Mack Reynolds: Ability Quotient

“Top.”

Bert pursed his lips. He had already come to understand that the level of the floor on which you have your quarters was a status symbol even superior to what building you were in here in Mid-West University City.

“By the way, what’s the name of this building? Just in case I might want to come home some night?”

“Sarcasm does not become you, Mr. Alshuler. This is the Administration Building.”

A suite on the top floor of the Ad building. He thought they were reserved for gods.

Marsh said, as though just remembering, “This elevator is the one you will always use. The others don’t go as high as your floor. This is semi-restricted.”

Bert was suitably impressed but couldn’t think of anything to say.

The elevator began to decelerate and shortly they emerged into a swank corridor. Bert hissed appreciatively through his teeth, picked up his bags again and followed the leader. Evidently, the door screen on Suite G. was attuned to Professor Marsh. The door swung open at their approach.

Bert followed on through, down a short hall, and put his bags on the living room floor and looked around. One whole wall was glass and looked out over the valley and the mountains beyond in such a manner that none of the other buildings of the ultra-large university could be seen without coming very near to the window and the terrace beyond.

In his time, Bert Alshuler, on leave in some of the cities of the Far East, and with his pockets heavy with accumulated pay that he had never expected to live to spend, had stopped in some of the most luxurious hostelries in the world, and some of the most expensive. However, he had never witnessed an apartment such as this, no matter what the tariff.

Marsh said, his voice condescending and a smirk on his face, “There are four of these. The university reserves them for V.I.P.s who visit us. The last occupant of this suite was the President.”

“The president of what?”

“The President of the United States of the Americas,” Marsh said, pompishness there. “And now, if you’ll follow me.”

He led the way to a side room, saying, “We’ve made some alterations to convert this former bedroom into a study for you. As you’ve probably become aware, it is sometimes preferable, particularly if you are consulting more than one reference at a time, to have your reference works in the old book form, when you are working on a screen connected with the National Data Banks, as a library booster.”

He gestured with his hand.

Bert said, “Jesus.”

The decor of the room was that of an English mansion’s library of the 17th or 18th centuries, up to and including a small, old-fashioned bar in a corner. It had been a long time since Bert Alshuler had made a drink himself, or had one other than that supplied by an auto-bar.

The only thing off-beat, due to its modern quality, was set in the very center of the room. It was an auto-teacher.

Marsh said, “I’ll instruct you on the mechanics of that.”

“You won’t have to. The army gave me some courses.”

“All right, but this is a bit updated.”

“Kay. When do we start?”

The professor looked at his wrist chronometer. “It is still morning. You have time for an hour or so of instruction before you will wish your mid-day meal. You can begin as soon as you’ve had your shots and pills.”

Bert looked at him coldly. “What shots and pills?”

The other was fiddling with his fancy briefcase. “When I introduced myself as Doctor Smith, only one half was inaccurate. I am a doctor, you know.”

“That’s fine. But I’ve never felt better in my life.”

The other ignored him and began drawing various medical equipment from his oversized case. “This has nothing to do with your health,” he said. “We’ve already checked that out. Your health is excellent. Disgustingly so.”

“Well, I figure on letting it stay that way. What shots and pills? This wasn’t in the bargain.”

Even as he prepared a hypodermic, the Doctor-Professor, or whatever he was, said, “According to the information we have on you from the National Data Banks, Alshuler, you have no medical training. You would be unable to understand my terminology. Next week, or so, I’ll go into it with you a bit. Meanwhile, will you lower your trousers so that I may inject this into your hip?”

Bert looked at him in frustration. “If I can’t understand it now, why should I be able to next week? What does it do?”

“Confound it,” the other said testily. “You’ll find out in due time.”

It was evidently a matter of put up or shut up. It was the time to take his stand, if he wanted to turn down this whole confusing mess. Damn it, he had come to this university to cash in on his veteran’s rights to a free education of top quality. Also in the back of his mind was the fact that he had a free ride for at least eight years. Like many a long-term army man he was basically lazy. His inclination was to take life easy. It could be awfully short—you found that out in the military. The thing was, he was getting more intrigued by the minute. The triple Guaranteed Annual Income. That wealth beyond dreams of avarice gobbledygook. This suite. He assumed everything went with it. From food to liquor. He had half a mind to ask Marsh whether or not he could have a call-girl sent up. That’d probably shock the puffy old buzzard.

He said, “Kay,” and began to unbuckle his belt.

The doctor was a pro. Bert Alshuler didn’t even feel the injection.

The other turned and fiddled in his briefcase some more, to emerge with two rather large pill bottles, one brown, one green. He held them up to the light, for some reason or other, as if to check the contents, though as far as Bert could see, both the bottles were opaque.

Marsh said with satisfaction, “The brown ones will turn you on, the green ones, off.” He began to unscrew the top of the brown bottle.

“Now wait a minute. Turn me on what?”

“You’ll see.”

“The hell I will. I tried charas once, in India, and I can stand without being turned on.”

The other ignored him and extended a chubby hand, complete with long-sized brown pill. Bert looked at it. The hand shoved further forward.

Hell, he had already taken the shot. What was the point in chickening out at this mid-point? He took it. Marsh went over to the beautiful antique bar and brought back a glass of water.

He said, extending the glass, “Never take more than one of these at a time. Nor the green ones either, for that matter?”

“What happens if I take more than one at a time?”

“You’ll get deathly sick. I believe the military term is, you toss your cookies.”

“Maybe in your day in the military, not in mine,” Bert grumbled, but he tossed back the pill and washed it down. “Now what?”

“Now you begin your studies.”

Bert looked around the room, not being able to restrain his approval. “So this is where I do my homework, eh?”

“This is where you do all your work.”

It was time to scowl again. “How do you mean? How about my classes, my lectures, my lab work and so on?”

“Some lab work we might have, later on. You’ll have special tutors. Also, possibly a few lectures, though you can get most of these on tape, of course, if not all. But no classes.”

Bert Alshuler stared at him. “No classes? Are you completely around the bend? The whole idea is that the computers decide what courses I’m to take.”

“Courses, not classes. Now if you’ll just come over here.” Marsh led the way to the auto-teacher. He looked at his wrist chronometer again and murmured something that Bert didn’t catch, then, “Now, if I’m not mistaken, the computers have decided that your first course is this Refresher in Mathematics from Elementary Arithmetic Through Infinitesimal Calculus .”