"That's an excuse all the shlubs use. No. The fact is, he just can't compete. And unless you compete in this world, you're dead." Below on its own crescent-shaped island lay Chicago Classical School. I put our ship into a fast elevator dive. "My sympathies," I added, "go to Dolores. She's a bright, attractive kid. Keen competitor. She didn't deserve a shlub for a husband." I paused. "And about that party they're giving tonight. I'm not going." * * * * * Chicago Classical was frankly a boarding school for privileged kids. It taught the first six years, and no better I'm sure than the public schools of Chicago. But there was social distinction. The contacts would be good for Freddie later on. Freddie boarded there five days a week and came home to us on weekends, uncommunicative about his experiences, but happy to go romping with me in the woods and ravine adjoining our estate near Mason City. Unfortunately, that wasn't too often. Competitive pressure kept me in Chicago sometimes three or four weeks at a stretch. When they gave the first graders a word-picture test, Celia once told me, Freddie had represented the word _father_ by the symbols of a bald head, pipe and briefcase. After that, whenever I couldn't get home on Saturday or Sunday, I made an effort to have lunch with the boy in Chicago at least once during the week. But of course you can't get to know your son very well that way. "Just what is this trouble Freddie's involved in?" I asked as we descended. "Why don't you keep me better informed on the boy?" "I try to, but when have you had time to listen? I usually see you at our cocktail parties for clients, or else at three in the morning when you drop into bed too exhausted to get into pajamas." "Well, this matter with the principal. Are you sure it's so serious?" "They never ask for both parents unless it is," Celia assured me, glancing soberly at the school buildings as we came to earth. We parked, I noticed, alongside a dark blue official car, with the municipal seal, and the initials S.T.A.R.S. "Never heard of that one," I told Celia as we walked to the main dormitory and administration building. The place was a gloomy gray, vine-covered neo-gothic structure which ignored almost a thousand years of architectural progress. An old-fashioned electric eye opened the door. Inside, the building smelled like stale bread, musty linen and floor varnish, combined with a dash of urine. The interior lighting was unnaturally bright, it seemed to me, like in a surgical arena. The only harmonious note was struck by the mural in the vestibule. One entire wall was covered by an allegorical painting of sports, professions, and industry, with the phrase COMPETE OR PERISH emblazoned boldly across the top. Celia nudged me. "A little raw for school kids, don't you think?" This was an old, unhealed grievance between us. "Those are the twenty-fourth century facts of life," I replied evenly.