The younger man’s face was blank. “How do you mean?”

“We want them to decide what you will study, at what pace you will go, whose lectures you assimilate, that sort of thing—for the whole period of your work here.”

Bert Alshuler was dumbfounded. “You mean machines are going to decide if I become a doctor, an engineer, a lawyer, a—”

“Yes.”

The student came to his feet. “No thanks. I may be silly but not that silly. I’m willing to allow my faculty adviser, or whatever you call him, to advise me on my courses but I’ll be damned if I’m going to have a punch card machine breathing down my neck every time I decide something like whether I want pica or elite size type on my voco-typer.”

The professor smiled. He said, “The tests indicated that you had a sense of humor, my dear Alshuler. Sit down. There’s more to it than that, of course.”

Bert Alshuler resumed his chair, but his expression was still hostile.

Katz put more urgency in his voice. “Have you ever considered how few persons really study what they should, or even what they would like?”

“I don’t think I follow that.”

“In grammar school, the student is told what he shall learn. All are given the same courses, all at the same rate of progress, no matter the individual’s abilities. Many youngsters hate history, or math, or whatever, but must study them. Some love these subjects but are not given the opportunity to delve into them to the extent they would like. Very well, when they achieve to high school they are given a bit of choice, but it is usually a decision made, by parents. If they do not have the wherewithal to see the child through college, or if they are anxious to have his services on the farm or in the family’s small business, the child is enrolled in a commercial or mechanical course, and very often drops out before graduation, once again, no matter his abilities.”