I am not a builder, I thought. I am not a tinkerer. It was a moment of pure, unheralded revelation.
When Jimmy was done, Mr. Mbele said, “Let’s have a discussion. What comments occur to you? Mia?”
“All right,” I said. I turned to Jimmy. “Why do you want to be an ordinologist?”
He shrugged. “Why do you want to be a synthesist?”
I shook my head. “I’m serious. I want an answer.”
“I don’t see the point. What does this have to do with ethics or what we’ve just said?”
“Nothing to do with ethics,” I said. “It has a lot to do with your paper. You didn’t listen to yourself.”
“Do you mind explaining yourself a little more fully?” Mr. Mbele said. “I’m not sure I follow you.”
“After a while,” I said, “I wasn’t listening to Jimmy’s points. I got thinking about what sort of paper he had put together and about what sort of paper I’d put together. We had our own choice. It just struck me that if Jimmy really wanted to be an ordinologist, he would have written a paper like mine, a critical paper. And if I were really cut out to be a synthesist, I would have written a paper like Jimmy’s, a creative paper. But neither of us did.”
“I see,” Mr. Mbele said. “As a matter of fact, I think you’re right.”
Jimmy said, “But I want to be an ordinologist.”
“That’s just because of your grandfather,” I said.
Mr. Mbele agreed with me almost immediately, but Jimmy had had his aims too long set on ordinology to change his mind easily. It took some time before the sense of it got through to him, but then he doesn’t have a critical mind, and that, of course, was the point. I just made it clear that I now intended to be an ordinologist, and Mr. Mbele accepted that. It was easier for me to change, because when I had thought of the future, I had thought of synthesis, but with parentheses and a question mark after. This change of direction was right for me, and now when I thought of ordinology there was no question of any kind in my mind, particularly when Mr. Mbele told me that I had the equipment to make a success at it.
And after Jimmy got used to the idea, he finally changed his direction, too. Because, after all, he was creative.
I said, “You’re the one who is always thinking up crazy things for us to do. I’m the one who should be thinking why they won’t work.”
“All right,” Jimmy said. “You be the ordinologist and I’ll be the synthesist.”
I kissed his cheek. “Good. Then we can still be partners.”
My change in direction may have been part of growing up. Nearly everything was, or so it seemed these days. I certainly didn’t lack for signs of change. One came while Helen Pak and I were down in the Ship’s Store looking for clothes.
There is a constant problem of stimulation in living in the Ship — if life were too easy, we would all become vegetables. The response has been to make some things more difficult than they might be. This means that shopping is something you do in person and not by vid.
Helen and I were in the Ship’s Store not because our clothes had worn out, but because we’d outgrown them. I’d been growing steadily for the last year, but I hadn’t caught up with anybody because they had all been growing, too. I was now having to wear a bra, which was something new and uncomfortable, and my taste in clothes had developed beyond light shirts, shorts, and sandals. That was partly Helen’s doing. She had a good eye for clothes and she insisted I make more of myself than I had been.
“You’re pretty enough,” she said, “but who’s going to know it the way you dress?”
For myself, I didn’t care — I would just as soon have lived naturally — and I had no great desire to overwhelm the world. However, there were a few people I wanted to be attractive to, so I put myself in Helen’s hands, and by God I did come out looking better. Among other things, she got me to wearing pink, which went well with my black hair, and which I wouldn’t have chosen myself. It all came as a pleasant surprise.
Helen said, “It’s a matter of emphasizing your best points.” She was quite modest about it, but she had reason to be proud. Even Daddy noticed, and Jimmy did, too. No compliments, of course, from Jimmy, though I did get them from Daddy.
We were down in the Ship’s Store picking things out, trying them on, piling things up, giggling, rejecting, posing, approving and disapproving. I even found something for Helen that she looked good in — that blonde hair and those oriental eyes. She generally knows what looks good on her — it was pleasant to find something for her that she liked.
We were thumbing through racks when I saw somebody I knew and I said, “Just a second.” I waved.
It was Zena Andrus, who wasn’t quite as plump as she once had been. She was looking quite excited and apparently trying to find someone. She saw me wave and she came over.
“Hi, Mia,” she said. “Have you seen my mother?”
“No,” I said. “Is something the matter?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “It’s nothing bad. I just got my notice. I start Survival Class next week.”
“Oh, that’s fine,” I said.
After she’d gone off after her mother again, Helen and I looked at each other. Time does pass. It was only yesterday.
13
The culmination of Survival Class came when we were Class One and went on a tiger hunt on the Third Level. It, like so much else, was designed to give us confidence in ourselves. There is nothing like hunting a tiger almost bare-handed to give you a feeling of real confidence in yourself. If you manage to survive the experience.
Come to think about it, though, we did manage to survive, so maybe there was point to it.
By that time, going down to the Third Level with packs was a commonplace. Jimmy and I went down from Geo Quad in the shuttle. I was not in the best of spirits, because I never am before something like that, and I was playing somewhat morosely on the pennywhistle.
Jimmy said, “You’re not going to bring that along, are you?”
“Why not?”
“I have to admit that you play fairly well now, but if you play like that you’re just going to depress everybody.”
I said, “I’ve got Campfire Entertainment tonight.” That was something we had instituted after our second expedition in order to liven camping evenings.
“You’re not going to play the pennywhistle, are you?”
“No,” I said. “I was going to tell a story. You almost make me change my mind, though.”
“Are you afraid?” He wasn’t talking about the Camp fire Entertainment.
“I can’t say I relish the thought of throwing rocks at a tiger,” I said, “but I guess I’ll get used to it. How about you?”
“I’m always scared beforehand,” Jimmy said. “That’s why I like to talk or play chess.”
We got off at familiar Gate 5 and joined everybody else in getting our heli-pacs. Mr. Marechal was there with a couple of dogs, and he was being assisted again by Mr. Pizarro, who had grown a red beard to go along with his brushy moustache. They were loading the dogs and food into a carrier. Before we left, Mr. Marechal lined us up and looked us over.
“You understand,” he said, “that nobody has to come along.”
We all nodded, but nobody made a move to leave.