Enders In Exile

influential formers of public
opinion."
    "But John Paul,
officially we don't know that our children are sneaking around in the
nets, manipulating events through Peter's network of correspondents and
Valentine's brilliantly perverse talent for demagoguery."
    "And they don't know
that we have any brains," said John Paul. "They seem to think they were
left at our house by fairies instead of having our genetic material
throughout their little bodies. They treat us as convenient samples of
ignorant public opinion. So . . . let's give them some public opinions
that will steer them to do what's best for their brother."
    "What's best," echoed
Theresa. "We don't know what's best."
    "No," said John Paul.
"We only know what seems best. But one thing's certain—we
know a lot more about it than any of our children do."

    * * * * *
    Valentine came home
from school with anger festering inside her. Stupid
teachers—it made her crazy sometimes to ask a question and
have the teacher patiently explain things to her as if the question
were a sign of Valentine's failure to understand the subject, instead
of the teacher's. But Valentine sat there and took it, as the equation
showed up in the holodisplay on everybody's desk and the teacher
covered it point by point.
    Then Valentine drew a
little circle in the air around the element of the problem that the
teacher had not addressed properly—the reason why the answer
was not right. Valentine's circle did not show up on all the desks, of
course; only the teacher's computer had that capability.
    So the teacher then got
to draw his own circle around that number and say, "What you're not
noticing here, Valentine, is that even
with
this
explanation, if you ignore
this
element you still
can't get the right answer."
    It was such an obvious
ego-protective cover-up. But of course it was obvious only to
Valentine. To the other students, who were barely grasping the material
anyway (especially since it was being explained to them by an
unobservant incompetent), it
was
Val who had
overlooked the circled parenthetical, even though it was precisely
because of that element that she had asked her question in the first
place.
    And the teacher gave
her that simpering smile that clearly said, You aren't going to defeat
me and humiliate me in front of this class.
    But Valentine was not
trying to humiliate him. She did not care about him. She simply cared
that the material be taught well enough that if, God forbid, some
member of the class became a civil engineer, his bridges wouldn't fall
down and kill people.
    That was the difference
between her and the idiots of the world. They were all trying to look
smart and keep their social standing. Whereas Valentine didn't care
about social standing, she cared about getting it right. Getting the
truth—when the truth was gettable.
    She had said nothing to
the teacher and nothing to any of the students and she knew she
wouldn't get any sympathy at home, either. Peter would mock her for
caring about school enough to let that clown of a teacher get under her
skin. Father would look at the problem, point out the correct answer,
and go back to his work without ever noticing that Val wasn't asking
for
help
, she was asking for commiseration.
    And Mother? She would
be all for charging down to the school and
doing
something about it, raking the teacher over the coals. Mother wouldn't
even
hear
Val explaining that she didn't want to
shame the teacher, she just wanted somebody to say, "Isn't it ironic,
that in this special advanced school for really bright kids, they have
a teacher who doesn't know his own subject!" To which Val could reply,
"It sure is!" and then she'd feel better. Like somebody was on her
side. Somebody
got
it and she wasn't alone.
    My needs are simple and
few, thought Valentine. Food. Clothing. A comfortable place to sleep.
And
no idiots
.
    But of course a world
with no idiots would be lonely. If she herself were even allowed there.
It's not as if
she
never made mistakes.
    Like the mistake of
ever letting Peter rope her into being Demosthenes. He
still
thought he needed to tell her what to write every day after
school—as if, after all these years, she had not completely
internalized the character. She could write Demosthenes' essays in her
sleep.
    And if she needed help,
all she had to do was listen to Father pontificate on world
affairs—since he seemed to echo all of Demosthenes'
warmongering jingoistic demagogic opinions despite claiming never