Higher Education

by Charles Sheffield

  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?

  The bus was one of the new autopilot runabouts, still illegal for city use. Rick had seen them on the tube, but he had no idea how they worked. Some sort of overall navigation gadget, he guessed, taking its position from a satellite receiver in the bus's roof. A radar told the onboard computer where other cars and trucks were, and how fast they were going.

  Rick approached the bus and hesitated. He had seen a dozen accident videos in the past year, people killed in autopilot buses and cars that ran off the road into rivers or smashed into bridge supports and other cars. An autopilot bus was not his choice for a middle-of-the-night ride with snow and slippery roads.

  While he stood there, the bus's rear door opened and a gruff voice came from the dark interior.

  "You gonna stand all night playing statues? We been waiting two hours. Get inside and let's hustle outa here."

  Rick swallowed his surprise—he had expected to be the only passenger. He bent his head and climbed into the bus. It was hardly warmer inside than out. Two other people were sitting on the broad seat, so muffled up in dark blankets that at first glance he could make out little more than their heads.

  "Tularema?" asked the same voice. As Rick's eyes began to adjust he saw next to him a big, broad-shouldered youth, not much older than him.

  "Yes."

  "Vanguard Mining?"

  "Yes."

  "Then why don't this dumb bus get out of here?"

  "Because the door is still open," the other passenger said calmly. It was a girl, sitting on the far left. She touched something on the panel in front of them. The rear door clunked shut, and at the same moment a blue interior light came on and the bus began to move smoothly forward.

  Rick studied the other two, aware that they were staring at him with equal curiosity. The male was easy. He could have fitted right in at Rick's school. He was big—even bigger than he seemed at first glance, because it turned out that most of that bulk was muscle and not clothing. He had long, swept-back frizzy hair, a broad, very black face, and dark, close-set eyes. The left one was bloodshot, and he kept rubbing it. He had the same cocky, look-at-me expression as Hoss Carlin.

  "I'm Vido Valdez," he said. He did not offer to shake hands.

  "Rick Luban."

  "You're gonna freeze your ass off in that outfit." Valdez did not offer to share the blanket sitting on his lap.

  "Let's hope it's going to be a short ride," Rick said, and reached out to pull part of the blanket across his chilled legs and feet. He ignored Valdez's scowl—he could see trouble ahead there—and turned his attention to the girl who was smiling at him in a superior sort of way.

  "It won't be," she said.

  She was something else. For a start, she was tall and thin and pale and weak-looking, like a plant left too long in the dark. Mr. Hamel had taught the class a special word for that—eeti-o-something. Even her hair, pulled back from her narrow face, seemed weak and thin. If she was heading for the physical tests that Coral Wogan had promised Rick at Tularema, it was hard to believe she would pass any one of them.

  The real shock, though, was those eyes. Rick stared at them, and had the feeling that there was nothing behind them. They were grey and wide and utterly without expression. The smile that she offered Rick somehow did not extend from her mouth to the rest of her face.

  "If you're hoping for a short ride, forget it," she went on. Her voice was small and precise, a little girl's voice. Rick had the strange feeling that despite her size she hadn't matured sexually. "Albuquerque to Tularema," she continued, "is nearly three hundred kilometers. Even without stops, and I don't know if the bus has any scheduled,
we won't get to Tularema until the middle of the night. It shouldn't be too bad, though. The heat comes on a lot better when we're moving." Almost as an afterthought, she added, "And I'm Alice Klein. From the Black Hills—western South Dakota."

  Rick decided that, physical weakling or not, in her own way Alice Klein was as self-confident as Vido Valdez.

  "I'm from Anchorage," Valdez said. "If you think this is cold. . ." He stared at Rick, and he was grinning. "I think she's right, though. This shouldn't be too bad—once we get to Tularema."

  He looked with satisfaction at Rick's puzzled expression. "Didn't they tell you? Or didn't you sign up with Vanguard Mining?"

  "I did sign up. Tell me what?"

  "That you're out here for physical tests."

  "They told me that."

  "Ah, but did they tell you the rest of it?" Valdez turned, so that his smirk could take in both Rick and Alice Klein. "I guess they didn't. Don't you realize that these will be competitive tests? Not everyone who signs up gets a job and goes to space. We're going to be fighting against each other. And I'll tell you now: I intend to win."

  Tests. Rick had been taking them in school for as long as he could remember. There was a definite technique to them.

  Rule number one: find out if it mattered. Some teachers gave you tests, but there was no penalty if you scored zero or filled the screen with doodles. Then you and your buddies horsed around through the whole thing or cut it completely.

  If the teacher played tough like old Hamel, you changed tactics to rule number two: sit near one of the goody-goodies like Belinda Jacob, someone who was likely to know the answers. Watch what she did, copy all you could, and deny to the death that you had cheated.

  He knew within minutes of arriving at Tularema that this was going to be different. For starters, they arrived tired out and chilled in a bleak February overcast. Rick expected food and rest. Instead they were ushered at once into a grim medical facility. A man in a grey suit greeted them. Doctor Alonzo Bretherton, read his ID card, but he didn't look like any doctor Rick had ever seen—he was more like a bar-room bruiser, all muscles, jug ears, flattened nose and broken veins. He took one look at them and said, "Klein, Luban and Valdez. Right. A quick physical, then it's track suits and a treadmill."

  "We're frozen," protested Valdez.

  "And starving," Rick added.

  It was no lie. Even with the blankets, the night journey at two thousand meters above sea level (Alice Klein seemed to know everything) had numbed them. There had been no stops, for food or anything else.

  "Exactly as you should be," Bretherton said cheerfully. "I need to catch you at a physical low point, and it's easier to do it now than starve you or keep you up all night later. Let's go. Those three cubicles."

  Rick was ready to say it—Screw you, Doc, I'm not doing no stupid Treadmill—when he saw Vido Valdez's mouth opening. They stared at each other. Finally Vido scowled and walked forward toward one of the three rooms that Bretherton had pointed out. Alice Klein had already vanished into the left-hand one.

  Find someone who was likely to know the answers. That was a laugh. Rick changed into the skimpy grey gown that he found in the cubicle and stared at himself in the mirror. Wonderful. Enough to cover him to the thighs, but no matter how he adjusted it part of his ass was showing. Alice Klein was due for a treat.

  Except that there was no sign of her when he emerged. Rick was shuttled along to another room, where a man and woman he had never seen before performed an hour-long physical on him. It was more unpleasant and painful than one of Mick's grade-A beatings.

  "Which would you rather," the woman said when he complained. According to her badge she was a company paramedic, Tess Shawm. She was young and very attractive, but it was obvious that so far as she was concerned Rick was nothing more than a piece of meat. "Would you prefer to find out you have a problem now," she went on, "with full medical facilities on site—or find out when you're halfway to the Belt and it's fifty million kilometers to the nearest doctor?"

  It was no consolation, when Rick was at last released, to see Vido Valdez and hear him grumble, "The hell with this. They were pokin' into holes I never knew I had."

  Vido stared at Rick's gown and then at the close razor haircut that Rick had been so proud of two days ago, and added, "I knew you were weird, Luban, the second I saw you. You got more hair on your ass than you have on your head."

  Fighting words. But before Rick could do more than raise a fist Bretherton was standing between them,

  "Fun and games later, you two. Go in there and get track suits on. Time for the treadmill and the EKG."

  Rick would like to have used that raised fist on Bretherton, but the doctor's bare arms were as hairy and muscular as a gorilla's. Vido Valdez was already moving away. After a moment Rick followed.

  The treadmill was nothing but a sort of walking machine with an angle that could be adjusted to make you think you were going uphill. Rick waited while a bunch of electrodes were attached all over him, then the belt he was standing on began to move. He started walking. It was dead easy. He was no jock, but running the streets kept you in fair shape. He began to feel warm for the first time since he left the plane. Vido Valdez was two machines over, grunting and puffing but striding out steadily. Rick knew this test couldn't be a big deal, because beyond Valdez he could see Alice Klein, strolling easily along on her long, skinny legs.

  Then he started to feel something else. It was becoming hard to breathe, and his heart was pounding away in his chest faster than he ever remembered. He put his hand to his throat.

  "What's wrong?" The same man and woman attendants were with them, watching the walkers and the monitors. Tess Shawm came to stand by Rick's side.

  "Can't breathe." Rick hardly had wind to speak. "And I hurt—here."

  She nodded. "Where you from?"

  "Simi Valley—California."

  "Near sea level, right."

  "Uh. Uh."

  "And now you are more than a mile high. Thinner air. What do you expect?" Shawm checked the monitors. "You're all right. Heart's fine. Just keep walking."

  Rick walked. The pain in his chest grew, and soon it was matched by an awful tired ache in his legs. Instead of slowing the treadmill, Tess Shawm was speeding it up and increasing the slope. Finally, when Rick knew he could not go for one more second, the machine slowed and stopped. He stood still, his hands gripping the metal bars on either side of him and his head down to his chest.

  "You need to take regular exercise," Shawm said. "I'm going to make a note of that. But you'll do. You can get down now."

  Rick stumbled off the treadmill. He saw Valdez next to his machine, doubled over, hands to his right side. Unbelievably, Alice Klein was still on her treadmill and still striding along easily.

  "Don't get all shook up." Tess Shawm saw Rick's startled expression. "She has an advantage over you two. She went to school in the high part of the Black Hills. For the past two years she's been living up near two thousand meters. Like prolonged altitude training. She can walk both of you into the ground."

  She already had. Vido Valdez and Rick went side by side to the showers in grim silence. Valdez didn't tell Rick this time that he intended to win.

  Chapter Four

  THERE was a temptation to say, I've had it. You can take the tests and stuff 'em. I quit. But if you did that, what came next? Rick, puzzling over the words on his air ticket, saw that it had a return half. He could use it to fly back home any time.

  And face his mother, and Mick, and admit failure yet again. And after that?

  Things didn't seem so bad after Rick had eaten a huge meal, slept around the clock, and woke to eat again. His legs still ached and more tests lay ahead, but he decided that, like Vido, he intended to win.

  His decision was made easier when he realized what he should have known all along: he and Vido Valdez and Alice Klein were not the only three being tested. They were merely the most recent arrivals. There were fifty-two other recruits
at the facility, all between the ages of fifteen and eighteen. All of them were present in the dining room when Rick appeared for his second meal, and they stared at him and at the other two new arrivals in an unfriendly way.

  He found out why later that day, talking to Alice Klein who still apparently knew everything. A maximum of twenty recruits would go on to the next stage of off-Earth training. Every new arrival decreased the chances of the people already there. Vido Valdez had been quite right, the situation was competitive. Less than forty percent of the applicants would be winners.

  The quality of the competition became apparent as the tests continued: manual dexterity, physical strength, speed of reflexes, hand-eye coordination, color and stereoscopic vision, ability to perform several activities in parallel. In each category there seemed to be an outstanding performer, someone who was rumored to score far ahead of everyone else. Rick was discouraged to find that he was best in nothing.