Mack Reynolds - Ability Quotient

The professor was loading a hypodermic nonchalantly. “I’m afraid it is not my position to tell you, Alshuler. In good time, I am sure Leonard Katz will make you privy to the fullest details.”

Bert stared bafflement at him.

“Your trousers, please,” Marsh told him.

The other ignored him and stabbed him expertly and took up another needle. “Have no fears.”

“What do you mean, have no fears? I take up a glass of whiskey and it knocks me for a loop. How do I know what comes next? You’re lousing up my metabolism, or whatever you call it First thing I know, I’ll break my arm picking my nose, or something.”

“Very amusing, I’m sure,” Marsh murmured, returning his things to his briefcase. “And now, I’ll drop in on you the same time tomorrow.”

“Wait a minute,” Bert snapped. But the other was gone.

The younger man stared after him in high irritation.

Something came to him. He reversed his engines and went into the study and took down one of the brown pills. He went to the shelves of reference books and fiddled around for a time before coming up with the term he wanted.

He marched over to the auto-teacher, activated the screen and said, “I want a course in neuro-physiology.”

“The next course is English Literature One, Beowulf to Chaucer.”

“I’ll take that one later. I want to bone up on…”

The screen lit and there was a book there. The screen voice said, “English Literature One…”

Bert glared at it. “We’ll see about this,” he snarled and flicked the screen off, taking a childish pleasure in being able to do so.

He sat there for a while, thinking about it, then got up and went over to the desk. He sat down before the library booster screen, dialed the National Data Banks and said, “I want a listing of books in English dealing with neuro-physiology.”

The screen said, “Please put your identity card in the slot.”

“Why?” Bert demanded.

“So that we may check your priority rating, sir.”

He grunted, brought his identity card out and stuck it in the slot. A listing of books appeared on the screen. There were surprisingly few of them and, by the titles, were aimed at the layman and on a rather elementary level at that.

Bert said, “I am able to study on a higher level than this. I want the latest material on the subject.”

“Your priority rating is One. Such volumes are not available to your priority rating, sir.”

He dialed the National Data Banks again and said, “Information. What is a college student’s priority rating?”

The screen said, “To whom does a priority rating of One apply?”

“To the mentally retarded, convicted criminals, children below the age of ten and those with less schooling than the fifth grade.”

He closed his eyes in pain for a moment, then said, “ I am Albert Alshuler Caine, Identity Number 454-K-872-R-1245. I am a discharged veteran of the Asian War, rank Major. Medal of Honor, Distinguished Service Cross, Bronze Star and Silver Star, both with clusters. There is a mistake in my National Data Banks priority rating. I wish to have it protested.”

There was a long moment before the screen said, impassively. “There is no mistake in your priority rating, sir. However, since you have protested, the matter will he investigated. You will be notified.”

Well, there was nothing more he could do with the data bank foul-up at this point. He returned to the auto-teacher, sighed and sat down before the screen. “Kay,” he said. “English Literature One.”

The screen lit up and he began to flick pages.

When he had finished, he looked down at his chronometer and scowled. If anything, the second hand seemed to be going slower than ever. He wondered if this thing was accelerating. He went on to Elementary Chemistry and on completing that suddenly felt weary of it all. He took one of the green pills, sat down at the desk phone screen and gave Jim Hawkins’ identity number.

Jim’s less than handsome face faded in. He was obviously on his pocket transceiver phone. He said, “Hi, old buddy. Where’ve you been?”

“Getting over a hangover. Where are you?”

“Auto-Cafeteria 32. It’s on the ground floor of the Ad building.”

“See you,” Bert said.

In the hall, as he waited for the special elevator, he looked up and down the corridor. He could see the doors of four other suites and he wondered vaguely who lived in them. Marsh had said that this level was reserved for V.I.P.s.

On the street level, he had a little difficulty in locating the Auto-Cafeteria, since the building was largely strange to him. However, he asked questions a couple of times from passing students and found it. The students evidently took him for an instructor, his age being what it was, and possibly his conservatively cut but expensive clothing being unlike their own.

Auto-Cafeteria 32 was on the large side and even at this time of day must have held two thousand. He wandered around until he finally spotted Jim Hawkins who was sitting at a table with three others. As Bert Alshuler came nearer he recognized Jill Masterson, the perky little brunette Jim was currently hot after. The others were strangers.

Jim introduced them and last names were promptly forgotten They were named Clyde and Betty, had some classes in common with Jim—and seemed incredibly young and naive to Bert Alshuler. Why not? He was less than ten years their senior but had lived ten times the amount of life.

He had grinned a hello to Jill and she had smiled her generous smile back at him.

As he took a seat, she said, “I owe you a beer. I’m springing.”

Jim Hawkins groaned. “The second time she sees him, she’s buying him drinks. What a sheik.” He took in Bert’s clothing. “Holy Moses, where’d you get the glad rags?”

“Holy Moses?” Bert said. “Glad rags? The only place I’ve ever heard those terms was on historic Tri-Di shows.”

“The latest thing,” Jim said airily.

Jill had summoned a beer for the newcomer. Now she said, “It goes in cycles The latest thing is to use the terminology of our grandfathers. Heavens to Betsy, it’ll only he a matter of time before 23 Skidoo comes back in.”

“ I love my wife, but oh you kid,” Bert told her, taking up the beer. He sipped it cautiously, in memory of the last drink he had taken. However, there was no subversive effect.

“Mind your language,” Jim told him. “You’re talking to the woman I love.” He looked at Jill accusingly. “You didn’t tell me that Chaucer course wasn’t in English.”

Bert said, “Chaucer wrote in English, Jim. It was just that it was Old English. He wrote back in the 14th Century.”

Jim scowled at him. “It doesn’t sound like English to me, and doesn’t look like it.”

“You’ve got to develop an ear for it, is all. For instance, take this from the Canterbury Tales :

Jim looked at him in disgust. “That’s Greek to me.”

But Jill was frowning questioningly. “Bert, you just don’t look like the Chaucer type.”

He shrugged. “I had an opportunity to study him a little.”

Clyde looked at his watch. “Hey, Betty, we’ve got French.” The two younger students stood.

Jill got up as well. “I’ll go along with you. I’ve got some moving to do So long, Jim. See you, Bert.”

The two men left at the table looked after her as she went off, chattering brightly with the two others. She had a quick, cute charm, but there was no connotation of her being a lightweight. Her figure, tiny as it was, was perfect, and Jim sighed deep down.