Profession Page 7
The Novian looked past George. “Ingenescu! I think I have done you your favor. Now, really, I have a heavy schedule tomorrow. Be well!”
The screen went blank.
George’s hands shot out toward the screen, as though in a wild impulse to shake life back into it. He cried out, “He didn’t believe me. He didn’t believe me.”
Ingenescu said, “No, George. Did you really think he would?”
George scarcely heard him. “But why not? It’s all true. It’s all so much to his advantage. No risk. I and a few men to work with—A dozen men training for years would cost less than one technician.—He was drunk! Drunk! He didn’t understand.”
George looked about breathlessly. “How do I get to him? I’ve got to. This was wrong. Shouldn’t have used the visiphone. I need time. Face to face. How do I—”
Ingenescu said, “He won’t see you, George. And if he did, he wouldn’t believe you.”
“He will, I tell you. When he isn’t drinking. He—”
George turned squarely toward the Historian and his eyes widened. “Why do you call me George?”
“Isn’t that your name? George Platen?”
“You know me?”
“All about you.”
George was motionless except for the breath pumping his chest wall up and down.
Ingenescu said, “I want to help you, George. I told you that. I’ve been studying you and I want to help you.”
George screamed, “I don’t need help. I’m not feebleminded. The whole world is, but I’m not.” He whirled and dashed madly for the door.
He flung it open and two policemen roused themselves suddenly from their guard duty and seized him.
For all George’s straining, he could feel the hypo-spray at the fleshy point just under the corner of his jaw, and that was it. The last thing he remembered was the face of Ingenescu, watching with gentle concern.
George opened his eyes to the whiteness of a ceiling. He remembered what had happened. He remembered it distantly as though it had happened to somebody else. He stared at the ceiling till the whiteness filled his eyes and washed his brain clean, leaving room, it seemed, for new thought and new ways of thinking.
He didn’t know how long he lay there so, listening to the drift of his own thinking.
There was a voice in his ear. “Are you awake?”
And George heard his own moaning for the first tune. Had he been moaning? He tried to turn his head.
The voice said, “Are you in pain, George?”
George whispered, “Funny. I was so anxious to leave Earth. I didn’t understand.”
“Do you know where you are?”
“Back in the—the House.” George managed to turn. The voice belonged to Omani.
George said, “It’s funny I didn’t understand.”
Omani smiled gently, “Sleep again—”
And woke again. His mind was clear.
Omani sat at the bedside reading, but he put down the book as George’s eyes opened.
George struggled to a sitting position. He said, “Hello.”
“Are you hungry?”
“You bet.” He stared at Omani curiously. “I was followed when I left, wasn’t I?”
Omani nodded. “You were under observation at all times. We were going to maneuver you to Antonelli and let you discharge your aggressions. We felt that to be the only way you could make progress. Your emotions were clogging your advance.”
George said, with a trace of embarrassment, “I was all wrong about him.”
“It doesn’t matter now. When you stopped to stare at the Metallurgy notice board at the airport, one of our agents reported back the list of names. You and I had talked about your past sufficiently so that I caught the significance of Trevelyan’s name there. You asked for directions to the Olympics; there was the possibility that this might result in the kind of crisis we were hoping for; we sent Ladislas Ingenescu to the hall to meet you and take over.”
“He’s an important man in the government, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he is.”
“And you had him take over. It makes me sound important.”
“You are important, George.”
A thick stew had arrived, steaming, fragrant. George grinned wolfishly and pushed his sheets back to free his arms. Omani helped arrange the bed-table. For a while, George ate silently.
Then George said, “I woke up here once before just for a short time.”
Omani said, “I know. I was here.”
“Yes, I remember. You know, everything was changed. It was as though I was too tired to feel emotion. I wasn’t angry any more. I could just think. It was as though I had been drugged to wipe out emotion.”
“You weren’t,” said Omani. “Just sedation. You had rested.”
“Well, anyway, it was all clear to me, as though I had known it all the time but wouldn’t listen to myself. I thought: What was it I had wanted Novia to let me do? I had wanted to go to Novia and take a batch of un-Educated youngsters and teach them out of books. I had wanted to establish a House for the Feeble-minded—like here—and Earth already has them—many of them.”
Omani’s white teeth gleamed as he smiled. “The Institute of Higher Studies is the correct name for places like this.”
“Now I see it,” said George, “so easily I am amazed at my blindness before. After all, who invents the new instrument models that require new-model technicians? Who invented the Beeman spectrographs, for instance? A man called Beeman, I suppose, but he couldn’t have been tape-Educated or how could he have made the advance?”
“Exactly.”
“Or who makes Educational tapes? Special tape-making technicians? Then who makes the tapes to train them? More advanced technicians? Then who makes the tapes—You see what I mean. Somewhere there has to be an end. Somewhere there must be men and women with capacity for original thought.”
“Yes, George.”
George leaned back, stared over Omani’s head, and for a moment there was the return of something like restlessness to his eyes.
“Why wasn’t I told all this at the beginning?”
“Oh, if we could,” said Omani, “the trouble it would save us. We can analyze a mind, George, and say this one will make an adequate architect and that one a good woodworker. We know of no way of detecting the capacity for original, creative thought. It is too subtle a thing. We have some rule-of-thumb methods that mark out individuals who may possibly or potentially have such a talent.
“On Reading Day, such individuals are reported. You were, for instance. Roughly speaking, the number so reported comes to one in ten thousand. By the time Education Day arrives, these individuals are checked again, and nine out of ten of them turn out to have been false alarms. Those who remain are sent to places like this.”
George said, “Well, what’s wrong with telling people that one out of—of a hundred thousand will end at places like these? Then it won’t be such a shock to those who do.”
“And those who don’t? The ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine that don’t? We can’t have all those people considering themselves failures. They aim at the professions and one way or another they all make it. Everyone can place after his or her name: Registered something-or-other. In one fashion or another every individual has his or her place in society and this is necessary.”
“But we?” said George. “The one in ten thousand exception?”
“You can’t be told. That’s exactly it. It’s the final test. Even after we’ve thinned out the possibilities on Education Day, nine out of ten of those who come here are not quite the material of creative genius, and there’s no way we can distinguish those nine from the tenth that we want by any form of machinery. The tenth one must tell us himself.”
“How?”
“We bring you here to a House for the Feeble-minded and the man who won’t accept that is the man we want. It’s a method that can be cruel, but it works. It won’t do to say to a man, ‘You can c
reate. Do so.’ It is much safer to wait for a man to say, ‘I can create, and I will do so whether you wish it or not.’ There are ten thousand men like you, George, who support the advancing technology of fifteen hundred worlds. We can’t allow ourselves to miss one recruit to that number or waste our efforts on one member who doesn’t measure up.”
George pushed his empty plate out of the way and lifted a cup of coffee to his lips.
“What about the people here who don’t—measure up?”
“They are taped eventually and become our Social Scientists. Ingenescu is one. I am a Registered Psychologist. We are second echelon, so to speak.”
George finished his coffee. He said, “I still wonder about one thing?”
“What is that?”
George threw aside the sheet and stood up. “Why do they call them Olympics?”
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Document creation date: 18.04.2011
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