"Well, one day after school Kenny said he'd show me something. He took
me to his house--"
"You went to that _shack_? You actually--"
"Dear," said Mom. "You promised."
A moment of silence.
Ronnie said, "He took me to his house. I met his dad. Mr. Davis is lots
of fun. He has a beard and he paints pictures and he's collected almost
five hundred books."
Ronnie's voice quavered.
"Go on," said Dad sternly.
"And I--and Mr. Davis said he'd teach me to read them if I promised not
to tell anybody. So he taught me a little every day after school--oh,
Dad, books are fun to read. They tell you things you can't see on the
video or hear on the tapes."
"How long ago did all this start?
"T--two years ago."
Dad rose, fists clenched, staring strangely at nothing.
"Two years," he breathed. "I thought I had a good son, and yet for two
years--" He shook his head unbelievingly. "Maybe it's my own fault.
Maybe I shouldn't have come to this small town. I should have taken a
house in Washington instead of trying to commute."
"David," said Mom, very seriously, almost as if she were praying, "it
won't be necessary to have him memory-washed, will it?"
Dad looked at Mom, frowning. Then he gazed at Ronnie. His soft-spoken
words were as ominous as the low growl of thunder:
"I don't know, Edith. I don't know."
* * * * *
Dad strode to his easy chair by the fireplace. He sank into its
foam-rubber softness, sighing. He murmured a syllable into a tiny
ball-mike on the side of the chair. A metallic hand raised a lighted
cigarette to his lips.
"Come here, son."
Ronnie followed and sat on the hassock by Dad's feet.
"Maybe I've never really explained things to you, Ronnie. You see, you
won't always be a boy. Someday you'll have to find a way of making a
living. You've only two choices: You work for the government, like I
do, or for a corporation."
Ronnie blinked. "Mr. Davis doesn't work for the gover'ment or for a
corpor-ation."
"Mr. Davis isn't normal," Dad snapped. "He's a hermit. No decent family
would let him in their house. He grows his own food and sometimes he
takes care of gardens for people. I want you to have more than that. I
want you to have a nice home and be respected by people."
Dad puffed furiously on his cigarette.
"And you can't get ahead if people know you've been a Reader. That's
something you can't live down. No matter how hard you try, people
always stumble upon the truth."
Dad cleared his throat. "You see, when you get a job, all the
information you handle will have a classification. It'll be Restricted,
Low-Confidential, Confidential, High-Confidential, Secret, Top-Secret.
And all this information will be in writing. No matter what you do,
you'll have access to some of this information at one time or another."
"B--but why do these things have to be so secret?" Ronnie asked.
"Because of competitors, in the case of corporations--or because of
enemy nations in the case of government work. The written material you
might have access to could describe secret weapons and new processes
or plans for next year's advertising--maybe even a scheme for, er,
liquidation of a rival. If all facts and policies were made public,
there might be criticism, controversy, opposition by certain groups.
The less people know about things, the better. So we have to keep all
these things secret."
Ronnie scowled. "But if things are written down, someone has to read
them, don't they?"
"Sure, son. One person in ten thousand might reach the point where
his corporation or bureau will teach him to read. But you prove your
ability and loyalty first. By the time you're 35 or 40, they might
_want_ you to learn to read. But for young people and children--well,
it just isn't done. Why, the President himself wasn't trusted to learn
till he was nearly fifty!"
Dad straightened his shoulders. "Look at me. I'm only 30, but I've been
a messenger for Secret material already. In a few years, if things go
well, I should be handling _Top_-Secret stuff. And who knows? Maybe by
the time I'm 50 I'll be _giving_ orders instead of carrying them. Then
I'll learn to read, too. That's the right way to do it."
Ronnie shifted uncomfortably on the hassock. "But can't a Reader get a
job that's not so important. Like a barber or a plumber or--"
"Don't you understand? The barber and plumbing equipment corporations
set up their stores and hire men to work for them. You think they'd
hire a Reader? People'd say you were a spy or a subversive or that
you're crazy like old man Davis."
"Mr. Davis isn't crazy. And he isn't old. He's young, just like you,
and--"
"Ronnie!"
Dad's voice was knife-sharp and December-cold. Ronnie slipped off the
hassock as if struck physically by the fury of the voice. He sat
sprawled on his small posterior, fresh fear etched on his thin features.
"Damn it, son, how could you even _think_ of being a Reader? You've got
a life-sized, 3-D video here, and we put on the smell and touch and
heat attachments just for you. You can listen to any tape in the world
at school. Ronnie, don't you realize I'd lose my job if people knew I
had a Reader for a son?"
"B--but, Daddy--"
Dad jumped to his feet. "I hate to say it, Edith, but we've got to put
this boy in a reformatory. Maybe a good memory-wash will take some of
the nonsense out of him!"
* * * * *
Ronnie suppressed a sob. "No, Daddy, don't let them take away my brain.
Please--"
Dad stood very tall and very stiff, not even looking at him. "They
won't take your brain, just your memory for the past two years."
A corner of Mom's mouth twitched. "David, I didn't want anything like
this. I thought maybe Ronnie could have a few private psychiatric
treatments. They can do wonderful things now--permi-hypnosis, creations
of artificial psychic blocks. A memory-wash would mean that Ronnie'd
have the mind of a six-year-old child again. He'd have to start to
school all over again."
Dad returned to his chair. He buried his face in trembling hands, and
some of his anger seemed replaced by despair. "Lord, Edith, I don't
know what to do."
He looked up abruptly, as if struck by a chilling new thought. "You
can't keep a two-year memory-wash a secret. I never thought of that
before. Why, that alone would mean the end of my promotions."
Silence settled over the room, punctuated only by the ticking of the
antique clock. All movement seemed frozen, as if the room lay at the
bottom of a cold, thick sea.
"David," Mom finally said.
"Yes?"
"There's only one solution. We can't destroy two years of Ronnie's
memory--you said that yourself. So we'll have to take him to a
psychiatrist or maybe a psychoneurologist. A few short treatments--"
Dad interrupted: "But he'd _still_ remember how to read, unconsciously
anyway. Even permi-hypnosis would wear off in time. The boy can't keep
going to psychiatrists for the rest of his life."
Thoughtfully he laced his fingers together. "Edith, what kind of a book
was he reading?"
A tremor passed through Mom's slender body. "There were three books on
his bed. I'm not sure which one he was actually reading."