IQ

by Mack Reynolds

  But not Dora McCord. Roy's frenetic and lovable mother was a worshipper of the prestiged. She never made a mistake in calling a man by his correct title, never failed to attend local ceremonies honoring an attainment, and most of her reading was confined to contemporary biography. It had been a cruel blow to her that the man she loved was simply not cut out to reach the highest positions of the nation. A cruel blow.

  Now she hustled Roy around like a destroyer convoying a carrier. Her introduction varied little. "My son, the Academician Roy Thomas McCord," or "May I present our family's new Academician . . ." As though, Roy told himself wryly, family members of that rank were a common occurrence. Actually, of course, there weren't another half dozen men of his status, in whatever field, in this city of millions.

  After an hour or two of this battering, his father got him to one side long enough for a glass of sparkling wine.

  Warren McCord said, "Your mother is a remarkable woman, Ray."

  Roy swallowed the wine, put the glass down and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. "Thank heavens there's no further for me to go," he growled.

  "No," his father said thoughtfully. "Academician is about it, unless you went into national administration."

  "Um-m-m," Roy said. "He looked at his father and frowned."Dad, when are you going to knock off?"

  "Knock off?'

  Roy said, "You're pushing sixty. You could have retired ten years ago. Could have moved to a gentler climate than this."

  His father shifted his eyes, poured them both another glass of the cold, sparkling wine. "I suppose I should. In the past, well, I think your mother would have hated not to be here as you continued your advances in your Sequence, Roy. And although I was never able to meet the grade, in your mother's eyes, I've certainly not begrudged her the glory of seeing you do it."

  Roy looked at him. "You love her, don't you Dad?"

  Warren McCord laughed with characteristic wryness. "Yes. She's a vain little thing, a pusher. An earlier and less kindly era would have labeled her a social climber. But, to answer your question — yes, son, as far back as I can remember, I have loved your mother."

  He switched subjects. "With this new rank, what will your duties be, Roy?"

  Roy McCord shrugged distastefully. "Showing off for the university, for the most part, I suppose. Attending an endless number of banquets, conferences, congresses and what not. Heavens knows, my field is one where you're not hard pushed to prove the aptitudes the grading computers rate you." He snorted. "Now you're different. As a Senior Technician, the only possible way you could attain your rank is by having it on the ball, right on the job. You can't fake there, surrounded by your fellows."

  His father said uncomfortably, "It's not a very high rank." He scowled, then added, "You don't seem very happy about this new position, Roy."

  "Why should I be?" the other grunted. "Lots of prestige, which turns out to be something that doesn't particularly interest me, but little, if any, satisfaction in the work."

  His father was still scowling. "But what would you rather do?"

  Roy shrugged it off. "I don't know. I suppose I'd like to take a hiking tour of the wine provinces of France and Spain." He looked down into his glass. "See where this product comes from. The vineyards, the bodegas. Perhaps write about it a little."

  His father was staring at him. "You know, I'm not sure we've ever really gotten to know each other very well, son. I ... I never went very high in my Sequence, but I've always liked the work. You've climbed right to the top, but you evidently hate it. Somehow, I never really realized that."

  He was obviously depressed.

  Roy chuckled ruefully, "Well, there's nothing you could do about it, Dad. I have a confession to make to you. All my life I've wanted to be a writer. Not a big name, not a high prestige author of the type we've got in this neighborhood, but an easy going, you might even say lazy, poet observing the remnants of nature that man has still left on this globe of ours and trying to get the feeling of it down on paper."

  His father was staring at him, with a sadness in his eyes.

  Roy laughed again, to cover. "I suppose I've had too much of this wine. At any rate, to get back to you. So you think you might retire at last? Those I.B.M. machines can do without you, Dad. Nobody is indispensable."

  "Yes, I suppose you're right," his father said, something still wrong with his voice and his eyes.

  Dora McCord came sweeping up with one of the neighbors in tow. "Roy, dear," she said fondly, "Mrs. Worthington, you know, her husband is Doctor Worthington, wants to congratulate you."

  Roy muttered banalities in answer to those he heard.

  Mrs. Worthington said smilingly, "Isn't it amazing what genetics will do? Here we have a simple mechanic and his son achieves to one of the highest ranks in the field of education."

  Roy saw his father wince, and his mother bridle.

  Roy said flatly, "Being a Senior Technician in charge of repair of some of the most complicated computing machines in the country is hardly the work of a simple mechanic, Mrs. Worthington.

  I doubt very much whether either your husband or I could do more than make fools of ourselves were we exposed to the tasks involved in repairing such equipment."

  "Please don't misunderstand," she stammered uneasily.

  "We didn't misunderstand," Dora McCord said.

  It was at that split second that the realization came to Roy Thomas McCord.

  In the morning he gave Nadine a ring and when her face lit up the screen he said to her, "Nadine, I don't want to talk to him myself — he probably has a dozen things for me today ranging from talks with the TV press to lectures to students and faculty on the necessity of buckling down and raising the standards of the university — but I want you to tell Superintendent Peterson I won't be in today."

  "Won't be in!" Nadine wailed. "But, Academician McCord, we're already swamped. The Civil Mayor has a luncheon . . ."

  "Call me Roy," Roy said, "and look here, I'm going to phone you again later in the day and ask you one of two questions."

  "One of two questions?" she said vaguely.

  "Yes. It will either be, how about having dinner with me tonight? or, will you marry me?"

  She blinked at him.

  She said finally, "I don't think that's funny, Roy. Any woman in the country would be proud to have dinner with you — or marry you. On the face of it, I'm only a Senior Effective."

  An impressive rank considering your youth," Roy said definitely. "I'll be calling you later." He broke the connection.

  At the Bureau of Records, Academician Roy Thomas McCord was received with a flutter. The secretary of Superintendent Frol Plovdiv hastened to explain that her superior was in conference but that it wasn't important and she'd immediately inform him of the Academician's presence.

  Roy said mildly that he could wait.

  He was in the other's office within minutes.

  Superintendent Plovdiv was a man in his early middle years and reminded Roy of Adam Peterson. Was there something in these administrative positions that called for such types? He looked like a man who would be difficult to work under but who'd be the height of cooperativeness with his equals in rank, and almost, not quite, subservient to his superiors.

  He congratulated Roy with booming sincerity.

  Roy came directly to the point as soon as they were both seated. He said, "I've developed an interest in the nation's aptitude tests and although I am not yet too clear in my own mind just what my possible investigations will consist of, I'd like to ask your cooperation?"

  "Our facilities are all yours," Plovdiv gushed. "Could I assign you an assistant? Someone to devote full time to your needs for as long as you require."

  "Perhaps that would be a good idea," Roy said. "However, would you have the time, right now, for some preliminary questions I'd like to ask?"

  "I'll be honored to make time, sir."

  Roy continued thoughtfully. "Of course, in my field we are already acquainted wi
th the nature of the aptitude tests. In fact, the Educational Sequence composes many of these. However, it has not been my own particular specialization and I would like to go further into the matter. Since at this time I am rather full of my own recent examinations, I think that might be a good point at which to begin."

  Plovdiv pursed his lips. "Of course."

  "Now I understand," Roy said, "the security involved in the Bureau of Records. Your discretion is justly famed."

  Frol Plovdiv was expansive. "In your case, my dear Academician, ordinary precautions obviously won't apply, especially since you are aiming your researches in this direction."

  Roy nodded his thanks. "Then I wonder if I could ask some questions about my own record?"

  Plovdiv was already flicking a switch. "Ruth. A precis of Academician McCord's aptitude records. Immediately, Ruth."

  The communicator said, "Immediately, Superintendent."

  While they waited, Frol Plovdiv leaned back in his chair. "It's quite an honor to have an Academician in our city," he said.

  Roy smiled wryly. "What is there to say to that? In the old days, to obtain the respect of his fellows, a man achieved something in whatever his field might be. Today, he periodically takes machine given tests and is acclaimed according to how some highly intricate computers grade him."

  The Superintendent smiled. "The way you put it, the old system seems more reasonable."

  "Of course, there are ramifications," Roy admitted. "In the old days, many a genius must have lived out his life in squalor, never to come in contact with the particular field in which his aptitudes lay." He added, musingly, "I wonder how many potential poets died in the textile slums of Birmingham while Lord Byron and Baron Shelley were able to pursue their art in security and even luxury."

  "That's the point," Plovdiv nodded. "In the past, you might become a monarch of an Empire as large as England's simply because your father before you held the position. You might become a general, or an admiral, because your family wielded enough influence to send you to the nation's military academy. You might become head of a great industry, because you inherited wealth. You might attend one of the world's great universities simply because your family was born into a high status group."

  Ruth entered at that point with a bound file and handed it to the Superintendent. She smiled awkwardly at Roy McCord, did everything short of dropping a curtsey, and returned to her own office.

  Plovdiv laughed tolerantly. "I'm afraid you're quite the highest ranking citizen Ruth has ever seen, Academician. She'll probably ask for your autograph as you leave." He looked down at the papers before him. "Now then, what did you wish to know?"

  Roy pursed his lips. "For instance, my Creative Ability records."

  Plovdiv flicked pages. "Possibly you know, Creative Ability is rated on one of the older systems. Average is 100 ; 100 to 110 is Good; 110 to 120 is Very Good; 120 to 130 is Superior; 130 to 140 is Very Superior; and above 140 is Gifted. We don't particularly like the term genius, it has been widely misused."

  "Um-m-m," Roy said. "And my rating?"

  Plovdiv cleared his throat. "Theoretically, of course, this information shouldn't be available to you."

  "Of course."

  Plovdiv said, "It's your lowest rating, Academician McCord. You have a Creative Ability aptitude of 124."

  "I see," Roy said. "And, ordinarily, suppose as a youth I had decided to go into the arts? To study, say, writing? Perhaps verse."

  "With that aptitude, my dear sir, you would have had no difficulty whatsoever in beginning as an Apprentice Effective in the arts." He laughed sourly. "I would say that our aptitude tests are least accurate in this field. We do what we can, but we are continually betrayed when a great composition is written by someone with supposedly little aptitude for music, or a whole new school of painting developed by someone who our machines would contend should be putting second coats on barns."

  Roy said slowly, "And my other grades?"

  The Superintendent shrugged hugely. "My dear Academician, you are gifted in every other test we have devised,"

  "Everyone?" Roy McCord was somewhat taken aback.

  "You are quite a phenomenon," the other nodded.

  "And how far back do the records you have there go?"

  "Certainly you must know that your tests are from earliest childhood."

  "And even then?"

  "By your fourth year it was definitely seen that your case was quite unique and you ultimately due for the nation's highest honors."

  "I see," Roy said. "Ah, I'd like to think further about this before going on. I wonder if I could take advantage of your earlier offer and have assigned to me a guide to take me about the establishment?"

  "Immediately," Superintendent Plovdiv said. He flicked a switch again.

  He let the bright young Junior Supervisor give him the complete treatment. Up one corridor, down another. Through this department, through that. Down long banks of impressive, unbelievable looking machinery. Long files of punched cards, endless cans of tapes. Chattering automatic typers. Endless rows of Effective and Junior Effectives manually punching cards, reproducing them, interpreting them, sorting and collating them.

  Roy McCord allowed himself the comments he assumed were standard. In fact, after an hour or two his guide had run the gauntlet from awe at the other's standing, to a slightly tolerant superiority. Each man to his own field, Roy thought wryly.

  Finally, the new Academician said to the other, "I wonder if it would be possible for you to leave me on my own for a time?"

  "On your own?" the Junior Supervisor said blankly.

  Roy smiled at him. "I'd like to observe the Electives at work without them being so self-conscious. When they see you conducting me they freeze up. Obviously, I'm a — what was the old term? — VIP, being given the royal treatment."

  "I see what you mean," the guide said. "Well, let's see, the Superintendent said to treat anything you request as an order from him. I'll be in the cafeteria when you need me again."

  "Fine," Roy said. "And thanks."

  The other went off and Roy McCord took up his wanderings again. From time to time he made an inquiry from one of the Effectives.

  Finally he found him.

  "Hello, Dad," Roy said.

  Warren McCord looked up from his work, startled. "Why, Roy. What are you doing here?

  Roy said, "No use fencing around at this late date, Dad. I've discovered why you failed to retire almost ten years ago, when you were first eligible."

  His father came to his feet, from the machine he'd been dabbling with, and cleaned his hands with a bit of waste. He looked at Roy warily.

  "Oh?" he said.

  Roy said, "I'm not going to ask you how, I assume I wouldn't understand even if you told me. I've seen enough here to realize that probably not one citizen in a thousand has even the faintest idea of the complexity of it all. But I would like to be sure I know why."

  Warren McCord said wearily, "I suppose I could say something stupid such as I don't know what you're talking about, but as you say, it's rather late in the game to fence around."

  "But why? I think I know, I just want to be sure."

  His father said, "I suppose I could blame it all on your mother, Son. Say that I did it all for her so that she'd enjoy the prestige I wasn't ever able to bring the family." The older man hesitated. "But that's not all. It was for me too. I worked hard to get no further than I am. But what was it Mrs. Worthington called me? A simple mechanic."

  Roy said bitterly, "At least you deserve your rank, Senior Technician. It's not to be scorned. What do I really deserve, Dad?"

  His father looked miserable. His eyes went to the floor. "Actually, your aptitudes are quite high, Roy. I wouldn't have dared to tinker, otherwise you would have been shown up."

  Roy McCord took a deep breath and said tightly. "Just one thing. My Creative Aptitude. How do I rate there — really?"

  His father scowled at him, his eyes still wary. "Actually, that's
the one test I never messed with, Son. It's your highest. I figured if I made you a genius in everything it might look suspicious."

  Roy McCord's face broke into a bloom of pleasure. "That's fine," he said, "that's just fine."