You also learn about yourself. You learn about the sight of a claw a foot from your face. You learn about blood. And you learn that a tiger hunt can give you a sore throat.
For whatever positive effects on our minds that the tiger hunt held, nonetheless it cannot be denied that the month of November was a time of growing uneasiness and tension. I was not at my most cheerful. Though my mind told me, as it had for months, that Trial would be the simplest sort of waltz, my viscera refused to be convinced. I tried to act decently to people, but by the end of the month I could hardly bring myself to talk to anybody at all, let alone nicely, and I was sleeping badly. I woke myself screaming one night, something I hadn’t done in years.
The worst thing about it was waiting. If I had had a choice, by the middle of November I would have elected to go then, rather than later, simply to have it begun. Instead, I just got more and more edgy.
I even managed to get on bad terms with Jimmy, and that wasn’t easy, partly because Jimmy is very good natured, partly because we were close. Though you are dropped separately, one at a time, after landing you can join forces. I had been intending to go partners with Jimmy, and I’m sure he had the same thought in mind, but our quarrel ended that.
It started with an intransigent remark by me about the Mudeaters. I said what I thought, but I may have overstated my ideas for the sake of emphasis. In any case, Mr. Mbele was moved to comment.
“I thought you’d gotten over that, Mia,” he said. “This is a point that’s important to me. I don’t like this over simple categorizing. Some of my ancestors were persecuted during one period and held to be inferior simply because their skins were dark.”
That was plain silly, because my skin happens to be darker than Mr. Mbele’s and I don’t feel inferior to anybody.
“But that’s not an essential difference,” I said. “This is. They just aren’t as good as we are.”
On the way home, Jimmy tried to argue with me. “Do you remember those ethics papers we did last winter?”
“Yes.”
“It seemed to me that you approved of Kant’s proposition that we should treat all humans as both ends and means.”
“I didn’t attack it.”
“Well, then, how can you talk this way about the Colons?”
I said, “Well, really, what makes you think that the Mudeaters are people?”
“Oh, you sound just like your father,” Jimmy said.
That’s where the fight started. Jimmy never physically fights anybody, at least he hasn’t since I’ve known him, and I hadn’t been in a swinging fight with anybody in more than a year, but we came very close to it then. We ended by going separate ways and not speaking to each other. And I gave Jimmy back his “between mountains” pin. That was Friday night, the night before my birthday.
Jimmy didn’t show up on my birthday. That day, when I turned fourteen, was completely flat. So was Sunday. On Monday, we left for Trial.
PART III: A UNIVERSAL EDUCATION
14
There are basically two ways of facing Trial — the turtle method and the tiger method. The turtle method means that you dig yourself a hole and stay in it for a month, looking for no trouble, looking for nothing, simply sitting. The tiger method means that you prowl, investigating, seeing what there is to see. There is no doubt that the tiger method is more dangerous. On the other hand, there is also no doubt that it is more lively. None of our instructors was ever presumptuous enough to recommend one course or the other, and there was no official stigma attached to being a turtle, but certainly there was more prestige in being a tiger. We used to talk about it sometimes. Riggy was determined to be a turtle.
“I want to come home again,” he said, “and I’ve got a better chance if I’m a turtle.” It just shows you what happens when a rash boy starts thinking.
Att wouldn’t talk about his plans, but Jimmy said that he was going to be a tiger. When I was thinking in terms of going with Jimmy, I was thinking of being a tiger. When I decided that I was going by myself, I toned my projected tigerhood down by about sixty percent. Call me a reluctant tiger.
I got up early on the morning of the first of December and went out to get myself breakfast. I found both Daddy and breakfast waiting for me. We ate a subdued meal.
When I was ready to go, Daddy said, “Goodbye, Mia. Your mother and I will be there waving when you come home.”
I kissed him and said, “Goodbye, Daddy.”
Then I took the shuttle down to Gate 5 on the Third Level. I was wearing sturdy shoes, pants, light and heavy shirt. I had my knife and my handgun, my bubble tent, my bedroll, some personal things, changes of clothes, a green, yellow and red cloth coat, food, and, most important, my pickup signal. This, a little block three inches by two, was my contact with the scoutship. Without it, without a signal from me at the proper time, I might as well be dead, and as far as the Ship was concerned I would be. Silent or dead — either way you didn’t come home.
I collected Ninc, my stalwart and stupid pony, and his gear and loaded them on a transport shuttle. Then I helped Rachel Yung do the same, and we went down together to First Level and the scoutship bay. We loaded our stuff and went outside to wait.
There were no bands playing. There were just the scoutships standing quietly over their tubes, men working in a businesslike fashion in the great rock gallery, and us. We were ignored — we might not come back, you know.
One by one the kids came, loaded their stuff aboard, and then came outside to join us in standing around. We weren’t making much noise, except for Riggy, who told a joke and then laughed at it, his voice echoing. Nobody else laughed.
We were to leave at eight. At quarter to eight, Mr. Marechal came in, wished us luck, and went on his way. His new class was to have its first meeting that afternoon and I think he was probably already memorizing names.
There were sixteen of us girls, and thirteen boys. David Farmer and Bill Nieman were missing, still recovering from the tiger hunt. They would have another chance in three months, though I didn’t envy them the wait at all. Especially after we came back and were adults, and they weren’t.
Just before eight, George Fuhonin and Mr. Pizarro arrived. George was quite bright and cheerful in spite of the early hour. I was standing near the ramp and he stopped.
“Well, the big day at last,” he said. “I’d wish you luck if I thought you needed it, Mia, but I don’t think I have to worry about you.”
I don’t know whether I appreciated his confidence or not.
Mr. Pizarro went about halfway up the ramp and then turned and waved for attention. “All right,” he called. “Everybody aboard.”
We took our seats in the bull-pen. Before I went in, I paused at the head of the ramp and took a good long look at home, possibly the last look I would ever have. After we were settled, George raised the ramps.
“Here we go,” he said over the speaker. “Ten seconds to drop.”
The air bled out of the tubes, the rim bars pulled back, and then we just… dropped. George didn’t have to do that. He would never have dared to do that with Daddy aboard. My stomach flipped a little and then settled again. George has an odd sense of humor and I think he thinks it’s fun to be a hot pilot when he can get away with it.
Att was sitting near me and he turned then as though he had finally gotten up the nerve to say something difficult.