Free MacRoscope by Piers Anthony

The portly white for the moment probably envied Blank his facility with the paddle, without being concerned with such irrelevancies as education.
    In the center of the room stood a pedestal bearing a shining statuette mounted at eye level. Ivo paused next to contemplate this honored edifice. It was a toy steam-shovel, of storybook design, with a handsome little scoop. The cab was shingled like the top of a country cottage, with a delicately sagging peaked roof and a bright half-moon on the door. Within the jawed shovel was a ball like a marble, and so fine was its artistry that he could see the accurate outline of the continent of North America etched upon the surface of that little globe.
    The pedestal bore the ornate letters S D P S. “What does it mean?”
    Afra looked embarrassed again. “Brad calls it the ‘Platinum Plated Privy,’ ” she murmured, quiet though no one else was close. “It really is. Platinum plated, I mean. He — designed it, and the shop produced it. The men seem to appreciate it.”
    “But those letters. S D P S. They can’t stand for—”
    She colored slightly, and he liked her for that, sensing a common conservatism though their viewpoints in other respects differed strongly. “You’ll have to ask him.” Then she shifted ground. “Here we are talking about unimportant things and ignoring you. Where do you come from, Ivo? That is, where did you settle after you left your project?”
    “I’ve been walking around the state of Georgia, mostly. All of us who participated in the project were provided with a guaranteed income, at least until we got established. It isn’t much, but I don’t need much.”
    “That’s very interesting. I was born in Macon, you know. Georgia is my home state.”
    Macon! “I
didn’t
know.” But somehow he
had
known.
    “But what interested you about that state? Do you know someone there?”
    “Something like that.” How could he explain ten years of seeming idleness, retracing the various routes of a native son?
    She didn’t press him. “I should show you the infirmary, too; Brad did mention that. I suppose he wants you to be able to describe it accurately to Schön.”
    They traveled on. Ivo wondered what was supposed to be so important about the infirmary, but was content to wait upon her explanation. He was learning more about her every moment, and positive or negative, he was eager for the information.
    “One thing I don’t understand,” Afra fretted, “is why Schön was in that other project. He should have been with Brad.”
    “He was hiding. Do you know the parable about the good fish?”
    “The good fish?” Her brow furrowed prettily.
    “The good fish that the fisherman caught in the net and gathered into vessels, while the bad were cast away. Matthew XIII:48.”
    “Oh. Yes, of course. What is the relevance?”
    “If you were one of the fish in that lake, which kind would you want to be?”
    “A good one, naturally. The whole point of the parable is that the good people shall find favor with God, while the bad ones will perish.”
    “But what
happens
, literally, to the good fish?”
    “Why, they are taken to the market and—” She paused. “Well, at least they aren’t wasted.”
    “While the bad fish continue to swim around the lake, just as they always did, because no fisherman wants them.
I’d
rather be one of them.”
    “I suppose so, if you take it that way. But what has that to do with—” She broke off again. “What did they
do
with the geniuses in Brad’s project?”
    “Well, I wasn’t involved in that. But I would guess Schön wanted to live his own life, unsupervised by the experimenters. So he hid where they would never find him. A bad fish.”
    “Brad had no trouble. I know he didn’t fool them any more than he fooled me. He’s a lot more intelligent than he says he is.”
    Ivo remembered that Brad had represented himself to her as IQ 160. “That so? He always seemed pretty regular to me.”
    “He’s