Margie even wrote about it that night in her diary. On the page headed May 17, 2157, she wrote, "Today Tommy found a real

book!"

It was a very old book. Margie's grandfather once said that when he was a little boy his grandfather 1 told him that there was a

time when all stories were printed on paper.

They turned the pages, which were yellow and crinkly, and it was awfully funny to read words that stood still instead of moving

the way they were supposed to — on a screen, you know. And then, when they turned back to the page before, it has been the same

words on it that it had been when they read it the first time.

"Gee,"2 said Tommy, "what a waste. When you're through with the book, you just throw it away, I guess. 3 Our television screen

must have had a million books on and it's good for plenty more. I wouldn't throw it away.

"Same with mine," said Margie. She was eleven and hadn't seen as many telebooks 4 as Tommy had. He was thirteen.

She said, "Where did you find it?"

"In my house." He pointed-without looking, because he was busy reading. "In the attic."

"What's it about?"

"School."

Margie was scornful. "School? What's there to write about school? I hate school."

Margie always hated school, but now she hated it more than ever. The mechanical teacher had been giving her test after test in

geography and she had been doing worse and worse until her mother had shaken her head sorrowfully and sent for the County

Inspector.

He was a round little man with a red face and a whole box of tools, with dials and wires. He smiled at Margie and gave her an

apple, then took the teacher apart. Margie had hoped he wouldn't know how to put it together again, but he knew all right, and, after

an hour or so, there it was again, large and black and ugly, with a big screen on which all the lessons were shown and the questions

were asked. That wasn't so bad. The part Margie hated most was the slot where she had to put homework and test papers. She always

had to write them out in a punch code they made her learn when she was six years old and the mechanical teacher calculated the

mark in no time.

The Inspector had smiled after he was finished and patted Margie's head. He said to her mother, "It's not the little girl's fault, Mrs.

Jones, I think the geography sector was geared a little too quick. Those things happen sometimes. I've slowed it up to an av erage ten

year level. Actually, the overall pattern of her progress is quite satisfactory." And he patted Margie's head again.

Margie was disappointed. She had been hoping they would take the teacher away altogether. They had once taken Tommy's

teacher away for nearly a month because the history sector had blanked out completely.

So she said to Tommy. "Why would anyone write about school?"

Tommy looked at her with very superior eyes. "Because it's not our kind of school, stupid. 5 This is the old kind of school that they

had hundreds and hundreds years ago." He added loftily, pronouncing the word carefully, "Centuries ago."

Margie was hurt. "Well, I don't know what kind of school they had all that time ago." She read the book over his shoulder for a