Our Friends from Frolix 8

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Bobby said, “I don’t want to take the test.”

But you must, his father thought. If there is going to be any hope for our family as it extends itself into the future. Into periods lying long after my death—mine and Kleo’s.

“Let me explain it this way,” he said aloud, as he moved along the crowded sliding sidewalk in the direction of the Federal Bureau of Personnel Standards. “Different people have different ability.” How well he knew that. “My ability, for example, is very limited; I can’t even qualify for a government G-one rating, which is the lowest rating of all.” It hurt to admit this, but he had to; he had to make the boy understand how vital this was. “So I’m not qualified at all. I’ve got a little nongovernment job . . . nothing, really. Do you want to be like me when you grow up?”

“You’re okay,” Bobby said, with the majestic assurance of his twelve years.

“I’m not,” Nick said.

“To me you are.”

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