“We had classes,” continued the old man. “I still meet with my graduating class every other year. We used to do it every five years, but we’re getting older, you know. No guarantee that we’ll all make jumps that big.” He laughed to himself. “Loved my teachers too. Not all of them, of course, but most of them. Overall, they did me good. Got some good grades. Got me my diploma.”
No grades any more, thought William, only descriptors of progress. No diplomas, only knowledge and performance profiles that changed from day to day. No classes, as in “The Class of 2045.” A student never graduated. “We’re life long learners now,” said William. This is the “party” line, he thought, and he couldn’t say it with any enthusiasm. His own “class,” all six hundred plus of them, ranged from eight years old to seventy-nine. Except for special occasions, like today’s field trip, they had no reason to meet each other, and very few of them had. Central Education matched students with teachers based on teaching and learning styles, so that his students were spread all over the globe.
The old man pointed at the DT. “Of course, with those you know a lot more about your students. I could hide out in the back of my class. Could pass notes, you know. Wasn’t a very efficient system, I guess.”
“Yes, I guess not,” said William, tapping the DT’s cover. “I’ve got all the information…” He paused. They crossed the state line into Utah. “… But I don’t know any of them.”
The old man sighed and sat back in his chair. William didn’t understand why he’d said that. Leslie’s retirement, he decided, had thrown him off stride.
“Well,” said the old man, “teaching’s still a tough job.”
After a while, the man went to sleep. William pulled a privacy shield down from the ceiling, cutting off sight and most of the sound from the shuttle, and called v-Bill. The work area shimmered for a second, then his own features focussed in the DT on his lap.
“Hi, William,” v-Bill said. He signaled to somebody off screen. William suspected that the v-Bill was married. V-Bill never said anything, but the gardenias on his desk that William would never have on his own, or the sense that he was interrupting a conversation to talk to William, hinted to some presence in the house other than v-Bill. William guessed that the DT added these touches to make the v-teacher seem happier and more content than William felt.
“How’s everything?” said v-Bill. “Been working hard?”
William didn’t answer, but studied his electronic double for a moment. His hair line had receded over the years, drawing a line higher and higher on his forehead. Not bald really. Definitely aged though. In v-Bill’s eyes, William could still see his own youth, a kind of sparkle, a liveliness as v-Bill waited for William to speak, as if v-Bill was expecting William to get a joke they shared, to join him in laughter. William wondered if he still looked like that, or if the face on the DT was totally counterfeit, false not only in content, but appearance too.
William said, “You’re not real, you know.”
“Oh,” said v-Bill, sounding disappointed. “So you’re in that state of mind again, huh?”
“If you were real, you wouldn’t always be so damn self confident.”
V-Bill leaned back in his chair and made a steeple of his hands in the middle of his chest, a gesture that William lately had felt looked patronizing, so he’d quit doing it. The DT hadn’t picked up the change in his behavior yet, but it wouldn’t be long before v-Bill quit doing it too.
“I have bad days just like anyone else,” said v-Bill. “We could talk about it if you’d like.” He appeared concerned, as if William’s aggressiveness puzzled and hurt him. What was weird, William realized, was that even though he knew that v-Bill was only a construct, a brilliantly concocted amalgam of his own personality, mannerisms and DT augmented expertise, he found he almost wanted to tell him what was wrong: that he wasn’t positive that he should be a teacher anymore, or if he had ever been a teacher. He caught himself feeling sorry he’d been rude.
Suddenly angry, and unsure of why he’d called him in the first place, William said, “I’m not in the mood for this kind of self gratification.” He cut the connection. Instantly his earphone squeaked and a warning flag flashed in the corner of the work area. William tapped it, and the DT reported his own interaction with v-Bill as problematic and needing his personal attention. William smiled. The DT couldn’t handle his conferences with himself, which was probably why Central Education frowned on teachers communicating with their alter egos.
The shuttle lurched, and William raised the privacy shield. They had entered the park and had begun the long, winding climb to the visitor’s center on the rim of a canyon.
Naturally, all his students recognized him when he met them in the main lobby. They gathered around, DTs tucked under their arms or in backpacks, to shake his hand.
“William, at last, we meet face to face,” one said. William’s earphone whispered the student’s name and a personal fact that he could use to establish rapport, and William greeted him as if they were old friends, which, as far as the student was concerned, they were. As the rest made their hellos, the earphone prompted him continuously. All the time he shook hands, though, commenting about each student’s progress or asking about their hobbies, William scanned the crowd looking for Jonas Wynn. Hundreds of people filled the lobby: his own class and others, but also what looked like a couple of retirement groups, families and foreign tourists, all waiting patiently for their chance to walk one of the many guided trips into the canyon. The logistics of running a national park must be staggering, thought William. But he didn’t see his reluctant learner.
Finally, just as the visitor center dispatching officer announced his class’ departure gate, William spotted Jonas. Smaller than his picture implied, and much, much more frail, the boy moved uncertainly toward their gate, making labored progress as he squeezed between other people in his way.
“Over here, Jonas,” William shouted. The boy scanned the crowd blankly for a second, then his eyes settled on William. Some emotion flickered across Jonas’ face, an unreadable grimace. He pushed past the last intervening groups to join the class just as their gate whooshed open and the visitor center tour program started in their earphones.
William turned and followed his class out the door under the “STAY ON THE TRAIL” sign. He’d done this tour several times before, so he knew that they had to move rather smartly to keep up with the park’s description of where they were. He wouldn’t speak to them as a group until the first “meditation” rest a half mile farther along the canyon rim, just before the trail wound down into the canyon itself.
The sudden brightness of the noon sun made him blink away tears as he walked on the cement path. He wiped his eyes. To their left, a sandstone talus slope spotted with juniper, rose to the road they’d arrived on. Beyond that, a pale bluff of soft-curved rock marked the horizon. To their right, on the other side of a guard rail, the canyon, a thousand feet deep and a mile wide gaped invitingly. A pair of canyon swifts swooped in the updrafts. A bird called, a lovely trill of notes that died hauntingly away on the last tone, but he couldn’t tell if it were virtual through his earphone or if a real bird had made it.
Jonas walked just in front of him, his thin shoulders tightly bunched under his shirt. His glance darted to each side, as if he were afraid someone would catch him looking, and twice he turned back over his shoulder and caught William’s eyes.