He had been prepared for that; had known that sooner or later there
would be some minor leak in the security screen around the classrooms
on the top floor.

"My dear Miss Pelton," he had protested pleasantly. "I think you've
become overwrought over nothing. This pretense to Literacy is a phase
most boys of Ray's age pass through; they do it just as they play
air-pirates or hi-jackers a few years earlier. The usual trick is to
memorize something heard from a record disk, and then pretend to read
it from print."

"Don't try to kid me, professor. I know that Ray can read. I can prove
it."

"And supposing he has learned a few words," he had parried. "Can you
be sure I taught him? And if so, what had you thought of doing about
it? Are you going to expose me as a corrupter of youth?"

"Not unless I have to," she had replied coolly. "I'm going to
blackmail you, professor. I want you to teach me to read, too."

Now, with this gang of her father's Illiterate store officials
present, a quick handclasp and a glance were all they could exchange.

"How is he, Claire?" he asked.

"Out of danger, for the present. There was a medic here, who left just
before you arrived. He brought nitrocaine bulbs, and gave father
something to make him sleep. He's lying down, back in his rest room."
She led him to a door at the rear of the office and motioned him to