"I'm afraid it's a little too late for that," said the educator. "School is a powerful influence, but home is the decisive influence in the molding of a child's character and outlook. The plain and simple fact is that your home--Edmund's home--has been an _anti_-competitive influence! No school can counterbalance it." "That's absurd! Do you realize what line of business I'm engaged in?" "I'm fully aware of that. However, how much time do you actually spend with your son, teaching him the precepts of our democracy?" "What are you driving at?" He had made up his mind to say it. He leaned forward across his donut-shaped desk and said very deliberately: "When the home fails in its duty, the state must step in and do the job. We have recommended that Edmund be placed in our city's Special Training and Re-Education School, and that he be isolated from all parental influence for a period of five years. Or until such time as his attitude shall have displayed a fundamental change." Celia was on her feet. "What! You mean we can't see him for five years!" I was leaning over his desk, almost yelling. "You are not going to take our boy away from us. We'll fight it in the courts." The principal likewise stood up. He stared at us, disdainful in his power. "The court has already decided that point. I thought you were sensible, cooperative people who were willing to fight and sacrifice for the preservation of Competition. I thought I was doing you a special favor in giving you a last moment or two with your son. That, you must understand, went against all rules. I'm sorry now that I extended you the favor." Celia was tearfully, bitterly sarcastic. "You extended us the favor--" I was trembling with rage. "We are taking Freddie with us." "You can't." "You just try to stop me." The principal smiled, again disdainfully. "He has already left with the STARS officer. There is nothing you can do. Except leave my office." I was stunned. That blue car we parked next to. I was paralyzed. I wanted to smash the principal's face--even if it meant going to jail. His desk buzzer sounded. He flicked a switch. "Yes?" It was the intercom to the receptionist. "Mr. Masefield." "Tell him to wait a moment." Masefield's voice broke in. "It can't wait. That kid has gotten away from us! He's locked himself in an aircar. Who owns that Cad Super?" I staggered the principal with a straight hard punch in the mouth. I threw another to his jaw and another in his solar plexus. I leaped onto his desk and seized him by the throat and battered his head against the desk top. Then I drove my fist into his face again and again until he lost consciousness. Celia had had the presence of mind to turn off the microphone. I flicked it on. "Masefield?" I was trusting the phone to depersonalize my voice. "Yes." "The owner will be right out to open it. Is there anyone by the car now?" "Officer Fegerty." "Good. Then the boy can't get away. Come to my office for a minute."