James Holden's ride home on the train gave him a chance to think, alone
and isolated from all but superficial interruptions. He felt that he was
quite the bright young man.
He noticed with surreptitious pride that folks no longer eyed him with
sly, amused, knowing smiles whenever he opened a newspaper. Perhaps some
of their amusement had been the sight of a youngster struggling with a
full-spread page, employing arms that did not quite make the span. But
most of all he hated the condescending tolerance; their everlasting
attitude that everything he did was "cute" like the little girl who
decked herself out in mother's clothing from high heels and brassiere
to evening gown, costume jewelry, and a fumbled smear of makeup.
That was over. He'd made it to a couple of months over fourteen, he'd
finally reached a stature large enough so that he did not have to prove
his right to buy a railroad ticket, nor climb on the suitcase bar so that
he could peer over the counter. Newsdealers let him alone to pick his own
fare instead of trying to "save his money" by shoving Mickey Mouse at him
and putting his own choice back on its pile.
He had not succeeded in gaining his legal freedom, but as Ward of the
State under Judge Carter he had other interesting expectations that he
might not have stumbled upon. Carter had connections; there was talk of
James' entering a comprehensive examination at some university, where the
examining board, forearmed with the truth about his education, would test
James to ascertain his true level of comprehension. He could of course
collect his bachelor's degree once he complied with the required work
of term papers written to demonstrate that his information could be
interwoven into the formation of an opinion, or reflection, or view
of some topic. Master's degrees and doctor's degrees required the
presentation of some original area of study, competence in his chosen
field, and the development of some facet of the field that had not been
touched before. These would require more work, but could be handled in
time.
In fact, he felt that he was in pretty good shape. There were a couple
of sticky problems, still. He wanted Paul Brennan to get his comeuppance,
but he knew that there was no evidence available to support his story
about the slaughter of his parents. It galled him to realize that
cold-blooded, premeditated murder for personal profit and avarice could
go undetected. But until there could be proffered some material evidence,
Brennan's word was as good as his in any court. So Brennan was getting
away with it.
The other little item was his own independence. He wanted it. That he
might continue living with Judge Carter had no bearing. No matter how
benevolent the tyranny, James wanted no part of it. In fighting for his
freedom, James Holden's foot had slipped. He'd used his father's machine
on Martha, and that was a legal error.
Martha? James was not really sorry he'd slipped. Error or not, he'd made
of her the only person in the world who understood his problem wholly and
sympathetically. Otherwise he would be completely alone.
Oh yes, he felt that he was quite the bright young man. He was coming
along fine and getting somewhere. His very pleasant experiences in the
house on Martin's Hill had raised him from a boy to a young man; he was
now able to grasp the appreciation of the Big Drive, to understand some
of the reasons why adults acted in the way that they did. He hadn't
managed another late session of sofa with Martha, but there had been
little incidental meetings in the hallway or in the kitchen with the
exchange of kisses, and they'd boldly kissed goodbye at the railroad
station under her mother's smile.
He could not know Janet Fisher's mind, of course. Janet, mother to a girl
entering young womanhood, worried about all of the things that such a
mother worries about and added a couple of things that no other mother
ever had. She could hardly slip her daughter a smooth version of the
birds and the bees and people when she knew full well that Martha had
gone through a yard or so of books on the subject that covered everything
from the advanced medical to the lurid exposé and from the salacious to
the ribald. Janet could only hope that her daughter valued her chastity
according to convention despite the natural human curiosity which in
Martha would be multiplied by the girl's advanced education. Janet knew
that young people were marrying younger and younger as the years went on;
she saw young James Holden no longer as a rather odd youngster with
abilities beyond his age. She saw him now as the potential mate for
Martha. And when they embraced and kissed at the station, Janet did not
realize that she was accepting this salute as the natural act of two
sub-adults, rather than a pair of precocious kids.
At any rate, James Holden felt very good. Now he had a girl. He had
acquired one more of the many attitudes of the Age of Maturity.
So James settled down to read his newspaper, and on page three he saw a
photograph and an article that attracted his attention. The photograph
was of a girl no more than seven years old holding a baby at least a year
old. Beside them was a boy of about nine. In the background was a
miserable hovel made of crude lumber and patched windows. This couple and
their baby had been discovered by a geological survey outfit living in
the backwoods hills. Relief, aid, and help were being rushed, and the
legislature was considering ways and means of their schooling. Neither
of them could read or write.
James read the article, and his first thought was to proffer his help.
Aid and enlightenment they needed, and they needed it quickly. And then
he stopped immediately because he could do nothing to educate them unless
they already possessed the ability to read.
His second thought was one of dismay. His exultation came down with a
dull thud. Within seconds he realized that the acquisition of a girl was
no evidence of his competent maturity. The couple photographed were human
beings, but intellectually they were no more than animals with a slight
edge in vocabulary. It made James Holden sick at heart to read the
article and to realize that such filth and ignorance could still go on.
But it took a shock of such violence to make James realize that clams,
guppies, worms, fleas, cats, dogs, and the great whales reproduced their
kind; intellect, education and mature competence under law had nothing to
do with the process whatsoever.
And while his heart was still unhappy, he turned to page four and read an
open editorial that discussed the chances of The Educational Party in the
coming Election Year.
* * * * *
James blinked.
"Splinter" parties, the editorial said, seldom succeeded in gaining a
primary objective. They only succeeded in drawing votes from the other
major parties, in splitting the total ballot, and dividing public
opinion. On the other hand, they did provide a useful political
weathervane for the major parties to watch most carefully. If the
splinter party succeeded in capturing a large vote, it was an indication
that the People found their program favorable and upon such evidence it
behooved the major parties to mend their political fences--or to relocate
them.
Education, said the editorial, was a primary issue and had been one
for years. There had been experimenting with education ever since
the Industrial Revolution uncovered the fact, in about 1900, that
backbreaking physical toil was going to be replaced by educated workers
operating machinery.
Then the editorial quoted Judge Norman L. Carter:
"'For many years,' said Judge Carter, 'we have deplored the situation
whereby a doctor or a physicist is not considered fully educated until he
has reached his middle or even late twenties. Yet instead of speeding up
the curriculum in the early school years, we have introduced such
important studies as social graces, baton twirling, interpretive painting
and dancing, and a lot of other fiddle-faddle which graduates students
who cannot spell, nor read a book, nor count above ten without taking off
their shoes. Perhaps such studies are necessary to make sound citizens
and graceful companions. I shall not contest the point. However, I
contend that a sound and basic schooling should be included--and when I
so contend I am told by our great educators that the day is not long
enough nor the years great enough to accomplish this very necessary end.
"'Gentlemen, we leaders of The Education Party propose to accomplish
precisely that which they said cannot be done!'"
The editorial closed with the terse suggestion: Educator--Educate
thyself!
James Holden sat stunned.
_What was Judge Carter doing?_
* * * * *
James Holden arrived to find the home of Judge Norman L. Carter an upset
madhouse. He was stopped at the front door by a secretary at a small desk
whose purpose was to screen the visitors and to log them in and out in
addition to being decorative. Above her left breast was a large enamelled
button, red on top, white in the middle as a broad stripe from left to
right, and blue below. Across the white stripe was printed CARTER in
bold, black letters. From in back of the pin depended two broad silk
ribbons that cascaded forward over the stuffing in her brassiere and hung
free until they disappeared behind the edge of the desk. She eyed James
with curiosity. "Young man, if you're looking for throwaways for your
civics class, you'll have to wait until we're better organized--"
James eyed her with cold distaste. "I am James Quincy Holden," he told
her, "and you have neither the authority nor the agility necessary to
prevent my entrance."
"You are--I what?"
"I live here," he told her flatly. "Or didn't they provide you with this
tidbit of vital statistic?"
Wheels rotated behind the girl's eyes somewhere, and memory cells linked
into comprehension. "Oh!--You're James."
"I said that first," he replied. "Where's Judge Carter?"
"He's in conference and cannot be disturbed."
"Your objection is overruled. I shall disturb him as soon as I find out
precisely what has been going on."
He went on in through the short hallway and found audible confusion. Men
in groups of two to four stood in corners talking in bedlam. There was a
layer of blue smoke above their heads that broke into skirls as various
individuals left one group to join another. Through this vocal mob scene
James went veering from left to right to avoid the groupings. He stood
with polite insolence directly in front of two men sitting on the stairs
until they made room for his passage--still talking as he went between
them. In his room, three were sitting on the bed and the chair holding
glasses and, of course, smoking like the rest. James dropped his
overnight bag on a low stand and headed for his bathroom. One of the men
caught sight of him and said, "Hey kid, scram!"
James looked at the man coldly. "You happen to be using my bedroom. You
should be asking my permission to do so, or perhaps apologizing for not
having asked me before you moved in. I have no intention of leaving."
"Get the likes of him!"
"Wait a moment, Pete. This is the Holden kid."
"The little genius, huh?"
James said, "I am no genius. I do happen to have an education that
provides me with the right to criticize your social behavior. I will
neither be insulted nor patronized."
"Listen to him, will you!"
James turned and with the supreme gesture of contempt, he left the door
open.
He wound his way through the place to Judge Carter's study and home
office, strode towards it with purpose and reached for the doorknob. A
voice halted him: "Hey kid, you can't go in there!"
Turning to face the new voice, James said calmly,
"You mean 'may not' which implies that I have asked your permission. Your
statement is incorrect as phrased and erroneous when corrected."
He turned the knob and entered. Judge Carter sat at his desk with two
men; their discussion ceased with the sound of the doorknob. The judge
looked up in annoyance. "Hello, James. You shouldn't have come in here.
We're busy. I'll let you know when I'm free."
"You'd better make time for me right now," said James angrily. "I'd like
to know what's going on here."
"This much I'll tell you quickly. We're planning a political campaign.
Now, please--"
"I know you're planning a political campaign," replied James. "But if
you're proposing to campaign on the platform of a reform in education,
I suggest that you educate your henchmen in the rudimentary elements of
polite speech and gentle behavior. I dislike being ordered out of my room
by usurpers who have the temerity to address me as 'hey kid'."
"Relax, James. I'll send them out later."
"I'd suggest that you tell them off," snapped James. He turned on his
heel and left, heading for the cellar. In the workshop he found Professor
White and Jack Cowling presiding over the machine. In the chair with the
headset on sat the crowning insult of all:
Paul Brennan leafing through a heavy sheaf of papers, reading and
intoning the words of political oratory.
Unable to lick them, Brennan had joined them--or, wondered young Holden,
was Judge Norman L. Carter paying for Brennan's silence with some plum of
political patronage?
* * * * *
As he stood there, the years of persecution rose strong in the mind of
James Holden. Brennan, the man who'd got away with murder and would
continue to get away with it because there was no shred of evidence, no
witness, nothing but James Holden's knowledge of Brennan's actions when
he'd thought himself unseen in his calloused treatment of James Holden's
dying mother; Brennan's critical inspection of the smashed body of his
father, coldly checking the dead flesh to be sure beyond doubt; the cruel
search about the scene of the 'accident' for James himself--interrupted
only by the arrival of a Samaritan, whose name was never known to James
Holden. In James rose the violent resentment of the years, the certain
knowledge that any act of revenge upon Paul Brennan would be viewed as
cold-blooded premeditated murder without cause or motive.
And then came the angry knowledge that simple slaughter was too good for
Paul Brennan. He was not a dog to be quickly released from misery by a
merciful death. Paul Brennan should suffer until he cried for death as a
blessed release from daily living.
James Holden, angry, silently, unseen by the preoccupied workers,
stole across the room to the main switch-panel, flipped up a small
half-concealed cover, and flipped a small button.
There came a sharp _Crack_! that shattered the silence and
re-echoed again and again through the room. The panel that held the
repeater-circuit of the Holden Educator bulged outward; jets of smoke
lanced out of broken metal, bulged corners, holes and skirled into little
clouds that drifted upward--trailing a flowing billow of thick, black,
pungent smoke that reached the low ceiling and spread outward, fanwise,
obscuring the ceiling like a low-lying nimbus.
At the sound of the report, the man in the chair jumped as if he'd been
stabbed where he sat.
"Ouyeowwww!" yowled Brennan in a pitiful ululation. He fell forward from
the chair, asprawl on wobbly hands and knees, on elbows and knees as he
tried to press away the torrent of agony that hammered back and forth
from temple to temple. James watched Brennan with cold detachment,
Professor White and Jack Cowling looked on in paralyzed horror. Slowly,
oh, so slowly, Paul Brennan managed to squirm around until he was sitting
on the floor still cradling his head between his hands.
James said, "I'm afraid that you're going to have a rough time whenever
you hear the word 'entrenched'." And then, as Brennan made no response,
James Holden went on, "Or were you by chance reading the word
'pedagogue'?"
At the word, Brennan howled again; the pain was too much for him and he
toppled sidewise to writhe in kicking agony.
James smiled coldly, "I'm sorry that you weren't reading the word 'the'.
The English language uses more of them than the word 'pedagogue'."
With remarkable effort, Brennan struggled to his feet; he lurched toward
James. "I'll teach you, you little--"
"Pedagogue?" asked James.
The shock rocked Brennan right to the floor again.
"Better sit there and think," said James coldly. "You come within a dozen
yards of me and I'll say--"
"No! Don't!" screamed Paul Brennan. "Not again!"
"Now," asked James, "what's going on here?"
"He was memorizing a political speech," said Jack Cowling. "What did you
do?"
"I merely fixed my machine so that it will not be used again."
"But you shouldn't have done that!"
"You shouldn't have been using it for this purpose," replied James. "It
wasn't intended to further political ambitions."
"But Judge Carter--"
"Judge Carter doesn't own it," said James. "I do."
"I'm sure that Judge Carter can explain everything."
"Tell him so. Then add that if he'd bothered to give me the time of day,
I'd be less angry. He's not to be interrupted, is he? I'm ordered out of
my room, am I? Well, go tell the judge that his political campaign has
been stopped by a fourteen-year-old boy who knows which button to push!
I'll wait here."
Professor White took off; Jack Cowling smiled crookedly and shook his
head at James. "You're a rash young man," he said. "What did you do to
Brennan, here?"
James pointed at the smoke curling up out of the panel. "I put in a
destructive charge to addle the circuit as a preventive measure against
capture or use by unauthorized persons," he replied. "So I pushed the
button just as Brennan was trying to memorize the word--"
"Don't!" cried Brennan in a pleading scream.
"You mean he's going to throw a fit every time he hears the word--"
"No! No! Can't anybody talk without saying--Ouwwouooo!"
"Interesting," commented James. "It seems to start as soon as the
fore-reading part of his mind predicts that the word may be next, or
when he thinks about it."
"Do you mean that Brennan is going to be like the guy who could win the
world if he sat on the top of a hill for one hour and did not think of
the word 'Swordfish'? Except that he'll be out of pain so long as he
doesn't think of the word--"
"Thing I'm interested in is that maybe our orator here doesn't know the
definition thoroughly. Tell me, dear 'Uncle' Paul, does the word
'teacher' give--Sorry. I was just experimenting. Wasn't as bad as--"
Gritting his teeth and wincing with pain, Brennan said, "Stop it!
Even the word 'sch-(wince)-ool' hurts like--" He thought for a
moment and then went on with his voice rising to a pitiful
howl of agony at the end: "Even the name 'Miss Adams' gives
me a fleeting headache all over my body, and Miss Adams was
on--ly--my--third--growww--school--Owuuuuoooo--teach--earrrrrrr--Owwww!"
Brennan collapsed in his chair just as Judge Carter came in with his
white mane flying and hot fire in his attitude. "What goes on here?" he
stormed at James.
"I stopped your campaign."
"Now see here, you young--"
Judge Carter stopped abruptly, took a deep breath and calmed himself with
a visible effort to control his rage. "James," he said in a quieter
voice, "Can you repair the damage quickly?"
"Yes--but I won't."
"And why not?"
"Because one of the things my father taught me was the danger of allowing
this machine to fall into the hands of ruthless men with political
ambition."
"And I am a ruthless man with political ambition?"
James nodded. "Under the guise of studying me and my machine," he said,
"you've been using it to train speakers, and to educate ward-heelers.
You've been building a political machine by buying delegates. Not with
money, of course, because that is illegal. With knowledge, and because
knowledge, education, and information are intangibles and no legality
has been established, and this is all very legal."
Judge Carter smiled distantly. "It is bad to elevate the mind of the
average ward-heeler? To provide the smalltime politician with a fine
grasp of the National Problem and how his little local problems fit into
the big picture? Is this making a better world, or isn't it?"
"It's making a political machine that can't be defeated."
"Think not? What makes you think it can't?"
"Pedagogue!" said James.
"Yeowwww!"
The judge whirled to look at Brennan. "What was--that?" asked the judge.
James explained what had happened, then: "I've mentioned hazards. This is
what would happen if a fuse blew in the middle of a course. Maybe he can
be trained out of it, and maybe not. You'll have to try, of course. But
think of what would happen if you and your political machine put these
things into schools and fixed them to make a voltage twitch or something
while the student was reading the word 'republican'. You'd end up with a
single-party system."
"And get myself assassinated by a group of righteously irate citizens,"
said Judge Carter. "Which I would very warmly deserve. On the other hand,
suppose we 'treated' people to feel anguish at thoughts of murder or
killing, theft, treason, and other forms of human deviltry?"
"Now that might be a fine idea."
"It would not," said Judge Carter flatly. James Holden's eyes widened,
and he started to say something but the judge held up his hand, fingers
outspread, and began to tick off his points finger by finger as he went
on: "Where would we be in the case of enemy attack? Could our policemen
aim their guns at a vicious criminal if they were conditioned against
killing? Could our butchers operate; must our housewives live among a
horde of flies? Theft? Well, it's harder to justify, James, but it would
change the game of baseball as in 'stealing a base' or it would ruin the
game of love as in 'stealing a kiss'. It would ruin the mystery-story
field for millions of people who really haven't any inclination to go out
and rob, steal, or kill. Treason? Our very revered Declaration of
Independence is an article of Treason in the eyes of King George Third;
it wouldn't be very hard to draw a charge of treason against a man who
complained about the way the Government is being run. Now, one more
angle, James. The threat or fear of punishment hasn't deterred any
potential felon so far as anybody knows. And I hold the odd belief that
if we removed the quart of mixed felony, chicanery, falsehood, and
underhandedness from the human makeup, on that day the human race could
step down to take its place alongside of the cow, just one step ahead of
the worm.
"Now you accuse me of holding political ambition. I plead guilty of the
charge and demand to be shown by my accuser just what is undesirable
about ambition, be it political or otherwise. Have you no ambition? Of
course you have. Ambition drove your folks to create this machine and
ambition drove you to the fight for your freedom. Ambition is the
catalyst that lifts a man above his fellows and then lifts them also.
There is a sort of tradition in this country that a man must not openly
seek the office of the Presidency. I consider this downright silly. I
have announced my candidacy, and I intend to campaign for it as hard as
I can. I propose to make the problem of _education_ the most important
argument that has ever come up in a presidential campaign. I believe that
I shall win because I shall promise to provide this accelerated education
for everybody who wants it."
"And to do this you've used my machine," objected James.
"Did you intend to keep it for yourself?" snapped Judge Carter.
"No, but--"
"And when did you intend to release it?"
"As soon as I could handle it myself."
"Oh, fine!" jeered the judge sourly. "Now, let me orate on that subject
for a moment and then we'll get to the real meat of this argument. James,
there is no way of delivering this machine to the public without
delivering it to them through the hands of a capable Government agency.
If you try to release it as an individual you'll be swamped with cries of
anger and pleas for special consideration. The reactionaries will shout
that we're moving too fast and the progressives will complain that we
aren't moving fast enough. Teachers' organizations will say that we're
throwing teachers out of jobs, and little petty politicians will try to
slip their political plug into the daily course in Civics. Start your
company and within a week some Madison Avenue advertising agency will be
offering you several million dollars to let them convince people that
Hickory-Chickory Coffee is the only stuff they can pour down their gullet
without causing stomach pains, acid system, jittery nerves, sleepless
nights, flat feet, upset glands, and so on and on and on. Announce it;
the next day you'll have so many foreign spies in your bailiwick that
you'll have to hire a stadium to hold them. You'll be ducking
intercontinental ballistic missiles because there are people who would
kill the dog in order to get rid of the fleas. You'll start the biggest
war this planet has ever seen and it will go on long after you are killed
and your father's secret is lost--and after the fallout has died off,
we'll have another scientific race to recreate it. And don't think that
it can't be rediscovered by determined scientists who know that such a
thing as the Holden Electromechanical Educator is a reality."
"And how do you propose to prevent this war?"
"By broadcasting the secret as soon as we can; let the British and the
French and the Russians and the Germans and all the rest build it and
use it as wisely as they can program it. Which, by the way, James,
brings us right back to James Quincy Holden, Martha Bagley, and the
immediate future."
"Oh?"
"Yes. James, tell me after deliberation, at what point in your life did
you first believe that you had the competence to enter the adult world in
freedom to do as you believed right?"
"Um, about five or six, as I recall."
"What do you think now about those days?"