The Complete Stories_ Volume 1 - Isaac Asimov [100]
‘‘I think that’s tight, sir.”
“Aren’t you afraid of that?”
“I might as well be honest, sir.”
Dr. Antonelli nodded, but without any noticeable lightening of his expression. “Why do you want to be a Programmer?”
“It’s a responsible and exacting position as you said, sir. It’s an important job and an exciting one. I like it and! think I can do it.”
Dr. Antonelli put the papers away, and looked at George sourly. He said, “How do you know you like it?
Because you think you’ll be snapped up by some Grade A planet?”
George thought uneasily: He’s trying to rattle you. Stay calm and stay frank.
He said, “I think a Programmer has a good chance, sir, but even if I were left on Earth, I know I’d like it.”
(That was true enough. I’m not lying, thought George.)
“All right, how do you know?”
He asked it as though he knew there was no decent answer and George almost smiled. He had one. He said, “I’ve been reading about Programming, sir.”
“You’ve been what?” Now the doctor looked genuinely astonished and George took pleasure in that.
“Reading about it, sir. I bought a book on the subject and I’ve been studying it.”
“A book for Registered Programmers?”
‘‘Yes, sir.”
“But you couldn’t understand it.”
“Not at first. I got other books on mathematics and electronics. I made out all I could. I still don’t know much, but I know enough to know I like it and to know I can make it.” (Even his parents never found that secret cache of books or knew why he spent so much time in his own room or exactly what happened to the sleep he missed.)
The doctor pulled at the loose skin under his chin. “What was your idea in doing that, son?”
“I wanted to make sure I would be interested, sir.”
“Surely you know that being interested means nothing. You could be devoured by a subject and if the physical makeup of your brain makes it more efficient for you to be something else, something else you will be. You know that, don’t you?”
“I’ve been told that,” said George cautiously.
“Well, believe it. It’s true.”
George said nothing.
Dr. Antonelli said, “Or do you believe that studying some subject will bend the brain cells in that direction, like that other theory that a pregnant woman need only listen to great music persistently to make a composer of her child. Do you believe that?”
George flushed. That had certainly been in his mind. By forcing his intellect constantly in the desired direction, he had felt sure that he would be getting a head start. Most of his confidence had rested on exactly that point.
“I never—” he began, and found no way of finishing.
“Well, it isn’t true. Good Lord, youngster, your brain pattern is fixed at birth. It can be altered by a blow hard enough to damage the cells or by a burst blood vessel or by a tumor or by a major infection—each time, of course, for the worse. But it certainly can’t be affected by your thinking special thoughts.” He stared at George thoughtfully, then said, “Who told you to do this?”
George, now thoroughly disturbed, swallowed and said, “No one, doctor. My own idea.”
“Who knew you were doing it after you started?”
“No one. Doctor, I meant to do no wrong.”
“Who said anything about wrong? Useless is what I would say. Why did you keep it to yourself?”
“I—I thought they’d laugh at me.” (He thought abruptly of a recent exchange with Trevelyan. George had very cautiously broached the thought, as of something merely circulating distantly in the very outermost reaches of his mind, concerning the possibility of learning something by ladling it into the mind by hand, so to speak, in bits and pieces. Trevelyan had hooted, “George, you’ll be tanning your own shoes next and weaving your own shirts.” He had been thankful for his policy of secrecy.)
Dr. Antonelli shoved the bits of film he had first looked at from position to position in morose thought. Then he said, “Let’s get you analyzed. This is getting me nowhere.”
The wires went to George’s temples. There was the buzzing. Again there came a sharp memory of ten years ago.
George’s hands were clammy; his heart pounded.