Margie even recorded it in her journal that evening. "Today Tommy found a real book," she scribbled on the page with the heading "17 May 2157."
The volume was incredibly ancient. Margie's grandpa once recalled hearing from his ancestor as a young child that all tales used to be written on paper.
It was hilarious to read words that were still instead of moving the way they should have—on a screen, you know—as they turned the yellow and crinkly pages.
The words were the same when they read it for the first time when they turned back to the previous page.
Tommy exclaimed, "Gee! What a loss.
I suppose you just toss the book away after you're done with it. We must have had a million volumes on our television screen, and there is still plenty of room for more. I wouldn't discard it.
Margie responded, "Same with mine." She was eleven years old and had not watched as many telebooks as Tommy. He was 13 years old.
Where did you discover it, she questioned?
"At my home." Because he was reading, he pointed without looking.
Within the loft.
"What's going on?"
Margie was contemptuous. , "School? What can be said about school? I despise education.
Margie had always disliked school, but right now she detested it even more. She had been failing geography tests after geography tests from the mechanical instructor, and her mother had finally had enough and sent for the county examiner.
He was a small, round guy with a red visage who carried a large toolbox filled with dials and cables. He grinned and handed Margie an apple before dismantling the instructor.
Margie had hoped that he wouldn't be able to piece it back together, but he had no trouble doing so. After about an hour, it was back, large, black, and ugly with a large screen on which all the lessons were displayed and questions were posed.
It wasn't all that terrible. The slot where Margie had to place her homework and exam papers was the component she detested the most. She was forced to learn a punch code when she was six years old, and the mechanical instructor would quickly compute the marks if she wrote them out in that format.
After finishing, the inspector stroked Margie's head while grinning. It's not the little girl's problem, Mrs. Jones, he told her mother. The geography section, in my opinion, was oriented a little too fast.
These phenomena do occur occasionally. I've slowed it down to a ten-year normal rate.
Actually, her general progression has been quite acceptable. He then gave Margie's head another stroke.
Margie felt let down. She had hoped they would completely remove the instructor. Tommy's instructor had once been removed for almost a month due to a total blank in the history section.
Why would anyone write about education, she asked Tommy.
Tommy gave her a very imposing stare. "Because, dumb, that's not our kind of institution. This is the traditional type of education that existed thousands of years ago. He then added, meticulously pronouncing the term, "Centuries ago."
Margie was in pain. Well, I'm not sure what kind of education they had back then.
After spending some time reading the text behind his back, she remarked, "Anyway, they had a teacher."
"They did have an instructor, but it wasn't their typical teacher. It was a person.
"A person? How is it possible for a person to teach?
She gave assignments, talked to both boys and girls, and asked them questions.
"Humans aren't intelligent enough."
"Yes, one is,"
Margie wasn't going to argue with that.
I wouldn't want an outsider teaching me in my home, she declared.
Tommy laughed hysterically. "Margie, you don't know very much. The home was empty of the instructors' residences. All of the children went to a separate facility there.
And what were the lessons that each child learned?
If they were the same age, sure.
"However, my mother claims that every child needs to be taught differently and that a teacher needs to be adjusted to fit the mind of each boy and girl they teach."
"However, back then, they didn't do it that way. You don't have to read the novel if you don't like it.
Margie sputtered, "I didn't say I didn't like it. She was interested in reading about those absurd institutions.
When Margie's mother phoned and said, "Margie! School!" they were barely halfway done.
Margie raised an eye. No, Mamma. Not yet.
Now, Mrs. Jones exclaimed. And Tommy should probably go now as well.
Can I continue reading the novel with you after school? Margie asked Tommy.
Maybe," he replied casually. He left while humming, carrying the ancient, dusty volume under his arm.
Margie stepped inside the classroom. The mechanical instructor was already on and waiting for her, and it was right outside of her chamber. With the exception of Saturday and Sunday, it was always on at the same time because, according to her mother, young females learn best when they attend school during normal hours.
The screen lit up, and it read: "Today's arithmetic lesson is on the addition of proper fractions. Please insert yesterday's homework in the appropriate slot." Margie sighed, remembering the old schools they had when her grandfather's grandfather was a young boy, where all the children from the entire neighborhood came, laughing and shouting in the schoolyard, sitting together in the classroom, and going home together at the end of the day.They learn.
Moreover, the instructors were individuals.
When we add fractions 12 and 14, the mechanical instructor was glowing on the screen.
Margie pondered how much the youngsters must have enjoyed it back then. She was reflecting on the enjoyable time they had.