Trevelyan put his hands in his pockets and said, “My father isn’t worried.”

Trevelyan, Senior, had been a Metallurgist on Diporia for nearly seven years, which gave him a superior social status in his neighborhood even though he had retired and returned to Earth.

Earth discouraged these re-immigrants because of population problems, but a small trickle did return. For one thing the cost of living was lower on Earth, and what was a trifling annuity on Diporia, say, was a comfortable income on Earth. Besides, there were always men who found more satisfaction in displaying their success before the friends and scenes of their childhood than before all the rest of the Universe besides.

Trevelyan, Senior, further explained that if he stayed on Diporia, so would his children, and Diporia was a one-spaceship world. Back on Earth, his kids could end anywhere, even Novia.

Stubby Trevelyan had picked up that item early. Even before Reading Day, his conversation was based on the carelessly assumed fact that his ultimate home would be in Novia.

George, oppressed by thoughts of the other’s future greatness and his own small-time contrast, was driven to belligerent defense at once.

“My father isn’t worried either. He just wants to hear me read because he knows I’ll be good. I suppose your father would just as soon not hear you because he knows you’ll be all wrong.”

“I will not be all wrong. Reading is nothing. On Novia, I’ll hire people to read to me.”

“Because you won’t be able to read yourself, on account of you’re dumb!”

“Then how come I’ll be on Novia?”

And George, driven, made the great denial, “Who says you’ll be on Novia? Bet you don’t go anywhere.”

Stubby Trevelyan reddened. “I won’t be a Pipe Fitter like your old man.”

“Take that back, you dumbhead.”

“You take that back.”

They stood nose to nose, not wanting to fight but relieved at having something familiar to do in this strange place. Furthermore, now that George had curled his hands into fists and lifted them before his face, the problem of what to do with his hands was, at least temporarily, solved. Other children gathered round excitedly.

But then it all ended when a woman’s voice sounded loudly over the public address system. There was instant silence everywhere. George dropped his fists and forgot Trevelyan.

“Children,” said the voice, “we are going to call out your names. As each child is called, he or she is to go to one of the men waiting along the side walls. Do you see them? They are wearing red uniforms so they will be easy to find. The girls will go to the right. The boys will go to the left. Now look about and see which man in red is nearest to you—”

George found his man at a glance and waited for his name to be called off. He had not been introduced before this to the sophistications of the alphabet, and the length of time it took to reach his own name grew disturbing.

The crowd of children thinned; little rivulets made their way to each of the red-clad guides.

When the name “George Platen” was finally called, his sense of relief was exceeded only by the feeling of pure gladness at the fact that Stubby Trevelyan still stood in his place, uncalled.

George shouted back over his shoulder as he left, “Yay, Stubby, maybe they don’t want you.”

That moment of gaiety quickly left. He was herded into a line and directed down corridors in the company of strange children. They all looked at one another, large-eyed and concerned, but beyond a snuffling, “Quitcher pushing” and “Hey, watch out” there was no conversation. They were handed little slips of paper which they were told must remain with them. George stared at his curiously. Little black marks of different shapes. He knew it to be printing but how could anyone make words out of it? He couldn’t imagine.

He was told to strip; he and four other boys who were all that now remained together. All the new clothes came shucking off and four eight-year-olds stood naked and small, shivering more out of embarrassment than cold. Medical technicians came past, probing them, testing them with odd instruments, pricking them for blood. Each took the little cards and made additional marks on them with little black rods that produced the marks, all neatly lined up, with great speed. George stared at the new marks, but they were no more comprehensible than the old. The children were ordered back into their clothes.

They sat on separate little chairs then and waited again. Names were called again and “George Platen” came third.

He moved into a large room, filled with frightening instruments with knobs and glassy panels in front. There was a desk in the very center, and behind it a man sat, his eyes on the papers piled before him.

He said, “George Platen?”

“Yes, sir,” said George, in a shaky whisper. All this waiting and all this going here and there was making himnervous. He wished it were over.

The man behind the desk said, “I am Dr. Lloyd, George. How are you?”

The doctor didn’t look up as he spoke. It was as though he had said those words over and over again and didn’t have to look up any more.

“I’m all right.”

“Are you afraid, George?”

“N—no, sir,” said George, sounding afraid even in his own ears.

“That’s good,” said the doctor, “because there’s nothing to be afraid of, you know. Let’s see, George. It says here on your card that your father is named Peter and that he’s a Registered Pipe Fitter and your mother is named Amy and is a Registered Home Technician. Is that right?”

“Y—yes, sir.”

“And your birthday is February 13, and you had an ear infection about a year ago. Right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know how I know all these things?”

“It’s on the card, I think, sir.”

“That’s right.” The doctor looked up at George for the first time and smiled. He showed even teeth and looked much younger than George’s father. Some of George’s nervousness vanished.

The doctor passed the card to George. “Do you know what all those things there mean, George?”

Although George knew he did not he was startled by the sudden request into looking at the card as though he might understand now through some sudden stroke of fate. But they were just marks as before and he passed the card back. “No, sir.”

“Why not?”

George felt a sudden pang of suspicion concerning the sanity of this doctor. Didn’t he know why not?

George said, “I can’t read, sir.”

“Would you like to read?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why, George?”

George stared, appalled. No one had ever asked him that. He had no answer. He said falteringly, “I don’t know, sir.”

“Printed information will direct you all through your life. There is so much you’ll have to know even after Education Day. Cards like this one will tell you. Books will tell you. Television screens will tell you. Printing will tell you such useful things and such interesting things that not being able to read would be as bad as not being able to see. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you afraid, George?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Now I’ll tell you exactly what we’ll do first. I’m going to put these wires on your forehead just over the corners of your eyes. They’ll stick there but they won’t hurt at all. Then, I’ll turn on something that will make a buzz. It will sound funny and it may tickle you, but it won’t hurt. Now if it does hurt, you tell me, and I’ll turn it off right away, but it won’t hurt. All right?”

George nodded and swallowed.

“Are you ready?”

George nodded. He closed his eyes while the doctor busied himself. His parents had explained this to him. They, too, had said it wouldn’t hurt, but then there were always the older children. There were the ten- and twelve-year-olds who howled after the eight-year-olds waiting for Reading Day, “Watch out for the needle.” There were the others who took you off in confidence and said, “They got to cut your head open. They use a sharp knife that big with a hook on it,” and so on into horrifying details.