Friday by Robert A. Heinlein Page B

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