|
He looked at the man
shouting at him. The man was red faced, pacing to and fro, angry,
frustrated.
The argument had started just had the argument yesterday . . . and the
argument the day before and the argument . . . It had started in the same
way as all the others - how many? . . . too many - far too many. The woman
sat looking at the two of them, rigid, silent, looking frightened, looking
sad.
He hated this man. He loved this man. Damn him! He turned away and walked,
half ran from the room. The door slid shut behind him. Damn him, damn him,
damn him! He turned right towards the door into the street and walked
swiftly away, thoughts jumbling, remembering the things he'd said, those
he'd said and wished he hadn't, those he hadn't and wished he had. Damn
him! He found himself outside the building, in front of the entrance. He
hadn't consciously intended to come here, but here his feet had lead him.
He looked at the sign above the entrance, remained frozen for several
seconds and then stepped forward. The entrance slid open and he walked
inside.
He'd only had to wait for a few minutes before being asked to enter the
office. A man was sitting behind a desk. The man had stood up and offered
his hand and invited him to sit down. He'd told the man what he wanted,
what he needed. The man had asked questions, entering the answers on a
computer. Then he'd been taken into another room. For the next two hours
he had sat in front of a computer console and answered questions, many,
many different questions probing his attitudes, beliefs, aspirations,
reasons. He'd tackled many problem solving tests, and finally been given a
comprehensive medical exam.
Then back into the small waiting room, a fresh coffee again ignored on the
table in front of him, again thinking about the man and their arguments
and his dreams. Damn the man, but with less force this time. Damn it! Not
the man, the situation he was in.
Finally he'd completed the evaluation and was shown back into the
interview - interrogation? - room. This time a women, middle aged, medium
height, typical colony clothing stood and offered her hand and invited him
to sit. She looked at the data-pad in front of her. Chuck Yeager, 18 years
of age . . . . last week! . . . congratulations Mr Yeager." She gave him a
big, genuine smile. "Now registered as a Full Citizen of Baker Colony."
Chuck had smiled in return
"Are you sure you want to do this?" she'd asked
"I wouldn't be here, wouldn't have spent hours here, if I wasn't" He'd
replied
"Big step!?" Half statement, half prompting question
"Yep." Firm, committed
She'd slid over a data-pad. "OK, prints please" He had put his right
forefinger and then left thumb onto the scanning pad. A short pause before
the pad beeped. She stood again and offered her hand, again but more
formally this time. "Thank you . . . Flight Trainee Chuck Yeager!" He
stood and shook it. "Welcome to the Flight Training Program". She smiled,
another big genuine grin. "An excellent score on all counts! You'll
receive notification in the next couple of days from the IMG Flight
Training School telling you where and when to report. Good luck Chuck -
the colony needs good pilots."
Now all he had to do was go back home and tell his parents what he had
done. |