On Jimmy’s 16th birthday, he was taken to the Type Machine.
“I don’t want to do this.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” said his father, puffing on his pipe. “You’re a big lad, you’ll probably be a Jock. Jocks get Cheerleaders.”
Jimmy looked at the ‘Who Will You Be?’ pamphlet. “But none of these fit. I like science and football.”
“I know, son. That’s why you need a Type. To stop nonsense like that.”
The scientist adjusted his black-rimmed glasses. “The Machine has finished analysing your tests. You can go in now.”
Jimmy entered the metal room, wondering who would come out.