You are a ticket agent, settled in the routine of your job. From nine to
five-thirty, five days a week, you see one face after another. There are
cheerful faces, sullen faces, faces that breathe garlic, whiskey, chewing
gum, toothpaste and tobacco fumes. Old faces, young faces, dull faces,
scarred faces, clear faces, plain faces and faces so plastered with
makeup that their nature can't be seen at all. They bark place-names at
you, or ask pleasantly about the cost of round-trip versus one-way
tickets to Chicago or East Burlap. You deal with them and then you wait
for the next.
Then one afternoon, about four o'clock, a face barely visible over the
edge of the marble counter looks up at you with a boy's cheerful freckled
smile. You have to stand up in order to see him. You smile, and he grins
at you. Among his belongings is a little leather suitcase, kid's size,
but not a toy. He is standing on it. Under his arm is a collection of
comic books, in one small fist is the remains of a candy bar and in the
other the string of a floating balloon.
"Well, young man, where to? Paris? London? Maybe Mars?"
"No, sir," comes the piping voice, "Roun-tree."
"Roundtree? Yes, I've heard of that metropolis," you reply. You look over
his head, there aren't any other customers in line behind him so you
don't mind passing the time of day. "Round-trip or one-way?"
"One-way," comes the quick reply.
This brings you to a slow stop. He does not giggle nor prattle, nor
launch into a long and involved explanation with halting, dependent
clauses. This one knows what he wants and how to ask for it. Quite a
little man!
"How old are you, young fellow?"
"I was five years old yesterday."
"What's your name?"
"I'm James Holden."
The name does not ring any bells--because the morning newspaper is
purchased for its comic strips, the bridge column, the crossword puzzle,
and the latest dope on love-nest slayings, peccadilloes of the famous,
the cheesecake photo of the inevitable actress-leaving-for-somewhere, and
the full page photograph of the latest death-on-the-highway debacle. You
look at the picture but you don't read the names in the caption, so you
don't recognize the name, and you haven't been out of your little cage
since lunchtime and Jimmy Holden was not missing then. So you go on:
"So you're going to go to Roundtree."
"Yessir."
"That costs a lot of money, young Mister Holden."
"Yessir." Then this young man hands you an envelope; the cover says,
typewritten: _Ticket Clerk, Midland Railroad_.
A bit puzzled, you open the envelope and find a five-dollar bill folded
in a sheet of manuscript paper. The note says:
Ticket Clerk
Midland Railroad
Dear Sir:
This will introduce my son, James Holden. As a birthday present, I am
sending him for a visit to his grandparents in Roundtree, and to make
the adventure complete, he will travel alone. Pass the word along to
keep an eye on him but don't step in unless he gets into trouble. Ask
the dining car steward to see that he eats dinner on something better
than candy bars.
Otherwise, he is to believe that he is making this trip completely on
his own.
Sincerely, Louis Holden.
PS: Divide the change from this five dollars among you as tips. L.H.
And so you look down at young Mister Holden and get a feeling of
vicarious pleasure. You stamp his ticket and hand it to him with a
gesture. You point out the train-gate he is to go through, and you tell
him that he is to sit in the third railroad car. As he leaves, you pick
up the telephone and call the station-master, the conductor, and since
you can't get the dining-car steward directly, you charge the conductor
with passing the word along.
Then you divide the change. Of the two-fifty, you extract a dollar,
feeling that the Senior Holden is a cheapskate. You slip the other buck
and a half into an envelope, ready for the conductor's hand. He'll think
Holden Senior is more of a cheapskate, and by the time he extracts his
cut, the dining car steward will _know_ that Holden Senior is a
cheapskate. But--
Then a face appears at your window and barks, "Holyoke, Mass.," and your
normal day falls back into shape.
The response of the people you tell about it varies all the way from
outrage that anybody would let a kid of five go alone on such a dangerous
mission to loud bragging that he, too, once went on such a journey, at
four and a half, and didn't need a note.
But Jimmy Holden is gone from your window, and you won't know for at
least another day that you've been suckered by a note painstakingly
typewritten, letter by letter, by a five-year-old boy who has a most
remarkable vocabulary.
Jimmy's trip to Roundtree was without incident. Actually, it was easy
once he had hurdled the ticket-seller with his forged note and the
five-dollar bill from the cashbox in his father's desk. His error in not
making it a ten was minor; a larger tip would not have provided him with
better service, because the train crew were happy to keep an eye on the
adventurous youngster for his own small sake. Their mild resentment
against the small tip was directed against the boy's father, not the
young passenger himself.
He had one problem. The train was hardly out of the station before
everybody on it knew that there was a five-year-old making a trip all
by himself. Of course, he was not to be bothered, but everybody wanted
to talk to him, to ask him how he was, to chatter endlessly at him.
Jimmy did not want to talk. His experience in addressing adults was
exasperating. That he spoke lucid English instead of babygab did not
compel a rational response. Those who heard him speak made over him
with the same effusive superiority that they used in applauding a
golden-haired tot in high heels and a strapless evening gown sitting
on a piano and singing, _Why Was I Born?_ in a piping, uncertain-toned
voice. It infuriated him.
So he immersed himself in his comic books. He gave his name politely
every five minutes for the first fifty miles. He turned down offers of
candy with, "Mommy says I mustn't before supper." And when dinnertime
came he allowed himself to be escorted through the train by the
conductor, because Jimmy knew that he couldn't handle the doors without
help.
The steward placed a menu in front of him, and then asked carefully, "How
much money do you want to spend, young man?"
Jimmy had the contents of his father's cashbox pinned to the inside of
his shirt, and a five-dollar bill folded in a snap-top purse with some
change in his shirt pocket. He could add with the best of them, but he
did not want any more attention than he was absolutely forced to attract.
So he fished out the snap-top purse and opened it to show the steward his
five-dollar bill. The steward relaxed; he'd had a moment of apprehension
that Holden Senior might have slipped the kid a half-dollar for dinner.
(The steward had received a quarter for his share of the original
two-fifty.)
Jimmy looked at the "Child's Dinner" menu and pointed out a plate: lamb
chop and mashed potatoes. After that, dinner progressed without incident.
Jimmy topped it off with a dish of ice cream.
The steward made change. Jimmy watched him carefully, and then said,
"Daddy says I'm supposed to give you a tip. How much?"
The steward looked down, wondering how he could explain the standard
dining car tip of fifteen or twenty percent of the bill. He took a
swallow of air and picked out a quarter. "This will do nicely," he said
and went off thankful that all people do not ask waiters how much they
think they deserve for the service rendered.
Thus Jimmy Holden arrived in Roundtree and was observed and convoyed--but
not bothered--off the train.
It is deplorable that adults are not as friendly and helpful to one
another as they are to children; it might make for a more pleasant world.
As Jimmy walked along the station platform at Roundtree, one of his
former fellow-passengers walked beside him. "Where are you going, young
man? Someone going to meet you, of course?"
"No, sir," said Jimmy. "I'm supposed to take a cab--"
"I'm going your way, why not ride along with me?"
"Sure it's all right?"
"Sure thing. Come along." Jimmy never knew that this man felt good for a
week after he'd done his good turn for the year.
His grandfather opened the door and looked down at him in complete
surprise. "Why, Jimmy! What are you doing here? Who brought--"
His grandmother interrupted, "Come in! Come in! Don't just stand there
with the door open!"
Grandfather closed the door firmly, grandmother knelt and folded Jimmy
in her arms and crooned over him, "You poor darling. You brave little
fellow. Donald," she said firmly to her husband, "go get a glass of warm
milk and some cookies." She led Jimmy to the old-fashioned parlor and
seated him on the sofa. "Now, Jimmy, you relax a moment and then you can
tell me what happened."
Jimmy sighed and looked around. The house was old, and comfortably
sturdy. It gave him a sense of refuge, of having reached a safe haven at
last. The house was over-warm, and there was a musty smell of over-aged
furniture, old leather, and the pungence of mothballs. It seemed to
generate a feeling of firm stability. Even the slightly stale air--there
probably hadn't been a wide open window since the storm sashes were
installed last autumn--provided a locked-in feeling that conversely meant
that the world was locked out.
Grandfather brought in the glass of warmed milk and a plate of cookies.
He sat down and asked, "What happened, Jimmy?"
"My mother and father are--"
"You eat your cookies and drink your milk," ordered his grandmother. "We
know. That Mr. Brennan sent us a telegram."
* * * * *
It was slightly more than twenty-four hours since Jimmy Holden had blown
out the five proud candles on his birthday cake and begun to open his
fine presents. Now it all came back with a rush, and when it came back,
nothing could stop it.
Jimmy never knew how very like a little boy of five he sounded that
night. His speech was clear enough, but his troubled mind was too full
to take the time to form his headlong thoughts into proper sentences.
He could not pause to collect his thoughts into any chronology, so it
came out going back and forth all in a single line, punctuated only by
necessary pauses for the intake of breath. He was close to tears before
he was halfway through, and by the time he came to the end he stopped in
a sob and broke out crying.
His grandfather said, "Jimmy, aren't you exaggerating? Mr. Brennan isn't
that sort of a man."
"He is too!" exploded Jimmy through his tears. "I saw him!"
"But--"
"Donald, this is no time to start cross-examining a child." She crossed
the room and lifted him onto her lap; she stroked his head and held his
cheek against her shoulder. His open crying subsided into deep sobs; from
somewhere she found a handkerchief and made him blow his nose--once,
twice, and then a deep thrice. "Get me a warm washcloth," she told her
husband, and with it she wiped away his tears. The warmth soothed Jimmy
more.
"Now," she said firmly, "before we go into this any more we'll have a
good night's sleep."
The featherbed was soft and cozy. Like protecting mother-wings, it folded
Jimmy into its bosom, and the warm softness drew out of Jimmy whatever
remained of his stamina. Tonight he slept of weariness and exhaustion,
not of the sedation given last night. Here he felt at home, and it was
good.
And as tomorrows always had, tomorrow would take care of itself.
Jimmy Holden's father and mother first met over an operating table,
dressed in the white sterility that leaves only the eyes visible. She
wielded the trephine that laid the patient's brain bare, he kept track of
the patient's life by observing the squiggles on the roll of graph paper
that emerged from his encephalograph. She knew nothing of the craft of
the delicate instrument-creator, and he knew even less of the craft of
surgery. There had been a near-argument during the cleaning-up session
after the operation; the near-argument ended when they both realized that
neither of them understood a word of what the other was saying. So the
near-argument became an animated discussion, the general meaning of
which became clear: Brain surgeons should know more about the intricacies
of electromechanics, and the designers of delicate, precision
instrumentation should know more about the mass of human gray matter they
were trying to measure.
They pooled their intellects and plunged into the problem of creating an
encephalograph that would record the infinitesimal irregularities that
were superimposed upon the great waves. Their operation became large;
they bought the old structure on top of the hill and moved in, bag and
baggage. They cohabited but did not live together for almost a year;
Paul Brennan finally pointed out that Organized Society might permit a
couple of geniuses to become research hermits, but Organized Society
still took a dim view of cohabitation without a license. Besides, such
messy arrangements always cluttered up the legal clarity of chattels,
titles, and estates.
They married in a quiet ceremony about two years prior to the date that
Louis Holden first identified the fine-line wave-shapes that went with
determined ideas. When he recorded them and played them back, his brain
re-traced its original line of thought, and he could not even make a
mental revision of the way his thoughts were arranged. For two years
Louis and Laura Holden picked their way slowly through this field;
stumped at one point for several months because the machine was strictly
a personal proposition. Recorded by one of them, the playback was clear
to that one, but to the other it was wild gibberish--an inexplicable
tangle of noise and colored shapes, odors and tastes both pleasant and
nasty, and mingled sensations. It was five years after their marriage
before they found success by engraving information in the brain by
sitting, connected to the machine, and reading aloud, word for word, the
information that they wanted.
It went by rote, as they had learned in childhood. It was the tiresome
repetition of going over and over and over the lines of a poem or the
numbers of the multiplication table until the pathway was a deeply
trodden furrow in the brain. Forever imprinted, it was retained until
death. Knowledge is stored by rote.
To accomplish this end, Louis Holden succeeded in violating all of the
theories of instrumentation by developing a circuit that acted as a sort
of reverberation chamber which returned the wave-shape played into it
back to the same terminals without interference, and this single circuit
became the very heart of the Holden Electromechanical Educator.
With success under way, the Holdens needed an intellectual guinea pig, a
virgin mind, an empty store-house to fill with knowledge. They planned a
twenty-year program of research, to end by handing their machine to the
world complete with its product and instructions for its use and a list
of pitfalls to avoid.
The conception of James Quincy Holden was a most carefully-planned
parenthood. It was not accomplished without love or passion. Love had
come quietly, locking them together physically as they had been bonded
intellectually. The passion had been deliberately provoked during the
proper moment of Laura Holden's cycle of ovulation. This scientific
approach to procreation was no experiment, it was the foregone-conclusive
act to produce a component absolutely necessary for the completion of
their long program of research. They happily left to Nature's Choice the
one factor they could not control, and planned to accept an infant of
either sex with equal welcome. They loved their little boy as they loved
one another, rejoiced with him, despaired with him, and made their own
way with success and mistake, and succeeded in bringing Jimmy to five
years of age quite normal except for his education.
Now, proficiency in brain surgery does not come at an early age, nor does
world-wide fame in the field of delicate instrumentation. Jimmy's parents
were over forty-five on the date of his birth.
Jimmy's grandparents were, then, understandably aged seventy-eight and
eighty-one.
* * * * *
The old couple had seen their life, and they knew it for what it was.
They arose each morning and faced the day knowing that there would be no
new problem, only recurrence of some problem long solved. Theirs was a
comfortable routine, long gone was their spirit of adventure, the
pleasant notions of trying something a new and different way. At their
age, they were content to take the easiest and the simplest way of doing
what they thought to be Right. Furthermore, they had lived long enough to
know that no equitable decision can be made by listening to only one side
of any argument.
While young Jimmy was polishing off a platter of scrambled eggs the
following morning, Paul Brennan arrived. Jimmy's fork stopped in midair
at the sound of Brennan's voice in the parlor.
"You called him," he said accusingly.