We soared into air above old Chicago, the part rebuilt after World War III. The lake claimed a good share of the blast area, of course, but that's what makes our city so unusually beautiful now. Four hundred tiny islands dot the lakefront, some connected by causeways, others reachable only by aircar or boat.
"Why are you so cross?" said Celia, taking the offensive the way women do when they've pulled some outrageous stunt.
"Look, you can't have it both ways. You can give them the money, but you can't get me to say I like the idea."
"Solly Mendelsohn was once your closest friend."
"Solly is a poor competitor, Celia. Let's face up to it. He has brains. He once showed signs of being a brilliant soil chemist, but he washed out of school. And then he became a fertilizer salesman, and he couldn't make a go of that. And after that he took up hydroponic farming, but he wasn't a success at that either. No wonder he wants to try another planet!"
"Solly has had a lot of personal misfortunes."
"That's an excuse all the shlubs use. No. The fact is, he just can't compete. And unless you compete in this world, you're dead."
Below on its own crescent-shaped island lay Chicago Classical School. I put our ship into a fast elevator dive. "My sympathies," I added, "go to Dolores. She's a bright, attractive kid. Keen competitor. She didn't deserve a shlub for a husband." I paused. "And about that party they're giving tonight. I'm not going."
Chicago Classical was frankly a boarding school for privileged kids. It taught the first six years, and no better I'm sure than the public schools of Chicago. But there was social distinction. The contacts would be good for Freddie later on. Freddie boarded there five days a week and came home to us on weekends, uncommunicative about his experiences, but happy to go romping with me in the woods and ravine adjoining our estate near Mason City. Unfortunately, that wasn't too often. Competitive pressure kept me in Chicago sometimes three or four weeks at a stretch.