Say, your telephone is sounding."

“Oh!” Matt fumbled in his pouch and got out his phone. “Hello?”

“That you, son?” came his father’s voice.

“Yes, Dad.”

“Did you get there all right?”

“Sure, I’m about to report in.”

“How’s your leg?”

“Leg’s all right, Dad.” His answer was not frank; his right leg, fresh from a corrective operation for a short Achilles’ tendon, was aching as he spoke.

“That’s good. Now see here, Matt-if it should work out that you aren’t selected, don’t let it get you down. You call me at once and-”

“Sure, sure, Dad,” Matt broke in. “I’ll have to sign off-I’m in a crowd. Good-by. Thanks for calling.”

—Space Cadet, Robert A. Heinlein, written in nineteen fucking forty eight!