Get Off the Unicorn (13 page)

“Oh, come now, Nora,” a girl said from the back of the room, “so much of it's pretty damned dull.” But she sounded embarrassed.

“I don't agree. I think it's fascinating to watch a saner mental outlook emerge.”

“Thank you for the lecture, Miss Fenn,” Larry Asher said with a jeer.

“Thank you, indeed, Miss Fenn,” repeated a deep voice.

The entire class swiveled about, startled. In the doorway stood the substantial figure of Research Scholar Siffert. The students leapt to their feet. “Thank you, class. Remain standing, Fenn.”

She felt the hopeful aura of the class as they watched Master Siffert approaching her. She felt utterly miserable, but she held her chin up and her shoulders back. She was damned if she'd let anyone see her change state.

The Scholar closed the distance between them, with each step looming more and more forbiddingly. He isn't at all like Father, she told herself, halfheartedly. She steeled herself to look him in the eye and then realized that Master Siffert was by no means grim. His lined face was suddenly cut by an enormous grin. He seized Nora by the shoulder and turned her toward the expectant students, one arm proprietarily draped over her shoulder.

“Nora Fenn has just earned a scholarship bonus of three hundred luxury credits, and a distinctive honors scholastic credit.”

There was an astonished mass gasp. Nora closed her mouth with a snap when she realized that her jaw had dropped open. Three hundred l.c.'s? He couldn't possibly mean that! And a d.h.? What on earth had she done?

“We will dismiss the rest of you from today's auditing. I do not believe that you would be able to keep your mind on your work after Fenn's astute summation. And then, too, you will need considerable time for the essay, the length of which I leave to your judgment,” and he swept the room with the stern glance, “on the psychological trends in personal programming in the early twenty-first century. I believe that most of you have penetrated the fifty-year mark of that era. Nora Fenn,” and he gave her a paternal hug, “has spared you what I imagine would have been an unwelcome surprise at term end when this essay normally would have been announced. You are dismissed.”

The group rapidly dispersed. Nora made an attempt to follow, but the Scholar's heavy arm remained about her shoulders and to disengage herself would be improper.

When the room had cleared, the Scholar released her, gesturing toward a chair. He seated himself next to her, crossing his legs and beaming at her.

“I don't really deserve—”

“Nonsense, my girl. Not many students outsmart Siffert.” His beam took on additional radiance.

Nora felt a blush rising in her cheeks. He chuckled and patted her hand.

“No, now. You were using your mind and your heart, which all too few computer programmers do. They tend to regard people as bits to be recorded or changed, instead of thinking, emoting humans with all the frailties of the human condition.” He chuckled again. “I had rather counted, you know, on the notorious student irreverence toward the task to obscure the ultimate goal of the course.”

Nora groaned, realizing that she had undone some very careful manipulating.

“I do so enjoy the look on their faces when these young scuts have to change state to the proper polarity. There ought to be some very stimulating essays. And,” his eyes twinkled at Nora, “to have a student capable of some independent evaluation—outguessing a Research Scholar—delightful!” He beamed. “Really delightful!”

There was no question that she'd pleased him, and Nora began to relax though she still couldn't believe in her good fortune. With an alacrity at odds with his size and age, the Scholar rose and strode to the master panel that dominated the classroom. Nora heard his lift-lock slide in and then the click of rapidly depressed input keys: the almost negligible pause before print-out occurred. Master Siffert grunted and turned, leaning against the control board and eying her thoughtfully.

“Really diverting but, my dear Fenn, whatever are you doing in Computer Sciences?” He waved a printout sheet at her. “You'd be wasted on a Farm Complex. What on earth is your Complex Manager about? Not to say your Local Guidance Officer? And why have you been permitted to continue in a cross-aptitudinal course? Really, I shall have quite a deal to say to your Mentor. However could he encourage you in this gross misdirection of ability?”

“Sir, I applied for CompSci.”

“What? How's that again? CompSci with your personality index? Good heavens, no! Won't do! I'd be going against the precepts of the Educational Act to condone that!” He strode over to her. “Don't look so woebegone, my dear. Do some serious reevaluation yourself. I'd say you'd be much happier in socio-psych dynamics, for instance. Can't imagine how you've been permitted to continue almost a full academic year in the wrong field. I shall definitely have a word with your Mentor.”

“Please, sir. It's not his fault. My Complex Manager needs a good Computer Technician . . .”

“You'd be wasted on a farm, my dear Fenn. Wasted. Surely your parents have seen your real aptitudes.”

“Sir, my father is the Complex Manager and it's my wish to—”

Scholar Siffert pinned her with an astonished stare.

“Your father? Is the Complex Manager and . . . Good heavens, I thought such situations couldn't happen anymore.” Siffert blinked and regarded her with outright horror. Then his expression softened. “You appear to me to be a very level-headed young woman, Nora Fenn.”

“The situation has been difficult, sir. You see, my twin brother, Nick, opted for animal husbandry. He wasn't qualified for Academic Advancement, just Applied.” Nora knew she was expressing things badly and stammered on: “Father'd always expected that Nick would be the Computer Technician and—well, it wasn't socially harmonious to do anything else just then.”

Siffert regarded her sternly. “The situation is outrageous. Parents cannot be permitted to live vicariously through their children. Can't be permitted. You should not be in Computer Sciences. You're excused from the rest of the course.”

“I'd really like to continue . . .”

The Scholar made a rueful noise and then smiled kindly at her. “Well, it wouldn't be good for class morale for you to stay on, my dear. Besides, you've already accomplished what the course was designed to effect: an understanding of the human condition behind the bits and program status. No, my dear. Use this course time to find out where you really belong. Consult your floor psychman.” He gave her a warm, reassuring smile. “I'll register your scholastic rating and bonus. Why don't you ring up your boyfriend and sport him to a real-meal? And I warn you, I shall have a few words with your Mentor. In person.” He wheeled, his Scholar's robe billowing behind him, to the master panel, in effect dismissing her. As she left the room, she heard him typing, heard the printout chatter a rebuttal.

She couldn't believe what had happened: a fantastic credit bonus
and
a distinctive honors. Just wait until she told Con! She could feed him . . . And then she realized that she couldn't tell Con for several very good reasons: Scholar Siffert supported Connor Clarke's opinion that she shouldn't be in CompSci at all . . .

“Nora . . .”

Clas Heineman blocked her path.

She ducked, ran to the grav shaft, and entered it fast. If Con was the last person she wanted to see right now, Clas Heineman was the next to last. She whipped out of the grav shaft on the ground level and dodged through the throng in the Main Hall. She underestimated Heineman's determination to intercept her.

He caught up at the entrance, grabbed her hand and, when she wrenched free, caught at her tunic, all but ripping the student-issue clothing from her.

“Hey, I'm sorry,” he cried, dismayed. Before Nora could protest, he'd wrapped her tightly in his own cloak and bustled her onto the fast pedestrian way, speeding toward the edge of the metropolis. She couldn't struggle with her clothing in shreds and only his cloak saving her from an immodesty citation.

Shaken by the morning's events and last night's scene, Nora began to cry.

“Hey, don't get in that state, Fenn,” Clas said, concerned. “I'm not polarized. In fact, I owe you an apology. Two.” Clas Heineman grinned at her, his eyes anxious. His arm tightened reassuringly, his fingers pressing into her waist under the cloak. When he felt her bare flesh, he politely took a new hold. “I didn't mean to tear your clothes. This student issue isn't worth a discarded bit, is it? Good thing you've got three hundred lc's.”

Clas reminded her in the nicest way that people were looking at them, even if they were on the fast belt and speeding by. It wasn't good manners to publicize intimacy.

“Oh, Clas, it's so far back to the U!”

“Back to the U? For more student issue? Don't be silly, Fenn. We're transferring . . . now!”

He half lifted her to the moderate-speed belt and then, with a second warning, to the slow one. At the next shopping center, he guided her off and straight into the clothing section.

“I've always wondered what you'd look like in a decent outfit,” he said conversationally as he steered her into the shop. He gave her an appraising look. “Deep red . . . like that suit, for instance.”

“Oh, no! That's fourteen credits.” But Nora couldn't help coveting the smart tunic suit with its silver piping, the ample sleeves, and the matching garnet cape. It was made of a tightly woven durable material.

“A first-year student who has copped a dh in Siffert's course cannot appear back on campus in tatters,” Clas told her, and before she could protest, he dragged her up to the shop's computer and shoved her wrist ID disc into the slot, punching out a data request. She wasn't certain if Clas made a deliberate or an unconscious mistake in data retrieval. A credit balance was all that the shop required, but he'd punched for a credit check. The entries made a distressing picture of her economic status. There was the student bonus for her midterm and the shocking allowance of ten credits from her Complex.

“Clas, that's not fair . . .”

His eyes were thoughtful as he looked at her.

“You got a lousy Complex, girl. Well, you can tell 'em to feck off if that's all they can scrape up for a student with your ability. Why, my Complex . . . Change state! Let's get you dressed, girl.”

The attendant had appeared, prompted by the use of the computer panel. Clas erased all but the credit balance and the attendant's smile was correspondingly affable.

“If you're going to feel guilty about spending for clothes, Nora Fenn, I'll drag you to the nearest psych machine,” Clas Heineman said later as they emerged, socially apart, from the shop.

“I shouldn't have let you talk me into buying so much,” Nora said, but she smiled at him. He'd overridden her objections and, neatly reinforced by the shop attendant, who had visions of a respectable commission, talked her into buying not only the garnet-red suit but two other outfits and some pseudo-leather boots: all completely unnecessary since Nora had maintained that the one good outfit would do for social occasions, and she could, after all, do well in student issue for classes.

“A d.h. has a certain position to maintain, Nora,” Clas informed her, and told the attendant to airshoot the rest of the purchases to Nora's student quarters.

“Now, I'll do some spending,” he said, and steered her to the nearest eating house.

He didn't consult her, just punched out a high-protein lunch, definitely luxury class.

“If I asked you what you wanted you'd probably insist on ordering basic standard, and this is not the day to be basic or standard. Not after your class performance.”

That reminded Nora of the remarks she'd directed at him and, abashed, she stared down at her hands. He started to laugh.

“Nora,” he said in a wheedling tone that surprised her into looking up, “do you know the real aim of Siffert's courses?” Then, before she could speak, he shook his head. “No, not the humanistic approach to computer programming. Think again?”

Nora shook her head, too confused by the day's events to be able to think logically.

“It's to puncture the pomposity of computer programmers. You were the only one,” and Clas waggled a finger at her, “who wasn't trying to figure out what
technical
trick Siffert had up his sleeve this semester. The trick was not technical, of course, and the rest of us smart-ass d.h. and student programmers have been neatly deflated to size. By you and by Siffert. Oh, for the love of little apples, Nora Fenn, will you stop blushing? Ah, here's food. Real food! Not student pap or subbie wad.”

Nora ate with as much relish as Clas, although she was shocked at such profligate expenditure of credit on food. Clas was amusing company, too, completely unlike Connor, whose single-minded intensity when ingesting food left no time for conversation. Naturally they discussed the course and Clas urged Nora to expand on her observations. Although it seemed to Nora that she was monopolizing the conversation, Clas gave no indication that he was bored by what she had to say. It wasn't until the lights began glowing on the walkways that Nora realized how late it was.

“I've got to get back to my Dormblock. I've an assignment to research,” she said.

“Say, it is rather late. And I've work for tomorrow, too. Not to mention that essay next week.”

“Well, you've more than enough material now to get an honors grade on Siffert's essay,” Nora said as she settled her new cloak about her shoulders and smoothed the fabric with an appreciative hand. Then she noticed Clas staring at her in a guilty fashion.

“Did you think I'd—”

“Why not?” Nora was puzzled. “I was afraid you'd be furious with me for what I said in front of the class. And then you gave me this lovely treat . . .”