"Never mind the reports, Royster," Dr. Ross said brusquely. "Send the paperwork in later. We're here to see what's going on for ourselves, not to read what you say is going on. And I still want a satisfactory explanation as to why your office was left unattended."
"Yes, madam. Our funds are insufficient to pay a receptionist without reducing our teaching staff. There is only Miss Smith, who is my assistant and who also handles much of the secretarial work, in addition to myself. Sometimes we both have to be out of the office at the same time, particularly when new pupils are being enrolled as two were this morning.
"However, we always make sure a monitor of demonstrated dependability is on duty in the front hall when both of us must be out." He looked at Roddy Linker again and said to the inspectors, "If you will pardon me a moment, I should have a word with that young man."
He walked over to the monitor's desk and the team followed closely behind him. "Roddy," he said sternly, "you know very well that you are supposed to inform Miss Smith or myself when we have visitors!"
Roddy's lips puckered angrily and his eyes swept the four adults with a glower. "They said not to," he grunted churlishly.
"Who said not to?" Royster demanded.
"Them," Roddy replied, pointing to Dr. Ross and McNear. "That woman and that guy."
"That lady and that gentleman," Royster corrected him.
Roddy shrugged and said indifferently, "You're the boss."
Royster thought in dismay: What's Roddy trying to do to us? "The young scoundrel is lying!" snapped Dr. Ross.
"In his teeth!" supplemented McNear. "We said no such thing! Really, Royster, if your establishment is producing such dishonest ruffians as this . . ."
Helplessly Royster looked at Dr. Stilly, who was listening with an unhappy frown but who showed no inclination to speak. It was a hopeless situation—the word of one boy, and a problem boy at that, against two or maybe three responsible adults. "Roddy," he began.
"Gosh, Mr. Royster," said Roddy, in a changed tone and plainly in retreat, "I didn't mean to lie! That's what I thought they told me."
"Nonsense!" yapped Dr. Ross. "We said nothing that the dimmest child in the state could misinterpret in that manner!"
Roddy was fumbling for something under his desk. "If you say so, ma'm," he said apologetically, "I guess you're right. What was really said," he finished, lifting a tape recorder onto the desk and rapidly flicking its buttons, "was this!"
The recorder come on loud and clear with Roddy's voice:
" 'Good morning. Who did you wish to see?'
"McNear's unmistakable, high-pitched voice: 'Nobody in particular.'
"Roddy: 'Just a moment, please, and I'll call Mr. Royster.'
"Dr. Ross: 'That won't be necessary, young man. Return to your seat.'
"Roddy: 'But Mr. Royster said I'm supposed—'
"McNear: 'And the lady said that won't be necessary!'
"Roddy: 'But when visitors come, he wants to—'
"Dr. Ross: 'We're not mere visitors, boy. We're here on business. Now get on with your book!'
"Roddy: 'Yes, ma'm.' "
He switched off the recorder and looked up innocently. To Royster he said, "I guess they didn't say not to call you, after all, sir. At least not in those exact words."
Royster was fighting to stifle a guffaw of sheer relief—and no little admiration. He was glad the inspectors were staring at Roddy, as if the boy were a rattlesnake who had just depleted his venom supply into their veins, and weren't noticing him.
As soon as he had himself under control, Royster said brightly, "Roddy is quite an enthusiast of speech identification patterns—you know, those photographs of vocal vibrations that are used somewhat like fingerprints. He makes himself a minor nuisance with that recorder of his, gathering samples of visitors' voices to study. How many adults do you have so far, Roddy?"
"Twenty-seven, counting these three. But none of these said 'Good morning,' and those are the words I'm using in my comparative study."
"I'm sure they'll be happy to oblige, won't you, folks?" Royster said, turning to the inspectors. "Will each of you say 'Good morning' for Roddy's recording?"
Dr. Stilly said with a wry smile, "That's a very educational project you're undertaking, young man. I'll be glad to contribute. Good morning." He looked expectantly at McNear.
"Good morning," McNear sang tonelessly.
"Good morning!" Dr. Ross snapped impatiently. "Now let's quit wasting time and get on with the inspection."
"Very well," Royster said, talking fast and glibly. "I suggest we start with the dormitories, on the upper floors, and work our way systematically to the basement." He moved away slightly, as if to lead the way to the stairwell, but none of the others showed any intention of following him, so he edged back, still talking. "As I'm sure you know, most of our youngsters are boarding students from all sections of the state. The top floor has been converted into living quarters for the boys, the second floor for the girls, and the first floor and basement rooms for classes. Fortunately, this is a big if rather old building, and—"
"We'll start with the classrooms, if you please," Dr. Ross ruled coldly.
"Those in the basement," added McNear.
Royster looked blankly at them a moment, then said, "Very well," with a nervous chuckle. "I can appreciate the fact that, for an accreditation inspection, the actual classroom work is your foremost consideration."
"Precisely," said Dr. Ross. "So let's not just stand here all day!"
* * *
As Royster led the way with apparent reluctance, the visitors became increasingly aware of the glum-looking urchin who was dogging the headmaster's footsteps. After a whispered conference with Dr. Ross, McNear asked, "Why is this young man following you, Royster?"
The headmaster started to answer, then paused, not at all satisfied with the explanation he meant to offer for Arthur's presence. The boy cleared his throat and Royster peered down at him.
"Suppose you answer our visitor's question, Arthur," he said. After all, the boy had access to several dozen imaginative young brains.
"It's 'cause I misbehaved," said Arthur.
"This is your punishment?" asked McNear.
"No, sir. This is so Mr. Royster can watch me while he decides what to do to me."
"This strikes me as a most unusual procedure," Dr. Ross commented disapprovingly.
"Oh, no, ma'm," said Arthur. "Mr. Royster does this all the time. It ain't unusual."
"It 'isn't' unusual, Arthur," Royster corrected mildly, wondering what this was leading to.
"Really, Royster," the woman said, "such a display of hesitancy concerning a simple disciplinary matter shows a lack of decisiveness scarcely fitting for a headmaster."
"Am I indecisive, Arthur?" asked Royster.
"No, sir, it ain't . . ."
"Isn't!"
" . . . It isn't that." The boy looked up at Dr. Ross. "The reason he waits for an hour or two is so I'll know he's thinkin' over what I did, because he thinks I'm important enough to think about."
Royster got the drift and put in a pious aside to the inspectors, "So many of our children's problems were intensified by angry and impatient parents . . ." He shook his head sadly.
"But couldn't the boy do his waiting in his classroom?" asked Dr. Stilly. "This procedure interrupts his work schedule for hours."
"That's correct, Dr. Stilly," said Royster, "and in the regular school situation this practice would be unjustifiable. But here at Thorling, as you know, behavioral problems have to be given a high priority. If Arthur were in his class, waiting with mounting dread to hear my decision, imagining me increasingly as a vengeful ogre, and perhaps misbehaving again out of boyish bravado, the effect on him would be far from salutary. But if he's actually with me, he's constantly aware of me as I really am, and of my desire to help, rather than injure, him. You'd be surprised at the gracefulness with which the children accept a penalty when they know I have given it hours of thought."
"Arthur," Dr. Ross said sweetly, "do you even go to the bathroom with your headmaster?"
"Yes'm."
"And are girl students punished in this manner, too?"
"Yes'm. Miss Smith had Hazel Petrov with her most all yesterday afternoon, ma'm."
Dr. Ross grunted in disappointment.
Royster led the way along the basement hall. Thorling School had originally been built, back in the late 1920s, as a public school to consolidate some two dozen of the old rural one-roomers in that area of the county. When enrollment began to mount after World War II, the penny-pinching county fathers decreed that the overflow of students be handled not by the construction of expensive new wings, nor of entire new schools, but by digging out new rooms under the old buildings. The resulting classrooms might have looked dismally shoddy, with their tangle of pipes a foot below the ceiling and their haphazardly located support beams and posts, but they served their purpose for a while.
But finally enrollment pressure reached the point where an all-out program of new-school construction was unavoidable—and the new schools made the old "substandard" by comparison. Naturally, every tax-paying citizen was soon demanding that his Johnny have as pleasant a school to attend as the next kid, and it became expedient to build still more new schools and to abandon the old.
The J. V. Thorling Foundation had purchased this building for not many more dollars than it had cost originally. The boxy, red-brick structure was old, and not considered handsome, but it was sturdy. And after a thorough repair and renovation of the interior, it proved quite satisfactory to its new users.
The state education officials made no fuss about the fact that the building was "substandard." So long as the big sign facing the highway made it plain that Thorling was a privately-operated institution, public officials seemed to feel that the shoddier it looked the better.
Thus Royster chattered extensively about the building's shortcomings, poor-mouthing and apologizing over them, as he led the inspectors about. He knew that the quality of housing was a definite factor in the accreditation process—but he knew as well that the members of this team definitely were not interested in finding fault with the building.
They were more inclined to gaze with studious frowns through the little glass-door panels of classrooms and poke their heads in storage closets, evidently in hope of discovering disorderly or illicit activity. They accepted Royster's explanation of the room in which Miss Smith's experiment with Stevie and David had been conducted—that it was a room in which visiting parents could chat with their children. The adjacent observation booth would have passed, with its lights on to blank out the scene through the one-way mirror, as unused storage space, but the inspectors did not notice it at all.
"I'm sure you've observed that we made some use of programmed instruction in our classes," Royster remarked, "but haven't gone to it fully by any means. About half of the classrooms are equipped with the program machines. We find them excellent, of course, for the teaching of all subjects once the basic learning skills are acquired."
"Then why not adopt them more fully?" asked Dr. Stilly.
"Mainly to keep the children functioning, as much as possible, as members of groups—that is, as cooperating participants in a class discussion, et cetera. When a child is using a PI machine, he is isolated, without social contact. For our purposes, which as you know are to help the children surmount behavioral difficulties as well as provide a rounded educational experience, too much time in isolation is undesirable."
How much easier it would be, thought Royster, who was getting tired of chattering at the increasingly grumpy visitors, to tell them the truth in a very few words—that PI is about the only way to be sure that a telepathic pupil is actually learning a subject instead of picking up answers, as needed, from the minds of teachers or other students, while the ordinary, old-fashioned classroom setup is ideal for the development of ESP skills.
The group returned to the first floor and the inspectors fanned out immediately to gaze into three classrooms. Arthur took the opportunity to hiss a message to the headmaster.
"Stilly's completely snowed, Mr. Royster, but Fat Stuff and the old biddy are still on the prowl. Don't worry, though. Just get 'em into Mrs. Morelli's room!"
Royster nodded, wondering giddily who was actually running this school.
"You are, sir," Arthur hissed promptly. "but in an emerging situation like this, it's fun for us to help out."
"Emergency situation," Royster corrected automatically, and a little too loudly.
"What's that you said?" McNear snapped sharply, rejoining him.
"Oh, Arthur was saying he has to go to the bathroom. He said it was an 'emerging situation' and I was correcting him."
McNear guffawed shrilly.
Royster frowned and said to Arthur, "Well, run along, but be back in three minutes. We'll be at Mrs. Morelli's room."
"Who's Mrs. Morelli?" asked Stilly as they walked down the hall.
"She's the music teacher. We emphasize vocal music here, because the children seem to come out of their shells so readily in the process of joint creativity of beautiful harmonies. We start part-singing at the kindergarten level. It's a wonderful social experience for the children—and an aesthetic experience as well, of course."
* * *
They reached Mrs. Morelli's room, and Royster opened the door, just as the children were finishing a marching song.
"Really, Royster," protested Dr. Ross, "we haven't the time to waste listening to . . .
Her voice trailed off as the children's voices rose again—very softly and sweetly this time:
"Soft as the voice of an angel,
Breathing a lesson unheard,
Hope with a gentle persuasion,
Whispers her comforting words.
Wait, till the darkness is over,
Wait, till the tempest is done,
Hope for the sunshine tomorrow,
After the shower is gone."
Dr. Ross had edged through the door to stand facing the singing children, who seemed to be unaware of her and the other inspectors who followed her quietly. Mrs. Morelli looked up curiously from the piano but didn't stop playing as the children sang the chorus:
"Whispering Hope, oh how welcome thy voice,
Making my heart in its sorrow rejoice."
"Oh my," Dr. Ross said numbly. "Oh my!"
Royster, who was himself seldom untouched by that old song's tender simplicity, said, "The children love that piece. It has a message for a troubled boy or girl."
"I could listen to it forever," breathed Dr. Ross. "I haven't heard it for years, but when I was a child . . . I've never heard it sung more beautifully!"
"Perhaps Mrs. Morelli has it on tape," said Royster. He introduced the inspectors to the teacher and asked her if she had taped "Whispering Hope."
"Why, yes," she said.
"Let's make a present of it to Dr. Ross," said Royster.
Mrs. Morelli got a small spool from her desk and handed it to the other woman. "Oh, I'll cherish this!" Dr. Ross crooned. "Thank you, Mrs. Morelli, and you, Mr. Royster. And thank you, children!"
McNear, who had been leaning his considerable weight against the doorframe, looking bored and annoyed, spoke up. "Who plays the fiddle?" he asked, nodding to a violin case in the corner of the room.
"I do!" piped up Sandylou, a chubby, confident seven-year-old. "Shall I play for you?" She headed for the violin case without waiting for an answer, but suddenly whirled to glare angrily at her classmates. "I will play, too!" she shouted at them.
Something was going wrong, Royster realized. The class didn't want Sandylou to play for some reason, but the girl was only slightly telepathic and could not understand the Don't! she was receiving from the others. Her ESP capabilities were strong in the kinetics realm, but . . .
Of course! That was the trouble! She played the violin mostly with her fingers, but sometimes she used a mental touch to produce a harmonic, which did not r
equire that the string be pressed against the fingerboard but merely touched at a vibrational node to damp the fundamental tone while allowing the whispery overtone to sound. Since the principal node is at one-half the string's length—high up on the fingerboard for a beginning violinist—Sandylou's mental touches made it possible for her to avoid long, quick reaches for harmonics, and thus enabled her to play selections that would otherwise be beyond her technique.
To the non-musician, with no exact knowledge of violin techniques, Sandylou's playing would appear extraordinary only in the sense that it was extremely advanced for a child her age. Royster himself had not known, until Mrs. Morelli told him, that the girl was ESPing her harmonics. But someone who knew the instrument . . . !
The Creatures of Man Page 13
