Examination Day
The Jordans never spoke of the exam, not until their son, Dickie, was twelve years old. It was on his birthday that Mrs Jordan first mentioned the subject in his presence, and the anxious manner of her speech caused her husband to answer sharply, "forget about it," he said, "He'll do all right".
They were at the breakfast table, and the boy looked up from his plate curiously. He was an alert-eyed youngster, with flat blond hair and a quick nervous manner. He didn't understand what the sudden tension was about, but he did know that today was his birthday, and he wanted harmony above all.
Somewhere in the little appartment there were wrapped, beribboned packages waiting to be opened, and in the tiny wall kitchen, something warm and sweet was being prepared in the hyper-thermic oven. He wanted the day to be happy, and the moistness in his mother's eyes, and the scowl on his fathers face, spoiled the mood of the fluttering expectations with which he had greeted the morning. "What exam?" he asked.
His mother looked at the tablecloth. "It's just a sort of Imperial intelligence test they give children at the age of twelve. You'll be getting it next week. It's nothing to worry about."
"You mean a test like in school?"
"Something like that," his father said, getting up from the table, "go and read your imperial source pad, Dickie. They have those great new tie-interceptors on view today." The boy rose and wandered to the part of the living space which had been designated "his" from infancy. He flicked through the spaceship projections, but seemed uninterested in the manoeuvre-able spacecrafts.
He wandered towards the window and peered gloomily at the veil of mist which shrouded the monofilament glass. "Why did it have to rain this cycle?" he said. "Why couldn't it have rained last cycle?"
His father, now slumped into an armchair with the obligatory Imperial newspad, tapped through the pages in vexation. "Because it just did, that's all. Rain makes Tion grass grow here on Raltir."
"Why, Dad?"
"Because it does, that's all."
Dickie puckered his brow. "What makes it white, though? The tion grass?"
"Nobody Knows," his father snapped, then immediately regretted his abruptness.
Later in the day, it was birthday time again. His mother beamed as she handed over the brightly coloured packages, and even his father managed a grin and a rumple-of-the-hair. He kissed his mother and shook hands gravely with his father. Then the birthday cake was brought forth, and the ceremonies concluded. An hour later, seated by the window, he watched a sun force its way between the clouds. "Dad," he said, "how far away are the suns?"
"Five thousand parsec’s," his father replied.
Dickie sat at the breakfast table and again saw moisture in his mother's eyes. He didn't connect his tears with the exam until his father suddenly brought the subject to light again. "Well, Dickie," he said, with a manly frown, "you've got an appointment today".
"I know, Dad. I hope...."
"Now, it's nothing to worry about. Thousands of children take this test every day. The imperial senate wants to know how smart you are, Dickie.That's all there is to it".
"I get good marks in school," he said hesitantly.
"This is different. This is a… special kind of test. They give you this stuff to drink, you see, and then you go into a room where there's a sort of machine…"
"What stuff to drink?" Dickie asked.
"It's nothing. It tastes like Atzerrian Meek juice. It's just to make sure that you answer the questions truthfully. Not that the senate thinks you won't tell the truth, but this stuff makes sure."
Dickie's face showed puzzlement, and a touch of fright. He looked at his mother, and she composed her face into a misty smile. "Everything will be alright," she said.
"Of course it will," his father agreed. "You're a good boy, Dickie, you'll make out fine. Then we'll come home and celebrate. All right?"
"Yes, sir," Dickie said.
They entered the Imperial Educational Building fifteen minutes before the appointed hour. They crossed the marble floor of the great pillared lobby, passed beneath an archway and entered an automatic elevator that brought them to the fourth floor. There was a young man wearing Imperial insignia, seated at a polished desk in front of room 404. He held a data pad in his hand, and he checked the list down to the J's and permitted the Jordans to enter.
The room was as cold and official as the new judgement rooms, with long benches flanking metal-tables. There were several fathers and sons already there, and a thin-lipped woman with cropped black hair was passing out data pads.
Mr Jordan filled out the form, and returned it to the clerk. Then he told Dickie: "It won't be long now. When they call your name, you just go through the doorway at the end of the room." He indicated the portal with his finger. A concealed loudspeaker crackled and called of the first name. Dickie saw a boy leave his father's side reluctantly and walk slowly towards the door.
At five minutes of eleven, they called the name of Jordan. "Good luck, son," his father said, without looking at him. "I'll call for you when the test is over." Dickie walked to the door. When it slid open, he entered. The room inside was dim, and he could barely make out the features of the gray-tunicked attendant who greeted him.
"Sit down," the man said. He indicated a high stool beside his desk. "Your name's Richard Jordan?"
"Yes, sir."
"Your classification number is 600-115. Drink this, Richard." He lifted a hydro mug from the desk and handed it to the boy. The liquid inside had the consistency of Kaduu milk, tasted only vaguely of the promised Atzerrian Meek juice. Dickie downed it, and handed the man the empty mug.
He sat in silence, feeling drowsey, while the man typed busily at a computer terminal. Then the attendant, noting the time, rose to stand only inches from Dickie's face. He unclipped a pen-like object from the pocket of his tunic, and flashed a tiny light into the boy's eyes. "All right," he said, "Come with me."
He led Dickie to the end of the room, where a single carbon armchair faced a glistening white, assessment and calculation computing machine. There was a microphone on the left of the chair, and when the boy sat down, he found its pinpoint head conveniently at his mouth.
"You will be asked some questions, and you think them over very carefully. Then give your answer into the microphone. The machine will take care of the rest."
"Yes, sir."
"I will leave now. Whenever you want to start, just say 'ready' into the microphone."
"Yes, sir."
The man pressed a few buttons on the machine and then left.
Dickie spoke, he said - "Ready."
Lights appeared on the machine, and a mechanism whirred. A voice said: "Complete this sequence. One, four, seven, ten..."
Mr and Mrs Jordan were in the living area, not speaking, not even speculating. It was almost four o'clock when the comm-link beeped. The woman tried to reach it first, but her husband was quicker.
"Mr Jordan?", the voice was clipped: a brisk official voice.
"Yes, speaking."
"This is the Imperial Educational Service. Your son Richard M Jordan, Classification 600-115, has completed the mandatory examination. We regret to inform you that his intelligence quotient has exceeded the Imperial regulation, according to Rule 84, Section 5, of the New Code."
Across the room, the woman cried out, knowing nothing except the emotion she read on her husband's face.
"You may specify by comm-line," the voice droned on, "whether you wish his body interred by the local Imperial administration government or if you would prefer a private burial? The fee for the Imperial burial option is 50 credits."
Michael Petch
