By John Magee
Based on:
Based on From Arctic Soil, Fossils of a Goliath That Ruled the Jurassic Seas from the Tuesday, March 17, 2009, Science Times supplement of The New York Times.
---------
He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff on Cygnus Five and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish. In the first forty days a boy had been with him. But after forty days without a fish the boy’s parents had told him that the old man was now definitely and finally salao, which is the worst form of unluck, and the boy had gone at their orders in another boat which caught three good ichthyosaurs the first week. It made the boy sad to see the old man come in each day with his skiff empty and he always went down to help him carry either the coiled lines or the gaff and harpoon and the sail that was furled around the mast.
But since the boy was on a different boat, he was not eaten alive when the giant pliosaur rose from the depths and ate the old man and his skiff in a single bite. The boy’s boat was nearby. It made the boy sad to see the splintered remains that were all that left after the leviathan’s jaws close in on the old man.
After the first of the full-grown pliosaurs came to the inside current and ate the old man and his boat, the little boats of the village no longer went out beyond the edge of the harbor. The villagers ate protein cakes from food generators instead of fish. And the boy made a solemn vow to himself and to the old man.
He would one day own a bigger boat.
---------
The pliosaur attack that wiped out old Santiago and his small wooden skiff was greeted with great joy across most of Cygnus Five. This was not because Cygnus disliked old Santiago. Old Santiago was rather regarded as incidental damage and a light price to pay for the dramatic newsweb coverage of the maturation of the aquatic megafauna that the Cygnus Tourism Development Corporation had been planting in the vast oceans of Cygnus Five for decades.
The arrival of the giant pliosaurs, more than 20 meters long and 50,000 kilograms in mass, was the crowning achievement of a tourist-industry development plan that began shortly after humans had first settled Cygnus Five, a mostly oceanic planet with vast seas of primitive single-celled plankton that were no competition for the vast array of sophisticated aquatic lifeforms that humans brought with them to make Cygnus Five a habitable planet with a breathable atmosphere. While the first century or two of terraforming concentrated on creating a basic biome, the first century or two of economic development on Cygnus Five concentrated on proving that although Cygnus Five was in general a warm and pleasant planet with vast beaches that were unsurpassed in the galaxy for their combination of smooth sand and regular well-formed waves, Cygnus Five also had no economically significant reserves of energy minerals, radioactive elements, rare metals, hydrocarbons, economically productive native genetics (not that much of the original planktonic population remained after the first decade or two), or anything else that gave the capital investment branch of TerrCorp any good reason to believe that they would be able to recoup their initial investment once primary terraforming was complete.
Thus it was that the Cygnus Tourism Development Corporation, a wholly owned subsidy of TerrCorp Primary Terraforming Ltd., was born with one mission: turn this worthless sphere of planktonic soup into a planet whose very name would become a byword for beauty, adventure, relaxation, and a certain sheen of amoral degeneracy that had been proven in studies to offer a return on investment that was 22% more profitable than wholesome family fun. The first step of the plan was implanted with the importation of several tens of thousands of lobster eggs, combined with a slight loosening of Cygnus’s already lax gaming regulations. That plan reached maturity when a giant pliosaur gobbled Old Santiago and his wooden skiff on the same day that The Best Little HooterHouse on Cygnus ™ opened for business with a casino-resort complex so vast that the atoll upon which it sat began to sink into the oceans of Cygnus Five at the rate of three inches per year.
Decades after the boy watched his old friend feed the growing hunger of human tourism, he owned a boat. A much bigger boat.
(End Introduction)
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Sunday, March 15, 2009
The Richest Man in the Galaxy
By John Magee
Based on They Tried to Outsmart Wall Street by Dennis Overbye in the Science Times section of the March 10, 2009 New York Times.
------------------------------------------------
“And welcome back, viewers. We’re speaking live with Norton Aziz, one of the wealthiest men in the Galaxy and the only man to have ever achieved majority ownership in a Galactic Corporation.” Robyn Bluebird, MarketNet's most popular reporter, shook her lush blonde hair alluringly as the threevee shot changed to the subject of this week’s interview, Mr. Norton Aziz himself.
Norton Aziz looked considerably more like a high-school chemistry teacher than the Galaxy’s wealthiest man. He wore a plain blue shirt and despite the untold riches available to him, he had apparently chosen to let his hairline recede naturally. “Thank you, Robyn. I have to say that being on your show today is as big a thrill as any of my best days on the market. “
“You’re too kind. Now, let’s go back to your early years. You started your academic career as a theoretical physicist before becoming one of the early pioneers of unified quantonomics. What made you decide to change from science to business?”
“The math led me that way.” Aside from looking like a high-school chemistry teacher, Norman Aziz possessed rather less charisma than the average high-school chemistry teacher. “Also, I was working my way through school and it was a good deal easier to find support for my research from the corporate sector if I applied my research to a matter of practical importance.”
“Do you regret leaving pure science behind?” Robyn poised an inquisitive look of concern on her perfect brow.
“Not at all. I was able to help people across the galaxy by creating wealth. It’s a far nobler pursuit than the chase for meaningless hypothetical mathematical constructs.”
“You started with barely a penny to your name, didn’t you?”
“Indeed, I was simply looking for a practical way in which to test the theories of some of my colleagues, and I had a small fund of money that I had managed to save up.” In truth, Norton Aziz had started with the rather substantial fortune that had given him the financial independence to pursue a field as bereft of corporate support as theoretical physics.
“So you wanted to test your colleague’s theories, not your own?” asked Robyn.
“I was never able to perfect my own theories, you see. But I did believe that practical testing of the work of others was a worthwhile effort.” In truth, Norton Aziz was the first to perfect a unified theory of quantonomics. However, one of the first conclusions he drew from the completed theory was that it would never do to admit success if he wanted to apply his theory to the creation of personal wealth for Norton Aziz. And Norton Aziz desperately wanted to create personal wealth for Norton Aziz.
“Mr. Aziz, you first came to the public eye when you achieved majority control of Phreshtor, Inc., which at the time controlled nearly 500 star systems. How does one man achieve such power?”
“I had a pretty good day on the market, that’s for sure,” said Norton Aziz to his beautiful interviewer. In point of fact it had been one of Norton Aziz’s worst days on the market. He had never wanted to come to public light, much less as the majority owner of a Galaxy-class corporation. However, an unfortunate combination of several still-flawed subroutines in his general market A.I. had combined with an unexpected crash in several commodities markets to trigger the unanticipated cascade of financial dominoes that led him to publically assume the majority stake in Phreshtor, Inc. It had been the least costly of several bad options at the time. The subroutines dealing with the specific exotic high-leverage investment products that had created the problem had been immediately updated and corrected. But the potential liability they had created remained, and its cure had required a level of public exposure that Norton Aziz found distasteful at best.
Before consolidating the stake and making it public, Norton Aziz’s instant analysis of the future costs of that unfortunate act included even the annual wardrobe tally for the men who would have to be hired to play the role of Norton Aziz in public. The latest in that line of imposters continued the interview.
“What’s most important, though, is what I quickly came to realize. It was simply too great a concentration of my assets for the long-term benefit of my investment portfolio. And I certainly lacked the expertise to take direct control of Phreshtor. Nor would I have wanted to do such a thing. My full confidence in the management team at Phreshtor was one of the primary reasons I had chosen to invest in their stock.” Fortunately, Robyn was willing to take his word for it instead of doing the research that would reveal that most of the upper-level management of Phreshtor had been pensioned off in a matter of weeks after the public takeover. The real Norton Aziz had no intention of letting the same rabble of incompetents run the company, since their mistakes had forced his public disclosure.
“Would you ever be interested in obtaining another majority stake in a Galaxy-Class corporation?” Robyn chose this moment to gently thrust forward her galaxy-class chest in a manner that 72% of the most recent MarketNet focus group had described as “arousing.”
“No, Robyn. Since I divested the Phreshtor stake years ago, I’ve been mostly retired from finance. I like to concentrate on my philanthropic endeavors. That’s really where my passion lies these days.” The philanthropic endeavors had always been planned to give a cover of benevolence to Norton Aziz’s investment patterns. The Phreshtor disaster had simply accelerated the rate at which Norton Aziz had been forced to divert a small portion – a very small portion – of his enormous wealth into the philanthropic line. Norton Aziz being Norton Aziz, of course, he still managed to see a 238% year-over-year return on the money he had invested in his charity work. That would hardly do for real investing, but it would suffice for a line that existed only as one of his many protective shells.
The nebbish man who posed as Norton Aziz had no way of knowing that, of course. He truly believed that his job was simply to provide a public face for one of the galaxy’s great benefactors due to his sponsor’s great shyness.
“Do you think anybody will ever again own a majority stake in one of these great entities?” asked Robyn, following her question with the slightest lick of her lips.
“Oh, I doubt it. That was years and years ago and the market has become much more diversified since then. Nobody, including myself, has come close since.” The truth was that nobody other than Norton Aziz had come close. Through his various shells, Norton Aziz had already controlled a majority stake in four of the 16 major Galaxy-Class corporations at the time of the Phreshtor disaster. The real Norton Aziz currently controlled a majority stake in eleven of the sixteen. The real Norton Aziz expected that number to continue to grow.
“Is there anything else you’d like to tell our viewers?”
“Work hard. Do your best for your corporation, and everything will work out fine, as it did for me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Aziz. And now, back to you, Dennis.” Unlike her usual manufactured but extremely convincing mannerisms, the look of pure lust that Robyn gave the threevee cameras to close the interview was real and genuine. It wasn’t for Dennis. It was for the cameras. Robyn loved the cameras, and the cameras loved her.
…
In his tank in his private complex on the central galactic market planet of Dow, the real Norton Aziz monitored the interview on one of his many co-processing information channels. The real Norton Aziz hadn’t wanted to stay out of the public eye because of great shyness. The real Norton Aziz could give a fig about public perception and he would give that fig if it weren’t for those nigglesome public-perception constants, variables, and algorithms that kept appearing in so many portions of his unified quantonomics theory. The real Norton Aziz wanted to stay out of the public eye because the first step in implementing his theory to the benefit of Norton Aziz had been the conversion of his body and brain into an efficient information conduit. The technical limitations of that time required substantial physical alterations to achieve that sort of efficiency. The public-perception constants, variables, and algorithms in his unified theory of quantonomics showed his current situation to project a suboptimal public image. The real Norton Aziz, The Richest Man in the Galaxy, was imprisoned in a cyberfluid bath and tied down by nearly 200 wired inputs and tubes that fed data to the processors in his brain and kept his body alive.
Mr. Norton Aziz controlled The Wealth of the Galaxy. And The Wealth of the Galaxy controlled Mr. Norton Aziz.
Based on They Tried to Outsmart Wall Street by Dennis Overbye in the Science Times section of the March 10, 2009 New York Times.
------------------------------------------------
“And welcome back, viewers. We’re speaking live with Norton Aziz, one of the wealthiest men in the Galaxy and the only man to have ever achieved majority ownership in a Galactic Corporation.” Robyn Bluebird, MarketNet's most popular reporter, shook her lush blonde hair alluringly as the threevee shot changed to the subject of this week’s interview, Mr. Norton Aziz himself.
Norton Aziz looked considerably more like a high-school chemistry teacher than the Galaxy’s wealthiest man. He wore a plain blue shirt and despite the untold riches available to him, he had apparently chosen to let his hairline recede naturally. “Thank you, Robyn. I have to say that being on your show today is as big a thrill as any of my best days on the market. “
“You’re too kind. Now, let’s go back to your early years. You started your academic career as a theoretical physicist before becoming one of the early pioneers of unified quantonomics. What made you decide to change from science to business?”
“The math led me that way.” Aside from looking like a high-school chemistry teacher, Norman Aziz possessed rather less charisma than the average high-school chemistry teacher. “Also, I was working my way through school and it was a good deal easier to find support for my research from the corporate sector if I applied my research to a matter of practical importance.”
“Do you regret leaving pure science behind?” Robyn poised an inquisitive look of concern on her perfect brow.
“Not at all. I was able to help people across the galaxy by creating wealth. It’s a far nobler pursuit than the chase for meaningless hypothetical mathematical constructs.”
“You started with barely a penny to your name, didn’t you?”
“Indeed, I was simply looking for a practical way in which to test the theories of some of my colleagues, and I had a small fund of money that I had managed to save up.” In truth, Norton Aziz had started with the rather substantial fortune that had given him the financial independence to pursue a field as bereft of corporate support as theoretical physics.
“So you wanted to test your colleague’s theories, not your own?” asked Robyn.
“I was never able to perfect my own theories, you see. But I did believe that practical testing of the work of others was a worthwhile effort.” In truth, Norton Aziz was the first to perfect a unified theory of quantonomics. However, one of the first conclusions he drew from the completed theory was that it would never do to admit success if he wanted to apply his theory to the creation of personal wealth for Norton Aziz. And Norton Aziz desperately wanted to create personal wealth for Norton Aziz.
“Mr. Aziz, you first came to the public eye when you achieved majority control of Phreshtor, Inc., which at the time controlled nearly 500 star systems. How does one man achieve such power?”
“I had a pretty good day on the market, that’s for sure,” said Norton Aziz to his beautiful interviewer. In point of fact it had been one of Norton Aziz’s worst days on the market. He had never wanted to come to public light, much less as the majority owner of a Galaxy-class corporation. However, an unfortunate combination of several still-flawed subroutines in his general market A.I. had combined with an unexpected crash in several commodities markets to trigger the unanticipated cascade of financial dominoes that led him to publically assume the majority stake in Phreshtor, Inc. It had been the least costly of several bad options at the time. The subroutines dealing with the specific exotic high-leverage investment products that had created the problem had been immediately updated and corrected. But the potential liability they had created remained, and its cure had required a level of public exposure that Norton Aziz found distasteful at best.
Before consolidating the stake and making it public, Norton Aziz’s instant analysis of the future costs of that unfortunate act included even the annual wardrobe tally for the men who would have to be hired to play the role of Norton Aziz in public. The latest in that line of imposters continued the interview.
“What’s most important, though, is what I quickly came to realize. It was simply too great a concentration of my assets for the long-term benefit of my investment portfolio. And I certainly lacked the expertise to take direct control of Phreshtor. Nor would I have wanted to do such a thing. My full confidence in the management team at Phreshtor was one of the primary reasons I had chosen to invest in their stock.” Fortunately, Robyn was willing to take his word for it instead of doing the research that would reveal that most of the upper-level management of Phreshtor had been pensioned off in a matter of weeks after the public takeover. The real Norton Aziz had no intention of letting the same rabble of incompetents run the company, since their mistakes had forced his public disclosure.
“Would you ever be interested in obtaining another majority stake in a Galaxy-Class corporation?” Robyn chose this moment to gently thrust forward her galaxy-class chest in a manner that 72% of the most recent MarketNet focus group had described as “arousing.”
“No, Robyn. Since I divested the Phreshtor stake years ago, I’ve been mostly retired from finance. I like to concentrate on my philanthropic endeavors. That’s really where my passion lies these days.” The philanthropic endeavors had always been planned to give a cover of benevolence to Norton Aziz’s investment patterns. The Phreshtor disaster had simply accelerated the rate at which Norton Aziz had been forced to divert a small portion – a very small portion – of his enormous wealth into the philanthropic line. Norton Aziz being Norton Aziz, of course, he still managed to see a 238% year-over-year return on the money he had invested in his charity work. That would hardly do for real investing, but it would suffice for a line that existed only as one of his many protective shells.
The nebbish man who posed as Norton Aziz had no way of knowing that, of course. He truly believed that his job was simply to provide a public face for one of the galaxy’s great benefactors due to his sponsor’s great shyness.
“Do you think anybody will ever again own a majority stake in one of these great entities?” asked Robyn, following her question with the slightest lick of her lips.
“Oh, I doubt it. That was years and years ago and the market has become much more diversified since then. Nobody, including myself, has come close since.” The truth was that nobody other than Norton Aziz had come close. Through his various shells, Norton Aziz had already controlled a majority stake in four of the 16 major Galaxy-Class corporations at the time of the Phreshtor disaster. The real Norton Aziz currently controlled a majority stake in eleven of the sixteen. The real Norton Aziz expected that number to continue to grow.
“Is there anything else you’d like to tell our viewers?”
“Work hard. Do your best for your corporation, and everything will work out fine, as it did for me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Aziz. And now, back to you, Dennis.” Unlike her usual manufactured but extremely convincing mannerisms, the look of pure lust that Robyn gave the threevee cameras to close the interview was real and genuine. It wasn’t for Dennis. It was for the cameras. Robyn loved the cameras, and the cameras loved her.
…
In his tank in his private complex on the central galactic market planet of Dow, the real Norton Aziz monitored the interview on one of his many co-processing information channels. The real Norton Aziz hadn’t wanted to stay out of the public eye because of great shyness. The real Norton Aziz could give a fig about public perception and he would give that fig if it weren’t for those nigglesome public-perception constants, variables, and algorithms that kept appearing in so many portions of his unified quantonomics theory. The real Norton Aziz wanted to stay out of the public eye because the first step in implementing his theory to the benefit of Norton Aziz had been the conversion of his body and brain into an efficient information conduit. The technical limitations of that time required substantial physical alterations to achieve that sort of efficiency. The public-perception constants, variables, and algorithms in his unified theory of quantonomics showed his current situation to project a suboptimal public image. The real Norton Aziz, The Richest Man in the Galaxy, was imprisoned in a cyberfluid bath and tied down by nearly 200 wired inputs and tubes that fed data to the processors in his brain and kept his body alive.
Mr. Norton Aziz controlled The Wealth of the Galaxy. And The Wealth of the Galaxy controlled Mr. Norton Aziz.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Why Johnny Can’t Read. Or Breathe.
By John Magee
Based on Rewards for Students Under a Microscope from the Tuesday, March 3, 2009, Science Times section of The New York Times.
---------------------------------------------------------------
“I’m sorry, Mrs. McGillicuddy, but Johnny just hasn’t applied himself,” said Vice-Principal Warren with a resigned shake of his bald head. “He simply doesn’t merit inclusion in the reward payment program.”
Desperation flirted with determination in Joan McGillicuddy’s motherly brown eyes as they searched for an omen of hope amid the Vice-Principal's rather cramped and cluttered office. Beneath Joan's worn blue jumpsuit she wore an old, but well maintained pressure suit. This two-layer and slightly shabby-looking approach was common among those who lived in the colony’s dubious outlying neighborhoods where the air supply was thin at best.
Without being aware of the gesture, Joan ducked her head like a boxer and continued her attempted negotiation. “Look, he’s come a long way, hasn’t he? I mean, last year he barely knew his alphabet. Now he’s reading full sentences.”
“Oh, I won’t deny that there’s been some progress.” Vice-Principal Warren pulled he glasses off his nose, rubbed them thoughtfully with his handkerchief. “But he hasn’t kept up with the rest of his class, and we only have so many places available for advancement and reward.” He set the glasses back on his face and chuckled. “I mean, it would hardly be a bonus incentive program if the rewards just went to everybody.”
“Perhaps with some tutoring…” Joan started.
“No, I’m afraid not.” Warren sighed. Why was it that parents were always the last to realize the truth about their children’s failures? It was hard enough trying to keep a school running out here on this remote planet in the backwaters of the BludgeCo sector with all of the budget cutbacks. And yet these parents of failing children always seemed to think that there was an endless supply of largesse to be spent upon their lazy and ill-fit progeny. Perhaps a lack of motivation in the students starts with a lack of motivation in the parents, he reflected. Yes, a poor home environment was the start of troubles for so many of these youngsters.
Mind you, he didn’t like failing students. Really, he would much rather pass them all along. But there wasn’t much he could do about it. The criteria were clearly laid out in endless memos from BludgeCo Edu-Vision headquarters. All he was doing was implementing policy, not making policy. Why didn’t this frumpy woman recognize that? And on a frontier world of limited resources, his duties were clearly defined.
He determined to make it clear to her. “In truth, the boy is incorrigible. He draws pictures of butterflies and dinosaurs while the others are studying. Three times in the last month he spent his full recess running about and singing songs instead of trying to catch up with his deficient studies. Do you know how much extra oxygen is spent when students run and sing instead of studying? Good heavens, if all the students start acting that way we would hardly have enough air to make it to lunchtime.”
“But surely there must be a way we can work this out,” said Joan. “He did make progress. Perhaps if you could see your way clear to providing a percentage of the bonus, then when he catches back up next year…” she began.
“No. It’s out of the question.” Vice-Principal Warren decided it was time to wrap this up. “Now, I’ll need you to sign this form acknowledging that Johnny failed to make sufficient progress towards his goals this year.” He pushed a WriteScreen across the desk. “And the one below it in which you acknowledge that he will not receive a bonus or other reward of excellence as a result. And the final form acknowledges that you are withdrawing Johnny from this private school because his failure to produce bonus-level results has left you unable to pay the tuition.” He paused for a moment. There had been that rather uncomfortable incident several years ago when a total down-and-outer from West End had turned out to have an uncle who was an upper-level executive back on BludgeWorld who footed the full tuition for his laggardly grand-nephew. “You are unable to pay the tuition without the bonus payments, aren’t you?”
“You know that we can’t even afford Johnny’s oxygen allotment at home without the bonus payments.”
"That's unfortunate, but it's hardly this school's responsibility to pay the oxygen bills of non-students." Warren continued, "The final form states that you understand that because Johnny will no longer be attending DrudgeCo Edu-Vision classes, and because there are no alternate schools available on this planet, he will no longer be classified as a 'desirable future consumer' under The Contract and will no longer be a party to its terms."
Desperation began to win out over determination in Joan McGillicuddy’s brown eyes. She began to raise her voice, “What if I don’t sign the forms? You can’t make me sign a form that calls Johnny a failure! He’s my boy … my beautiful baby boy.”
“Failure to acknowledge the registered results of schoolwork would put you in violation of The Contract,” said Warren, his voice softening. “You have two other children – Martha and Eddie – who are still meeting their reward-program requirements. If you choose to default on your obligations, all of your dependents will be in violation of The Contract. Martha and Eddie will also become ineligible for the bonus payment program.”
Warren fixed a firm eye on Mrs. McGillicuddy, “If you’re in violation of The Contract, Martha and Eddie’s expulsion will be the least of your problems.”
Joan knew that she had no choice. Desperation and determination fled, and all that remained was resignation and sorrow. She took the stylus in her hand and shakily signed the forms as they appeared.
“Good day, Mrs. McGillicuddy,” said Warren as he pressed the button that opened his door to the anteroom outside, where Johnny waited on a seat. Joan McGillicuddy turned with slumped shoulders to take Johnny home from school the final time.
“Look, Ma,” said Johnny, holding his WriteScreen up to her in his six-year-old hands. “This is the best picture of Fred the Dinosaur I’ve made yet.”
Warren poked his head out his door. “Oh, and please leave his WriteScreen on the reception shelf. School Property, you know.”
“We’re going to leave Fred the Dinosaur here, Johnny,” said Joan. She kissed the short brown hair on top of his head, took the WriteScreen out of his hands, and set it on the shelf. “He’ll have to go to school without you now.”
“If I’m home all day, can I sing songs all day?” asked Johnny. Joan took his hand and they stepped out the door. They couldn’t afford slidewalk fare, so they began the long walk to the oxygen-poor environs of West End.
“No, Johnny,” said Joan softly. “It’s probably best if you stop singing altogether.”
Based on Rewards for Students Under a Microscope from the Tuesday, March 3, 2009, Science Times section of The New York Times.
---------------------------------------------------------------
“I’m sorry, Mrs. McGillicuddy, but Johnny just hasn’t applied himself,” said Vice-Principal Warren with a resigned shake of his bald head. “He simply doesn’t merit inclusion in the reward payment program.”
Desperation flirted with determination in Joan McGillicuddy’s motherly brown eyes as they searched for an omen of hope amid the Vice-Principal's rather cramped and cluttered office. Beneath Joan's worn blue jumpsuit she wore an old, but well maintained pressure suit. This two-layer and slightly shabby-looking approach was common among those who lived in the colony’s dubious outlying neighborhoods where the air supply was thin at best.
Without being aware of the gesture, Joan ducked her head like a boxer and continued her attempted negotiation. “Look, he’s come a long way, hasn’t he? I mean, last year he barely knew his alphabet. Now he’s reading full sentences.”
“Oh, I won’t deny that there’s been some progress.” Vice-Principal Warren pulled he glasses off his nose, rubbed them thoughtfully with his handkerchief. “But he hasn’t kept up with the rest of his class, and we only have so many places available for advancement and reward.” He set the glasses back on his face and chuckled. “I mean, it would hardly be a bonus incentive program if the rewards just went to everybody.”
“Perhaps with some tutoring…” Joan started.
“No, I’m afraid not.” Warren sighed. Why was it that parents were always the last to realize the truth about their children’s failures? It was hard enough trying to keep a school running out here on this remote planet in the backwaters of the BludgeCo sector with all of the budget cutbacks. And yet these parents of failing children always seemed to think that there was an endless supply of largesse to be spent upon their lazy and ill-fit progeny. Perhaps a lack of motivation in the students starts with a lack of motivation in the parents, he reflected. Yes, a poor home environment was the start of troubles for so many of these youngsters.
Mind you, he didn’t like failing students. Really, he would much rather pass them all along. But there wasn’t much he could do about it. The criteria were clearly laid out in endless memos from BludgeCo Edu-Vision headquarters. All he was doing was implementing policy, not making policy. Why didn’t this frumpy woman recognize that? And on a frontier world of limited resources, his duties were clearly defined.
He determined to make it clear to her. “In truth, the boy is incorrigible. He draws pictures of butterflies and dinosaurs while the others are studying. Three times in the last month he spent his full recess running about and singing songs instead of trying to catch up with his deficient studies. Do you know how much extra oxygen is spent when students run and sing instead of studying? Good heavens, if all the students start acting that way we would hardly have enough air to make it to lunchtime.”
“But surely there must be a way we can work this out,” said Joan. “He did make progress. Perhaps if you could see your way clear to providing a percentage of the bonus, then when he catches back up next year…” she began.
“No. It’s out of the question.” Vice-Principal Warren decided it was time to wrap this up. “Now, I’ll need you to sign this form acknowledging that Johnny failed to make sufficient progress towards his goals this year.” He pushed a WriteScreen across the desk. “And the one below it in which you acknowledge that he will not receive a bonus or other reward of excellence as a result. And the final form acknowledges that you are withdrawing Johnny from this private school because his failure to produce bonus-level results has left you unable to pay the tuition.” He paused for a moment. There had been that rather uncomfortable incident several years ago when a total down-and-outer from West End had turned out to have an uncle who was an upper-level executive back on BludgeWorld who footed the full tuition for his laggardly grand-nephew. “You are unable to pay the tuition without the bonus payments, aren’t you?”
“You know that we can’t even afford Johnny’s oxygen allotment at home without the bonus payments.”
"That's unfortunate, but it's hardly this school's responsibility to pay the oxygen bills of non-students." Warren continued, "The final form states that you understand that because Johnny will no longer be attending DrudgeCo Edu-Vision classes, and because there are no alternate schools available on this planet, he will no longer be classified as a 'desirable future consumer' under The Contract and will no longer be a party to its terms."
Desperation began to win out over determination in Joan McGillicuddy’s brown eyes. She began to raise her voice, “What if I don’t sign the forms? You can’t make me sign a form that calls Johnny a failure! He’s my boy … my beautiful baby boy.”
“Failure to acknowledge the registered results of schoolwork would put you in violation of The Contract,” said Warren, his voice softening. “You have two other children – Martha and Eddie – who are still meeting their reward-program requirements. If you choose to default on your obligations, all of your dependents will be in violation of The Contract. Martha and Eddie will also become ineligible for the bonus payment program.”
Warren fixed a firm eye on Mrs. McGillicuddy, “If you’re in violation of The Contract, Martha and Eddie’s expulsion will be the least of your problems.”
Joan knew that she had no choice. Desperation and determination fled, and all that remained was resignation and sorrow. She took the stylus in her hand and shakily signed the forms as they appeared.
“Good day, Mrs. McGillicuddy,” said Warren as he pressed the button that opened his door to the anteroom outside, where Johnny waited on a seat. Joan McGillicuddy turned with slumped shoulders to take Johnny home from school the final time.
“Look, Ma,” said Johnny, holding his WriteScreen up to her in his six-year-old hands. “This is the best picture of Fred the Dinosaur I’ve made yet.”
Warren poked his head out his door. “Oh, and please leave his WriteScreen on the reception shelf. School Property, you know.”
“We’re going to leave Fred the Dinosaur here, Johnny,” said Joan. She kissed the short brown hair on top of his head, took the WriteScreen out of his hands, and set it on the shelf. “He’ll have to go to school without you now.”
“If I’m home all day, can I sing songs all day?” asked Johnny. Joan took his hand and they stepped out the door. They couldn’t afford slidewalk fare, so they began the long walk to the oxygen-poor environs of West End.
“No, Johnny,” said Joan softly. “It’s probably best if you stop singing altogether.”
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