C. M. Kornbluth - Theory Of Rocketry.pdf - C. M. Kornbluth - widez2

THEORY OF ROCKETRY

C. M. KORNBLUTH

Mr. Edel taught six English classes that year atRichardM.NixonHigh School, and the classes averaged

seventy-five pupils each. That was four hundred and fifty boys and girls, but Mr. Edel still tried to have

the names down cold by at least the third week of the semester. As English 308 stormed into his room he

was aware that he was not succeeding, and that next year he would even stop trying, for in 1978 the

classes would average eighty-two pupils instead of seventy-five.

One seat was empty when the chime sounded; Mr. Edel was pleased to notice that he remembered

whose it was. The absent pupil was a Miss Kahn, keyed into his memory by "Kahnsti-pated," which

perhaps she was, with her small pinched features centered in a tallow acre of face. Miss Kahn slipped in

some three seconds late; Edel nodded at his intern, Mrs. Giovino, and Mrs. Giovino coursed down the

aisle to question, berate and possibly demerit Miss Kahn. Edel stood up, the Modern Revised Old

Testament already open before him.

"You're blessed," he read, "if you're excused for your wrongdoing and your sin is forgiven. You're

blessed if God knows that you're not evil and sly any more. I, King David, used to hide my sins from

God while I grew old and blustered proudly all day. But all day and all night too your hand was heavy on

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me, God ..."

It would be the flat, crystal-clear, crystal-blank M.R.O.T. all this week; next week he'd read (with more

pleasure) from the Roman Catholic Knox translation; the week after that, from the American Rabbinical

Council's crabbed version heavy with footnotes; and the week after that, back to M.R.O.T. Thrice

blessed was he this semester that there were no Moslems, Buddhists, militant atheists or miscellaneous

cultists to sit and glower through the reading or exercise their legal right to wait it out in the corridor. This

semester the classes were All-American: Protestant, Catholic, Jewish—choice of one.

"Amen," chorused the class, and they sat down; two minutes of his fifty-minute hour were gone forever.

Soft spring was outside the windows, and they were restless. Mr. Edel "projected" a little as he told

them, "This is the dreaded three-minute impromptu speech for which English Three Oh Eight is notorious,

young ladies and gentlemen. The importance of being able to speak clearly on short notice should be

obvious to everybody. You'll get nowhere in your military service if you can't give instructions and verbal

orders. You'll get less than nowhere in business if you can't convey your ideas crisply and accurately." A

happy thought struck him: great chance to implement the Spiritual-Values Directive. He added, "You may

be asked to lead in prayer or say grace on short notice." (He'd add that one to his permanent repertoire;

it was a natural.) "We are not asking the impossible. Anybody can talk interestingly, easily and naturally

for three minutes if they try. Miss Gerber, will you begin with a little talk on your career plans?"

Miss Gerber ("Grapefruit" was the mnemonic) rose coolly and driveled about the joys of motherhood

until Mrs. Giovino passed her card to Edel and called time.

"You spoke freely, Miss Gerber, but perhaps not enough to the point," said Edel. "I'm pleased, though,

that you weren't bothered by any foolish shyness. I'm sure everybody I call on will be able to talk right up

like you did." (He liked that "like" the way you like biting on a tooth that aches; he'd give them

Artificial-Grammar De-emphasis . . .) "Foster, may we hear from you on the subject of your coming

summer vacation?" He jotted down a C for the Grapefruit.

Foster ("Fireball") rose and paused an expert moment. Then in

a firm and manly voice he started with a little joke ("If I survive English Three Oh Eight . . ."), stated his

theme ("A vacation is not a time for idling and wasted opportunity"), developed it ("harvest crew during

the day for physical—my Science Search Project during the evenings for mental"), elevated it ("no excuse

for neglecting one's regular attendance at one's place of worship") and concluded with a little joke

("should be darned glad to get back to school!").

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The speech clocked2:59. It was masterly; none of the other impromptus heard that morning came close

to it.

"And," said Mr. Edel at lunch to his semi-crony Dr. Fugua, biology, "between classes I riffled through

the grade cards again and found I'd marked him F. Of course I changed it to A. The question is, why?"

"Because you'd made a mistake," said Fuqua absently. Something was on his mind, thought Edel.

"No, no. Why did I make the mistake?"

"Well, Fured, in The Psychology of Everyday—"

"Roland, please, I know all that. Assume I do. Why do I unconsciously dislike Foster? I should get

down on my knees and thank God for Foster."

Fugua shook his head and began to pay attention. "Foster?" he said. "You don't know the half of it. I'm

his faculty adviser. Quite a boy, Foster."

"To me just a name, a face, a good recitation every time. You know: seventy-five to a class. What's he

up to here at dear old Tricky Dicky?"

"Watch the funny jokes, Edel," said Fuqua, alarmed.

"Sorry. It slipped out. But Foster?"

"Well, he's taking an inhuman pre-engineering schedule. Carrying it with ease. Going out for all the

extracurricular stuff the law allows. R.O.T.C. Drill Team, Boxing Squad, Math Club, and there I had to

draw the line. He wanted on the Debating Team too. I've seen him upset just once. He came to me last

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year when the school dentist wanted to pull a bad wisdom tooth he had. He made me make the dentist

wait until he had a chance to check the dental requirements of the Air Force Academy. They allow four

extractions, so he let the dentist yank it. Fly boy. Off we go into the whatsit. He wants it bad."

"I see. Just a boy with motivation. How long since you've seen one, Roland?"

Dr. Fuqua leaned forward, his voice low and urgent. "To hell with Foster, Dave. I'm in trouble. Will you

help me?"

"Why, of course, Roland. How much do you need?" Mr. Edel was a bachelor and had found one of the

minor joys of that state to be "tiding over" his familied friends.

"Not that kind of trouble, Dave. Not yet. They're sharpening the ax for me. I get a hearing this

afternoon."

"Good God! What are you supposed to have done?"

"Everything. Nothing. It's one of those 'best interests' things. Am I taking the Spiritual-Values Directive

seriously enough? Am I thinking about patting any adolescent fannies? Exactly why am I in the lowest

quarter for my seniority group with respect to voluntary hours of refresher summer courses? Am I happy

here?"

Edel said, "These things always start somewhere. Who's out to get you?"

Fuqua took a deep breath and said in a surprisingly small voice, "Me, I suppose."

"Oh?"

Then it came out with a rush. "It was the semester psycho-metrics. I'd been up all night almost, righting

with Beth. She does not understand how to handle a fifteen-year-old boy—never mind. I felt sardonic,

so I did something sardonic. And stupid. Don't ever get to feeling sardonic, Dave. I took the

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psychometric and I checked their little boxes and I told the goddamned truth right down the line. I

checked them where I felt like checking them and not where a prudent biology teacher ought to check

them."

"You're dead," Mr. Edel said after a pause.

"I thought I could get a bunch of the teachers to say they lie their way through the psychometrics. Start a

real stink."

"I'd make a poor ditch digger, Roland, but—if you can get nine others, I'll speak up. No, make that six

others. I don't think they could ignore eight of us."

"You're a good man," Dr. Fuqua said. "I'll let you know. There's old McGivern—near retirement. I want

to try him." He gulped his coffee and headed across the cafeteria.

Edel sat there, mildly thunderstruck at Fuqua's folly and his

own daring. Fuqua had told them the kind of bird he was by checking "Yes" or "No" on the silly-clever

statements. He had told them that he liked a drink, that he thought most people were stupider than he,

that he talked without thinking first, that he ate too much, that he was lazy, that he had an eye for a pretty

ankle —that he was a human being not much better or worse than any other human being. But that wasn't

the way to do it, and damned well Fuqua had known it. You simply told yourself firmly, for the duration

of the test, "/ am a yuk. I have never had an independent thought in my life; independent thinking scares

me. I am utterly monogamous and heterosexual. I go bowling with the boys. Television is the greatest of

the art forms. I believe in installment purchasing. I am a yuk."

That these parlor games were taken seriously by some people was an inexplicable but inexorable fact of

life in the twentieth century. Edel had yukked his way through scholarships, college admissions, faculty

appointment and promotions and had never thought the examination worse than a bad cold. Before

maturity set in, in the frat house, they had eased his qualms about psychometric testing with the ancient

gag "You ain't a man until you've had it three times."

Brave of him, pretty brave at that, to back up Fuqua—if Roland could find six others.

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