He waved Kevin toward his office and followed along the hall. His steps were slow; Farrington seemed always physically tired, but he spoke with an animation that denied it. They went into the office, a large room lined with books, drafting table beneath the windows, an oversized flat computer monitor on the battered wood desk. "Have a seat," Farrington said. "Now, what can I do for you?"
Kevin showed him the computer letter and described his interview with Ms. Rasmussen. "And I can't afford two more years," he concluded. "It's just not fair."
"No, probably not. Fair play isn't the strongest point of our regulated competitive welfare state. Rules and order, that's our goal. Let me have your ID card, I need to look up your records."
Kevin handed it over. "Two years because a computer says so. That doesn't make sense."
"Makes more than you think." Farrington inserted the ID card into a slot in the desk console. He began punching in numbers. "When you admit everyone who wants to go to college, and you're not allowed to flunk anybody out, you have to have some way to keep from getting hip-deep in idiots-with-degrees," Farrington said. "Too bad it happened to the engineering school too. I remember when this kind of horse puckey was reserved for the Sociology and Education Departments. And law schools, of course."
"But can't you do something?"
Farrington studied the read-outs. "Probably not. Used to be the professors had some authority here, but not for a long time now. Rules are rules—"
"Not you too!"
"Easy. Doesn't do any good to get excited. Least not here, not with me. Kevin, I can understand why you young people get frustrated. If things like this had happened to me when I was your age I'd have been scheming on how to bring the whole mess down in blood. I don't suppose your generation even talks like that."
Kevin said nothing. Farrington was right. A couple of times Kevin had complained about some rule or another, tried to get a student protest together, and his classmates had thought he was crazy. The only student demonstrations to get involved in were those sponsored by one of the recognized outfits. Demonstrating for the right causes was a key to a good job after graduation. Making trouble was a way to welfare.
"I can't give you a degree by waving my hand," Farrington said. "But we can diddle the system a bit. You stay on. I'll see that you get admitted to graduate courses. You can enroll in these junk courses they want you to take again, but you won't have to go to class. Just show up on exam day. When you've touched all the bases you'll get your degree and have two years of advanced study to go with it. Get you a better job."
"It sounds good," Kevin said, "But I can't do it—"
"I wasn't through," Farrington said. "Look, I've got some buddies out at Systems Development Corporation. I can get you on part-time at SDC. Get you some experience programming, feeding problems into the computer, that sort of thing. Won't pay too bad, and you'll have job experience in your resume. Ought to about make up for the time this stupid system is costing you."
"But I still can't," Kevin said. "I'd love to. What you're offering is better than—Dr. Farrington, it would be great, and I really thank you, but I can't stay in Los Angeles."
Farrington frowned. "Why not?"
Kevin told him. "I might have thought it wasn't serious, but when I found Snowdrop in the toilet—" He couldn't finish. The memory of wet fur was in his nostrils.
Farrington's lips tightened. "You know, a few years ago—I guess it was longer than that. Back about 1990. I knew a guy named Turk. Sold custom car parts. One of those damned street gangs decided Turk ought to kick in to them. Pay protection.
"The cops couldn't do anything: judges didn't believe in juvenile criminals. 'No such thing as a bad child,' all that crap. Racial overtones. One day Turk came home and found his dog puking blood all over the carpet. Seems someone had fed it meat filled with ground glass. So Turk went hunting. He took a shotgun over to the gang headquarters and blew hell out of the place. Then he cruised around the city looking for their cars and blew off four or five. You know, old Turk lived another two, three years, finally died of a very natural heart attack. I understand that gang goes out to the cemetery every month to be sure Turk's still under ground."
"I couldn't do that!" There was horror in Kevin's voice.
"No, I don't reckon you could. Mind if I look up your psych records?"
"No, sir."
Farrington played with the console keys. A series of graphs came onto the screen. "Know what these mean?"
"No. They wouldn't let me take any advanced psych courses. I don't know why."
"I do," Farrington said. He pointed to a series of dips and valleys on one of the graphs. "Those little wiggles right there. Unstable. Potential for violence. You got a hot temper?"
"Sometimes. I try to control it," Kevin said.
"Yeah. You've got some other problems too. Kind of a misfit, aren't you?"
"No!" Kevin almost shouted it. "I get along!"
"Have many friends?"
"Yes—well, I don't have time to make many friends. But I get along."
"Sure," Farrington said. "But I expect you have to work on that individualist streak. I see they had you in for intensive counseling for a couple of years. Help any?"
"Sure. Sensitivity training is important, particularly for those who hope to be promoted into managerial positions—"
"You don't need to quote the goddam course prospectus to me," Farrington said. He leaned back in his big chair. "Kevin, when I was your age, an engineer built things. Took responsibilities. They'd give us a project and by God we'd get it done. Build a bridge. Design something. Start with paper and ideas and see it through until it worked. Nowadays they put you in a room full of people just like yourself, and you feed numbers into a computer. Somebody checks all your work, somebody else originated it, and a third type will supervise the hardware—do you think you'll like that?"
"No," Kevin admitted. "But what can I do?"
Farrington shrugged. "Not much. Not here, anyway."
"I mean," Kevin said, "the system's set up so that no one person can ruin things for everybody. Isn't that the way it's supposed to work?"
"Sure. How it's supposed to work." Farrington fingered the computer letter that lay on his desk, then looked back at the console. He seemed to be debating with himself. "Senecal, I'm going to tell you something that I don't want you to repeat. You say I told you this, and I'll deny it."
"Sir? I can—I don't have to tell people everything I know."
"No. I don't expect you do," Farrington said. "Look, that computer letter was no accident. The psych people have decided you're not ready to graduate. If they hadn't found problems with your prerequisites they'd have come up with something else."
"But—why?"
"You're not mature enough by their thinking. Individualist. Not group-adjusted. See those little code numbers? That's the clue."
Kevin leaned over the desk and looked at the read-out screen. The numbers meant nothing to him. "I don't think those were on the printouts I got," Kevin said. "I sent for my records. Don't they have to tell us everything in them? I thought there was a law—"
"Oh, there are laws and laws," Farrington said. "One law says that if properly qualified human-resources specialists determine that giving a subject information would be damaging to the subject, the information can be withheld. There are some others, too. I'm not even supposed to be able to get this, not even with your ID card, but—well, a couple of my former students designed the computer security system. Anyway. The psych boys have decided you ought to stay on as a student a few more years. Then they'll decide if your new profile is good enough to let you have a degree. My guess is that it'll still be 'no,' and it won't matter if you stay on as an undergraduate until you're ninety."
"But what can I do?" Kevin demanded.
"I don't know. One of the unions might help you, but you can't join a good union without a degree. Got any pull? Political friends? Ever worked campaigns?"
"No."
"Then I can't think of anything. I wish I could help. I really do." Farrington opened his desk drawer and took out a printed brochure. "There's one thing. This outfit's looking for good general systems engineers, and they don't care about degrees. They want ability, and I think you've got signs of that. You did a good paper for me last term. I'll recommend you, if you like." He scaled the brochure across the desk.
The illustration on the front leaped out at him; space as black as night; the Milky Way a sparkling waterfall of stars. Against the backdrop hung a small rock. Men floated in the foreground. A large mirror focused solar energy onto the asteroid, boiling out metals.
"The Daedalus Corporation," Kevin said. "That's a deep-space outfit."
Farrington nodded. "One of them. And they're hungry. Want me to talk to them for you?"
Kevin knew there were companies operating in the Asteroid Belt, but he'd never thought of working for one of them. When he thought of going to space it was always in terms of one of the near-Earth orbiting factories, or possibly to work for Hansen-MacKenzie on the Moon. There was real money to be made in the industrial satellite factories—and you could come home to spend it.
"Nobody ever comes back from the Belt," Kevin said.
"Not many have, yet," Farrington agreed. "But maybe they don't want to come home. They're doing something real out there in the Belt, Kevin. Something important for the whole human race, and it's not done with acres of engineers sitting in bullpens. They're going to build a whole new civilization out there—and maybe save this one in the bargain. If I were your age I wouldn't hesitate a minute."
For a moment the intensity of Farrington's tone, the professor's sincerity and wistful expression, made it sound attractive. Kevin thought again. He knew almost nothing about the Belt. There were stories. That they'd found fabulously rich sources of metals, millions of tons of nearly pure iron and nickel and copper, with solar energy to run the refineries. "But they've never brought anything back," Kevin said aloud.
"No. And if they don't pretty soon things will be bad for the asteroid industries," Farrington said. "But that's just the point. They need people out there. People who'll work—"
"How can they bring enough metal back to Earth to matter? The asteroids are a long way out."
"There are ways," Farrington said.
"I just don't know—"
"Yes." Farrington sighed. "I know. You've been brought up to think somebody will take care of you. Social Security, National Health Plan, Federal Burial Insurance, Family Assistance, Food Stamps, Welfare. Union representatives to speak for you. And I'm talking about a place where it's all up to you, where you take care of yourself because nobody's going to do it for you. I guess that can be scary to modern kids. You don't like the idea, do you?"
"It's not that," Kevin said. "But I never really thought about the Belt. It's not what I had in mind for myself—I'm sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry about. It's an alien way of life. For you. Me, I wish I was young enough to go. Enough of that. Kevin, I'll think about your problem. Maybe we can come up with something. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to prepare for my next class."
"Yes, sir. Thank you."
"Nothing to thank me for. I wish I could have been some help. Nice seeing you. Drop in again—I mean that. Come see me again in a couple of days. Maybe I'll have thought of something."
"Thank you. I will." But you probably won't have thought of anything, Kevin thought as he left the office.
Alfred Farrington continued to stare at the computer screen. He took out a thin black notebook and copied some of the data into it, then frowned and opened another file, selected a name, and touched keys. The telephone beeped and rang twice.
"Yeah?" The phone showed a fat man about Farrington's age.
"Alf. How are you, Ben?"
"Fine, except for recruiting—"
"Yes. I thought I had you a good prospect, but he may not work out. Then again, he may."
"Something special about this one?"
"Good prospect. No family ties, nobody's going to worry about him, nothing here for him to spend money on. Engineering student. And a pretty good one compared to the lot we get now."
"Umm. The ship's leaving pretty soon. Think you can get him aboard? We're short on engineering talent. I've been thinking maybe we ought to ask Paul to send out a couple of the Order—"
"Possibly. I hope it doesn't come to that. I doubt if he'd do it," Farrington said. "We've few enough in the Fellowship. Better to hire some talent—"
"If we can. One way or another we've got to get moving now, or the whole thing's going to come apart. How good is this prospect?"
"Potentially quite good. And no family. No one will worry about where he's gone or when he's coming back. Or not coming back."
"Good."
"Of course his motivation's all wrong," Farrington said thoughtfully.
"To hell with motivation," Ben said. "Get him aboard. We'll motivate him. And if we can't, well, we can still get some use out of him."
"Yes. Well, I'll send you his records. If you like him, let me know. There may be more pressures I can put on him. Now what about those others I sent over?"
They talked for a long time.
The new locks to Kevin's room hadn't been disturbed. The door hadn't been opened. It hadn't had to be.
Kevin's black tomcat was nailed to the door. The cat mewed piteously. Kevin gulped hard and examined the wounds. He knew what had to be done, and after a moment he did it. Then he sat on the floor with tears streaming from his eyes.
After a while he heard steps behind him. Sergeant Mason came into the upstairs hallway.
"Your landlady called," the policeman said. "The deskman passed it on to me." He looked at the still body nailed to the door. "You got your keys?"
"Yes—"
"Go inside. Carefully. Here, let me open that. You get back over there." Mason used the keys, stood back and kicked the door open. The room hadn't been disturbed. "I'd say it's all right." Mason said. "They don't usually do anything final after a warning like—like that. Not for a couple of days. Go get your face cleaned up, son. Go on, get."
Kevin went to the washroom. When he came back the body was gone. Sergeant Mason was sponging off the dark spots on the door.
"That's not evidence either, I suppose," Kevin said. His voice held bitterness.
"Evidence? Sure it's evidence. Of childish pranks. Cruel, of course, but deprived children often express aggression in cruelty. It's relatively harmless. We must weigh the importance of human life against that of an animal, and of course there can be only one decision—look, kid, I'm not saying what I believe, I'm just quoting."
"Children! They're no better than animals! Bad animals."
"Sure. You know that. I know it. But make the DA and the judges believe it—look, son, the judges are picked by the lawyers, and the lawyers get paid by the government to defend these deprived kids. The lawyers all live in closed communities with rent-a-cops. So do the news-critters. Nobody kills their pets. It's the way things are. You just get your degree and get out of LA, go find a good job and live in a company town with company cops around, and you can forget all this—"
The policeman's face went hard. "Look, I don't like it either. I can give you some protection, but we've only got so many police. And the Garvey Street Crips are never going to forget that you killed one of theirs. They'll remember a long time. A long time, Kevin."
"But this is insane!" Kevin sat on the couch and looked at the familiar books—stained and damaged now—on all the walls. The world no longer made any sense. "You're telling me this gang is more powerful than the government!"
Mason shrugged. "Maybe. What do you want us to do? Go lean on those kids? Rig up evidence? Senecal, I've got nineteen years in. I can retire in another year. You got any idea what happens to cops who bend the rules that way? The Public Defender and the Civil Liberties Union and all the others would have my head on a platter! Sure, there's lots of us would like t
o get those scumbags off the streets any way we can. But we've learned better, Senecal. They got Lieutenant Mogowa for tampering with evidence and they sent him to prison. He lived about a week. Not me, son. Not me. I got a wife and three kids—and none of 'em cops either."
"So you'll wait until they kill me—"
"And then maybe I can nail 'em for it. And if I do they'll be on the streets in a year. Yeah. That's the way it is, Senecal. Got any more beer?"
"Yes, but you'll have to excuse me. I've got to go make a telephone call. Maybe I can catch Dr. Farrington in his office."
Chapter Four
Kevin had never seen so many forms and tests. There were dozens of them, and they asked him for information that no sane person would know. Finally he threw down his pencil. "This is ridiculous!" he shouted.
Exile-and Glory Page 28
