Runaway

Heroism is merely daring and ingenuity—at the age of ten—experience can come later!
Illustrated by ASHMAN
A thin speck appeared in the visor plate and grew with sinister and terrifying speed. Bursts of flame began to play around the rocketing spaceship, the explosions hurtling it from side to side as it twisted and turned in a frantic effort to escape. Rogue Rogan, his vicious lips compressed, his glittering evil eyes narrowed, heart pounding, knew that this was it.
This was the day of retribution, he had so long feared....
Plato!
Plato leaped to his feet and slid the book under the pillow. Then he seized a textbook at random, and opened it wide. His eyes fastened themselves to the print, seizing upon the meaningless words as if they would save him from a retribution that Rogue Rogan had never had to fear.
The dorm master frowned from the doorway. Plato, didn't you hear the Assembly bell?
Assembly? Plato's eyes looked up in mild astonishment. No, sir, I didn't hear any bell. I was so absorbed in my studying, sir— He shut the book and placed it back with the others. I'm sorry, sir. I'm willing to accept my punishment.
The dorm master studied the little martyr's expression. You'd better be, Plato. Now live up to your name and show some intelligence. Run along to Assembly.
Plato ran, but he also winced. How he had suffered from that miserable name of his! Even before he had known that the original Plato had been a philosopher, even before he had been capable of understanding what a philosopher was, he had been able to see the amused expression in the eyes of those who heard his name, and had hated them for it. Show a little intelligence, Plato. Why couldn't they have given him a name like the others? There were so many ordinary, commonplace, manly names from which they might have chosen. Jim, Jack, George, Tom, Bill—anything would have been better than Plato. And infinitely better than what he was sometimes called by his equals— Plato, the dopy philosopher.