"Mom!" ' ._.
Tm sorry. You just got on my nerves."
"Mothers aren't supposed to speak to their chil-
, 107
dren thus. I was fed that information from a volume written by a Doctor Spock."
"So what?" She downed another mouthful of gin.
"Doctor Spock is the foremost world authority on child rearing, and he insists that good mothers do not refer to their offspring as Commie faggot shitheels."
"Okay, already. I lost my head."
"You don't love me," Mr. Gordons said.
"Oh, for Christ's sake. Look, I'm sorry."
"There is no need to feel sorry," Mr. Gordons sniffed. "I do not feel love. I am an android. I have no creativity, and no feelings. Knowing my mom doesn't love me is meaningless to one such as 1.1 can survive without love."
The professor looked at him guiltily. "Would it help if I told you a bedtime story?"
Mr. Gordons shrugged. "If you wish," he said.
She thought through all her favorite childhood reading matter. Then her face brightened. "Ever hear about the double helix formation of deoxyribose nucleic acid?" she asked enthusiastically.
"Everybody knows that one," Mr. Gordons pouted.
The professor thought for another moment. "Okay. How about optical methods for studying Herzian resonances in antiprotons? I won a Nobel for that."
Mr. Gordons's head sagged. "Your study was fed to my information banks in the early stages of my development, along with your findings in
108
maser-laser principles used in quantum electrodynamics," he said.
"Smartass. Any other four-year-old kid would be happy with Herzian resonances."
Defiantly, Mr. Gordons looked up at her. "Since we're on the subject, you don't look like a mother, either."
"What do you mean," the professor balked, reaching for the gin decanter. "What's wrong with the way I look?"
"For one thing, you don't have any clothes on," Mr. Gordons said. -
"All right, all right," she said, wrapping a lab coat around herself.
"According to all standard Eastern and Western folklore, mothers are supposed to have gray hair and wrinkles," Mr. Gordons said. "They smile frequently. They're not supposed to drink gin and pull the pants off men they don't know."
The professor took a long draught from the decanter. "That's asking a lot, kid," she said.
Mr. Gordons rose, his face sad. "I will go elsewhere. I will find what I seek in another corner of the world."
"Wait a minute. I thought love meant nothing
to you."
"I seek to be creative. Therefore, I must simulate human behavior. I'm leaving home, Mom."
The professor sputtered out a stream of gin. "Don't do that," she said. "Every enemy agent in America will be out to get you. You're the LC-
111." "A creative human would not accept as a
109
mother someone who behaves as you do. Goodbye ... individual."
"Mom. It's Mom, okay?" she said desperately. "Don't leave, Gordons. We'll track the entire Soviet space program. Discover new worlds in space. You'd like that, wouldn't you, sweetums?"
"Goodbye."
"Wait," she said, flailing her arms over her head. "Just hold on, okay? I'll be right back." She retrieved her handbag from its usual place in the wastepaper basket and dashed to the ladies' room.
There was a brief scream, followed by some loud scuffling and cursing. In a moment the professor was back in the lab.
Her hair was powdered white with a cloud of talcum and pulled back into a Grandma Moses bun. One lab coat was arranged around her to look like a house dress, and another was tied around her waist to resemble an apron. Brown eyebrow pencil scored her face with laugh lines. "Happy?" she said disgustedly.
"You did this for me," Mr. Gordons said, his mechanical eyes shining.
"Will you stay, Gordons?"
"Will you program creativity into me?"
Her face was pained as she tried to explain. "Creativity isn't as wonderful as you think, baby," she said softly. "Sometimes it's easier just to have someone tell you what to do, to follow your programming."
"But you promised," Mr. Gordons said.
"It'll make a mess of your life. Look at you, honey. You're perfect. You never make mistakes. You never embarrass yourself. You never do idi-
110
otic things that you regret later. Why do you want to be creative? All that will bring you is trouble and unpredictability and heartbreak."
"Because I want to be free," the robot said.
With a long look the professor took in Mr. Gor-dons's sad eyes. "I understand," she said. "Sit over there. I'll give it a go."