Charles Sheffield: Higher Education

“You are—today. I did not tell you that you lack potential. It is all relative, Luban. You believe that the antics of your friends are daring and wicked. You will be amazed to learn that this school, despite its many failings, does not come close to the bottom of the heap. Go south with me ten miles, and I will show you schools like armed camps, schools where student and staff murders and rape are a daily event. For you, with all your flaws, there may still be hope. I would like to think so.”

Hamel nodded and started to walk away, a small, stooped figure in the twilight. “Do you think I’ll get a job?” Rick called after him.

“I cannot say.” Hamel did not pause or turn around. “But if you do, wait a while before you thank me for it.”

Mr. Hamel had sensed the truth: Rick could not face going home. The school might not have called his mother, but somebody would have contacted her to make sure she knew there wouldn’t be any more education incentive money coming in. Nine hundred and forty a month. It would stop today. He never saw one cent of it, but they would make him pay. Mick would wait up for him, drunk or drugged but anyway in a foul temper.

If only, when Rick finally had to go to the apartment, he could tell them that he already had some sort of job, some way to bring home some money. . . .

It seemed like the thinnest of straws to grasp at as he descended from the overhead Public Vehicle at the corner of Chatterjee Boulevard and began to walk along toward Number 8152. He had to push his way through crowds of young men and women, standing or wandering aimlessly along the littered street. They were part of the Pool. Not more than one in ten of the Pool would have a job of any kind—ever. Yet many of them had graduated high school and junior college, and some of them from a real college. Rick had already known most of the things that Mr. Hamel had told him. He had just never thought about them.

They didn’t want us to think about them. Rick remembered what Mr. Hamel had said about self esteem. He’d heard some of that before, too, but it hadn’t seemed worth bothering with. They want us to feel good and not think about the future. And it works, too. Why should we?

Number 8152 was a ten-story windowless building, its featureless walls made of grey lightweight carbon composite. Rick waited stoically as his ID was verified by the automatic guard and the card given to him by Mr. Hamel was read. It was close to eight o’clock at night. On the way here he had convinced himself that Suite 500 would be empty.

That conviction grew when he at last stood outside the entrance of the suite. He could see through the shatterproof glass door that it was just one room. It had plenty of computers and displays and printers inside, but no people.

He touched the attention panel anyway, and was astonished when after about ten seconds a woman’s voice responded, “You are at an office of Vanguard Mining and Refining. Please identify yourself.”

Rick went through the ID process all over again. He showed the little card and stumbled through the explanation that it had been given to him by Mr. Hamel, and why. The woman did not say another word, but at last the door swung open. Rick went in. The door closed behind him and one of the television monitors came alive.

“Sit down right here.”

Rick took the only seat near the monitor. Now he could see the woman on the screen. She was small, thin, and sharp-featured, and somehow reminded him of an animal. A rat? No. Not quite.

She was examining something in front of her, not visible to Rick. “You are sixteen years old. You have been expelled from school. And it is eight o’clock, your time. Right?”

Each of the statements was true enough, but taken together they made little sense.

“That’s right.”

“I want you to tell me exactly why you were expelled from school. Take your time and give as much detail as you can. I’ll try not to interrupt. If I do there will be a delay of about five seconds between what you say, and my comment or question. So you may have to back up occasionally and say things over. Go ahead.”

There was a temptation to lie, or put things in a way more favorable to Rick. Some instinct warned him that would be a mistake. He recounted the whole episode, from the arrival of Willis Preebane to Rick’s interrogation and expulsion by Principal Rigden. It was difficult to talk about the condoms and the booby trap. After the fact it sounded so stupid and pointless and unfunny. Rick was sure that any hope of employment with Vanguard Mining was evaporating with every word he said. He plowed on, ending with his decision to come to this office tonight even though it was so late.

“Not late where I am,” the woman replied. “I got up just two hours ago. But are you tired?”

Just got up. She had to be somewhere on the other side of the Earth! The speech delay must be caused by the satellite link. “I’m not tired.”

“Good. Can you read?”

“A little bit.” But five seconds was far too long for a satellite link delay. Rick struggled to remember things that had never before been of the slightest interest to him. Radio signals traveled at the speed of light. But how fast did light travel?

“Can you write?”

“Just a few things.”

“Hell.” The woman’s opinion of his reply showed more in her tone of voice than in her comment. “Well, no matter. We’ll manage. I want to give you a whole set of things called aptitude tests. First, though, we have to deal with a few formalities. You never had tests like this in school, because they’re forbidden in public programs. We’re a private company but still the tests can’t be given to you without suitable consent. In the case of someone like you, less than eighteen years old, that consent has to come from a parent or guardian.”

Rick felt an awful sinking feeling. He was going to be sent home after all with nothing to tell except his expulsion from school.

“Problem with that?” The woman must have been studying his face. “Tell you what. Suppose that we give you the tests anyway, see how you do. If the results are good you can get consent later and we’ll postdate the tests. If they’re not good, we purge the test results from our files and you’re no worse off.”

What she was suggesting sounded illegal—but if that didn’t worry Vanguard Mining, it sure didn’t worry Rick. He took a deep breath.

“I’m ready.”

“Any last question before we begin?”

Rick shook his head, then changed his mind. “You said you just got up. Is it morning where you are?”

“Morning, afternoon, evening, anything you choose to call it.” The woman smiled, to show small, sharp teeth. Rick suddenly caught the right animal resemblance. Not a rat, but a weasel—though he had never actually seen a live weasel. Mr. Hamel had somehow taught Rick more biology than either of them realized.

“I’m on CM-2, one of Vanguard Mining’s translunar training stations,” the woman went on, “about seven hundred thousand kilometers away from Earth. But the tests will be delivered where you are by a local program. I’ll still be here if you get stuck. Don’t call me unless you absolutely have to, though—the tests are timed. Ready to go?”

Rick nodded. His heart was racing and his mouth felt too dry to speak.

The woman’s picture vanished from the screen and was replaced by a sequence of numbers.

“Good luck,” said her disembodied voice. “Do well on your tests—and one day maybe you’ll come out here and see this place for yourself.”

Rick had painted a mental picture too good to be true: he would pass the tests, Vanguard Mining would offer him a job, and he would be whisked away at once to space and his new employment.