Second Variety and Other Stories (18 page)

"He was going to tell me when you started acting the way you did. I'll call him on the vidphone
when we get home. His wave pattern should be good. He comes from the best eugenic stock."

Ed grunted. "On your side, at least."

"How long are you going to be here?"

"I don't know. Not long. I'll have to go back. I'd sure like to see him again, before I go." He
glanced up hopefully at his wife. "Do you think I can?"

"I suppose."

"How long will he have to stay there?"

"At the hospital? Not long. A few days."

Ed hesitated. "I didn't mean at the hospital, exactly. I mean with them. How long before we can
have him? How long before we can bring him home?"

There was silence. Janet finished her brandy. She leaned back, lighting a cigarette. Smoke drifted
across to Ed, blending with the pale light. "Ed, I don't think you understand. You've been out there so
long. A lot has happened since you were a child. New methods, new techniques. They've found so many
things they didn't know. They're making progress, for the first time. They know what to do. They're
developing a real methodology for dealing with children. For the growth period. Attitude development.
Training." She smiled brightly at Ed. "I've been reading all about it."

"How long before we get him?"

"In a few days he'll be released from the hospital. He'll go to a child guidance center. He'll be
tested and studied. They'll determine his various capacities and his latent abilities. The direction his
development seems to be taking."

"And then?"

"Then he's put in the proper educational division. So he'll get the right training. Ed, you know, I
think he's really going to be something! I could tell by the way Doctor Bish looked. He was studying the
wave pattern charts when I came in. He had a look on his face. How can I describe it?" She searched for
the word. "Well, almost -- almost a greedy look. Real excitement. They take so much interest in what
they're doing. He --"

"Don't say he. Say it."

"Ed, really! What's got into you?"

"Nothing." Ed glared sullenly down. "Go on."

"They make sure he's trained in the right direction. All the time he's there ability tests are given.
Then, when he's about nine, he'll be transferred to --"

"Nine! You mean nine years?"

"Of course."

"But when do we get him?"

"Ed, I thought you knew about this. Do I have to go over the whole thing?"

"My God, Jan! We can't wait nine years!" Ed jerked himself upright. "I never heard of such a
thing. Nine years? Why, he'll be half grown up then."

"That's the point." Janet leaned towards him, resting her bare elbow against the table. "As long as
he's growing he has to be with them. Not with us. Afterwards, when he's finished growing, when he's no
longer so plastic, then we can be with him all we want."

he's growing he has to be with them. Not with us. Afterwards, when he's finished growing, when he's no
longer so plastic, then we can be with him all we want."

"Sit down, Ed." Janet gazed up calmly, one supple arm thrown lightly over the back of her chair.
"Sit down and act like an adult for a change."

"Doesn't it matter to you? Don't you care?"

"Of course I care." Janet shrugged. "But it's necessary. Otherwise he won't develop correctly.
It's for his good. Not ours. He doesn't exist for us. Do you want him to have conflicts?"

Ed moved away from the table. "I'll see you later."

"Where are you going?"

"Just around. I can't stand this kind of place. It bothers me. I'll see you later." Ed pushed across
the room to the door. The door opened and he found himself on the shiny noonday street. Hot sunlight
beat down on him. He blinked, adjusting himself to the blinding light. People streamed around him.
People and noise. He moved with them.

He was dazed. He had known, of course. It was there in the back of his mind. The new
developments in child care. But it had been abstract, general. Nothing to do with him. With his child.

He calmed himself, as he walked along. He was getting all upset about nothing. Janet was right,
of course. It was for Peter's good. Peter didn't exist for them, like a dog or cat. A pet to have around the
house. He was a human being, with his own life. The training was for him, not for them. It was to develop
him, his abilities, his powers. He was to be molded, realized, brought out.

Naturally, robots could do the best job. Robots could train him scientifically, according to a
rational technique. Not according to emotional whim. Robots didn't get angry. Robots didn't nag and
whine. They didn't spank a child or yell at him. They didn't give conflicting orders. They didn't quarrel
among themselves or use the child for their own ends. And there could be no Oedipus Complex, with
only robots around.

No complexes at all. It had been discovered long ago that neurosis could be traced to childhood
training. To the way parents brought up the child. The inhibitions he was taught, the manners, the lessons,
the punishments, the rewards. Neuroses, complexes, warped development, all stemmed from the
subjective relationship existing between the child and the parent. If perhaps the parent could be
eliminated as a factor...

Parents could never become objective about their children. It was always a biased, emotional
projection the parent held toward the child. Inevitably, the parent's view was distorted. No parent could
be a fit instructor for his child.

Robots could study the child, analyze his needs, his wants, test his abilities and interests. Robots
would not try to force the child to fit a certain mold. The child would be trained along his own lines;
wherever scientific study indicated his interest and need lay.

Ed came to the corner. Traffic whirred past him. He stepped absently forward.

A clang and crash. Bars dropped in front of him, stopping him. A robot safety control.

"Sir, be more careful!" the strident voice came, close by him.

"Sorry." Ed stepped back. The control bars lifted. He waited for the lights to change. It was for
Peter's own good. Robots could train him right. Later on, when he was out of growth stage, when he was
not so pliant, responsive -- "It's better for him," Ed murmured. He said it again, half aloud. Some people
glanced at him and he colored. Of course it was better for him. No doubt about it.

Eighteen. He couldn't be with his son until he was eighteen. Practically grown up.

The lights changed. Deep in thought, Ed crossed the street with the other pedestrians, keeping
carefully inside the safety lane. It was best for Peter. But eighteen years was a long time.

"A hell of a long time," Ed murmured, frowning. "Too damn long a time."

Doctor 2g-Y Bish carefully studied the man standing in front of him. His relays and memory
banks clicked, narrowing down the image identification, flashing a variety of comparison possibilities past
the scanner.

the scanner.

"Nine years ago," Ed Doyle said grimly. "Exactly nine years ago, practically to the day."

Doctor Bish folded his hands. "Sit down, Mr Doyle. What can I do for you? How is Mrs Doyle?
Very engaging wife, as I recall. We had a delightful conversation during her delivery. How --"

"Doctor Bish, do you know where my son is?"

Doctor Bish considered, tapping his fingers on the desk top, the polished mahogany surface. He
closed his eyes slightly, gazing off into the distance. "Yes. Yes, I know where your son is, Mr Doyle."

Ed Doyle relaxed. "Fine." He nodded, letting his breath out in relief.

"I know exactly where your son is. I placed him in the Los Angeles Biological Research Station
about a year ago. He's undergoing specialized training there. Your son, Mr Doyle, has shown exceptional
ability. He is, shall I say, one of the few, the very few we have found with real possibilities."

"Can I see him?"

"See him? How do you mean?"

Doyle controlled himself with an effort. "I think the term is clear."

Doctor Bish rubbed his chin. His photocell brain whirred, operating at maximum velocity.
Switches routed power surges, building up loads and leaping gaps rapidly, as he contemplated the man
before him. "You wish to view him? That's one meaning of the term. Or do you wish to talk to him?
Sometimes the term is used to cover a more direct contact. It's a loose word."

"I want to talk to him."

"I see." Bish slowly drew some forms from the dispenser on his desk. "There are a few routine
papers that have to be filled out first, of course. Just how long did you want to speak to him?"

Ed Doyle gazed steadily into Doctor Bish's bland face. "I want to talk to him several hours.
Alone."

"Alone?"

"No robots around."

Doctor Bish said nothing. He stroked the papers he held, creasing the edges with his nail. "Mr
Doyle," he said carefully, "I wonder if you're in a proper emotional state to visit your son. You have
recently come in from the colonies?"

"I left Proxima three weeks ago."

"Then you have just arrived here in Los Angeles?"

"That's right."

"And you've come to see your son? Or have you other business?"

"I came for my son."

"Mr Doyle, Peter is at a very critical stage. He has just recently been transferred to the Biology
Station for his higher training. Up to now his training has been general. What we call the
non-differentiated stage. Recently he has entered a new period. Within the last six months Peter has
begun advanced work along his specific line, that of organic chemistry. He will --"

"What does Peter think about it?"

Bish frowned. "I don't understand, sir."

"How does he feel? Is it what he wants?"

"Mr Doyle, your son has the possibility of becoming one of the world's finest bio-chemists. In all
the time we have worked with human beings, in their training and development, we have never come
across a more alert and integrated faculty for the assimilation of data, construction of theory, formulation
of material, than that which your son possesses. All tests indicate he will rapidly rise to the top of his
chosen field. He is still only a child, Mr Doyle, but it is the children who must be trained."

Doyle stood up. "Tell me where I can find him. I'll talk to him for two hours and then the rest is
up to him."

"The rest?"

Doyle clamped his jaw shut. He shoved his hands in his pockets. His face was flushed and set
grim with determination. In the nine years he had grown much heavier, more stocky and florid. His
thinning hair had turned iron-gray. His clothes were dumpy and unpressed. He looked stubborn.

grim with determination. In the nine years he had grown much heavier, more stocky and florid. His
thinning hair had turned iron-gray. His clothes were dumpy and unpressed. He looked stubborn.

"Alone?"

"You can take him away from the Station grounds for that length of time." Doctor Bish pushed
the papers over to Doyle. "Fill these out, and I'll have Peter brought here."

He looked up steadily at the man standing before him.

"I hope you'll remember that any emotional experience at this crucial stage may do much to inhibit
his development. He has chosen his field, Mr Doyle. He must be permitted to grow along his selected
lines, unhindered by situational blocks. Peter has been in contact with our technical staff throughout his
entire training period. He is not accustomed to contact with other human beings. So please be careful."

Doyle said nothing. He grabbed up the papers and plucked out his fountain pen.

He hardly recognized his son when the two robot attendants brought him out of the massive
concrete Station building and deposited him a few yards from Ed's parked surface car.

Ed pushed the door open. "Pete!" His heart was thumping heavily, painfully. He watched his son
come toward the car, frowning in the bright sunlight. It was late afternoon, about four. A faint breeze
blew across the parking lot, rustling a few papers and bits of debris.

Peter stood slim and straight. His eyes were large, deep brown, like Ed's. His hair was light,
almost blond. More like Janet's. He had Ed's jaw, though, the firm line, clean and well chiseled. Ed
grinned at him. Nine years it had been. Nine years since the robot attendant had lifted the rack up from
the conveyor pot to show him the little wrinkled baby, red as a boiled lobster.

Peter had grown. He was not a baby any longer. He was a young boy, straight and proud, with
firm features and wide, clear eyes.

"Pete," Ed said. "How the hell are you?"

The boy stopped by the door of the car. He gazed at Ed calmly. His eyes flickered, taking in the
car, the robot driver, the heavy set man in the rumpled tweed suit grinning nervously at him.

"Get in. Get inside." Ed moved over. "Come on. We have places to go."

The boy was looking at him again. Suddenly Ed was conscious of his baggy suit, his unshined
shoes, his gray stubbled chin. He flushed, yanking out his red pocket-handkerchief and mopping his
forehead uneasily. "I just got off the ship, Pete. From Proxima. I haven't had time to change. I'm a little
dusty. Long trip."

Peter nodded. "4.3 light years, isn't it?"

"Takes three weeks. Get in. Don't you want to get in?"

Peter slid in beside him. Ed slammed the door.

"Let's go." The car started up. "Drive --" Ed peered out the window. "Drive up there. By the hill.
Out of town." He turned to Pete. "I hate big cities. I can't get used to them."

"There are no large cities in the colonies, are there?" Pete murmured. "You're unused to urban
living."

Ed settled back. His heart had begun to slow down to its normal beat. "No, as a matter of fact
it's the other way around, Pete."