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We arose at 8:00 a.m. to face a cold, gray November day. It went badly from the beginning. By the glances touched, then flitted away, we were all experiencing similar emotions. Gina’s anxiety was most in evidence. The night before, a social worker from CNS-Solutions had called to say she would be unable to join us with Dr. Neil Burton from their partner company, Technology Bank. Gina had dissolved in tears. “At least someone cares, Preston,” she sobbed, “that I’m about to become a m…mother.” “Soon,” I said, wiping away her tears. “I promise.” My wife couldn’t get pregnant. She had advanced endometriosis. Birth in 2030 A.D. was considered a blessing, and in that day and age blessings were not regarded highly. At least not by women. Blame it on feminism? Probably not. My wife did go once a month to Rite-Aid, with its futuristic pharmacy counters—unlike when I was a child—and conveyer belts doing much of the prescription filling to pick up the latest technological pregnancy tests by Automatic Response. Inside there would be an electronic flash drive strip which you inserted inside you, then plugged into your own micro PC’s USB port. After that you logged onto the Automatic Response’s “Planned Parenthood” website. The website would immediately tell you the results of the test: whether you were pregnant or not, whether it was a girl or a boy, and the chances you had of being able to conceive in your lifetime. Fertility levels were also displayed. But, like months before, to no avail. Sign out. I did have children from a previous marriage. But I wanted more. And so did Gina, one she could call her own. The boys were keyed up, as usual each in his own way. “What’s the rush?” said Chandler with a touch of disdain. “There’s plenty of time.” Chandler, tall, lithe, looked almost Irish with his blue eyes, fair skin, and blond hair; there was also a softness in his face that reflected much of his sensitivity. He smiled and cried easily for a 10th grader, and I suspected that many of his emotions were close to the surface concerning his age. I probably understood him best of all my children, because in many ways he was so like me—an inward-looking person. Roger, stocky, with wide features and a hawklike nose, brown hair, and flashing brown eyes, was the most passionate of the three. Now it was impatience that beset him. “Hurry up everybody!” he kept urging as small kids do. “Let’s get moving!” He was the most outgoing, the most depressed, the most stubborn, sometimes the angriest, yet still the most enthusiastic; the one who cared, and who could identify with others. For a twelve-year old, he loved fixing Gina’s coffee and cereal before he went to school. Danny had my ex-wife’s eyes, flaxen hair (what you’d call hipster), and a thin build. As a result of having two older brothers, he was fiercely competitive in not only art but games as well, such as after-school sports, and he had hated to be beaten. But with ten-year olds he was rather patient, considerate, and gentle. It was so Danny and Roger that we looked primarily for help with Ursa—the robot child we were going to adopt. By November 5th, the response from Technology Bank was extraordinary. More than a dozen families in our Long Island neighborhood expressed interest in taking on a robot child, too. Word spread and I received innumerable telephone calls, interview opportunities with the local radios and newspapers—some as far away as California. The adoption was becoming too big. But Gina would be happy. She’d be surprised. I decided I would pick from a catalog additional children for the most interested families on my block, as they too were looking into adopting. Though engineered from steel and microchips, I knew they not only looked real enough but loved just like real children do. On that morning, Gina had packed a small bag for Ursa—toys, coloring books, markers, and cookies—and was coming down the stairs. It was amazing how CNS-Solutions developed these kids. They could actually feel emotions and smile and eat food like real humans do; you’d never be able to tell the difference. Having and owning an artificial child was the latest thing. Suddenly she stopped at the entrance to the kitchen, her face chalk-white. “What’s the matter?” I knew what was the matter all right. “I’m scared,” she whispered. “Suppose she doesn’t want to…come along with us?” “I
know it’ll be strange for her, but it will be all right.” |