Friday (10 page)

“You’re a naughty girl, that’s what you are.”

“Possibly. Probably. But which sort? Natural? Or artificial?”

“Oh, bosh! Natural, of course.”

“Wrong. I’m artificial.”

“Oh, stop being silly! Put your nightgown on and come back to bed.”

Instead I badgered her with it, telling her what laboratory had designed me, the date I had been removed from the surrogate womb—my “birthday,” although we APs are “cooked” a little longer to speed up maturing—forced her to listen to a description of life in a production laboratory crèche. (Correction: Life in the crèche that raised me; other production crèches may be different.)

I gave her a summary of my life after I left the crèche—mostly lies, as I could not compromise Boss’s secrets; I simply repeated what I had long since told the family, that I was a confidential commercial traveler. I didn’t need to mention Boss because Anita had decided years back that I was an envoy of a multinational, the sort of diplomat who always travels anonymously—an understandable error that I was happy to encourage by never denying it.

Vickie said, “Marjie, I wish you wouldn’t do this. A string of lies like that could endanger your immortal soul.”

“I don’t have a soul. That’s what I’ve been telling you.”

“Oh, stop it! You were born in Seattle. Your father was an electronics engineer; your mother was a pediatrician. You lost them in the quake. You told us all about them—you showed us pictures.”

“‘My mother was a test tube; my father was a knife.’ Vickie, there may be a million or more artificial people whose ‘birth records’ were ‘destroyed’ in the destruction of Seattle. No way to count them as their lies are never assembled. After what happened just this month there will start being lots of people of my sort who were ‘born’ in Acapulco. We have to find loopholes like that to avoid being persecuted by the ignorant and the prejudiced.”

“Meaning I’m ignorant and prejudiced!”

“Meaning you are a sweet girl who was fed a pack of lies by your elders. I’m trying to correct that. But if the shoe fits, you can lie in it.”

I shut up. Vickie didn’t kiss me good-night. We were a long time getting to sleep.

The next day each of us pretended that the argument had never taken place. Vickie did not mention Ellen; I did not mention artificial persons. But it spoiled what had started out to be a merry outing. We got the shopping done and caught the evening shuttle home. I did not do as I had threatened—I did not call Ellen as soon as we were home. I did not forget Ellen; I simply hoped that waiting a while might mellow the situation. Cowardly, I suppose.

Early the following week Brian invited me to go with him while he inspected a piece of land for a client. It was a long pleasant ride with lunch at a licensed country hotel—a fricasee billed as hogget although almost certainly mutton, washed down by tankards of mild. We ate out under the trees.

After the sweet—a berry tart, quite good—Brian said, “Marjorie, Victoria came to me with a very odd story.”

“So? What was it?”

“My dear, please believe that I would not mention this were not Vickie so troubled by it.” He paused.

I waited. “Upset by what, Brian?”

“She claims that you told her that you are a living artifact masquerading as a human being. I’m sorry but that’s what she said.”

“Yes, I told her that. Not in those words.”

I did not add any explanation. Presently Brian said gently, “May I ask why?”

“Brian, Vickie was saying some very silly things about Tongans, and I was trying to make her see that they were both silly and wrong—that she was wronging Ellen by it. I am very much troubled about Ellen. The day I arrived home you shushed me about her, and I have kept quiet. But I can’t keep quiet much longer. Brian, what are we going to do about Ellen? She’s your daughter and mine; we can’t ignore how she is being mistreated. What shall we do?”

“I do not necessarily agree that something should be done, Marjorie. Please don’t change the subject. Vickie is quite unhappy. I am attempting to straighten out the misunderstanding.”

I answered, “I have not changed the subject. Injustice to Ellen is the subject and I won’t drop it. Is there any respect in which Ellen’s husband is objectionable? Other than prejudgment against him because he is Tongan?”

“None that I know of. Although, in my opinion, it was inconsiderate of Ellen to marry a man who had not even been introduced to her family. It does not show a decent respect for the people who have loved her and cared for her all her life.”

“Wait a moment, Brian. As Vickie tells it, Ellen asked to bring him home for inspection—as I was brought home—and Anita refused to permit it. Whereupon Ellen married him. True?”

“Well, yes. But Ellen was headstrong and hasty. I don’t think she should have done so without talking to her other parents. I was quite hurt by it.”

“Did she try to speak to you? Did you make any attempt to talk to her?”

“Marjorie, by the time I knew of it, it was a fait accompli.”

“So I hear. Brian, ever since I got home I have been hoping that someone would explain to me what happened. According to Vickie none of this was ever settled in family council. Anita refused to let Ellen bring her beloved home. The rest of Ellen’s parents either did not know or did not interfere with Anita’s, uh, cruelty. Yes, cruelty. Whereupon the child got married. Whereupon Anita compounded her initial cruelty by a grave injustice: She refused Ellen her birthright, her share of the family’s wealth. Is all this true?”

“Marjorie, you were not here. The rest of us—six out of seven—acted as wisely as we could in a difficult situation. I don’t think it is proper of you to come along afterwards and criticize what we have done—upon my word, I don’t.”

“Dear, I don’t mean to offend you. But my very point is that six of you have not done
anything
. Anita, acting alone, has done things that seem to me to be cruel and unjust…and the rest of you stood aside and let her get away with it. No family decisions, just Anita’s decisions. If this is true, Brian—and correct me if I’m wrong—then I feel compelled to ask for a full executive session of all husbands and wives to correct this cruelty by inviting Ellen and her husband to visit home, and to correct the injustice by paying to Ellen her fair share of the family’s wealth, or at least to acknowledge the debt if it can’t be liquidated at once. Will you tell me your opinion of that?”

Brian drummed his nails on the tabletop. “Marjorie, that’s a simplistic view of a complex situation. Will you admit that I love Ellen and have her welfare in mind quite as much as you do?”

“Certainly, darling!”

“Thank you. I agree with you that Anita should not have refused to let Ellen bring her young man home. Indeed, if Ellen had seen him against the background of her own home, with its gentle ways and its traditions, she might well have decided that he was not for her. Anita stampeded Ellen into a foolish marriage—and I have told her so. But the matter cannot be immediately corrected by inviting them here. You can see that. Let’s agree that Anita
should
receive them warmly and graciously…but it’s God’s own truth that she won’t—if she has them shoved down her throat.”

He grinned at me and I was forced to grin in return. Anita can be charming…and she can be incredibly cold, rude, if it suits her.

Brian went on: “Instead, I’ll have reason to make a trip to Tonga in a couple of weeks and this will let me get well acquainted without having Anita at my elbow—”

“Good! Take me along—pretty please?”

“It would annoy Anita.”

“Brian, Anita has considerably more than annoyed me. I won’t refrain from visiting Ellen on that account.”

“Mmm…would you refrain from doing something that might damage the welfare of all of us?”

“If it were pointed out to me, yes. I might ask for explanation.”

“You will have it. But let me deal with your second point. Of course Ellen will get every penny that is coming to her. But you will concede that there is no urgency about paying it to her. Hasty marriages often do not last long. And, while I have no proof of it, it is quite possible that Ellen has been taken in by a fortune hunter. Let’s wait a bit and see how anxious this chap is to lay hands on her money. Isn’t that prudent?”

I had to admit it. He continued: “Marjorie, my love, you are especially dear to me and to all of us because we see too little of you. It makes each of your trips home a fresh honeymoon for all of us. But, because you are away most of the time, you don’t understand why the rest of us are always careful to keep Anita soothed down.”

“Well—No, I don’t. It should work both ways.”

“In dealing with the law and with people I have found a vast difference between ‘should’ and ‘is.’ I’ve lived with Anita longest of any of us; I’ve learned to live with her little ways. What you may not realize is that she is the glue that holds the family together.”

“How, Brian?”

“There is the obvious matter of her custodianship. As manager of the family finances and businesses she is well-nigh irreplaceable. Perhaps some other one of us could do it but it is certain that no one wants the job and I strongly suspect that no one of us could approach her competence. But in ways other than money she is a strong, capable executive. Whether it is in stopping quarrels between children or in deciding any of the thousand issues that come up in a large household, Anita can always make up her mind and keep things moving. A group family, such as ours, must have a strong, capable leader.”

(Strong, capable tyrant, I said under my breath.)

“So. Marjie girl, can you wait a bit and give old Brian time to work it out? Believe that I love Ellen as much as you do?”

I patted his hand. “Certainly, dear.” (But don’t take forever!)

“Now, when we get home, will you find Vickie and tell her that you were joking and that you are sorry you upset her? Please, dear.”

(Wups! I had been thinking about Ellen so hard that I had forgotten where this conversation started.) “Now wait one moment, Brian. I’ll wait and avoid annoying Anita since you tell me it’s necessary. But I’m not going to cater to Vickie’s racial prejudices.”

“You would not be doing so. Our family is not all of one mind in such matters. I agree with you and you will find that Liz does, too. Vickie is somewhat on the fence; she wants to find any excuse to get Ellen back into the family and, now that I’ve talked to her, is willing to concede that Tongans are just like Maori and that the real test is the person himself. But it’s that strange jest you made about yourself that has her upset.”

“Oh. Brian, you once told me that you had almost earned a degree in biology when you switched to law.”

“Yes. ‘Almost’ may be too strong.”

“Then you know that an artificial person is biologically indistinguishable from an ordinary human being. The lack of a soul does not show.”

“Eh? I’m merely a vestryman, dear; souls are a matter for theologians. But it is certainly not difficult to spot a living artifact.”

“I didn’t say ‘living artifact.’ That term covers even a talking dog such as Lord Nelson. But an artificial person is strictly limited to human form and appearance. So how can you spot one? That was the silly thing Vickie was saying, that she could always spot one. Take me, for example. Brian, you know my physical being quite thoroughly—I’m happy to say. Am I an ordinary human being? Or an artificial person?”

Brian grinned and licked his lips. “Lovely Marjie, I will testify in any court that you are human to nine decimal places…except where you are angelic. Shall I specify?”

“Knowing your tastes, dear, I don’t think it’s necessary. Thank you. But please be serious. Assume, for the sake of argument, that I am an artificial person. How could a man in bed with me—as you were last night and many other nights—tell that I was artificial?”

“Marjie, please drop it. It’s not funny.”

(Sometimes human people exasperate me beyond endurance.) I said briskly, “I’m an artificial person.”

“Marjorie!”

“You won’t take my word for it? Must I prove it?”

“Stop joking. Stop this instant! Or, so help me, when I get you home I’ll paddle you. Marjorie, I’ve never laid an ungentle hand on you—on any of my wives. But you are earning a spanking.”

“So? See that last bite of tart on your plate? I am about to take it. Slap your hands together right over your plate and stop me.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Do it. You can’t move fast enough to stop me.”

We locked eyes. Suddenly he started to slap his hands together. I went into automatic overdrive, picked up my fork, stabbed that bite of tart, pulled back the fork between his closing hands, stopped the overdrive just before I placed the bite between my lips.

(That plastic spoon in the crèche was not discrimination but to protect
me
. The first time I used a fork I stabbed my lip because I had not yet learned to slow my moves to match unenhanced persons.)

There may not be a word for the expression on Brian’s face.

“Is that enough?” I asked him. “No, probably not. My dear, clasp hands with me.” I shoved out my right hand.

He hesitated, then took it. I let him control the grasp, then I started slowly to tighten down. “Don’t hurt yourself, dear,” I warned him. “Let me know when to stop.”

Brian is no sissy and can take quite a bit of pain. I was about to slack off, not wishing to break any bones in his hand, when he suddenly said, “
Enough!
”

I immediately slacked off and started to massage his hand gently with both of mine. “I did not enjoy hurting you, darling, but I had to show you that I am telling the truth. Ordinarily I am careful not to display unusual reflexes or unusual strength. But I do need them in the work I am in. On several occasions enhanced strength and speed have kept me alive. I am most careful not to use either one unless forced to. Now—is there anything more needed to prove to you that I am what I say I am? I am enhanced in other ways but speed and strength are easiest to demonstrate.”

He answered, “It’s time we started home.”

On the way home we didn’t exchange a dozen words. I am very fond of the luxury of horse-and-buggy rides. But that day I would happily have used something noisy and mechanical—but
fast!