We reported to the receptionist robot in an alcove controlling the inner set of doors. "You are fifteen minutes late," said the machine. "I will announce you. Be seated please." We remained standing. I spied a public wall phone and jerked into awareness. "Excuse me, honey. I have to call the office!" I hastily dialed our number and got the busy signal. Wow! All nine lines were tied up, including our human and our robot receptionists. I immediately dialed our unlisted private number, and somebody answered with a curse, and I knew it was my partner Charlie Spacker. "Compete, man! Compete!" he shouted. "Where the hell are you?" "Chicago Classical School. Personal problem. I told you about it." "Well, get over here quick! That Venus situation is about to blow up, and we're tied up to the tune of three hundred million in wheat and soybeans!" "I'll be over within a half hour. Meanwhile, have Claire book passage on the next Venus rocket. One of us has got to go there." "Willco," said Claire. She always monitored our calls. "All right," stormed Charlie, "that may help us a month from now. But what about now? Do I buy or sell? These customers are drowning me!" Charlie was a great bluff man who inspired the clients' confidence, but he quailed at policy decisions. I thought fast. I'd go there and make a deal with the insurrectionists. Help finance the rebellion in exchange for exclusive first option. If they won, good. If they lost, status quo anyway. Celia was gesturing urgently as the inner door opened. "Buy!" I said and I slammed down the receiver. * * * * * It was hard to adjust to the dim lighting in the principal's office. His room was loaded with antique fiberglass furniture of the twenty-first century. He sat behind, or rather within, a donut-shaped desk, a moon-faced man with short, monk-like haircut, and bulbous nose. "You are the parents of Edmund Sponsor?" We nodded. He pressed a button. "Very well. We will send for the boy." He swivelled around to face a wall of slanting glass which overlooked the children's playground. We could see two ranks of boys in a tug-of-war, and some little girls playing red-rover. "Scott," he said into a tiny microphone on his desk top. A playground instructor looked up. "Yes, sir?" "Please send Edmund Sponsor to my office." "He's not here, sir. I believe he's in the dormitory." "How does that happen?" demanded the principal. "This is game time." "He declined to join in the competition, sir." "I see. Thank you." I felt a hot flush of embarrassment. My son non-competitive? That seemed impossible. He must be ill. It was an insulting accusation. The principal flicked on the wall visa-screen. It showed a lean, rather formally-attired man seated on a lounge in the anteroom, next to a uniformed policeman. "Masefield? I believe it would expedite matters if you would find Edmund Sponsor in the dormitory and bring him here. Would you do that, please?"