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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 59368 ***
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+                          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
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 59368 ***