“I guess every Literate has his price,” Chester Pelton said. “I wonder how much of my money that cost. I always wondered why Frank Cardon sponsored Mongery. Now I know. Mongery can be had.”
“Uh, beg your pardon, Mr. Pelton,” a voice from the hall broke in.
He turned. Olaf Olafsson, the ’copter driver, was standing at the entrance to the breakfast nook, a smudge of oil on his cheek and his straw-colored hair in disorder. “How do I go about startin’ this new ’copter?”
“What?” Olaf had been his driver for ten years. He would have been less surprised had the ceiling fallen in. “You don’t know how to start it?”
“No, sir. The controls is all different from on the summer model. Every time I try to raise it, it backs up; if I try to raise it much more, we won’t have no wall left on the landing stage.”
“Well, isn’t there a book?”
“There ain’t no pictures in it; nothing but print. It’s a Literate book,” Olaf said in disgust, as though at something obscene. “An’ there ain’t nothin’ on the instrument board but letters.”
“That’s right,” Ray agreed. “I saw the book; no pictures in it at all.”
“Well, of all the quarter-witted stupidity! The confounded imbeciles at that agency—”
Pelton started to his feet. Claire unlocked the table and slid it out of his way. Ray, on a run, started for the lift and vanished.
“I think some confounded Literate at the Rolls-Cadipac agency did that,” he fumed. “Thought it would be a joke to send me a Literate instruction book along with a ’copter with a Literate instrument board. Ah, I get it! So I’d have to call in a Literate to show me how to start my own ’copter, and by noon they’d be laughing about it in every bar from Pittsburgh to Plattsburg. Sneaky Literate trick!” They went to the lift, and found the door closed in their faces. “Oh, confound that boy!”
Claire pressed the button. Ray must have left the lift, for the operating light went on, and in a moment the door opened. He crowded into the lift, along with his daughter and Olaf.
On the landing stage, Ray was already in the ’copter, poking at buttons on the board.
“Look, Olaf!” he called. “They just shifted them around a little from the summer model. This one, where the prop-control used to be on the old model, is the one that backs it up on the ground. Here’s the one that erects and extends the prop,”—he pushed it, and the prop snapped obediently into place—“and here’s the one that controls the lift.”
An ugly suspicion stabbed at Chester Pelton, bringing with it a feeling of frightened horror.
“How do you know?” he demanded.
Ray’s eyes remained on the instrument hoard. He pushed another button, and the propeller began swinging in a lazy circle; he pressed down with his right foot, and the ’copter lifted a foot or so.
“What?” he asked. “Oh, Jimmy showed me how theirs works. Mr. Hartnett got one like it a week ago.” He motioned to Olaf, setting the ’copter down again. “Come here; I’ll show you.”
The suspicion, and the horror passed in a wave of relief.
“You think you and Olaf, between you, can get that thing to school?” he asked.
“Sure! Easy!”
“All right. You show Olaf how to run it. Olaf, as soon as you’ve dropped Ray at school, take that thing to the Rolls-Cadipac agency, and get a new one, with a proper instrument board, and a proper picture book of operating instructions. I’m going to call Sam Huschack up personally and give him royal hell about this. Sure you can handle it, now?”
He watched the ’copter rise to the two thousand foot local traffic level and turn in the direction of Mineola High School, fifty miles away. He was still looking anxiously after it as it dwindled to a tiny dot and vanished.
“They’ll make it all right,” Claire told him. “Olaf has a strong back, and Ray has a good head.”
“It wasn’t that that I was worried about.” He turned and looked, half ashamed, at his daughter. “You know, for a minute, there, I thought. … I thought Ray could read!”
“Father!” She was so shocked that she forgot the nickname they had given him when he had announced his candidacy for Senate, in the spring. “You didn’t!”
“I know; it’s an awful thing to think, but—Well, the kids today do the craziest things. There’s that Hartnett boy he runs around with; Tom Hartnett bought Literate training for him. And that fellow Prestonby; I don’t trust him—”
“Prestonby?” Claire asked, puzzled.
“Oh, you know. The principal at school. You’ve met him.”
Claire wrinkled her brow—just like her mother, when she was trying to remember something.
“Oh, yes. I met him at that P.T.A. meeting. He didn’t impress me as being much like a teacher, but I suppose they think anything’s good enough for us Illiterates.”
Literate First Class Ralph N. Prestonby remained standing by the lectern, looking out over the crowded auditorium, still pleasantly surprised to estimate the day’s attendance at something like ninety-seven percent of enrollment. That was really good; why, it was only three percent short of perfect! Maybe it was the new rule requiring a sound-recorded excuse for absence. Or it could have been his propaganda campaign about the benefits of education. Or, very easily, it could have been the result of sending Doug Yetsko and some of his boys around to talk to recalcitrant parents. It was good to see that that was having some effect beside an increase in the number of attempts on his life, or the flood of complaints to the Board of Education. Well, Lancedale had gotten Education merged with his Office of Communications, and Lancedale was back of him to the limit, so the complaints had died out on the empty air. And Doug Yetsko was his bodyguard, so most of the would-be assassins had died, also.
The “North American Anthem,” which had replaced the “Star-Spangled Banner” after the United
