Look at the Birdie (12 page)

Schroeder, in his freshman year, learned to play a clarinet well enough in three months to take over the first chair in the band. By the end of his sophomore year, he was master of every instrument in the band. He was now a junior, and the composer of nearly a hundred marches.

As an exercise in sight reading, Helmholtz was now putting the beginners’ band, the C Band, through an early Schroeder composition called “Hail to the Milky Way.” It was an enthusiastic piece of music, and Helmholtz hoped that the straightforward violence of it would tempt the beginners into really having a go at music. Schroeder’s own comments on the composition pointed out that the star farthest from the earth in the Milky Way was approximately ten thousand light-years away. If the sound of the musical salute was to reach that farthest star, the music would have to be played good and loud.

The C Band bleated, shrieked, howled, and squawked at that farthest star gamely. But the musicians dropped out one by one until, as was so often the case, the bass drummer played alone.

Blom, blom, bloom
went the bass drum. It was being larruped by Big Floyd Hires, the biggest, the most pleasant, and the dumbest boy in school. Big Floyd was probably the wealthiest, as well. Someday he would own his father’s dry-cleaning chain.

Bloom, bloom, bloom
went Big Floyd’s drum.

Helmholtz waved Big Floyd to silence. “Thank you for sticking with it, Floyd,” he said. “Sticking with it to the end
is an example the rest of you could well follow. Now, we’re going to go through this again—and I want everybody to stick with it right to the end, no matter what.”

Helmholtz raised his baton, and Schroeder, the school genius, came in from the hall. Helmholtz nodded a greeting. “All right, men,” Helmholtz said to the C Band, “here’s the composer himself. Don’t let him down.”

Again the band tried to hail the Milky Way, again it failed.

Bloom, bloom, bloom
went Big Floyd’s drum—alone, alone, terribly alone.

Helmholtz apologized to the composer, who was sitting on a folding chair by the wall. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s only the second time through. Today’s the first they’ve seen of it.”

“I understand,” said Schroeder. He was a small person—nicely proportioned, but very light, and only five feet and three inches tall. He had a magnificent brow, high and already lined by scowling thought. Eldred Crane, head of the English department, called that brow “the white cliffs of Dover.” The unrelenting brilliance of Schroeder’s thoughts gave him an alarming aspect that had been best described by Hal Bourbeau, the chemistry teacher. “Schroeder,” Bourbeau said one time, “looks as though he’s sucking on a very sour lemon drop. And when the lemon drop is gone, he’s going to kill everybody.”

The part about Schroeder’s killing everybody was, of course, pure poetic license. He had never been in the least temperamental.

“Perhaps you would like to speak to the boys about what you’ve tried to achieve with this composition,” Helmholtz said to Schroeder.

“Nope,” said Schroeder.

“Nope?” said Helmholtz, surprised. Negativism wasn’t Schroeder’s usual style. It would have been far more like Schroeder to speak to the bandsmen thrillingly, to make them optimistic and gay. “Nope?” said Helmholtz.

“I’d rather they didn’t try it again,” said Schroeder.

“I don’t understand,” said Helmholtz.

Schroeder stood, and he looked very tired. “I don’t want anybody to play my music anymore,” he said. “I’d like to have it all back, if you don’t mind.”

“What do you want it back for?” said Helmholtz.

“To burn it,” said Schroeder. “It’s trash—pure trash.” He smiled wanly. “I’m through with music, Mr. Helmholtz.”

“Through?” said Helmholtz, heartsick. “You can’t mean it!”

Schroeder shrugged. “I simply haven’t got what it takes,” he said. “I know that now.” He waved his small hand feebly. “All I ask is that you don’t embarrass me any more by playing my foolish, crude, and no doubt comical compositions.”

He saluted Helmholtz and left.

For the remainder of the period, Helmholtz could not keep his mind on the C Band. All he could think about was Schroeder’s shocking and inexplicable decision to give up music entirely.

At the end of the period, Helmholtz set out for the teachers’ cafeteria. It was lunchtime. He became gradually aware that he had company. Big Floyd Hires, the genially dumb drummer, was clumping along beside him.

There was nothing casual about Big Floyd’s being there. His presence was massively intentional. Big Floyd had something of importance to say, and the novelty of that made him throw off heat like a steam locomotive.

And it made him wheeze.

“Mr. Helmholtz,” wheezed Big Floyd.

“Yes?” said Helmholtz.

“I’m—I—I just wanted you to know I’m through loafing,” wheezed Big Floyd.

“Excellent,” said Helmholtz. He was all for people’s trying their hardest, even in cases like Big Floyd’s, where the results of trying and not trying were almost certain to be identical.

Big Floyd now flabbergasted Helmholtz by handing him a song he had composed. “I wish you’d look at this, Mr. Helmholtz,” he said.

The music was written in great black gobs, and there wasn’t much of it. But it must have been about as difficult for Big Floyd as the Fifth Symphony had been for Beethoven.

It had a title. It was called “A Song for Selma.”

And there were words to go with the music:

When Helmholtz looked up from the words and music, the poet-composer was gone.

There was a spry debate that noon in the teachers’ cafeteria. The subject, as stated by Hal Bourbeau of the chemistry department: “Does the good news about Big Floyd Hires
deciding to be a musical genius offset the bad news about Schroeder deciding to withdraw from the field entirely?”

The obvious purpose of the debate was to twit Helmholtz. It was good fun for everybody but Helmholtz, since the problem was regarded as being purely a band matter, and since the band was regarded as being a not very serious enterprise anyway. It was not yet known that Schroeder despaired of amounting to anything in any field of learning.

“As I see it,” said Bourbeau, “if a slow student decides to take band music seriously and a genius decides to give it up in favor of chemistry, say, it isn’t a case of one person’s going up and another person’s going down. It’s a case of two persons’ going up.”

“Yes,” said Helmholtz mildly, “and the bright boy can give us a new poison gas, and the dumb one can give us a new tune to whistle.”

Ernest Groper, the physics teacher, joined the group. He was a rude, realistic, bomb-shaped man, at war with sloppy thinking. As he transferred his lunch from his tray to the table, he gave the impression that he was obeying the laws of motion voluntarily, with gusto—not because he had to obey them but because he thought they were darn fine laws.

“You hear the news about Big Floyd Hires?” Bourbeau asked him.

“The great nucular fizzist?” said Groper.

“The what?” said Bourbeau.

“That’s what Big Floyd told me he was going to be this morning,” said Groper. “Said he was through loafing, said he was going to be a nucular fizzist. I think he means
nuclear physicist
, but he may mean
veterinarian.”
He picked up the copy of Big Floyd’s “A Song for Selma,” which Helmholtz
had passed around the table a few minutes before. “What’s this?”

“Big Floyd wrote it,” said Helmholtz.

Groper raised his eyebrows. “He
is
busy these days, isn’t he!” he said. “Selma? Selma who? Selma Ritter?” He tucked his napkin under his collar.

“She’s the only Selma we could think of,” said Helmholtz.

“Must be Selma Ritter,” said Groper. “She and Big Floyd sit at the same table in the physics lab.” He closed his eyes, rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What a crazy, mixed-up table that is, too,” he said tiredly. “Schroeder, Big Floyd, and Selma Ritter.”

“They all three sit together?” said Helmholtz musingly, trying to find some pattern.

“I thought Schroeder might help to pull Big Floyd and Selma up,” said Groper. He nodded wonderingly. “And he certainly has, hasn’t he?” He looked quizzically at Helmholtz. “You don’t happen to know what Big Floyd’s I.Q. is, do you, George?”

“I wouldn’t even know how to find out,” said Helmholtz. “I don’t believe in I.Q.s.”

“There’s a confidential file in the principal’s office,” said Groper. “If you want a real thrill, look up Schroeder, sometime.”

“Which one is Selma Ritter?” said Hal Bourbeau, looking through the plate glass partition that separated the teachers’ cafeteria from the students’ cafeteria.

“She’s a little thing,” said Groper.

“A quiet little thing,” said Eldred Crane, head of the English department. “Shy, and not very popular.”

“She’s certainly popular now—with Big Floyd,” said
Groper. “They’ve got a big love affair going, from all I can see.” He shuddered. “I’ve got to get those two away from Schroeder. I don’t know how they do it, but they certainly manage to depress him.”

“I don’t see her out there anywhere,” said Helmholtz, still scanning the student cafeteria for Selma Ritter’s face. He did see Schroeder, who was sitting by himself. The small, brilliant boy was looking very dejected, ruefully resigned. And Helmholtz saw Big Floyd. Big Floyd was sitting alone, too—massive, inarticulate, and inexpressibly hopeful about something. He was apparently thinking prodigiously. He squirmed and scowled, and bent imaginary iron bars.

“Selma isn’t out there,” said Helmholtz.

“I just remembered,” said Eldred Crane, “Selma doesn’t eat during the regular lunch hour. She eats during the next period.”

“What does she do during the lunch hour?” said Helmholtz.

“She holds down the switchboard in the principal’s office,” said Crane, “while the staff is out to lunch.”

Helmholtz excused himself, and he went to the principal’s office to have a talk with Selma Ritter. The office was actually a suite, consisting of a foyer, a meeting room, two offices, and a file room.

When Helmholtz entered the suite, his first impression was that there was no one in it. The switchboard was deserted. The switches buzzed and blinked in dismal futility.

And then Helmholtz heard what was little more than a mouse noise in the file room. He went to the room quietly, peeked in.

Selma Ritter was kneeling by an open file drawer, writing something in her notebook.

Helmholtz was not shocked. He didn’t jump to the conclusion that Selma was looking into something that wasn’t any of her business—for the simple reason that he didn’t believe in secrets. As far as Helmholtz was concerned, there weren’t any secrets in Lincoln High School.

Selma took a rather different view of secrecy. What she had her hands in were the confidential files, the files that told, among other things, what everyone’s I.Q. was. When Helmholtz caught her red-handed, Selma literally lost her balance, toppled to one side from her precarious kneel.

Helmholtz helped her up. And while he was doing it, he caught a glimpse of the file card Selma had been copying from. The card had unexplained numbers scattered over it, seemingly at random.

The numbers meant nothing to Helmholtz, since he had never used the files. They represented not only an individual’s I.Q. but his sociability index, his dexterity, his weight, his leadership potential, his height, his work preferences, and his aptitudes in six different fields of human accomplishment. The Lincoln High School testing program was a thorough one.

It was a famous one, too—a favorite hunting ground for would-be Ph.D.s, since Lincoln’s testing records went back more than twenty-five years.

In order to find out what each number meant, Helmholtz would have had to use a decoding card, a card with holes punched in it, which was kept locked up in the principal’s safe. By placing the decoding card over the file card, Helmholtz might have found out what all the numbers meant.

But he didn’t need the decoding card to find out whose file card Selma had been copying from. The name of the individual was typed big as life at the top of the card.

George M. Helmholtz was startled to read the name.

The name was
HELMHOLTZ, GEO. M
.

“What is this?” murmured Helmholtz, taking the card from the drawer. “What’s this doing with my name on it? What’s this got to do with me?”

Selma burst into tears. “Oh, Mr. Helmholtz,” she wailed, “I didn’t mean any harm. Please don’t tell on me. I’ll never do it again. Please don’t tell.”

“What is there to tell?” said Helmholtz, completely at sea.

“I was looking up your I.Q.,” said Selma. “I admit it. You caught me. And I suppose I could get thrown out of school for it. But I had a reason, Mr. Helmholtz—a very important reason.”

“I have no idea what my I.Q. is, Selma,” said Helmholtz, “but you’re certainly welcome to it, whatever it is.”

Selma’s crying abated some. “You won’t report me?” she said.

“What’s the crime?” said Helmholtz. “If my I.Q. is so interesting, I’ll paint it on my office door for all to see.”

Selma’s eyes widened. “You don’t know what your I.Q. is?” she said.

“No,” said Helmholtz humbly. “Very submedium, I’d guess,” he said.

Selma pointed to a number on the file card. “There,” she said, “that’s your I.Q., Mr. Helmholtz.” She stepped back, as though she expected Helmholtz to collapse in astonishment. “That’s it,” she whispered.

Helmholtz studied the number. He pulled in his chin,
creating a multitude of echoing chins beneath it. The number was 183. “I know nothing about I.Q.s,” he said. “Is that high or low?” He tried to remember when his I.Q. had last been tested. As nearly as he could recall, it hadn’t been tested since he himself had been a student in Lincoln High.

“It’s very, very, very high, Mr. Helmholtz,” said Selma earnestly. “Mr. Helmholtz,” she said, “don’t you even know you’re a genius?”