bear in support of the theory that the culprit must have been one of the handful of Negro students not so long ago introduced into the school system—unless, of course, the real culprit was quickly found. And, Ponce had added, wistfully, he certainly hoped to God that it didn't turn out . to be a colored boy! Miss Smith had agreed, sharing his anxiety, adding only that in view of the apparently high caliber of the person handling the matter, to wit, Captain Surcher, the culprit would be found—for how could such an undoubted monster remain undiscovered for very long? How? Just how? How could he? She pressed it. And she assumed, she added, with a little laugh, it was a he, naturally. Ponce shared the little laugh, briefly, unexpectedly. . . .
Next, Education. And Miss Smith had let it be known how terrible in her view many of the present trends and so-called developments in that area were. For example, the encroachment of mechanization into the teacher-pupil relationship, in the shape of, just for example, teaching machines, computers, TV classes. Miss Smith said it was very bad, outrageous, and based principally on the desire to attack the very heart, the essence of the educational process, viz., the teacher-student relationship. The answer was to supply more teachers, more classrooms, not mechanical gadgets, she emphatically stated. She happened to have known some of the characters who had played a part in “developing” certain of these gadgets, in particular, the Teaching Machine, that blatant horror, and she could tell Ponce categorically what perverted souls they were, to a man, of no mean order. Ponce believed her, for he couldn’t agree more, regarding Teaching Machines, ‘and Computers. A number of the former had been installed at the high school on an experimental basis, and he hated them. He hoped it would flop, dramatically. Certainly, he would do all he could, toward that end. He told Miss Smith. She smiled at that. Tiger, he knew, didn’t think much of them. Who did? Mummer. That queer of queers, that possible murderer. Ponce once again had run into it He resolved to built up the guts to talk to Tiger about him. Or Surcher. Maybe Surcher. Certainly. And that would take more than guts. He knew it. He mused over it, painfully. He veered back to teaching machines. He saw
them for what they were. He agreed with Miss Smith, completely—they were part of an attempt to dehumanize the whole process of Education. The goal was to break the links, destroy the very essence of Education. Would it happen? Ponce, for one, vowed he would do his best to see that it didn’t. . . .
Then, Foreign Affairs. Vietnam, of course. Miss Smith’s view was that America was too unsophisticated a country to go around trying to decide and act on moral issues in remote parts of the world whose problems were quite beyond our comprehension. It was all pretentious. So far as she could judge, as a matter of fact, it would be no great harm at all if the whole of Southeast Asia was turned over to the Communists. They could have it. Certainly they had the required energy and drive and organizational ability if nothing else to get things moving and all those millions and millions off their hopeless behinds. Certainly they would awaken them. That part of the world had a vast potential. If left alone. Look at China! Just what in God’s name we were doing in Vietnam, other than giving the Industrial-Military Pots something to do, she never knew. Bombing, burning, uprooting that already miserable people—back to the Stone Age? To quote someone. In Aid Of What? She wondered. Ponce, growing unhappier, also wondered. He certainly agreed with her when she put out the unique suggestion that if Uncle really wanted to act on a genuine moral issue he should pull out all those troops and planes and what have you and send them along down to South Africa—and Rhodesia—plus a few other such places—there was an Issue! A real issue! What were we doing with it? On the other hand, what could we do with it? Since a substantial majority, or certainly a large enough minority plus armies of silent followers, of good Americans shared the hateful Apartheid doctrine totally, Sharpsville and all, and more even. Here was the paradox, the essential core of hypocrisy which was the reality behind the facade of Wholesome American Democracy, of course. It was a highly undemocratic, conservative bordering on reactionary Society, the Great American Democracy, on the whole, no less. And corrupt to the nth degree, more or less. Who didn’t know it? All intelligent people, outside of America, certainly knew it. Those within, fogged as they were, conformism, cowardice, alL the rest ... It was a sad affair. No doubt of it. How would it end?
Then, Culture. Miss Smith had said that the appreciation of Culture would always of natural necessity be restricted to a relatively small proportion of humans, since this appreciation and understanding required a certain level of intelligence and intellect and emotional maturity and character structure—and certainly this level could not be reached by very many, in the present context of things, and not ever by too many, in view of the highly unequal distribution of certain basic gifts at birth, by the Maker, she smiled, wryly. . . . Ponce, reflecting, certainly had to agree. . . .
And other subjects, and topics, and areas, of course. God how many of them! One of them hitting him in the face now as he entered the house and saw his beloved little brother Rusty Joe glued to the radio in his room listening to that latest innovation in the National Escalation toward Total Lunacy, all in aid of Exploitable Markets. Uncle Brucie. ... He's a lunatic, Ponce thought, glumly, hearing the manic voice. He gazed at his brother.
“Rusty Joe—”
“Shhh—Ponce—I’m listening—”
“Aren't you supposed to be asleep?’*
“C'mon, Ponce—let me listen—”
“I think you better go to sleep.”
“Mom and Dad are asleep—”
“I know it.”