The door slammed open, startling him. A hoydenish youngster gaped at him. There was a flat lock of reddish hair over his forehead, and his face was freckled.
"Hoy," he said. "What's the matter with you?"
Ron stared back wordlessly.
"You sick or something?" the boy said, edging into the room.
"No." His own voice, strange and reedy, frightened him. "No, I'm all right."
"Andy!" A tall man with a frowning face appeared behind the boy. "Come on, fella. Let's not waste any time." He looked at Ron. "You the new chap?"
"Yes."
"Feel well enough for some breakfast?"
"I guess so."
"Fine. Then get some clothes on and come along."
"Hoy," the freckle-faced boy said curiously. "You play airball?"
"That's enough of that." The man paddled the boy's rump. "Get along, Andy. You'll have plenty of time to get acquainted later."
The boy giggled and ran down the hall. Ron got out of bed slowly, and walked towards the undersized clothing that was draped on a nearby chair. He slipped into a gray coverall and said: "Listen—can I talk to you?"
The man looked at his watch. "Well ... all right, I suppose. But only for a minute. I promised the boys a game this morning; I'm Mr. Larkin, the athletic director."
Ron hesitated. "Mr. Larkin, I—where am I?"
"Don't you know?" Even the man's smile was half a frown. "You're at Roverwood Home for Boys. Didn't they tell you that?"
"No," Ron said carefully. "I—I don't seem to remember very much. How I got here, I mean."
"Dr. Minton brought you in last evening. He's one of our directors."
"Oh." Ron laced on the tiny scuffed shoes. "And where's Dr. Minton now?"
"Gone back to the city. He's a busy man. Hear they've got him working on some big government project. Well, come on, Ronnie. Breakfast's waiting."
"Yes, sir," Ron Carver said.
He followed the tall man down the hall, having trouble guiding the short stumpy legs that were now his own. They entered a communal dining room, filled with the clatter of dishes and the laughter of boys. He was brought to a long table and seated beside Larkin. The other boys greeted him with only mild interest, but the freckle-faced youth at the other end dropped him a broad wink.
He ate sparingly, choking on the food, his mind working. It was the longest nightmare of his life, and the moment of awakening seemed too far off for comfort.
Then Larkin was standing up and rattling a spoon against a water glass.
"Fellas," he said, "all those interested in this morning's airball game will assemble on the field in half an hour after breakfast. Please don't volunteer unless you're able to handle a PF. Everybody else is invited to see the game."
He sat down, amid cheers. He smiled sadly at Ron, and asked: "How about you, Ronnie? Can you operate a PF?"
"Of course," he answered, without thinking. He'd been using Personal Flyers since he was old enough to dream about flight. On his tenth birthday, his father had bought him one of the earliest models, a cumbersome machine then called a "platform". Since that day, he had become familiar with every man-made thing that flew, from the double-rotored PF's to the sixty-rocket space liners.
"Fine," Larkin said cheerfully. "Then maybe you'd like to play the game."
Ron Carver looked up sharply. Play the game....
"Sure, Mr. Larkin," he said, forcing his eagerness.
Half an hour later, they were assembled on the huge lawn outside of the main building of Roverwood Home for Boys. The long row of PF's, looking like chrome-plate pot-bellied stoves, gleamed in the morning sun. The boys began to run when they saw their Flyers, and Ron found his arm taken by the freckled youth who had entered his room.
"Hoy," he said. "Follow me. I'll pick you out a lively one!"
The redhead clambered inside a machine marked Seven, and Ronnie followed his instructions by choosing the vehicle marked Nine. They secured themselves inside, and tested the jet tube set in front of the Flyer. The boys took off from the ground in perfect unison, the redhead bellowing out an introduction over the sound of the wind roaring past their ears.
The PF's descended on a blast from Mr. Larkin's whistle, congregating in the center of the field. Teams were chosen, and Andy was picked as Captain of the Odds. A coin was tossed to decide the playing sequence, and they were ready.
Larkin released the first airball, and the two teams streamed up after it. Andy gunned the engine and reached the ball first. He sent it scooting thirty yards ahead of him with the blast of the airjet pipe, but a member of the Evens team was there to veer it off to the left. Another Evens man, a burly youth of fourteen, took command of it, neatly getting the airball in the sight of his airjet and cork-screwing it towards the goalpost. Ron had grown too old before the game of airball had become popular with the nation's youngsters, but he had seen enough action to have learned some tricks. He pointed his PF directly for the Even machine, and kept coming. The burly youth looked up, startled at the onslaught, and pulled his Flyer away. The fact that the PF's were magnetically collision-proof didn't matter; it was pure instinct. Ron captured the ball in his airjet pipe, and shouted for Andy to block his path towards the goal.
The Odds scored, and the two teams descended for a rest. Andy, the grin wide on his brown-spotted face, said: "You're okay, Ronnie! Hoy, I mean it. You're okay!"
"Thanks," Ron said. He found himself panting.
The game resumed. It ended in a 3-2 score, favor of the Odds. Andy and Ron were cheered as they left the Flyers and headed for the communal showers of the Roverwood Home for Boys.
In the stall, Ron Carver looked down at the spindly frame that was now his body, and began to weep. Andy heard him, but said nothing. Then they dressed and ambled back to the main house, sharing the awkward silence of new friends.
Finally, the older boy said: "I don't mean to butt in, Ronnie. But is somethin' the matter?"
"I—I don't know, Andy. I'm all mixed up. I don't even know how I got here."
"That's easy. Dr. Minton brought you."
"But where is he now, Andy? Dr. Minton? It's very important that I see him."
Andy shrugged. "Not much chance of that. Dr. Minton only comes around once, twice a year.
"But I have to see him! Right away! Will they call him for me?"
"Gosh. I don't think so. He's some kind of big shot in the government now."
They flopped on the grass, and Andy tore out a ragged clump and chewed on it blankly. Ron said: "Andy, I'm in trouble. I need some help."
"No kidding?"
"Yes!" He brought his voice to a whisper. "Andy—what if I told you that I was really—" He stopped, and examined the open, innocent face in front of his eyes. He knew that it would be useless to tell the truth. "Skip it," he said.
"I don't get you. What's on your mind, Ronnie?"
"Nothing, Andy. I just have to get away from here."
"But you can't. I mean, not until they let you. It's the rules."
"Andy—how long have you been here?"
The boy thought a moment. "Almost nine years," he said blissfully. "Since my folks got killed."
"How long do you have to stay?"
"Why, 'til I'm old enough to work. Eighteen, I guess."
Only six years to go, Ron thought sourly.
He stood up.
"Andy—where do they put the PF's?"
"In the shed."
"Is it possible to get one out?"
"'Course not. Only when we play the game."
"And when will we play another game?"
"Dunno. Tomorrow maybe. It's Sunday."
Play the game. Ron said to himself.