"Calculus! Well, well, well --" this was one of Pa's catch-all phrases, like "How _about_ that?" or "What do you know?" "Well, well, well. I can't believe how much they stuff into kids' heads here." "Yes, sir. There's an awful lot left to learn, yet." We did a subject every two weeks. So far, I'd done French, Molecular and Cellular Biology, Physics and Astrophysics, Esperanto, Cantonese and Mandarin, and an alien language whose name translated as "Standard." I'd been exempted from History, of course, along with the other kids there from the past -- the Chinese girl from the Ming Dynasty, the Roman boy, and the Injun kid from South America. Pa laughed around his cigar and crossed his legs. His shoes were so big, they looked like canoes. "There surely is, son. There surely is. And how are you doing with your classmates? Any tussles your teacher will want to talk to me about?" "No, sir! We're friendly as all get-out, even the girls." The kids in 75 didn't even notice what they were doing in school. They just sat down at their workstations and waited to have their brains filled with whatever was going on, and left at three, and never complained about something being too hard or too dull. "That's good to hear, son. You've always been a good boy. Tell you what: you bring home a good report this Christmas, and I'll take you to see Saturn's rings on vacation." Mama shot him a look then, but he pretended he didn't see it. He stubbed out his cigar, hitched up his suspenders, and put on his tailcoat and tophat and ambassadorial sash and picked up his leather case. "Good night, son. Good night, Ulla. I'll see you on Wednesday," he said, and stepped into the teleporter. That was the last time I ever saw him. # "He died from bad snails?" Oly Sweynsdatter said to me, yet again. I balled up a fist and stuck it under his nose. "For the last time, yes. Ask me again, and I'll feed you this." I'd been back for a month, and in all that time, Oly had skittered around me like a shy pony, always nearby but afraid to talk to me. Finally, I'd grabbed him and shook him and told him not to be such a ninny, tell me what was on his mind. He wanted to know how my Pa had died, over in France. I told him the reason that Mama and Mr Johnstone and the man from the embassy had worked out together. Now, I regretted it. I couldn't get him to shut up. "Sorry, all right, sorry!" he said, taking a step backwards. We were in the orchard behind the schoolyard, chucking rotten apples at the tree-trunks to watch them splatter. "Want to hear something?" "Sure," I said. "Tommy Benson's sweet on Marta Helprin. It's disgusting. They hold hands -- _in church_! None of the fellows will talk to him."