"Mr. Dill," a girl's voice came. "Can I ask you something?"
The room became abruptly silent. Mrs. Parker was chilled. The voice. The. girl again. Who was it? Which one? She strained to see, her heart thumping in terror. Good lord, was that little devil going to say something in front of Director Dill?
"Certainly," Dill said, halting briefly at the door. "What do you want to ask?" He glanced at his wrist watch, smiling rather fixedly.
"Director Dill is in a hurry," Mrs. Parker managed to say. "He has so much to do, so many tasks. I think we had better let him go, don't you?"
But the firm little child's voice continued, as inflexible as steel. "Director Dill, don't you feel ashamed of yourself when you let a machine tell you what to do?
Director Dill's fixed smile remained. Slowly, he turned away from the door, back toward the class. His bright, mature eyes roved about the room, seeking to pinpoint the questioner. "Who asked that?" he inquired pleasantly.
Silence.
Director Dill moved about the room, walking slowly, his hands in his pockets. He rubbed his chin, plucking at it absently. No one moved or spoke; Mrs. Parker and the Unity staff stood frozen in horror.
It's the end of my job, Mrs. Parker thought. Maybe they'll make me sign a request for therapy-maybe I'll have to undergo voluntary rehabilitation. No, she thought frantically. Please.
However, Director Dill was unshaken. He stopped in front of the blackboard. Experimentally, he raised his hand and moved it in a figure. White lines traced themselves on the dark surface. He made a few thoughtful motions and the date 1992 traced itself.
"The end of the war," he said.
He traced 1993 for the hushed class.