The Last Class (_With Apologies to Emile Zola_) By RICHARD BANKS Illustrated by ADKINS _Many years ago Emile Zola wrote a tale, by this same title, of a French schoolmaster who was forced to leave his pupils by the victorious German troops after the Franco-Prussian War. The schoolmaster's last words were: Vive la France! Miss Hippiness, in this story, had no final words. But if she had, they might have been_: "_Long live the 20th Century!_" [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories July 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] "And now, children," said Miss Hippiness, her smile shooting deep wrinkles across her face like the cracks up the scarred sides of the ancient, empty sky-scrapers of New York. The twelve children in the cozy classroom came to attention. It was not her words, it was the tone, the creaking smile. "And now, children," said Miss Hippiness again, sitting down on the old-fashioned straight chair she affected, "have you all put away your atomic blocks?" "Yes, teacher," came the chorus of sweet young voices. "Your electronic jackstraws? Your pencil-mnestics?" "Yes, teacher." "And have you all put the pretty little activator pills in your mouths?" They nodded. Miss Hippiness raised her hand for silence. "Thirty dear, dear seconds, children," she said. A sigh of pleasure suddenly smoked up from the twelve young faces as the pills took effect, and they remembered. Poor little darlings, to be so terribly fooled, said Miss Hippiness to herself. If it was only possible for them to remember THIS part of the day, outside--and not to have it blacked out by the pills half an hour from now. To remember this part of the day, above all other parts, on into adulthood. What a different world they would create.... "So we come to the nice nice part of our day," she said. "We are going to talk again about the 20th Century." The children fidgeted in pleasure. She had turned on the sun five minutes ago and its beams through the window highlighted the youngness, the eagerness of their faces, turned so trustingly to her. Here and there the sunlight flashed silver glints for instants on the tiny identification discs, smaller than 20th Century dimes in their foreheads and half hidden in the hairlines where they were inset in each person nowadays at birth. A small hand shot up. "Yes?" said Miss Hippiness. "Can we talk about the gangsters?" Marymarymary asked. Another small hand jerked up, eagerly. "Yes?" said Miss Hippiness. "Can we talk about wars and bombs and things?" Henry Sixhenry asked.