Charles Sheffield: Higher Education

It was a dreadful shock to learn that the first set of aptitude tests was no more than a beginning.

“Not bad,” said the weasely woman, whose name was Coral Wogan. She was studying a copy of Rick s efforts, and he was terribly aware that he had not managed to complete even one of the tests. “Not bad at all,” she went on. “You did well enough that we’ll put you on the company payroll while you take the next set.”

“Next set?” It was after midnight and his brain felt like mush.

“More extensive tests. Mostly physical this time. They last about two weeks. Now, take these"—a linked batch of forms came stuttering out of a printer close to Rick—"and fill them out. All right?”

Rick took the forms and glanced at the first one. He could see at once that it was full of words too hard for him to read, but he was not going to admit that to Coral Wogan. He’d get the help he needed, if he had to go back to school and beg for it. He nodded.

“Three of them call for parental signature,” Coral Wogan went on. “What’s your father’s name?”

“My real father? Milo Luban. But he hasn’t been around since I was three years old.”

“Your mother, then.”

“Dora Luban.”

“Right. Give her this, and tell her that there will be more coming when we receive the signed parental permissions. I rely on you to persuade your mother to sign.”

Another narrow form rolled out of the printer. This one Rick could read. It was a check, made out to his mother from Vanguard Mining. For two thousand! More than double the monthly nine-forty of the education incentive.

“She’ll sign.”

“Good. One thing more, then you can go home and get some sleep. How soon will you be ready to start?”

Now—then I don’t have to go home at all. But that would not work. He needed to fill out the stack of forms, and he needed his mother to sign.

“Will tomorrow evening be all right?” He knew what would happen if Mick saw that check. One of two things. Either there would be a tremendous fight, or Dora Luban would agree to cash it and the pair would go off on a prolonged roller-coaster ride of drink and drugs. Either way, Rick didn’t want to be home for the nighttime brawl.

“Tomorrow evening should be fine,” Coral Wogan said. “Here’s the only other thing you’ll need.”

One more piece of stiff paper scrolled from the printer. Rick grabbed it and studied it. This one looked like a ticket—an air ticket, to somewhere with a long name. He tried to spell the word out—A-L-B-U-Q—but it was too hard.

“Albuquerque.” Coral Wogan showed her first sign of impatience. “You fly there, then by shuttle bus to our facility at Tularema. You are allowed to bring up to twenty kilos of personal possessions. Don’t bother with additional clothes, they’ll be provided. Have you ever been to New Mexico?”

“Never.”

“You’ll like it. Some of the tests, though, you won’t like them. I guarantee that.”

She grinned—small mouth, sharp little teeth. “Any more questions?”

Rick was tempted to ask what she meant about the tests, then decided not to. “No.”

“That’s it then. Again, good luck.”

The screen darkened, leaving Rick clutching forms, check, and ticket. He wondered how he was going to find his way home safely in the dangerous early hours of the morning.

Rick had never flown before, and he was not sure that he liked it—a bad sign for someone hoping to go out to space. Every other passenger seemed totally relaxed, while he in his window seat noticed each vibration and every whir and thump and whistle of mechanical equipment.

As the plane climbed at a steep angle and pressed him back in his seat, he stared outside at the dwarfed buildings and roads and tried to move his mind to other things. All he could think of was the bitter memory of his last hours at home.

Mick, thank heaven, had been out when Rick first got there. His mother had signed instantly, hid the check in her purse, and told him to get on with filling out the rest of the material. He had walked over to sit outside the school, struggled through the forms unaided, and delivered everything by mid-afternoon to the Vanguard Mining office.

He saw no one and spoke only with what seemed to be a computer. But everything must have been in order, because after five minutes another check came spitting out of the printer.

Rick received travel instructions and returned home to pack. Twenty kilos was more than enough—five would have done him. While he stuffed the few things he valued into a couple of plastic bags, his mother hovered over him. After signing the permission forms without hesitation she was now moaning and weeping and pretending to be heartbroken. But she could not keep her eyes off the second check that Rick had brought from Vanguard Mining. Mick had grabbed this one, the three thousand dollar “sweetener” that expressed the company’s financial appreciation of Dora Luban’s willingness to sign over complete parental control of her child. As for the first check, if his mother did not mention that to Mick, Rick was not about to do so.

His stepfather had been even worse than his mother. Mick hadn’t pretended. He didn’t try to hide his relief at getting rid of Rick, the “troublemaker” too bad even for the school system. When Rick came home and told them about the Vanguard Mining tests and the job prospect mining the Belt, Mick had asked only one question: “When do you go?”

No congratulations; no discussion of the job; no worry about possible hazards of an off-Earth assignment. No query as to how long it would be before Rick returned. Just, “When do you go?”

When do you go. Rick stared out of the plane window. Think of it this way: it sure made leaving home pretty easy.

They had reached cruising altitude and were in level flight. Rick was gazing down on stark, snow-capped mountains, their valleys already in shadow as night approached. There was no sign of buildings or roads, no evidence from up here that humans even existed. If anything went wrong with the plane, there was no place to land down there among those dark rocks.

Rick looked at the other passengers. Some were his age or younger, but they were all dressed in a very different style. It was clear that not one of them shared his worried thoughts. They were chatting, reading, playing, working, or sleeping, without a trace of interest in what lay outside the aircraft windows.

It was time to accept that life was different now. He was entering a whole new world. The old world had been washed away in the flood of water that poured down on Delia Pearl’s head and took off her red wig. Rick in this new world had to learn to think differently.

He closed his eyes. He had not slept for more than a short nap in the late afternoon, and he was dreadfully tired. He smiled to himself. Say what you like, the school had a new legend now. Whenever anyone tried a trick on students or teachers, somebody would say, “Ah, but that’s nothing. You should have seen the stunt Rick Luban pulled. Old Rick was the absolute wild end.”

What would it take to become a legend in the world that he was entering now? . . .

The landing at Albuquerque brought Rick out of a deep and uneasy sleep. When they touched down he at first had no idea where he was. Most of the other passengers were already on their feet while he was still struggling with his seat belt. He stared out of the window at a runway dusted with white, rubbed his eyes, and groped around under the seat for his two plastic bags. One of the last people off the plane, he followed his directions through a near-deserted airport, and then outside again to look for the minibus that was supposed to be waiting for him.

Heavier snow was starting to fall. The air felt thin and cold. He understood now why Coral Wogan had told him not to bother with his own clothes—he didn’t have any warm enough. But what was he supposed to do until he arrived at Tularema? Freeze to death?