No one knew anyone who had failed the adulthood exam, though everyone remembered certain people who hadn’t taken it but had been called to life-service and were not heard from thereafter. Their fate, whatever it may have been, was Dominion business and nobody else’s, though family members had been known to kick up a fuss when Sonny or Honey disappeared, at least right at first. Fuss always resulted in a visit from a Dominion agent, who came to remind the family of their own oaths of citizenship, and after that, the families always settled down or pretended to. It was rumored that certain people might have been transported to Tercis, but no one knew for sure.
All this was on my mind as we turned from the cobblestone thoroughfare onto the graveled stretch of road that led to Pa Rastarong’s house, an overgrown and ramshackle dwelling standing amid a clutter of what Lady Badness called lost opportunities and ill-starred innovations: the rusted model of a grebble thresher that had worked quite well until actually tried on grebble; the remnants of an all-sense information grabber with the unfortunate penchant for grabbing everything except the item desired; and the automatic power legs for fruit pickers that had on at least two occasions lifted their wearers into near-Thairy orbits.
“Pa’s got a new invention,” I offered.
“Ah,” said Mr. Weathereye unencouragingly.
Undaunted, I continued. “He says it’ll make our fortunes, mine’n his both. It’s a kind of all-round rain deflector. If somebody wants to play ball at night, for example, or if somebody’s having a wedding or a parade…”
“They rent a rain deflector,” said Mr. Weathereye tonelessly. “Before I buy shares in it, I’d like to have one question answered. Where does the deflected rain go?”
“Pa’s working on that,” said I. “What he wants to do is just send it back up and back up, bouncing around up there, until people are finished with their party, then it can come down.”
“The result could be a deluge,” said Mr. Weathereye. “Perhaps an inundation.”
“There’s that,” admitted I, kicking the front door, which opened with a protest of moisture-swollen wood and the crack of an already split frame.
Pa Rastarong was fast asleep on the living room window seat, the only place in the room sufficiently upholstered with pillows and padding to make a comfortable resting place. Mr. Weathereye sat down on the nearest stool and waited patiently while I shook Pa awake. When he was sitting upright, bleary eyes fastened on his unexpected guest, Mr. Weathereye told him about the letter.
“They can’t do that!” spluttered Pa. “He’s the only one I’ve got here at home!”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Mr. Weathereye. “Think about it. You learned the rules in school, just as we all did, now think about it.”
Pa probably had learned the rules, but I doubt he’d thought about them since. He screwed up his face, trying to think. “Three categories of service,” he said finally. “That’s all I remember. And nothin’ was said about life-duty when I took him on!”
He glared at Mr. Weathereye, who cocked his head and said soothingly, “You’re right, of course. That’s why I came along to tell you about the letter, because it sounds so unbelievable that Naumi could have been selected. It is true, though, and if you have questions about it, you can talk to Mr. Wyncamp.”
“The teacher,” said Pa in disgust.
“He sometimes is, yes,” agreed Mr. Weathereye. “The Escort will be here on Valstat’s Day with the papers for you to sign.”
“’Nif I don’t?” Pa said, working up a semblance of mule-headedness, as he sometimes did.
“I suppose they’ll disappear you,” said Mr. Weathereye without emotion. “That’s what usually happens to people who forget the oath of citizenship.” He stood up, bowed briefly over his cane, then stumped to the front door, where I let him out.
“What do I need to do?” I asked, as I followed him down the path. “Like, pack things up? Or not?”
“Not,” said Mr. Weathereye, examining the far horizon as though something very important might happen there at any minute. “Everything you need will be provided. You may take memorabilia that will fit into a box no longer, wider, or taller than the length of your hand from tip of middle finger to wrist, not counting fingernail if it protrudes.”
The days went by all in a rush. The Escort came to the house. Mr. Weathereye and Mr. Wyncamp attended as witnesses. The Escort paid over a lump sum to Pa, to compensate for the loss of my company, and Pa signed the papers saying he’d been properly informed of the legality of the selection. He even wept a bit, surprising himself almost as much as it surprised me and Mr. Weathereye. Crying wasn’t Pa’s kind of thing at all.
The Escort had a flier waiting outside the door, and as soon as the papers were signed, I took my box and my jacket and left, leaving the two witnesses to comfort Pa. I thought Mr. Weathereye would probably comfort him in no time by investing in the rain deflector. He’d invested in the information grabber, the elevator legs, and the grebble thresher before, so it was likely he’d stay in character.
I Am Margaret/on Earth
One morning I arrived at the college to find a note saying the Provost wanted to see me. Though I had no reason whatsoever to think this boded anything but good, I confess to an attack of the frets, and I took an extra five minutes to comb my hair and put
