He hadn’t been smiling when he’d handed out the test sheets to Ron and the other sixteen-year-olds. Nor had he smiled when they had left the Exams, eight grueling hours later.

“Ron, you kept the Examiner waiting,” his father snapped.

“I’m sorry . . . I was out in the workshop . . .” But you knew that, Ron thought.

The Examiner said, “Perfectly all right, although I am rather pressed for time. Ronald Morgan, I have the pleasure of announcing that you scored in the top three percent of the National Exams.”

Ron felt the breath gush out of him. He hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath. His father broke into a broad grin and looked up at him happily.

“Your scores were especially good in the mechanical arts and electronics. Math was a little low, but still in the highest ten percentile. All in all, one of the best Exams it’s been my pleasure to score this year. Congratulations.”

“Um . . . er . . . thank you, sir.”

“Marvelous, son. Marvelous.”

“Now then,” the Examiner went on, “you are in the happy position of being qualified to choose the Career vector you desire. You are obviously too valuable a man for service in the Armed Forces—unless you choose to volunteer for officer training. With your Exam results, you could be commissioned in the Army, Navy, or Space Forces quite easily.”

Ron’s father said, “I don’t think—”

“No, no, no,” said the Examiner. “The decision must not be made right now. You must take your time and decide by the end of the month. You must think over many different sides of the problem.”

“Of course. Excuse me.”

Turning his gaze back to Ron, the Examiner went on, “In addition to the Service vector, the next choice of Career vector is in the Business community. You can enter the Business college of your choice, with these Exam results behind you. There are several fine schools in this State that are free. There are even better private Business schools, if you so choose.”

Ron nodded.

“The final choice open to you is the University vector. Your high scores in science and the mechanical arts show that you would enjoy a career in science or engineering. You’d need to work a little harder on your math, of course.”

“Yes,” Ron agreed.

“There are very few career openings in the sciences, you must realize. Only a young man with as brilliant an Exam as yours can even think of trying for the sciences. On the other hand, there is a great need for engineers—men who can make machines work properly. If I were making a recommendation, that’s what I would pick for you.”

The Examiner stopped talking and looked at Ron. Not knowing what to say, Ron simply mumbled, “Thank you, sir,” again.

“Very good,” the Examiner said. “Well . . . talk it over. Think about it very carefully. Remember that the choice you make will determine your Career vector for life. This is the most important choice you will ever make, young man. Good luck. I will expect to hear from you by the first . . . no, no, there’s the Labor Day holiday. I will expect to hear from you on the Tuesday after Labor Day.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Morgan said.

The TV screen faded into grayness.

“Son, I’m proud of you!” Mr. Morgan pulled himself up from the sofa and stood before his son, with his hand outstretched. Ron grasped it, grinning and feeling a little sheepish.

His father pumped Ron’s hand hard. “You’ve done very well. Very well indeed.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Come on, let’s go up and tell your mother.”

Mrs. Morgan was quiet and frail. She lived on pills and long talks with doctors on the TV phone. She seldom left her bedroom. When Ron and his father entered her bedroom, she was sitting up in bed, her lounging robe buttoned up to the neck. She smiled and nodded when they told her of the Examiner’s call. Then she called Ron over to her side and hugged him.

“I knew you would make it, Ronnie dear,” she said.

After a few moments of her fussing over Ron, Mr. Morgan took over and pulled him away from her. He towed Ron by the arm out of her bedroom and into his own den. It was a darkly paneled room, part office and part hideaway. Mr. Morgan closed the door firmly and pointed to the chair in front of his desk.

“Sit down, son.”

Ron sat while his father went behind the desk and pulled a little booklet from one of the drawers.

“This is from Getty College, where I went to school,” Mr. Morgan said, sliding the booklet across the desk toward Ron. “I knew you’d do well in the Exams. I’ve already enrolled you in Getty’s business school—the same course that I had as a freshman!”

And now Ron knew why he had been scared. It wasn’t that he had been afraid of flunking the Exams, of going into the Army to fight in South America. It was this. He was afraid of his father.

“Dad . . .” His voice was so low that he could barely hear himself. “Dad . . . I, uh . . . I don’t know if I want to go to business school. Maybe I ought to try science. The Examiner said—”

“Science?” Mr. Morgan’s face went hard. His brows pulled together in a frown. “Science? What good is that? Spend the rest of your life in some dumb university, teaching kids useless stuff? No, that’s not for you.”

“But it’s what I like best. The Examiner said—”

“I was there!” His father’s voice got louder. “I heard what he said. He said he’d recommend engineering, not science. But I’m telling you that you’re going into business. That’s where the money is.”

“But I—”

“Don’t argue! I’m your father and you’ll do as I say!”

Ron said, “It’s my life, Dad.”

“And you think you’re old enough to run it for yourself? You’re only a sixteen-year-old snot! Who the hell do you think you are to turn your nose up at a business career? Nine-tenths of the kids in this Tract would sell their sisters for the chance to go to Getty! You just don’t know what you’re doing.”

Before Ron could think of anything for an answer, his father went on, but in a gentler voice, “Listen, son, I really know a lot more about the world than you do. The business career is best, believe me. Once you—”

Ron stared at the carpet and shook his head.

His father pounded a fist on the desk so hard that the desk lamp tumbled over. Ron jerked back and looked up at the old man—he was red-faced and snarling.

“You’re going to Getty whether you like it or not!” he shouted.

No I’m not, Ron said to himself. I’m going to run away. I’ll go to New York!

It was easy.

So easy that Ron could hardly believe it. It took him all week to work up the nerve. Then, on Saturday morning, while his father was out with his usual golfing foursome, he told his mother that he was going to spend the weekend with some of his friends who lived in the next housing Tract, a few miles away.

“Don’t go on the freeway with your bike, Ronnie dear. Stay on the secondary roads—they’re safer.”

That’s all she said.

Ron went up to his room and put on a clean one-piece zipsuit. I can get throwaway clothes in New York, he thought. Don’t have to carry anything else with me. He took his credit card and all the cash he had in the house, about thirty dollars. He walked his power bike out of the garage, started its tiny electric motor, and hummed down the driveway and into the street.