this doctor. Didn’t he know why not?

  George said, “I can’t read, sir.”

  “Would you like to read?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why, George?”

  George stared, appalled. No one had ever asked him that. He had no answer. He said falteringly, “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Printed information will direct you all through your life. There is so much you’ll have to know even after Education Day. Cards like this one will tell you. Books will tell you. Television screens will tell you. Printing will tell you such useful things and such interesting things that not being able to read would be as bad as not being able to see. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you afraid, George?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. Now I’ll tell you exactly what we’ll do first. I’m going to put these wires on your forehead just over the corners of your eyes. They’ll stick there but they won’t hurt at all. Then, I’ll turn on something that will make a buzz. It will sound funny and it may tickle you, but it won’t hurt. Now if it does hurt, you tell me, and I’ll turn it off right away, but it won’t hurt. All right?”

  George nodded and swallowed.

  “Are you ready?”

  George nodded. He closed his eyes while the doctor busied himself. His parents had explained this to him. They, too, had said it wouldn’t hurt, but then there were always the older children. There were the ten- and twelve-year-olds who howled after the eight-year-olds waiting for Reading Day, “Watch out for the needle.” There were the others who took you off in confidence and said, “They got to cut your head open. They use a sharp knife that big with a hook on it,” and so on into horrifying details.

  George had never believed them but he had had nightmares, and now he closed his eyes and felt pure terror.

  He didn’t feel the wires at his temple. The buzz was a distant thing, and there was the sound of his own blood in his ears, ringing hollowly as though it and he were in a large cave. Slowly he chanced opening his eyes.

  The doctor had his back to him. From one of the instruments a strip of paper unwound and was covered with a thin, wavy purple line. The doctor tore off pieces and put them into a slot in another machine. He did it over and over again. Each time a little piece of film came out, which the doctor looked at. Finally, he turned toward George with a queer frown between his eyes.

  The buzzing stopped.

  George said breathlessly, “Is it over?”

  The doctor said, “Yes,” but he was still frowning.

  “Can I read now?” asked George. He felt no different.

  The doctor said, “What?” then smiled very suddenly and briefly. He said, “It works fine, George. You’ll be reading in fifteen minutes. Now we’re going to use another machine this time and it will take longer. I’m going to cover your whole head, and when I turn it on you won’t be able to see or hear anything for a while, but it won’t hurt. Just to make sure I’m going to give you a little switch to hold in your hand. If anything hurts, you press the little button and everything shuts off. All right?”

  In later years, George was told that the little switch was strictly a dummy; that it was introduced solely for confidence. He never did know for sure, however, since he never pushed the button.

  A large smoothly curved helmet with a rubbery inner lining was placed over his head and left there. Three or four little knobs seemed to grab at him and bite into his skull, but there was only a little pressure that faded. No pain.

  The doctor’s voice sounded dimly. “Everything all right, George?”

  And then, with no real warning, a layer of thick felt closed down all about him. He was disembodied, there was no sensation, no universe, on
ly himself and a distant murmur at the very ends of nothingness telling him something—telling him—telling him—

  He strained to hear and understand but there was all that thick felt between.

  Then the helmet was taken off his head, and the light was so bright that it hurt his eyes while the doctor’s voice drummed at his ears.

  The doctor said, “Here’s your card, George. What does it say?”

  George looked at his card again and gave out a strangled shout. The marks weren’t just marks at all. They made up words. They were words just as clearly as though something were whispering them in his ears. He could hear them being whispered as he looked at them.

  “What does it say, George?”

  “It says—it says—’Platen, George. Born 13 February 6492 of Peter and Amy Platen in …’” He broke off.

  “You can read, George,” said the doctor. “It’s all over.”

  “For good? I won’t forget how?”

  “Of course not.” The doctor leaned over to shake hands gravely. “You will be taken home now.”

  It was days before George got over this new and great talent of his. He read, for his father with such facility that Platen, Senior, wept and called relatives to tell the good news.

  George walked about town, reading every scrap of printing he could find and wondering how it was that none of it had ever made sense to him before.

  He tried to remember how it was not to be able to read and he couldn’t. As far as his feeling about it was concerned, he had always been able to read. Always.

  At eighteen, George was rather dark, of medium height, but thin enough to look taller. Trevelyan, who was scarcely an inch shorter, had a stockiness of build that made “Stubby” more than ever appropriate, but in this last year he had grown self-conscious. The nickname could no longer be used without reprisal. And since Trevelyan disapproved of his proper first name even more strongly, he was called Trevelyan or any decent variant of that. As though to prove his manhood further, he had most persistently grown a pair of sideburns and a bristly mustache.

  He was sweating and nervous now, and George, who had himself grown out of “Jaw-jee” and into the curt monosyllabic gutturability of “George,” was rather amused by that.

  They were in the same large hall they had been in ten years before (and not since). It was as if a vague dream of the past had come to sudden reality. In the first few minutes George had been distinctly surprised at finding everything seem smaller and more cramped than his memory told him; then he made allowance for his own growth.

  The crowd was smaller than it had been in childhood. It was exclusively male this time. The girls had another day assigned them.

  Trevelyan leaned over to say, “Beats me the way they make you wait.”

  “Red tape,” said George. “You can’t avoid it.”

  Trevelyan said, “What makes you so damned tolerant about it?”

  “I’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “Oh, brother, you make me sick. I hope you end up Registered Manure Spreader just so I can see your face when you do.” His somber eyes swept the crowd anxiously.

  George looked about, too. It wasn’t quite the system they used on the children. Matters went slower, and instructions had been given out at the start in print (an advantage over the pre-Readers). The names Platen and Trevelyan were well down the alphabet still, but this time the two knew it.

  Young men came out of the education rooms, frowning and uncomfortable, picked up their clothes and belongings, then went oft to analysis to learn the results.

  Each, as he come out, would be surrounded by a clot of the thinning crowd. “How was it?” “How’d it feel?” “Whacha think ya made?” “Ya feel any different?”

  Answers were vague and noncommittal.

  George forced himself to remain out of those clots. You only raised your own blood pressure. Everyone said you stood the best chance if you remained calm. Even so, you could feel the palms of your hands grow cold. Funny that new tensions came with the years.

  For instance, high-specialty professionals heading out for an Outworld were accompanied by a wife (or husband). It was important to keep the sex ratio in good balance on all worlds. And if you were going out to a Grade A world, what girl would refuse you? George had no specific girl in mind yet; he wanted none. Not now! Once he made Programmer; once he could add to his name, Registered Computer Programmer, he could take his pick, like a sultan in a harem. The thought excited him and he tried to put it away. Must stay calm.

  Trevelyan muttered, “What’s it all about anyway? First they say it works best if you’re relaxed and at ease. Then they put you through this and make it impossible for you to be relaxed and at ease.”

  “Maybe that’s the idea. They’re separating the boys from the men to begin with. Take it easy, Trev.”

  “Shut up.”

  George’s turn came. His name was not called. It appeared in glowing letters on the notice board.

  He waved at Trevelyan. “Take it easy. Don’t let it get you.”

  He was happy as he entered the testing chamber. Actually happy.

  The man behind the desk said, “George Platen?”

  For a fleeting instant there was a razor-sharp picture in George’s mind of another man, ten years earlier, who had asked the same question, and it was almost as though this were the same man and he, George, had turned eight again as he had stepped across the threshold.

  But the man looked up and, of course, the face matched that of the sudden memory not at all. The nose was bulbous, the hair thin and stringy, and the chin wattled as though its owner had once been grossly overweight and had reduced.

  The man behind the desk looked annoyed. “Well?”

  George came to Earth. “I’m George Platen, sir.”

  “Say so, then. I’m Dr. Zachary Antonelli, and we’re going to be intimately acquainted in a moment.”

  He stared at small strips of film, holding them up to the light owlishly.

  George winced inwardly. Very hazily, he remembered that other doctor (he had forgotten the name) staring at such film. Could these be the same? The other doctor had frowned and this one was looking at him now as though he were angry.

  His happiness was already just about gone.

  Dr. Antonelli spread the pages of a thickish file out before him now and put the films carefully to one side. “It says here you want to be a Computer Programmer.”

  “Yes, doctor.”

  “Still do?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s a responsible and exacting position. Do you feel up to it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Most pre-Educates don’t put down any specific profession. I believe they are afraid of queering it.”

  “I think that’s right, sir.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of that?”

  “I might as well be honest, sir.”

  Dr. Antonelli nodded, but without any noticeable lightening of his expression. “Why do you want to be a Programmer?”

  “It’s a responsible and exacting position as you said, sir. It’s an important job and an exciting one. I like it and I think I can do it.”

  Dr. Antonelli put the papers away, and looked at George sourly. He said, “How do you know you like it? Because you think you’ll be snapped up by some Grade A planet?”

  George thought uneasily: He’s trying to rattle you. Stay calm and stay frank.

  He said, “I think a Programmer has a good chance, sir, but even if I were left on Earth, I know I’d like it.” (That was true enough. I’m not lying, thought George.)

  “All right, how do you know?”

  He asked it as though he knew there was no decent answer and George almost smiled. He had one.

  He said, “I’ve been reading about Programming, sir.”

  “You’ve been what?” Now the doctor looked genuinely astonished and George took pleasure in that.

  “Reading about it, sir. I bought a book on the subject and I
’ve been studying it.”

  “A book for Registered Programmers?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But you couldn’t understand it.”

  “Not at first. I got other books on mathematics and electronics. I made out all I could. I still don’t know much, but I know enough to know I like it and to know I can make it.” (Even his parents never found that secret cache of books or knew why he spent so much time in his own. room or exactly what happened to the sleep he missed.)

  The doctor pulled at the loose skin under his chin. “What was your idea in doing that, son?”

  “I wanted to make sure I would be interested, sir.”

  “Surely you know that being interested means nothing. You could be devoured by a subject and if the physical make-up of your brain makes it more efficient for you to be something else, something else you will be. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I’ve been told that,” said George cautiously.

  “Well, believe it. It’s true.”

  George said nothing.

  Dr. Antonelli said, “Or do you believe that studying some subject will bend the brain cells in that direction, like that other theory that a pregnant woman need only listen to great music persistently to make a composer of her child. Do you believe that?”

  George flushed. That had certainly been in his mind. By forcing his intellect constantly in the desired direction, he had felt sure that he would be getting a head start. Most of his confidence had rested on exactly that point.

  “I never—” he began, and found no way of finishing.

  “Well, it isn’t true. Good Lord, youngster, your brain pattern is fixed at birth. It can be altered by a blow hard enough to damage the cells or by a burst blood vessel or by a tumor or by a major infection—each time, of course, for the worse. But it certainly can’t be affected by your thinking special thoughts.” He stared at George thoughtfully, then said, “Who told you to do this?”

  George, now thoroughly disturbed, swallowed and said, “No one, doctor. My own idea.”

  “Who knew you were doing it after you started?”

  “No one. Doctor, I meant to do no wrong.”