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-      The Project Gutenberg eBook of Juvenile Delinquent, by Edward W. Ludwig.
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-<pre>
-
-The Project Gutenberg EBook of Juvenile Delinquent, by Edward W. Ludwig
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
-almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
-with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license
-
-
-Title: Juvenile Delinquent
-
-Author: Edward W. Ludwig
-
-Release Date: April 26, 2019 [EBook #59368]
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: ASCII
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JUVENILE DELINQUENT ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
-Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
-
-
-
-
-
-
-</pre>
-
-
-<div class="figcenter">
-  <img src="images/cover.jpg" width="349" height="500" alt=""/>
-</div>
-
-<hr class="chap" />
-
-<div class="titlepage">
-
-<h1>juvenile delinquent</h1>
-
-<h2>BY EDWARD W. LUDWIG</h2>
-
-<p class="ph1"><i>When everything is either restricted,<br />
-confidential or top-secret, a Reader<br />
-is a very bad security risk.</i></p>
-
-<p>[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from<br />
-Worlds of If Science Fiction, October 1955.<br />
-Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that<br />
-the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]</p>
-
-</div>
-
-<hr class="chap" />
-
-<p>Tick-de-tock, <i>tick-de-tock</i>, whispered the antique clock on the first
-floor of the house.</p>
-
-<p>There was no sound save for the ticking&mdash;and for the pounding of
-Ronnie's heart.</p>
-
-<p>He stood alone in his upstairs bedroom. His slender-boned,
-eight-year-old body trembling, perspiration glittering on his white
-forehead.</p>
-
-<p>To Ronnie, the clock seemed to be saying:</p>
-
-<p><i>Daddy's coming, Daddy's coming.</i></p>
-
-<p>The soft shadows of September twilight in this year of 2056 were
-seeping into the bedroom. Ronnie welcomed the fall of darkness. He
-wanted to sink into its deep silence, to become one with it, to escape
-forever from savage tongues and angry eyes.</p>
-
-<p>A burst of hope entered Ronnie's fear-filled eyes. Maybe something
-would happen. Maybe Dad would have an accident. Maybe&mdash;</p>
-
-<p>He bit his lip hard, shook his head. No. No matter what Dad might do,
-it wasn't right to wish&mdash;</p>
-
-<p>The whirling whine of a gyro-car mushroomed up from the landing
-platform outside.</p>
-
-<p>Ronnie shivered, his pulse quickening. The muscles in his small body
-were like a web of taut-drawn wires.</p>
-
-<p>Sound and movement below. Mom flicking off the controls of the
-kitchen's Auto-Chef. The slow stride of her high heels through the
-living room. The slamming of a gyro-car door. The opening of the front
-door of the house.</p>
-
-<p>Dad's deep, happy voice echoed up the stairway:</p>
-
-<p>"Hi, beautiful!"</p>
-
-<p>Ronnie huddled in the darkness by the half-open bedroom door.</p>
-
-<p><i>Please, Mama</i>, his mind cried, <i>please don't tell Daddy what I did.</i></p>
-
-<p>There was a droning, indistinct murmur.</p>
-
-<p>Dad burst, "He was doing <i>what</i>?"</p>
-
-<p>More murmuring.</p>
-
-<p>"I can't believe it. You really saw him?... I'll be damned."</p>
-
-<p>Ronnie silently closed the bedroom door.</p>
-
-<p><i>Why did you tell him, Mama? Why did you have to tell him?</i></p>
-
-<p>"Ronnie!" Dad called.</p>
-
-<p>Ronnie held his breath. His legs seemed as numb and nerveless as the
-stumps of dead trees.</p>
-
-<p>"<i>Ronnie! Come down here!</i>"</p>
-
-<hr class="tb" />
-
-<p>Like an automaton, Ronnie shuffled out of his bedroom. He stepped
-on the big silver disk on the landing. The auto-stairs clicked into
-humming movement under his weight.</p>
-
-<p>To his left, on the wall, he caught kaleidoscopic glimpses of Mom's old
-pictures, copies of paintings by medieval artists like Rembrandt, Van
-Gogh, Cezanne, Dali. The faces seemed to be mocking him. Ronnie felt
-like a wounded bird falling out of the sky.</p>
-
-<p>He saw that Dad and Mom were waiting for him.</p>
-
-<p>Mom's round blue eyes were full of mist and sadness. She hadn't
-bothered to smooth her clipped, creamy-brown hair as she always did
-when Dad was coming home.</p>
-
-<p>And Dad, handsome in his night-black, skin-tight Pentagon uniform, had
-become a hostile stranger with narrowed eyes of black fire.</p>
-
-<p>"Is it true, Ronnie?" asked Dad. "Were you really&mdash;really reading a
-book?"</p>
-
-<p>Ronnie gulped. He nodded.</p>
-
-<p>"Good Lord," Dad murmured. He took a deep breath and squatted down,
-held Ronnie's arms and looked hard into his eyes. For an instant he
-became the kind, understanding father that Ronnie knew.</p>
-
-<p>"Tell me all about it, son. Where did you get the book? Who taught you
-to read?"</p>
-
-<p>Ronnie tried to keep his legs from shaking. "It was&mdash;Daddy, you won't
-make trouble, will you?"</p>
-
-<p>"This is between you and me, son. We don't care about anyone else."</p>
-
-<p>"Well, it was Kenny Davis. He&mdash;"</p>
-
-<p>Dad's fingers tightened on Ronnie's arms. "Kenny Davis!" he spat. "The
-boy's no good. His father never had a job in his life. Nobody'd even
-offer him a job. Why, the whole town knows he's a Reader!"</p>
-
-<p>Mom stepped forward. "David, you promised you'd be sensible about this.
-You promised you wouldn't get angry."</p>
-
-<p>Dad grunted. "All right, son. Go ahead."</p>
-
-<p>"Well, one day after school Kenny said he'd show me something. He took
-me to his house&mdash;"</p>
-
-<p>"You went to that <i>shack</i>? You actually&mdash;"</p>
-
-<p>"Dear," said Mom. "You promised."</p>
-
-<p>A moment of silence.</p>
-
-<p>Ronnie said, "He took me to his house. I met his dad. Mr. Davis is lots
-of fun. He has a beard and he paints pictures and he's collected almost
-five hundred books."</p>
-
-<p>Ronnie's voice quavered.</p>
-
-<p>"Go on," said Dad sternly.</p>
-
-<p>"And I&mdash;and Mr. Davis said he'd teach me to read them if I promised not
-to tell anybody. So he taught me a little every day after school&mdash;oh,
-Dad, books are fun to read. They tell you things you can't see on the
-video or hear on the tapes."</p>
-
-<p>"How long ago did all this start?</p>
-
-<p>"T&mdash;two years ago."</p>
-
-<p>Dad rose, fists clenched, staring strangely at nothing.</p>
-
-<p>"Two years," he breathed. "I thought I had a good son, and yet for two
-years&mdash;" He shook his head unbelievingly. "Maybe it's my own fault.
-Maybe I shouldn't have come to this small town. I should have taken a
-house in Washington instead of trying to commute."</p>
-
-<p>"David," said Mom, very seriously, almost as if she were praying, "it
-won't be necessary to have him memory-washed, will it?"</p>
-
-<p>Dad looked at Mom, frowning. Then he gazed at Ronnie. His soft-spoken
-words were as ominous as the low growl of thunder:</p>
-
-<p>"I don't know, Edith. I don't know."</p>
-
-<hr class="tb" />
-
-<p>Dad strode to his easy chair by the fireplace. He sank into its
-foam-rubber softness, sighing. He murmured a syllable into a tiny
-ball-mike on the side of the chair. A metallic hand raised a lighted
-cigarette to his lips.</p>
-
-<p>"Come here, son."</p>
-
-<p>Ronnie followed and sat on the hassock by Dad's feet.</p>
-
-<p>"Maybe I've never really explained things to you, Ronnie. You see, you
-won't always be a boy. Someday you'll have to find a way of making a
-living. You've only two choices: You work for the government, like I
-do, or for a corporation."</p>
-
-<p>Ronnie blinked. "Mr. Davis doesn't work for the gover'ment or for a
-corpor-ation."</p>
-
-<p>"Mr. Davis isn't normal," Dad snapped. "He's a hermit. No decent family
-would let him in their house. He grows his own food and sometimes he
-takes care of gardens for people. I want you to have more than that. I
-want you to have a nice home and be respected by people."</p>
-
-<p>Dad puffed furiously on his cigarette.</p>
-
-<p>"And you can't get ahead if people know you've been a Reader. That's
-something you can't live down. No matter how hard you try, people
-always stumble upon the truth."</p>
-
-<p>Dad cleared his throat. "You see, when you get a job, all the
-information you handle will have a classification. It'll be Restricted,
-Low-Confidential, Confidential, High-Confidential, Secret, Top-Secret.
-And all this information will be in writing. No matter what you do,
-you'll have access to some of this information at one time or another."</p>
-
-<hr class="chap" />
-
-<div class="figcenter">
-  <img src="images/illus.jpg" width="621" height="500" alt=""/>
-</div>
-
-<hr class="chap" />
-
-<p>"B&mdash;but why do these things have to be so secret?" Ronnie asked.</p>
-
-<p>"Because of competitors, in the case of corporations&mdash;or because of
-enemy nations in the case of government work. The written material you
-might have access to could describe secret weapons and new processes
-or plans for next year's advertising&mdash;maybe even a scheme for, er,
-liquidation of a rival. If all facts and policies were made public,
-there might be criticism, controversy, opposition by certain groups.
-The less people know about things, the better. So we have to keep all
-these things secret."</p>
-
-<p>Ronnie scowled. "But if things are written down, someone has to read
-them, don't they?"</p>
-
-<p>"Sure, son. One person in ten thousand might reach the point where
-his corporation or bureau will teach him to read. But you prove your
-ability and loyalty first. By the time you're 35 or 40, they might
-<i>want</i> you to learn to read. But for young people and children&mdash;well,
-it just isn't done. Why, the President himself wasn't trusted to learn
-till he was nearly fifty!"</p>
-
-<p>Dad straightened his shoulders. "Look at me. I'm only 30, but I've been
-a messenger for Secret material already. In a few years, if things go
-well, I should be handling <i>Top</i>-Secret stuff. And who knows? Maybe by
-the time I'm 50 I'll be <i>giving</i> orders instead of carrying them. Then
-I'll learn to read, too. That's the right way to do it."</p>
-
-<p>Ronnie shifted uncomfortably on the hassock. "But can't a Reader get a
-job that's not so important. Like a barber or a plumber or&mdash;"</p>
-
-<p>"Don't you understand? The barber and plumbing equipment corporations
-set up their stores and hire men to work for them. You think they'd
-hire a Reader? People'd say you were a spy or a subversive or that
-you're crazy like old man Davis."</p>
-
-<p>"Mr. Davis isn't crazy. And he isn't old. He's young, just like you,
-and&mdash;"</p>
-
-<p>"Ronnie!"</p>
-
-<p>Dad's voice was knife-sharp and December-cold. Ronnie slipped off the
-hassock as if struck physically by the fury of the voice. He sat
-sprawled on his small posterior, fresh fear etched on his thin features.</p>
-
-<p>"Damn it, son, how could you even <i>think</i> of being a Reader? You've got
-a life-sized, 3-D video here, and we put on the smell and touch and
-heat attachments just for you. You can listen to any tape in the world
-at school. Ronnie, don't you realize I'd lose my job if people knew I
-had a Reader for a son?"</p>
-
-<p>"B&mdash;but, Daddy&mdash;"</p>
-
-<p>Dad jumped to his feet. "I hate to say it, Edith, but we've got to put
-this boy in a reformatory. Maybe a good memory-wash will take some of
-the nonsense out of him!"</p>
-
-<hr class="tb" />
-
-<p>Ronnie suppressed a sob. "No, Daddy, don't let them take away my brain.
-Please&mdash;"</p>
-
-<p>Dad stood very tall and very stiff, not even looking at him. "They
-won't take your brain, just your memory for the past two years."</p>
-
-<p>A corner of Mom's mouth twitched. "David, I didn't want anything like
-this. I thought maybe Ronnie could have a few private psychiatric
-treatments. They can do wonderful things now&mdash;permi-hypnosis, creations
-of artificial psychic blocks. A memory-wash would mean that Ronnie'd
-have the mind of a six-year-old child again. He'd have to start to
-school all over again."</p>
-
-<p>Dad returned to his chair. He buried his face in trembling hands, and
-some of his anger seemed replaced by despair. "Lord, Edith, I don't
-know what to do."</p>
-
-<p>He looked up abruptly, as if struck by a chilling new thought. "You
-can't keep a two-year memory-wash a secret. I never thought of that
-before. Why, that alone would mean the end of my promotions."</p>
-
-<p>Silence settled over the room, punctuated only by the ticking of the
-antique clock. All movement seemed frozen, as if the room lay at the
-bottom of a cold, thick sea.</p>
-
-<p>"David," Mom finally said.</p>
-
-<p>"Yes?"</p>
-
-<p>"There's only one solution. We can't destroy two years of Ronnie's
-memory&mdash;you said that yourself. So we'll have to take him to a
-psychiatrist or maybe a psychoneurologist. A few short treatments&mdash;"</p>
-
-<p>Dad interrupted: "But he'd <i>still</i> remember how to read, unconsciously
-anyway. Even permi-hypnosis would wear off in time. The boy can't keep
-going to psychiatrists for the rest of his life."</p>
-
-<p>Thoughtfully he laced his fingers together. "Edith, what kind of a book
-was he reading?"</p>
-
-<p>A tremor passed through Mom's slender body. "There were three books on
-his bed. I'm not sure which one he was actually reading."</p>
-
-<p>Dad groaned. "<i>Three</i> of them. Did you burn them?"</p>
-
-<p>"No, dear, not yet."</p>
-
-<p>"Why not?"</p>
-
-<p>"I don't know. Ronnie seemed to like them so much. I thought that maybe
-tonight, after you d seen them&mdash;"</p>
-
-<p>"Get them, damn it. Let's burn the filthy things."</p>
-
-<p>Mom went to a mahogany chest in the dining room, produced three faded
-volumes. She put them on the hassock at Dad's feet.</p>
-
-<p>Dad gingerly turned a cover. His lips curled in disgust as if he were
-touching a rotting corpse.</p>
-
-<p>"Old," he mused, "&mdash;so very old. Ironic, isn't it? Our lives are being
-wrecked by things that should have been destroyed and forgotten a
-hundred years ago."</p>
-
-<p>A sudden frown contorted his dark features.</p>
-
-<p><i>Tick-de-tock, tick-de-tock</i>, said the antique clock.</p>
-
-<p>"A hundred years old," he repeated. His mouth became a hard, thin line.
-"Edith, I think I know why Ronnie wanted to read, why he fell into the
-trap so easily."</p>
-
-<p>"What do you mean, David?"</p>
-
-<p>Dad nodded at the clock, and the slow, smouldering anger returned to
-his face. "It's <i>your</i> fault, Edith. You've always liked old things.
-That clock of your great-great-grandmother's. Those old prints on the
-wall. That stamp collection you started for Ronnie&mdash;stamps dated way
-back to the 1940's."</p>
-
-<p>Mom's face paled. "I don't understand."</p>
-
-<p>"You've interested Ronnie in old things. To a child in its formative
-years, in a pleasant house, these things symbolize peace and security.
-Ronnie's been conditioned from the very time of his birth to like old
-things. It was natural for him to be attracted by books. And we were
-just too stupid to realize it."</p>
-
-<p>Mom whispered hoarsely, "I'm sorry, David."</p>
-
-<p>Hot anger flashed in Dad's eyes. "It isn't enough to be sorry. Don't
-you see what this means? Ronnie'll have to be memory-washed back to the
-time of birth. He'll have to start life all over again."</p>
-
-<p>"No, David, no!"</p>
-
-<p>"And in my position I can't afford to have an eight-year-old son with
-the mind of a new-born baby. It's got to be Abandonment, Edith, there's
-no other way. The boy can start life over in a reformatory, with a
-complete memory-wash. He'll never know we existed, and he'll never
-bother us again."</p>
-
-<p>Mom ran up to Dad. She put her hands on his shoulders. Great sobs burst
-from her shaking body.</p>
-
-<p>"You can't, David! I won't let&mdash;"</p>
-
-<p>He slapped her then with the palm of his hand. The sound was like a
-pistol shot in the hot, tight air.</p>
-
-<p>Dad stood now like a colossus carved of black ice. His right hand was
-still upraised, ready to strike again.</p>
-
-<p>Then his hand fell. His mind seemed to be toying with a new thought, a
-new concept.</p>
-
-<p>He seized one of the books on the hassock.</p>
-
-<p>"Edith," he said crisply, "just what was Ronnie reading? What's the
-name of this book?"</p>
-
-<p>"<i>The&mdash;The Adventures of Tom Sawyer</i>," said Mom through her sobs.</p>
-
-<p>He grabbed the second book, held it before her shimmering vision.</p>
-
-<p>"And the name of this?"</p>
-
-<p>"<i>Tarzan of The Apes.</i>" Mom's voice was a barely audible croak.</p>
-
-<p>"Who's the author?"</p>
-
-<p>"Edgar Rice Burroughs."</p>
-
-<p>"And this one?"</p>
-
-<p>"<i>The Wizard of Oz.</i>"</p>
-
-<p>"Who wrote it?"</p>
-
-<p>"L. Frank Baum."</p>
-
-<p>He threw the books to the floor. He stepped backward. His face was a
-mask of combined sorrow, disbelief, and rage.</p>
-
-<p>"<i>Edith.</i>" He spat the name as if it were acid on his tongue. "Edith,
-<i>you can read</i>!"</p>
-
-<hr class="tb" />
-
-<p>Mom sucked in her sobs. Her chalk-white cheeks were still streaked with
-rivulets of tears.</p>
-
-<p>"I'm sorry, David. I've never told anyone&mdash;not even Ronnie. I haven't
-read a book, haven't even looked at one since we were married. I've
-tried to be a good wife&mdash;"</p>
-
-<p>"A good wife." Dad sneered. His face was so ugly that Ronnie looked
-away.</p>
-
-<p>Mom continued, "I&mdash;I learned when I was just a girl. I was young like
-Ronnie. You know how young people are&mdash;reckless, eager to do forbidden
-things."</p>
-
-<p>"You lied to me," Dad snapped. "For ten years you've lied to me. Why
-did you want to read, Edith? <i>Why?</i>"</p>
-
-<p>Mom was silent for a few seconds. She was breathing heavily, but no
-longer crying. A calmness entered her features, and for the first time
-tonight Ronnie saw no fear in her eyes.</p>
-
-<p>"I wanted to read," she said, her voice firm and proud, "because, as
-Ronnie said, it's fun. The video's nice, with its dancers and lovers
-and Indians and spacemen&mdash;but sometimes you want more than that.
-Sometimes you want to know how people feel deep inside and how they
-think. And there are beautiful words and beautiful thoughts, just like
-there are beautiful paintings. It isn't enough just to hear them and
-then forget them. Sometimes you want to keep the words and thoughts
-before you because in that way you feel that they belong to you."</p>
-
-<p>Her words echoed in the room until absorbed by the ceaseless, ticking
-clock. Mom stood straight and unashamed. Dad's gaze traveled slowly to
-Ronnie, to Mom, to the clock, back and forth.</p>
-
-<p>At last he said, "Get out."</p>
-
-<p>Mom stared blankly.</p>
-
-<p>"Get out. Both of you. You can send for your things later. I never want
-to see either of you again."</p>
-
-<p>"David&mdash;"</p>
-
-<p>"I said <i>get out</i>!"</p>
-
-<p>Ronnie and Mom left the house. Outside, the night was dark and a wind
-was rising. Mom shivered in her thin house cloak.</p>
-
-<p>"Where will we go, Ronnie? Where, where&mdash;"</p>
-
-<p>"I know a place. Maybe we can stay there&mdash;for a little while."</p>
-
-<p>"A little while?" Mom echoed. Her mind seemed frozen by the cold wind.</p>
-
-<p>Ronnie led her through the cold, windy streets. They left the lights of
-the town behind them. They stumbled over a rough, dirt country road.
-They came to a small, rough-boarded house in the deep shadow of an
-eucalyptus grove. The windows of the house were like friendly eyes of
-warm golden light.</p>
-
-<p>An instant later a door opened and a small boy ran out to meet them.</p>
-
-<p>"Hi, Kenny."</p>
-
-<p>"Hi. Who's that? Your mom?"</p>
-
-<p>"Yep. Mr. Davis in?"</p>
-
-<p>"Sure."</p>
-
-<p>And a kindly-faced, bearded young man appeared in the golden doorway,
-smiling.</p>
-
-<p>Ronnie and Mom stepped inside.</p>
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-<pre>
-
-
-
-
-
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+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Juvenile Delinquent, by Edward W. Ludwig
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license
+
+
+Title: Juvenile Delinquent
+
+Author: Edward W. Ludwig
+
+Release Date: April 26, 2019 [EBook #59368]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JUVENILE DELINQUENT ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+<div class="figcenter">
+  <img src="images/cover.jpg" width="349" height="500" alt=""/>
+</div>
+
+<hr class="chap" />
+
+<div class="titlepage">
+
+<h1>juvenile delinquent</h1>
+
+<h2>BY EDWARD W. LUDWIG</h2>
+
+<p class="ph1"><i>When everything is either restricted,<br />
+confidential or top-secret, a Reader<br />
+is a very bad security risk.</i></p>
+
+<p>[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from<br />
+Worlds of If Science Fiction, October 1955.<br />
+Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that<br />
+the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<hr class="chap" />
+
+<p>Tick-de-tock, <i>tick-de-tock</i>, whispered the antique clock on the first
+floor of the house.</p>
+
+<p>There was no sound save for the ticking&mdash;and for the pounding of
+Ronnie's heart.</p>
+
+<p>He stood alone in his upstairs bedroom. His slender-boned,
+eight-year-old body trembling, perspiration glittering on his white
+forehead.</p>
+
+<p>To Ronnie, the clock seemed to be saying:</p>
+
+<p><i>Daddy's coming, Daddy's coming.</i></p>
+
+<p>The soft shadows of September twilight in this year of 2056 were
+seeping into the bedroom. Ronnie welcomed the fall of darkness. He
+wanted to sink into its deep silence, to become one with it, to escape
+forever from savage tongues and angry eyes.</p>
+
+<p>A burst of hope entered Ronnie's fear-filled eyes. Maybe something
+would happen. Maybe Dad would have an accident. Maybe&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>He bit his lip hard, shook his head. No. No matter what Dad might do,
+it wasn't right to wish&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>The whirling whine of a gyro-car mushroomed up from the landing
+platform outside.</p>
+
+<p>Ronnie shivered, his pulse quickening. The muscles in his small body
+were like a web of taut-drawn wires.</p>
+
+<p>Sound and movement below. Mom flicking off the controls of the
+kitchen's Auto-Chef. The slow stride of her high heels through the
+living room. The slamming of a gyro-car door. The opening of the front
+door of the house.</p>
+
+<p>Dad's deep, happy voice echoed up the stairway:</p>
+
+<p>"Hi, beautiful!"</p>
+
+<p>Ronnie huddled in the darkness by the half-open bedroom door.</p>
+
+<p><i>Please, Mama</i>, his mind cried, <i>please don't tell Daddy what I did.</i></p>
+
+<p>There was a droning, indistinct murmur.</p>
+
+<p>Dad burst, "He was doing <i>what</i>?"</p>
+
+<p>More murmuring.</p>
+
+<p>"I can't believe it. You really saw him?... I'll be damned."</p>
+
+<p>Ronnie silently closed the bedroom door.</p>
+
+<p><i>Why did you tell him, Mama? Why did you have to tell him?</i></p>
+
+<p>"Ronnie!" Dad called.</p>
+
+<p>Ronnie held his breath. His legs seemed as numb and nerveless as the
+stumps of dead trees.</p>
+
+<p>"<i>Ronnie! Come down here!</i>"</p>
+
+<hr class="tb" />
+
+<p>Like an automaton, Ronnie shuffled out of his bedroom. He stepped
+on the big silver disk on the landing. The auto-stairs clicked into
+humming movement under his weight.</p>
+
+<p>To his left, on the wall, he caught kaleidoscopic glimpses of Mom's old
+pictures, copies of paintings by medieval artists like Rembrandt, Van
+Gogh, Cezanne, Dali. The faces seemed to be mocking him. Ronnie felt
+like a wounded bird falling out of the sky.</p>
+
+<p>He saw that Dad and Mom were waiting for him.</p>
+
+<p>Mom's round blue eyes were full of mist and sadness. She hadn't
+bothered to smooth her clipped, creamy-brown hair as she always did
+when Dad was coming home.</p>
+
+<p>And Dad, handsome in his night-black, skin-tight Pentagon uniform, had
+become a hostile stranger with narrowed eyes of black fire.</p>
+
+<p>"Is it true, Ronnie?" asked Dad. "Were you really&mdash;really reading a
+book?"</p>
+
+<p>Ronnie gulped. He nodded.</p>
+
+<p>"Good Lord," Dad murmured. He took a deep breath and squatted down,
+held Ronnie's arms and looked hard into his eyes. For an instant he
+became the kind, understanding father that Ronnie knew.</p>
+
+<p>"Tell me all about it, son. Where did you get the book? Who taught you
+to read?"</p>
+
+<p>Ronnie tried to keep his legs from shaking. "It was&mdash;Daddy, you won't
+make trouble, will you?"</p>
+
+<p>"This is between you and me, son. We don't care about anyone else."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, it was Kenny Davis. He&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>Dad's fingers tightened on Ronnie's arms. "Kenny Davis!" he spat. "The
+boy's no good. His father never had a job in his life. Nobody'd even
+offer him a job. Why, the whole town knows he's a Reader!"</p>
+
+<p>Mom stepped forward. "David, you promised you'd be sensible about this.
+You promised you wouldn't get angry."</p>
+
+<p>Dad grunted. "All right, son. Go ahead."</p>
+
+<p>"Well, one day after school Kenny said he'd show me something. He took
+me to his house&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"You went to that <i>shack</i>? You actually&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Dear," said Mom. "You promised."</p>
+
+<p>A moment of silence.</p>
+
+<p>Ronnie said, "He took me to his house. I met his dad. Mr. Davis is lots
+of fun. He has a beard and he paints pictures and he's collected almost
+five hundred books."</p>
+
+<p>Ronnie's voice quavered.</p>
+
+<p>"Go on," said Dad sternly.</p>
+
+<p>"And I&mdash;and Mr. Davis said he'd teach me to read them if I promised not
+to tell anybody. So he taught me a little every day after school&mdash;oh,
+Dad, books are fun to read. They tell you things you can't see on the
+video or hear on the tapes."</p>
+
+<p>"How long ago did all this start?</p>
+
+<p>"T&mdash;two years ago."</p>
+
+<p>Dad rose, fists clenched, staring strangely at nothing.</p>
+
+<p>"Two years," he breathed. "I thought I had a good son, and yet for two
+years&mdash;" He shook his head unbelievingly. "Maybe it's my own fault.
+Maybe I shouldn't have come to this small town. I should have taken a
+house in Washington instead of trying to commute."</p>
+
+<p>"David," said Mom, very seriously, almost as if she were praying, "it
+won't be necessary to have him memory-washed, will it?"</p>
+
+<p>Dad looked at Mom, frowning. Then he gazed at Ronnie. His soft-spoken
+words were as ominous as the low growl of thunder:</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know, Edith. I don't know."</p>
+
+<hr class="tb" />
+
+<p>Dad strode to his easy chair by the fireplace. He sank into its
+foam-rubber softness, sighing. He murmured a syllable into a tiny
+ball-mike on the side of the chair. A metallic hand raised a lighted
+cigarette to his lips.</p>
+
+<p>"Come here, son."</p>
+
+<p>Ronnie followed and sat on the hassock by Dad's feet.</p>
+
+<p>"Maybe I've never really explained things to you, Ronnie. You see, you
+won't always be a boy. Someday you'll have to find a way of making a
+living. You've only two choices: You work for the government, like I
+do, or for a corporation."</p>
+
+<p>Ronnie blinked. "Mr. Davis doesn't work for the gover'ment or for a
+corpor-ation."</p>
+
+<p>"Mr. Davis isn't normal," Dad snapped. "He's a hermit. No decent family
+would let him in their house. He grows his own food and sometimes he
+takes care of gardens for people. I want you to have more than that. I
+want you to have a nice home and be respected by people."</p>
+
+<p>Dad puffed furiously on his cigarette.</p>
+
+<p>"And you can't get ahead if people know you've been a Reader. That's
+something you can't live down. No matter how hard you try, people
+always stumble upon the truth."</p>
+
+<p>Dad cleared his throat. "You see, when you get a job, all the
+information you handle will have a classification. It'll be Restricted,
+Low-Confidential, Confidential, High-Confidential, Secret, Top-Secret.
+And all this information will be in writing. No matter what you do,
+you'll have access to some of this information at one time or another."</p>
+
+<hr class="chap" />
+
+<div class="figcenter">
+  <img src="images/illus.jpg" width="621" height="500" alt=""/>
+</div>
+
+<hr class="chap" />
+
+<p>"B&mdash;but why do these things have to be so secret?" Ronnie asked.</p>
+
+<p>"Because of competitors, in the case of corporations&mdash;or because of
+enemy nations in the case of government work. The written material you
+might have access to could describe secret weapons and new processes
+or plans for next year's advertising&mdash;maybe even a scheme for, er,
+liquidation of a rival. If all facts and policies were made public,
+there might be criticism, controversy, opposition by certain groups.
+The less people know about things, the better. So we have to keep all
+these things secret."</p>
+
+<p>Ronnie scowled. "But if things are written down, someone has to read
+them, don't they?"</p>
+
+<p>"Sure, son. One person in ten thousand might reach the point where
+his corporation or bureau will teach him to read. But you prove your
+ability and loyalty first. By the time you're 35 or 40, they might
+<i>want</i> you to learn to read. But for young people and children&mdash;well,
+it just isn't done. Why, the President himself wasn't trusted to learn
+till he was nearly fifty!"</p>
+
+<p>Dad straightened his shoulders. "Look at me. I'm only 30, but I've been
+a messenger for Secret material already. In a few years, if things go
+well, I should be handling <i>Top</i>-Secret stuff. And who knows? Maybe by
+the time I'm 50 I'll be <i>giving</i> orders instead of carrying them. Then
+I'll learn to read, too. That's the right way to do it."</p>
+
+<p>Ronnie shifted uncomfortably on the hassock. "But can't a Reader get a
+job that's not so important. Like a barber or a plumber or&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Don't you understand? The barber and plumbing equipment corporations
+set up their stores and hire men to work for them. You think they'd
+hire a Reader? People'd say you were a spy or a subversive or that
+you're crazy like old man Davis."</p>
+
+<p>"Mr. Davis isn't crazy. And he isn't old. He's young, just like you,
+and&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Ronnie!"</p>
+
+<p>Dad's voice was knife-sharp and December-cold. Ronnie slipped off the
+hassock as if struck physically by the fury of the voice. He sat
+sprawled on his small posterior, fresh fear etched on his thin features.</p>
+
+<p>"Damn it, son, how could you even <i>think</i> of being a Reader? You've got
+a life-sized, 3-D video here, and we put on the smell and touch and
+heat attachments just for you. You can listen to any tape in the world
+at school. Ronnie, don't you realize I'd lose my job if people knew I
+had a Reader for a son?"</p>
+
+<p>"B&mdash;but, Daddy&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>Dad jumped to his feet. "I hate to say it, Edith, but we've got to put
+this boy in a reformatory. Maybe a good memory-wash will take some of
+the nonsense out of him!"</p>
+
+<hr class="tb" />
+
+<p>Ronnie suppressed a sob. "No, Daddy, don't let them take away my brain.
+Please&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>Dad stood very tall and very stiff, not even looking at him. "They
+won't take your brain, just your memory for the past two years."</p>
+
+<p>A corner of Mom's mouth twitched. "David, I didn't want anything like
+this. I thought maybe Ronnie could have a few private psychiatric
+treatments. They can do wonderful things now&mdash;permi-hypnosis, creations
+of artificial psychic blocks. A memory-wash would mean that Ronnie'd
+have the mind of a six-year-old child again. He'd have to start to
+school all over again."</p>
+
+<p>Dad returned to his chair. He buried his face in trembling hands, and
+some of his anger seemed replaced by despair. "Lord, Edith, I don't
+know what to do."</p>
+
+<p>He looked up abruptly, as if struck by a chilling new thought. "You
+can't keep a two-year memory-wash a secret. I never thought of that
+before. Why, that alone would mean the end of my promotions."</p>
+
+<p>Silence settled over the room, punctuated only by the ticking of the
+antique clock. All movement seemed frozen, as if the room lay at the
+bottom of a cold, thick sea.</p>
+
+<p>"David," Mom finally said.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes?"</p>
+
+<p>"There's only one solution. We can't destroy two years of Ronnie's
+memory&mdash;you said that yourself. So we'll have to take him to a
+psychiatrist or maybe a psychoneurologist. A few short treatments&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>Dad interrupted: "But he'd <i>still</i> remember how to read, unconsciously
+anyway. Even permi-hypnosis would wear off in time. The boy can't keep
+going to psychiatrists for the rest of his life."</p>
+
+<p>Thoughtfully he laced his fingers together. "Edith, what kind of a book
+was he reading?"</p>
+
+<p>A tremor passed through Mom's slender body. "There were three books on
+his bed. I'm not sure which one he was actually reading."</p>
+
+<p>Dad groaned. "<i>Three</i> of them. Did you burn them?"</p>
+
+<p>"No, dear, not yet."</p>
+
+<p>"Why not?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know. Ronnie seemed to like them so much. I thought that maybe
+tonight, after you d seen them&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Get them, damn it. Let's burn the filthy things."</p>
+
+<p>Mom went to a mahogany chest in the dining room, produced three faded
+volumes. She put them on the hassock at Dad's feet.</p>
+
+<p>Dad gingerly turned a cover. His lips curled in disgust as if he were
+touching a rotting corpse.</p>
+
+<p>"Old," he mused, "&mdash;so very old. Ironic, isn't it? Our lives are being
+wrecked by things that should have been destroyed and forgotten a
+hundred years ago."</p>
+
+<p>A sudden frown contorted his dark features.</p>
+
+<p><i>Tick-de-tock, tick-de-tock</i>, said the antique clock.</p>
+
+<p>"A hundred years old," he repeated. His mouth became a hard, thin line.
+"Edith, I think I know why Ronnie wanted to read, why he fell into the
+trap so easily."</p>
+
+<p>"What do you mean, David?"</p>
+
+<p>Dad nodded at the clock, and the slow, smouldering anger returned to
+his face. "It's <i>your</i> fault, Edith. You've always liked old things.
+That clock of your great-great-grandmother's. Those old prints on the
+wall. That stamp collection you started for Ronnie&mdash;stamps dated way
+back to the 1940's."</p>
+
+<p>Mom's face paled. "I don't understand."</p>
+
+<p>"You've interested Ronnie in old things. To a child in its formative
+years, in a pleasant house, these things symbolize peace and security.
+Ronnie's been conditioned from the very time of his birth to like old
+things. It was natural for him to be attracted by books. And we were
+just too stupid to realize it."</p>
+
+<p>Mom whispered hoarsely, "I'm sorry, David."</p>
+
+<p>Hot anger flashed in Dad's eyes. "It isn't enough to be sorry. Don't
+you see what this means? Ronnie'll have to be memory-washed back to the
+time of birth. He'll have to start life all over again."</p>
+
+<p>"No, David, no!"</p>
+
+<p>"And in my position I can't afford to have an eight-year-old son with
+the mind of a new-born baby. It's got to be Abandonment, Edith, there's
+no other way. The boy can start life over in a reformatory, with a
+complete memory-wash. He'll never know we existed, and he'll never
+bother us again."</p>
+
+<p>Mom ran up to Dad. She put her hands on his shoulders. Great sobs burst
+from her shaking body.</p>
+
+<p>"You can't, David! I won't let&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>He slapped her then with the palm of his hand. The sound was like a
+pistol shot in the hot, tight air.</p>
+
+<p>Dad stood now like a colossus carved of black ice. His right hand was
+still upraised, ready to strike again.</p>
+
+<p>Then his hand fell. His mind seemed to be toying with a new thought, a
+new concept.</p>
+
+<p>He seized one of the books on the hassock.</p>
+
+<p>"Edith," he said crisply, "just what was Ronnie reading? What's the
+name of this book?"</p>
+
+<p>"<i>The&mdash;The Adventures of Tom Sawyer</i>," said Mom through her sobs.</p>
+
+<p>He grabbed the second book, held it before her shimmering vision.</p>
+
+<p>"And the name of this?"</p>
+
+<p>"<i>Tarzan of The Apes.</i>" Mom's voice was a barely audible croak.</p>
+
+<p>"Who's the author?"</p>
+
+<p>"Edgar Rice Burroughs."</p>
+
+<p>"And this one?"</p>
+
+<p>"<i>The Wizard of Oz.</i>"</p>
+
+<p>"Who wrote it?"</p>
+
+<p>"L. Frank Baum."</p>
+
+<p>He threw the books to the floor. He stepped backward. His face was a
+mask of combined sorrow, disbelief, and rage.</p>
+
+<p>"<i>Edith.</i>" He spat the name as if it were acid on his tongue. "Edith,
+<i>you can read</i>!"</p>
+
+<hr class="tb" />
+
+<p>Mom sucked in her sobs. Her chalk-white cheeks were still streaked with
+rivulets of tears.</p>
+
+<p>"I'm sorry, David. I've never told anyone&mdash;not even Ronnie. I haven't
+read a book, haven't even looked at one since we were married. I've
+tried to be a good wife&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"A good wife." Dad sneered. His face was so ugly that Ronnie looked
+away.</p>
+
+<p>Mom continued, "I&mdash;I learned when I was just a girl. I was young like
+Ronnie. You know how young people are&mdash;reckless, eager to do forbidden
+things."</p>
+
+<p>"You lied to me," Dad snapped. "For ten years you've lied to me. Why
+did you want to read, Edith? <i>Why?</i>"</p>
+
+<p>Mom was silent for a few seconds. She was breathing heavily, but no
+longer crying. A calmness entered her features, and for the first time
+tonight Ronnie saw no fear in her eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"I wanted to read," she said, her voice firm and proud, "because, as
+Ronnie said, it's fun. The video's nice, with its dancers and lovers
+and Indians and spacemen&mdash;but sometimes you want more than that.
+Sometimes you want to know how people feel deep inside and how they
+think. And there are beautiful words and beautiful thoughts, just like
+there are beautiful paintings. It isn't enough just to hear them and
+then forget them. Sometimes you want to keep the words and thoughts
+before you because in that way you feel that they belong to you."</p>
+
+<p>Her words echoed in the room until absorbed by the ceaseless, ticking
+clock. Mom stood straight and unashamed. Dad's gaze traveled slowly to
+Ronnie, to Mom, to the clock, back and forth.</p>
+
+<p>At last he said, "Get out."</p>
+
+<p>Mom stared blankly.</p>
+
+<p>"Get out. Both of you. You can send for your things later. I never want
+to see either of you again."</p>
+
+<p>"David&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"I said <i>get out</i>!"</p>
+
+<p>Ronnie and Mom left the house. Outside, the night was dark and a wind
+was rising. Mom shivered in her thin house cloak.</p>
+
+<p>"Where will we go, Ronnie? Where, where&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"I know a place. Maybe we can stay there&mdash;for a little while."</p>
+
+<p>"A little while?" Mom echoed. Her mind seemed frozen by the cold wind.</p>
+
+<p>Ronnie led her through the cold, windy streets. They left the lights of
+the town behind them. They stumbled over a rough, dirt country road.
+They came to a small, rough-boarded house in the deep shadow of an
+eucalyptus grove. The windows of the house were like friendly eyes of
+warm golden light.</p>
+
+<p>An instant later a door opened and a small boy ran out to meet them.</p>
+
+<p>"Hi, Kenny."</p>
+
+<p>"Hi. Who's that? Your mom?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yep. Mr. Davis in?"</p>
+
+<p>"Sure."</p>
+
+<p>And a kindly-faced, bearded young man appeared in the golden doorway,
+smiling.</p>
+
+<p>Ronnie and Mom stepped inside.</p>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Juvenile Delinquent, by Edward W. Ludwig
+
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diff --git a/59368.txt b/59368.txt
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--- a/59368.txt
+++ b/59368.txt
@@ -1,885 +1,885 @@
-The Project Gutenberg EBook of Juvenile Delinquent, by Edward W. Ludwig
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
-almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
-re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
-with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license
-
-
-Title: Juvenile Delinquent
-
-Author: Edward W. Ludwig
-
-Release Date: April 26, 2019 [EBook #59368]
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: ASCII
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JUVENILE DELINQUENT ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
-Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-                          juvenile delinquent
-
-                          BY EDWARD W. LUDWIG
-
-                _When everything is either restricted,
-                 confidential or top-secret, a Reader
-                     is a very bad security risk._
-
-           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
-              Worlds of If Science Fiction, October 1955.
-         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
-         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
-
-
-Tick-de-tock, _tick-de-tock_, whispered the antique clock on the first
-floor of the house.
-
-There was no sound save for the ticking--and for the pounding of
-Ronnie's heart.
-
-He stood alone in his upstairs bedroom. His slender-boned,
-eight-year-old body trembling, perspiration glittering on his white
-forehead.
-
-To Ronnie, the clock seemed to be saying:
-
-_Daddy's coming, Daddy's coming._
-
-The soft shadows of September twilight in this year of 2056 were
-seeping into the bedroom. Ronnie welcomed the fall of darkness. He
-wanted to sink into its deep silence, to become one with it, to escape
-forever from savage tongues and angry eyes.
-
-A burst of hope entered Ronnie's fear-filled eyes. Maybe something
-would happen. Maybe Dad would have an accident. Maybe--
-
-He bit his lip hard, shook his head. No. No matter what Dad might do,
-it wasn't right to wish--
-
-The whirling whine of a gyro-car mushroomed up from the landing
-platform outside.
-
-Ronnie shivered, his pulse quickening. The muscles in his small body
-were like a web of taut-drawn wires.
-
-Sound and movement below. Mom flicking off the controls of the
-kitchen's Auto-Chef. The slow stride of her high heels through the
-living room. The slamming of a gyro-car door. The opening of the front
-door of the house.
-
-Dad's deep, happy voice echoed up the stairway:
-
-"Hi, beautiful!"
-
-Ronnie huddled in the darkness by the half-open bedroom door.
-
-_Please, Mama_, his mind cried, _please don't tell Daddy what I did._
-
-There was a droning, indistinct murmur.
-
-Dad burst, "He was doing _what_?"
-
-More murmuring.
-
-"I can't believe it. You really saw him?... I'll be damned."
-
-Ronnie silently closed the bedroom door.
-
-_Why did you tell him, Mama? Why did you have to tell him?_
-
-"Ronnie!" Dad called.
-
-Ronnie held his breath. His legs seemed as numb and nerveless as the
-stumps of dead trees.
-
-"_Ronnie! Come down here!_"
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Like an automaton, Ronnie shuffled out of his bedroom. He stepped
-on the big silver disk on the landing. The auto-stairs clicked into
-humming movement under his weight.
-
-To his left, on the wall, he caught kaleidoscopic glimpses of Mom's old
-pictures, copies of paintings by medieval artists like Rembrandt, Van
-Gogh, Cezanne, Dali. The faces seemed to be mocking him. Ronnie felt
-like a wounded bird falling out of the sky.
-
-He saw that Dad and Mom were waiting for him.
-
-Mom's round blue eyes were full of mist and sadness. She hadn't
-bothered to smooth her clipped, creamy-brown hair as she always did
-when Dad was coming home.
-
-And Dad, handsome in his night-black, skin-tight Pentagon uniform, had
-become a hostile stranger with narrowed eyes of black fire.
-
-"Is it true, Ronnie?" asked Dad. "Were you really--really reading a
-book?"
-
-Ronnie gulped. He nodded.
-
-"Good Lord," Dad murmured. He took a deep breath and squatted down,
-held Ronnie's arms and looked hard into his eyes. For an instant he
-became the kind, understanding father that Ronnie knew.
-
-"Tell me all about it, son. Where did you get the book? Who taught you
-to read?"
-
-Ronnie tried to keep his legs from shaking. "It was--Daddy, you won't
-make trouble, will you?"
-
-"This is between you and me, son. We don't care about anyone else."
-
-"Well, it was Kenny Davis. He--"
-
-Dad's fingers tightened on Ronnie's arms. "Kenny Davis!" he spat. "The
-boy's no good. His father never had a job in his life. Nobody'd even
-offer him a job. Why, the whole town knows he's a Reader!"
-
-Mom stepped forward. "David, you promised you'd be sensible about this.
-You promised you wouldn't get angry."
-
-Dad grunted. "All right, son. Go ahead."
-
-"Well, one day after school Kenny said he'd show me something. He took
-me to his house--"
-
-"You went to that _shack_? You actually--"
-
-"Dear," said Mom. "You promised."
-
-A moment of silence.
-
-Ronnie said, "He took me to his house. I met his dad. Mr. Davis is lots
-of fun. He has a beard and he paints pictures and he's collected almost
-five hundred books."
-
-Ronnie's voice quavered.
-
-"Go on," said Dad sternly.
-
-"And I--and Mr. Davis said he'd teach me to read them if I promised not
-to tell anybody. So he taught me a little every day after school--oh,
-Dad, books are fun to read. They tell you things you can't see on the
-video or hear on the tapes."
-
-"How long ago did all this start?
-
-"T--two years ago."
-
-Dad rose, fists clenched, staring strangely at nothing.
-
-"Two years," he breathed. "I thought I had a good son, and yet for two
-years--" He shook his head unbelievingly. "Maybe it's my own fault.
-Maybe I shouldn't have come to this small town. I should have taken a
-house in Washington instead of trying to commute."
-
-"David," said Mom, very seriously, almost as if she were praying, "it
-won't be necessary to have him memory-washed, will it?"
-
-Dad looked at Mom, frowning. Then he gazed at Ronnie. His soft-spoken
-words were as ominous as the low growl of thunder:
-
-"I don't know, Edith. I don't know."
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Dad strode to his easy chair by the fireplace. He sank into its
-foam-rubber softness, sighing. He murmured a syllable into a tiny
-ball-mike on the side of the chair. A metallic hand raised a lighted
-cigarette to his lips.
-
-"Come here, son."
-
-Ronnie followed and sat on the hassock by Dad's feet.
-
-"Maybe I've never really explained things to you, Ronnie. You see, you
-won't always be a boy. Someday you'll have to find a way of making a
-living. You've only two choices: You work for the government, like I
-do, or for a corporation."
-
-Ronnie blinked. "Mr. Davis doesn't work for the gover'ment or for a
-corpor-ation."
-
-"Mr. Davis isn't normal," Dad snapped. "He's a hermit. No decent family
-would let him in their house. He grows his own food and sometimes he
-takes care of gardens for people. I want you to have more than that. I
-want you to have a nice home and be respected by people."
-
-Dad puffed furiously on his cigarette.
-
-"And you can't get ahead if people know you've been a Reader. That's
-something you can't live down. No matter how hard you try, people
-always stumble upon the truth."
-
-Dad cleared his throat. "You see, when you get a job, all the
-information you handle will have a classification. It'll be Restricted,
-Low-Confidential, Confidential, High-Confidential, Secret, Top-Secret.
-And all this information will be in writing. No matter what you do,
-you'll have access to some of this information at one time or another."
-
-"B--but why do these things have to be so secret?" Ronnie asked.
-
-"Because of competitors, in the case of corporations--or because of
-enemy nations in the case of government work. The written material you
-might have access to could describe secret weapons and new processes
-or plans for next year's advertising--maybe even a scheme for, er,
-liquidation of a rival. If all facts and policies were made public,
-there might be criticism, controversy, opposition by certain groups.
-The less people know about things, the better. So we have to keep all
-these things secret."
-
-Ronnie scowled. "But if things are written down, someone has to read
-them, don't they?"
-
-"Sure, son. One person in ten thousand might reach the point where
-his corporation or bureau will teach him to read. But you prove your
-ability and loyalty first. By the time you're 35 or 40, they might
-_want_ you to learn to read. But for young people and children--well,
-it just isn't done. Why, the President himself wasn't trusted to learn
-till he was nearly fifty!"
-
-Dad straightened his shoulders. "Look at me. I'm only 30, but I've been
-a messenger for Secret material already. In a few years, if things go
-well, I should be handling _Top_-Secret stuff. And who knows? Maybe by
-the time I'm 50 I'll be _giving_ orders instead of carrying them. Then
-I'll learn to read, too. That's the right way to do it."
-
-Ronnie shifted uncomfortably on the hassock. "But can't a Reader get a
-job that's not so important. Like a barber or a plumber or--"
-
-"Don't you understand? The barber and plumbing equipment corporations
-set up their stores and hire men to work for them. You think they'd
-hire a Reader? People'd say you were a spy or a subversive or that
-you're crazy like old man Davis."
-
-"Mr. Davis isn't crazy. And he isn't old. He's young, just like you,
-and--"
-
-"Ronnie!"
-
-Dad's voice was knife-sharp and December-cold. Ronnie slipped off the
-hassock as if struck physically by the fury of the voice. He sat
-sprawled on his small posterior, fresh fear etched on his thin features.
-
-"Damn it, son, how could you even _think_ of being a Reader? You've got
-a life-sized, 3-D video here, and we put on the smell and touch and
-heat attachments just for you. You can listen to any tape in the world
-at school. Ronnie, don't you realize I'd lose my job if people knew I
-had a Reader for a son?"
-
-"B--but, Daddy--"
-
-Dad jumped to his feet. "I hate to say it, Edith, but we've got to put
-this boy in a reformatory. Maybe a good memory-wash will take some of
-the nonsense out of him!"
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Ronnie suppressed a sob. "No, Daddy, don't let them take away my brain.
-Please--"
-
-Dad stood very tall and very stiff, not even looking at him. "They
-won't take your brain, just your memory for the past two years."
-
-A corner of Mom's mouth twitched. "David, I didn't want anything like
-this. I thought maybe Ronnie could have a few private psychiatric
-treatments. They can do wonderful things now--permi-hypnosis, creations
-of artificial psychic blocks. A memory-wash would mean that Ronnie'd
-have the mind of a six-year-old child again. He'd have to start to
-school all over again."
-
-Dad returned to his chair. He buried his face in trembling hands, and
-some of his anger seemed replaced by despair. "Lord, Edith, I don't
-know what to do."
-
-He looked up abruptly, as if struck by a chilling new thought. "You
-can't keep a two-year memory-wash a secret. I never thought of that
-before. Why, that alone would mean the end of my promotions."
-
-Silence settled over the room, punctuated only by the ticking of the
-antique clock. All movement seemed frozen, as if the room lay at the
-bottom of a cold, thick sea.
-
-"David," Mom finally said.
-
-"Yes?"
-
-"There's only one solution. We can't destroy two years of Ronnie's
-memory--you said that yourself. So we'll have to take him to a
-psychiatrist or maybe a psychoneurologist. A few short treatments--"
-
-Dad interrupted: "But he'd _still_ remember how to read, unconsciously
-anyway. Even permi-hypnosis would wear off in time. The boy can't keep
-going to psychiatrists for the rest of his life."
-
-Thoughtfully he laced his fingers together. "Edith, what kind of a book
-was he reading?"
-
-A tremor passed through Mom's slender body. "There were three books on
-his bed. I'm not sure which one he was actually reading."
-
-Dad groaned. "_Three_ of them. Did you burn them?"
-
-"No, dear, not yet."
-
-"Why not?"
-
-"I don't know. Ronnie seemed to like them so much. I thought that maybe
-tonight, after you d seen them--"
-
-"Get them, damn it. Let's burn the filthy things."
-
-Mom went to a mahogany chest in the dining room, produced three faded
-volumes. She put them on the hassock at Dad's feet.
-
-Dad gingerly turned a cover. His lips curled in disgust as if he were
-touching a rotting corpse.
-
-"Old," he mused, "--so very old. Ironic, isn't it? Our lives are being
-wrecked by things that should have been destroyed and forgotten a
-hundred years ago."
-
-A sudden frown contorted his dark features.
-
-_Tick-de-tock, tick-de-tock_, said the antique clock.
-
-"A hundred years old," he repeated. His mouth became a hard, thin line.
-"Edith, I think I know why Ronnie wanted to read, why he fell into the
-trap so easily."
-
-"What do you mean, David?"
-
-Dad nodded at the clock, and the slow, smouldering anger returned to
-his face. "It's _your_ fault, Edith. You've always liked old things.
-That clock of your great-great-grandmother's. Those old prints on the
-wall. That stamp collection you started for Ronnie--stamps dated way
-back to the 1940's."
-
-Mom's face paled. "I don't understand."
-
-"You've interested Ronnie in old things. To a child in its formative
-years, in a pleasant house, these things symbolize peace and security.
-Ronnie's been conditioned from the very time of his birth to like old
-things. It was natural for him to be attracted by books. And we were
-just too stupid to realize it."
-
-Mom whispered hoarsely, "I'm sorry, David."
-
-Hot anger flashed in Dad's eyes. "It isn't enough to be sorry. Don't
-you see what this means? Ronnie'll have to be memory-washed back to the
-time of birth. He'll have to start life all over again."
-
-"No, David, no!"
-
-"And in my position I can't afford to have an eight-year-old son with
-the mind of a new-born baby. It's got to be Abandonment, Edith, there's
-no other way. The boy can start life over in a reformatory, with a
-complete memory-wash. He'll never know we existed, and he'll never
-bother us again."
-
-Mom ran up to Dad. She put her hands on his shoulders. Great sobs burst
-from her shaking body.
-
-"You can't, David! I won't let--"
-
-He slapped her then with the palm of his hand. The sound was like a
-pistol shot in the hot, tight air.
-
-Dad stood now like a colossus carved of black ice. His right hand was
-still upraised, ready to strike again.
-
-Then his hand fell. His mind seemed to be toying with a new thought, a
-new concept.
-
-He seized one of the books on the hassock.
-
-"Edith," he said crisply, "just what was Ronnie reading? What's the
-name of this book?"
-
-"_The--The Adventures of Tom Sawyer_," said Mom through her sobs.
-
-He grabbed the second book, held it before her shimmering vision.
-
-"And the name of this?"
-
-"_Tarzan of The Apes._" Mom's voice was a barely audible croak.
-
-"Who's the author?"
-
-"Edgar Rice Burroughs."
-
-"And this one?"
-
-"_The Wizard of Oz._"
-
-"Who wrote it?"
-
-"L. Frank Baum."
-
-He threw the books to the floor. He stepped backward. His face was a
-mask of combined sorrow, disbelief, and rage.
-
-"_Edith._" He spat the name as if it were acid on his tongue. "Edith,
-_you can read_!"
-
-       *       *       *       *       *
-
-Mom sucked in her sobs. Her chalk-white cheeks were still streaked with
-rivulets of tears.
-
-"I'm sorry, David. I've never told anyone--not even Ronnie. I haven't
-read a book, haven't even looked at one since we were married. I've
-tried to be a good wife--"
-
-"A good wife." Dad sneered. His face was so ugly that Ronnie looked
-away.
-
-Mom continued, "I--I learned when I was just a girl. I was young like
-Ronnie. You know how young people are--reckless, eager to do forbidden
-things."
-
-"You lied to me," Dad snapped. "For ten years you've lied to me. Why
-did you want to read, Edith? _Why?_"
-
-Mom was silent for a few seconds. She was breathing heavily, but no
-longer crying. A calmness entered her features, and for the first time
-tonight Ronnie saw no fear in her eyes.
-
-"I wanted to read," she said, her voice firm and proud, "because, as
-Ronnie said, it's fun. The video's nice, with its dancers and lovers
-and Indians and spacemen--but sometimes you want more than that.
-Sometimes you want to know how people feel deep inside and how they
-think. And there are beautiful words and beautiful thoughts, just like
-there are beautiful paintings. It isn't enough just to hear them and
-then forget them. Sometimes you want to keep the words and thoughts
-before you because in that way you feel that they belong to you."
-
-Her words echoed in the room until absorbed by the ceaseless, ticking
-clock. Mom stood straight and unashamed. Dad's gaze traveled slowly to
-Ronnie, to Mom, to the clock, back and forth.
-
-At last he said, "Get out."
-
-Mom stared blankly.
-
-"Get out. Both of you. You can send for your things later. I never want
-to see either of you again."
-
-"David--"
-
-"I said _get out_!"
-
-Ronnie and Mom left the house. Outside, the night was dark and a wind
-was rising. Mom shivered in her thin house cloak.
-
-"Where will we go, Ronnie? Where, where--"
-
-"I know a place. Maybe we can stay there--for a little while."
-
-"A little while?" Mom echoed. Her mind seemed frozen by the cold wind.
-
-Ronnie led her through the cold, windy streets. They left the lights of
-the town behind them. They stumbled over a rough, dirt country road.
-They came to a small, rough-boarded house in the deep shadow of an
-eucalyptus grove. The windows of the house were like friendly eyes of
-warm golden light.
-
-An instant later a door opened and a small boy ran out to meet them.
-
-"Hi, Kenny."
-
-"Hi. Who's that? Your mom?"
-
-"Yep. Mr. Davis in?"
-
-"Sure."
-
-And a kindly-faced, bearded young man appeared in the golden doorway,
-smiling.
-
-Ronnie and Mom stepped inside.
-
-
-
-
-
-End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Juvenile Delinquent, by Edward W. Ludwig
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Juvenile Delinquent, by Edward W. Ludwig
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license
+
+
+Title: Juvenile Delinquent
+
+Author: Edward W. Ludwig
+
+Release Date: April 26, 2019 [EBook #59368]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JUVENILE DELINQUENT ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+                          juvenile delinquent
+
+                          BY EDWARD W. LUDWIG
+
+                _When everything is either restricted,
+                 confidential or top-secret, a Reader
+                     is a very bad security risk._
+
+           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
+              Worlds of If Science Fiction, October 1955.
+         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
+         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
+
+
+Tick-de-tock, _tick-de-tock_, whispered the antique clock on the first
+floor of the house.
+
+There was no sound save for the ticking--and for the pounding of
+Ronnie's heart.
+
+He stood alone in his upstairs bedroom. His slender-boned,
+eight-year-old body trembling, perspiration glittering on his white
+forehead.
+
+To Ronnie, the clock seemed to be saying:
+
+_Daddy's coming, Daddy's coming._
+
+The soft shadows of September twilight in this year of 2056 were
+seeping into the bedroom. Ronnie welcomed the fall of darkness. He
+wanted to sink into its deep silence, to become one with it, to escape
+forever from savage tongues and angry eyes.
+
+A burst of hope entered Ronnie's fear-filled eyes. Maybe something
+would happen. Maybe Dad would have an accident. Maybe--
+
+He bit his lip hard, shook his head. No. No matter what Dad might do,
+it wasn't right to wish--
+
+The whirling whine of a gyro-car mushroomed up from the landing
+platform outside.
+
+Ronnie shivered, his pulse quickening. The muscles in his small body
+were like a web of taut-drawn wires.
+
+Sound and movement below. Mom flicking off the controls of the
+kitchen's Auto-Chef. The slow stride of her high heels through the
+living room. The slamming of a gyro-car door. The opening of the front
+door of the house.
+
+Dad's deep, happy voice echoed up the stairway:
+
+"Hi, beautiful!"
+
+Ronnie huddled in the darkness by the half-open bedroom door.
+
+_Please, Mama_, his mind cried, _please don't tell Daddy what I did._
+
+There was a droning, indistinct murmur.
+
+Dad burst, "He was doing _what_?"
+
+More murmuring.
+
+"I can't believe it. You really saw him?... I'll be damned."
+
+Ronnie silently closed the bedroom door.
+
+_Why did you tell him, Mama? Why did you have to tell him?_
+
+"Ronnie!" Dad called.
+
+Ronnie held his breath. His legs seemed as numb and nerveless as the
+stumps of dead trees.
+
+"_Ronnie! Come down here!_"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Like an automaton, Ronnie shuffled out of his bedroom. He stepped
+on the big silver disk on the landing. The auto-stairs clicked into
+humming movement under his weight.
+
+To his left, on the wall, he caught kaleidoscopic glimpses of Mom's old
+pictures, copies of paintings by medieval artists like Rembrandt, Van
+Gogh, Cezanne, Dali. The faces seemed to be mocking him. Ronnie felt
+like a wounded bird falling out of the sky.
+
+He saw that Dad and Mom were waiting for him.
+
+Mom's round blue eyes were full of mist and sadness. She hadn't
+bothered to smooth her clipped, creamy-brown hair as she always did
+when Dad was coming home.
+
+And Dad, handsome in his night-black, skin-tight Pentagon uniform, had
+become a hostile stranger with narrowed eyes of black fire.
+
+"Is it true, Ronnie?" asked Dad. "Were you really--really reading a
+book?"
+
+Ronnie gulped. He nodded.
+
+"Good Lord," Dad murmured. He took a deep breath and squatted down,
+held Ronnie's arms and looked hard into his eyes. For an instant he
+became the kind, understanding father that Ronnie knew.
+
+"Tell me all about it, son. Where did you get the book? Who taught you
+to read?"
+
+Ronnie tried to keep his legs from shaking. "It was--Daddy, you won't
+make trouble, will you?"
+
+"This is between you and me, son. We don't care about anyone else."
+
+"Well, it was Kenny Davis. He--"
+
+Dad's fingers tightened on Ronnie's arms. "Kenny Davis!" he spat. "The
+boy's no good. His father never had a job in his life. Nobody'd even
+offer him a job. Why, the whole town knows he's a Reader!"
+
+Mom stepped forward. "David, you promised you'd be sensible about this.
+You promised you wouldn't get angry."
+
+Dad grunted. "All right, son. Go ahead."
+
+"Well, one day after school Kenny said he'd show me something. He took
+me to his house--"
+
+"You went to that _shack_? You actually--"
+
+"Dear," said Mom. "You promised."
+
+A moment of silence.
+
+Ronnie said, "He took me to his house. I met his dad. Mr. Davis is lots
+of fun. He has a beard and he paints pictures and he's collected almost
+five hundred books."
+
+Ronnie's voice quavered.
+
+"Go on," said Dad sternly.
+
+"And I--and Mr. Davis said he'd teach me to read them if I promised not
+to tell anybody. So he taught me a little every day after school--oh,
+Dad, books are fun to read. They tell you things you can't see on the
+video or hear on the tapes."
+
+"How long ago did all this start?
+
+"T--two years ago."
+
+Dad rose, fists clenched, staring strangely at nothing.
+
+"Two years," he breathed. "I thought I had a good son, and yet for two
+years--" He shook his head unbelievingly. "Maybe it's my own fault.
+Maybe I shouldn't have come to this small town. I should have taken a
+house in Washington instead of trying to commute."
+
+"David," said Mom, very seriously, almost as if she were praying, "it
+won't be necessary to have him memory-washed, will it?"
+
+Dad looked at Mom, frowning. Then he gazed at Ronnie. His soft-spoken
+words were as ominous as the low growl of thunder:
+
+"I don't know, Edith. I don't know."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Dad strode to his easy chair by the fireplace. He sank into its
+foam-rubber softness, sighing. He murmured a syllable into a tiny
+ball-mike on the side of the chair. A metallic hand raised a lighted
+cigarette to his lips.
+
+"Come here, son."
+
+Ronnie followed and sat on the hassock by Dad's feet.
+
+"Maybe I've never really explained things to you, Ronnie. You see, you
+won't always be a boy. Someday you'll have to find a way of making a
+living. You've only two choices: You work for the government, like I
+do, or for a corporation."
+
+Ronnie blinked. "Mr. Davis doesn't work for the gover'ment or for a
+corpor-ation."
+
+"Mr. Davis isn't normal," Dad snapped. "He's a hermit. No decent family
+would let him in their house. He grows his own food and sometimes he
+takes care of gardens for people. I want you to have more than that. I
+want you to have a nice home and be respected by people."
+
+Dad puffed furiously on his cigarette.
+
+"And you can't get ahead if people know you've been a Reader. That's
+something you can't live down. No matter how hard you try, people
+always stumble upon the truth."
+
+Dad cleared his throat. "You see, when you get a job, all the
+information you handle will have a classification. It'll be Restricted,
+Low-Confidential, Confidential, High-Confidential, Secret, Top-Secret.
+And all this information will be in writing. No matter what you do,
+you'll have access to some of this information at one time or another."
+
+"B--but why do these things have to be so secret?" Ronnie asked.
+
+"Because of competitors, in the case of corporations--or because of
+enemy nations in the case of government work. The written material you
+might have access to could describe secret weapons and new processes
+or plans for next year's advertising--maybe even a scheme for, er,
+liquidation of a rival. If all facts and policies were made public,
+there might be criticism, controversy, opposition by certain groups.
+The less people know about things, the better. So we have to keep all
+these things secret."
+
+Ronnie scowled. "But if things are written down, someone has to read
+them, don't they?"
+
+"Sure, son. One person in ten thousand might reach the point where
+his corporation or bureau will teach him to read. But you prove your
+ability and loyalty first. By the time you're 35 or 40, they might
+_want_ you to learn to read. But for young people and children--well,
+it just isn't done. Why, the President himself wasn't trusted to learn
+till he was nearly fifty!"
+
+Dad straightened his shoulders. "Look at me. I'm only 30, but I've been
+a messenger for Secret material already. In a few years, if things go
+well, I should be handling _Top_-Secret stuff. And who knows? Maybe by
+the time I'm 50 I'll be _giving_ orders instead of carrying them. Then
+I'll learn to read, too. That's the right way to do it."
+
+Ronnie shifted uncomfortably on the hassock. "But can't a Reader get a
+job that's not so important. Like a barber or a plumber or--"
+
+"Don't you understand? The barber and plumbing equipment corporations
+set up their stores and hire men to work for them. You think they'd
+hire a Reader? People'd say you were a spy or a subversive or that
+you're crazy like old man Davis."
+
+"Mr. Davis isn't crazy. And he isn't old. He's young, just like you,
+and--"
+
+"Ronnie!"
+
+Dad's voice was knife-sharp and December-cold. Ronnie slipped off the
+hassock as if struck physically by the fury of the voice. He sat
+sprawled on his small posterior, fresh fear etched on his thin features.
+
+"Damn it, son, how could you even _think_ of being a Reader? You've got
+a life-sized, 3-D video here, and we put on the smell and touch and
+heat attachments just for you. You can listen to any tape in the world
+at school. Ronnie, don't you realize I'd lose my job if people knew I
+had a Reader for a son?"
+
+"B--but, Daddy--"
+
+Dad jumped to his feet. "I hate to say it, Edith, but we've got to put
+this boy in a reformatory. Maybe a good memory-wash will take some of
+the nonsense out of him!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Ronnie suppressed a sob. "No, Daddy, don't let them take away my brain.
+Please--"
+
+Dad stood very tall and very stiff, not even looking at him. "They
+won't take your brain, just your memory for the past two years."
+
+A corner of Mom's mouth twitched. "David, I didn't want anything like
+this. I thought maybe Ronnie could have a few private psychiatric
+treatments. They can do wonderful things now--permi-hypnosis, creations
+of artificial psychic blocks. A memory-wash would mean that Ronnie'd
+have the mind of a six-year-old child again. He'd have to start to
+school all over again."
+
+Dad returned to his chair. He buried his face in trembling hands, and
+some of his anger seemed replaced by despair. "Lord, Edith, I don't
+know what to do."
+
+He looked up abruptly, as if struck by a chilling new thought. "You
+can't keep a two-year memory-wash a secret. I never thought of that
+before. Why, that alone would mean the end of my promotions."
+
+Silence settled over the room, punctuated only by the ticking of the
+antique clock. All movement seemed frozen, as if the room lay at the
+bottom of a cold, thick sea.
+
+"David," Mom finally said.
+
+"Yes?"
+
+"There's only one solution. We can't destroy two years of Ronnie's
+memory--you said that yourself. So we'll have to take him to a
+psychiatrist or maybe a psychoneurologist. A few short treatments--"
+
+Dad interrupted: "But he'd _still_ remember how to read, unconsciously
+anyway. Even permi-hypnosis would wear off in time. The boy can't keep
+going to psychiatrists for the rest of his life."
+
+Thoughtfully he laced his fingers together. "Edith, what kind of a book
+was he reading?"
+
+A tremor passed through Mom's slender body. "There were three books on
+his bed. I'm not sure which one he was actually reading."
+
+Dad groaned. "_Three_ of them. Did you burn them?"
+
+"No, dear, not yet."
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"I don't know. Ronnie seemed to like them so much. I thought that maybe
+tonight, after you d seen them--"
+
+"Get them, damn it. Let's burn the filthy things."
+
+Mom went to a mahogany chest in the dining room, produced three faded
+volumes. She put them on the hassock at Dad's feet.
+
+Dad gingerly turned a cover. His lips curled in disgust as if he were
+touching a rotting corpse.
+
+"Old," he mused, "--so very old. Ironic, isn't it? Our lives are being
+wrecked by things that should have been destroyed and forgotten a
+hundred years ago."
+
+A sudden frown contorted his dark features.
+
+_Tick-de-tock, tick-de-tock_, said the antique clock.
+
+"A hundred years old," he repeated. His mouth became a hard, thin line.
+"Edith, I think I know why Ronnie wanted to read, why he fell into the
+trap so easily."
+
+"What do you mean, David?"
+
+Dad nodded at the clock, and the slow, smouldering anger returned to
+his face. "It's _your_ fault, Edith. You've always liked old things.
+That clock of your great-great-grandmother's. Those old prints on the
+wall. That stamp collection you started for Ronnie--stamps dated way
+back to the 1940's."
+
+Mom's face paled. "I don't understand."
+
+"You've interested Ronnie in old things. To a child in its formative
+years, in a pleasant house, these things symbolize peace and security.
+Ronnie's been conditioned from the very time of his birth to like old
+things. It was natural for him to be attracted by books. And we were
+just too stupid to realize it."
+
+Mom whispered hoarsely, "I'm sorry, David."
+
+Hot anger flashed in Dad's eyes. "It isn't enough to be sorry. Don't
+you see what this means? Ronnie'll have to be memory-washed back to the
+time of birth. He'll have to start life all over again."
+
+"No, David, no!"
+
+"And in my position I can't afford to have an eight-year-old son with
+the mind of a new-born baby. It's got to be Abandonment, Edith, there's
+no other way. The boy can start life over in a reformatory, with a
+complete memory-wash. He'll never know we existed, and he'll never
+bother us again."
+
+Mom ran up to Dad. She put her hands on his shoulders. Great sobs burst
+from her shaking body.
+
+"You can't, David! I won't let--"
+
+He slapped her then with the palm of his hand. The sound was like a
+pistol shot in the hot, tight air.
+
+Dad stood now like a colossus carved of black ice. His right hand was
+still upraised, ready to strike again.
+
+Then his hand fell. His mind seemed to be toying with a new thought, a
+new concept.
+
+He seized one of the books on the hassock.
+
+"Edith," he said crisply, "just what was Ronnie reading? What's the
+name of this book?"
+
+"_The--The Adventures of Tom Sawyer_," said Mom through her sobs.
+
+He grabbed the second book, held it before her shimmering vision.
+
+"And the name of this?"
+
+"_Tarzan of The Apes._" Mom's voice was a barely audible croak.
+
+"Who's the author?"
+
+"Edgar Rice Burroughs."
+
+"And this one?"
+
+"_The Wizard of Oz._"
+
+"Who wrote it?"
+
+"L. Frank Baum."
+
+He threw the books to the floor. He stepped backward. His face was a
+mask of combined sorrow, disbelief, and rage.
+
+"_Edith._" He spat the name as if it were acid on his tongue. "Edith,
+_you can read_!"
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Mom sucked in her sobs. Her chalk-white cheeks were still streaked with
+rivulets of tears.
+
+"I'm sorry, David. I've never told anyone--not even Ronnie. I haven't
+read a book, haven't even looked at one since we were married. I've
+tried to be a good wife--"
+
+"A good wife." Dad sneered. His face was so ugly that Ronnie looked
+away.
+
+Mom continued, "I--I learned when I was just a girl. I was young like
+Ronnie. You know how young people are--reckless, eager to do forbidden
+things."
+
+"You lied to me," Dad snapped. "For ten years you've lied to me. Why
+did you want to read, Edith? _Why?_"
+
+Mom was silent for a few seconds. She was breathing heavily, but no
+longer crying. A calmness entered her features, and for the first time
+tonight Ronnie saw no fear in her eyes.
+
+"I wanted to read," she said, her voice firm and proud, "because, as
+Ronnie said, it's fun. The video's nice, with its dancers and lovers
+and Indians and spacemen--but sometimes you want more than that.
+Sometimes you want to know how people feel deep inside and how they
+think. And there are beautiful words and beautiful thoughts, just like
+there are beautiful paintings. It isn't enough just to hear them and
+then forget them. Sometimes you want to keep the words and thoughts
+before you because in that way you feel that they belong to you."
+
+Her words echoed in the room until absorbed by the ceaseless, ticking
+clock. Mom stood straight and unashamed. Dad's gaze traveled slowly to
+Ronnie, to Mom, to the clock, back and forth.
+
+At last he said, "Get out."
+
+Mom stared blankly.
+
+"Get out. Both of you. You can send for your things later. I never want
+to see either of you again."
+
+"David--"
+
+"I said _get out_!"
+
+Ronnie and Mom left the house. Outside, the night was dark and a wind
+was rising. Mom shivered in her thin house cloak.
+
+"Where will we go, Ronnie? Where, where--"
+
+"I know a place. Maybe we can stay there--for a little while."
+
+"A little while?" Mom echoed. Her mind seemed frozen by the cold wind.
+
+Ronnie led her through the cold, windy streets. They left the lights of
+the town behind them. They stumbled over a rough, dirt country road.
+They came to a small, rough-boarded house in the deep shadow of an
+eucalyptus grove. The windows of the house were like friendly eyes of
+warm golden light.
+
+An instant later a door opened and a small boy ran out to meet them.
+
+"Hi, Kenny."
+
+"Hi. Who's that? Your mom?"
+
+"Yep. Mr. Davis in?"
+
+"Sure."
+
+And a kindly-faced, bearded young man appeared in the golden doorway,
+smiling.
+
+Ronnie and Mom stepped inside.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Juvenile Delinquent, by Edward W. Ludwig
+
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author	nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org>	2025-02-09 15:24:43 -0800
committer	nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org>	2025-02-09 15:24:43 -0800
commit	9aa200df56e4aa1659969b5028b2f58aedd9c6a5 (patch)
tree	7ace2f882235ed052bbe4f7307ccf95361278d56
parent	f15edc9a1cafa80fca7051ba6a1ad8eae38d02a8 (diff)