"There is, you see, a qualitative distinction between the potential manual trainee and the potential administrator," Oyster said. "Your roommates were evaluated as students—and they certainly have things to learn. Oh, technically they are proficient enough—quite skilled, in fact, though none had the opportunity to exhibit the depth of competence manifested in adversity that you did. But in attitude—well, there will be considerable improvement there, or they will hardly graduate from this school. I daresay you know what I mean."
"But—"
"We are equipped to inculcate mechanical dexterity and technical comprehension. Of course the techniques tested in the Admissions Examination are primitive ones; none of them are employed in advanced restoration. Our interrogatory schedule is principally advisory, to enable us to program for individual needs.
"Character, on the other hand, is far more difficult to train—or to assess accurately in a controlled situation. It is far more reliable if it comes naturally, which is one reason we don't always draw from graduates, or even promising students. We are quite quick to investigate applicants possessing the personality traits we require, and this has nothing to do with planet or species. A promising candidate may emerge from any culture, even the most backward, and is guaranteed from none. No statistical survey is reliable in pinpointing the individual we want. In exceptional cases, it becomes a personal matter, a nonobjective thing. Do you follow me?"
Dillingham's mind was whirling. "It sounds almost as though you want me to—"
"To undertake training at University expense leading to the eventual assumption of my own position: Director of the School of Prosthodontics."
Dillingham was speechless.
"I am anticipating a promotion, you see," Oyster confided. "The vacancy I leave is my responsibility. I would not suffer a successor to whom I would not trust the care of my own teeth."
"But I couldn't possibly—I haven't the—"
"Have no concern. You adapted beautifully when thrust from your protected environment into galactic society, and this will be no more difficult. The University of Administration has a comprehensive program that will guarantee your competence for the position, and of course you will serve as my assistant for several years until you get the hang of it. We are not rushed. You will not be subjected to the ordeal unprepared; that unpleasantness is over."
Dillingham still found this hard to grasp. "Your grandson—what if I'd—"
"I shall have to introduce you more formally to that young security officer. He is not, unfortunately, my grandson; but he is the finest shot with the single-charge laser on the planet. We try to make our little skits realistic."
Dillingham remembered the metal mallet dripping to the floor—no freak interception after all. And the way the youngster had retreated before the tube... which, being single-shot, was no longer functional. Realism, yes.
That reminded him. "That tooth of yours I filled. I know that wasn't—"
"Wasn't fake. You are correct, I nursed that cavity along for three months, using it to check our prospects. It is a very good thing I won't need it any more, because you spoiled it utterly."
"I—"
"You did such a professional job that I should have to have a new cavity cultured for my purpose. No experienced practitioner would mistake it now for a long-neglected case even if I yanked out the gold and re-impacted it. That, Doctor, is the skill that impresses me—the skill that remains after the machinery is incapacitated. But of course that's part of it; good intentions mean nothing unless backed by authoritative discretion and ability. You were very slow, but you handled that deliberately obstructive patient very well. Had it been otherwise—"
"But why me? I mean, you could have selected anyone—"
Oyster put a friendly smile into his voice. "Hardly, Doctor. I visited eleven dormitories that evening, before I came to yours—with no success. All contained prospects whose record and fieldwork showed the potential. You selected yourself from this number and earned it through honorably. More correctly, you presented yourself as a candidate for the office; we took it from there."
"You certainly did!"
"Portions of your prior record were hard to believe, I admit. It was incredible that a person who had as little galactic background as you had should accomplish so much. But now we are satisfied that you do have the touch, the ability to do the right thing in an awkward or unfamiliar situation. That, too, is essential for the position."
Dillingham fastened on one incongruity. "I—I selected myself?"
"Yes, Doctor. When you demonstrated your priorities."
"My priorities? I don't—"
"When you sacrificed invaluable study time to offer assistance to a creature you believed was in pain."
IN THE BARN
When I returned to full-time writing in 1966, I became more active in the field. I sold my first novel, Chthon, and worked on others, but I was not yet out of stories. I attended the week-long 1966 Milford Writers' Conference at Damon Knight's house in Pennsylvania. There I met a number of writers and editors who were great people but who I suspect regarded me as of little consequence. One example will suffice: Harlan Ellison was there, and he was in the process of assembling a massive anthology of stories to be titled Dangerous Visions. The theory was that many excellent stories could not be published because they were too "dangerous"—violating editorial taboos. I agreed completely; I have never had difficulty violating editorial taboos, and have the rejections to prove it. In fact I later wrote an erotic novel, 3.97 Erect, that was too hot for the erotic market; Playboy bounced it as "Too gross for words." If anything more erotically outrageous has been published, apart from Candy, I don't know of it. I poked fun at every taboo I could get at, including those of the erotic market itself, such as VD. One pays a penalty for such an attitude: unpublishability. So if Harlan really meant it, I knew I could do a story for his volume that would indeed be banned elsewhere. I asked him—and he told me that he had already overrun his budget by 50% and had closed out the volume. I was too late. Then I stood by and watched and listened as he solicited and bought (for an IOU of $150) a story for that volume from Samuel "Chip" Delany, "Aye, And Gomorrah." Thus did I get a perspective on how Harlan Ellison regarded me. Actually, Delany can write; he has won awards for several pieces including, I believe, that story in Dang Vis. Still...
Now I don't want to put too fine a point on this, but I am capable of making an impression on people when I wish to. Harlan claims he agreed to do the sequel volume, Again, Dangerous Visions, just so that I could be represented in it. That may be hyperbole; Harlan specializes in hype. But for him I wrote "The Barn"—he has a certain Pohlean taste in retitling—and I must say I found him to be a good editor. Many of the stories in the Dang Vis volumes are not dangerous, but I doubt that "Barn" could have appeared elsewhere at that time. I feel that Harlan did perform a necessary service for the genre, showing that an anthology could include truly provocative fiction and be commercially successful. Today stories of similar nature are publishable—and he helped make it so.
Actually "Barn" is a perfectly ordinary story. It's just a day on the dairy farm—with one detail changed. I've never gotten around to writing the sequel, "Stockyard"; I fear that would not be a pretty story. The same goes for "Rodeo" and "Matador." I don't like to hurt animals. I think more people would watch how they treat animals, if—but that's another story. Meanwhile, if X-rated material bothers you, don't read this one.