Adolescence is a perilous time--whether
it is the adolescence of a man,
or of the whole race of Man!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The physics teacher, Howard Dax, dismissed the class. He picked up
a felt-covered block and erased the diagrams he had drawn on the
blackboard. He noticed with annoyance that the lines were shaky, and in
one place was an irregular star where the chalk had broken because of
his exasperation at his pupils--or more exactly, one particular pupil.
When the blackboard was clean to the corners--Howard Dax was a very
precise man--he turned around and saw that the particular pupil was
still sitting at his desk. He was a thin boy of fifteen, called
Mallison, whose dark, wavy hair was too long. It rose in a kind of
breaker over his forehead, and he had sideburns cut to a point. His
expression was neither sullen nor impertinent, but Dax had always
had the feeling that Mallison was concealing intense boredom and only
listened to him perforce. He was sure that the narrow, rather handsome
face was on the verge of sneering. But there had never been quite
anything that he could put his finger on. The boy was definitely not
good at physics, yet he wasn't at the bottom of the class. The thing
was that he gave the impression of being above average intelligence. He
obviously could do very much better if he wanted to. Dax was convinced
that he despised physics, and school in general.
"Yes?" Dax said. "What is it?" He tried to make his voice sound natural
and casual.
Mallison stared at him impassively for a moment. Then he said, "You
don't like me, Mr. Dax, do you?"
"My dear boy, I neither like you nor dislike you," Dax said. He could
feel his hands beginning again to tremble slightly. Damn adrenalin! "I
am merely trying to teach you elementary physics. Why do you ask?"
"Why do you give me such low grades?" Mallison said, but with no sense
of urgent curiosity.
Howard Dax thought that the boy's manner was altogether too adult. He
didn't expect deference from a modern teenager, but neither did he like
to be spoken to in such a man-to-man way. No; come to think of it,
man-to-man wasn't quite the phrase. It was off-hand. And yet it was
artificial: Mallison never spoke in this way to his contemporaries. He
usually talked like a ... what was it? Hipster?
"I give students the grades that in my opinion they deserve," Dax said.
"In your case they are low because I don't think you're trying."
"I am trying," Mallison said, then added, "sir."
"You are," Dax said. "Very." He thought the remark was rather neat,
but the boy looked at him without any change of expression. Why was he
here? What did he want to say? "I must confess," Dax went on, "that I
am surprised at your interest in grades. I should have thought that
rock-and-roll was more your style. That and ... er ... racing around
at night in a fast car!" He felt that he was sneering, and made his
face blank.
"I'm too young for a driver's license," Mallison said.
"But old enough to pull yourself together and do some real work. You
could do much better in class. You're not stupid."
* * * * *
The boy said nothing and continued to stare at him without expression.
"When I see signs of an improved attitude," Dax said, "and a little
more work, I shall mark you accordingly. One gets the impression
usually that your mind is on other things. Things like jazz records."
"Didn't you listen to jazz when you were young, Mr. Dax?"
Howard Dax at thirty-nine hardly thought of himself as old. The boy was
not being exactly fresh, but he had a sort of polite tactlessness. It
was absurd, but he felt that Mallison had the upper hand, somehow.
Dax had an older brother who had been a lieutenant in World War II,
and he had described to him an occasion on which he had interviewed
an elderly staff sergeant. The staff sergeant in civilian life had
been his brother's boss. Although his manner was scrupulously correct,
there remained an atmosphere of his peacetime ascendancy. Howard Dax
sympathized with his brother. There was nothing actually wrong with
Mallison's manner, but the pupil had the master on the defensive.
He decided to ignore Mallison's question. He had no idea how the young
nowadays felt about the subject of early Benny Goodman or the emergence
of Barrel House. Why was he even bothering?
"The point at issue," he said with asperity, "is not whether I used to
listen to jazz twenty-five years ago, but whether you are going to pay
attention in class _now_. I admit you manage to scrape through in the
tests, but this morning, for example, you acted as if you were half
asleep!"
"I'm sorry. I was very tired." Mallison did look pale.
"I suppose you were up half the night--cutting a rug."
Mallison winced at the outdated jargon but he merely shook his head.
There were firm steps in the corridor, and the school principal marched
in.
Mallison stood up; Dax was still standing. The principal had a small
piece of folded paper in his hand, and did not immediately notice the
boy, whose desk was near the back row and next the open windows. He
went straight to the platform and put the folded paper on Dax's desk.
He nodded curtly and glanced towards the windows, and saw Mallison
sitting there for the first time.
* * * * *
"I thought you were alone," he said, turning to Dax.
"You may go," Dax said to the boy. "That will be all. Remember what
I said." He looked at the folded paper and then at the principal
questioningly. "Yes, Mr. Lightstone?"
The principal was a short white-haired man with a dogged expression.
He turned again to make sure the boy had left and said. "I want you to
look at this, Dax." He tapped the folded paper, which had been made
into a sort of envelope, with its ends tucked in. Dax bent to examine
it.
"Pick it up, man! Open it," the principal said, and came around and sat
in the teacher's chair. "Be careful not to spill it!"
Dax picked up the little packet and opened it. Inside was a teaspoonful
of white powder. "What is it?" he asked.
"That," said the principal, "is something for our friends upstairs
in the chemistry department to determine. I found it myself, in the
flowerbed right outside these windows!"