It has taken me seven years to perfect the robot brain which will be the soul of my robot son, a brain whose learning capacities will equal (and in some regard, exceed) the capabilities of Peter Fitzpatrick himself. But I must keep the experiment perfectly controlled. My duties will consist primarily of careful observation, and of providing for the physical maturation of Machine. My robot child will not have the natural advantages of growth that Peter Fitzpatrick will possess; I must provide them for him. I will reconstruct his metal body periodically, so that he keeps pace with the growth of his human brother. Eventually, I hope that Machine will learn enough about the construction of his own form that he may make these changes for himself.
At the moment, Machine already has physical advantages over his brother. I did not wish to handicap my metal child; he will have serious shortcomings in a human world; the least I could do was to provide him with the advantages only a machine could boast. He will never know hunger or thirst, or the unpleasant necessities of human waste disposal. He will never know bitter cold or sweltering heat. The ills to which mankind are subject will never trouble his artificial body. The vulnerability of human flesh will never be his problem. He will live on, inviolate, as long as his robot brain pulses within the impenetrable housing of his beautiful head.
Have I said that Machine is beautiful? Yes, I have made him so. The world of humans will be critical enough of my experiment and my robot child; but they will not call him monster. I have made him beautiful with the beauty of perfect function. I have constructed him along human lines (nature was an excellent designer). I have given him a gleaming skin of silver, and flawless modeling. He shall inspire no loathing, my robot creation. Not even in Ila.
Ila! My heart constricts at the thought of my wife, who lies in happy slumber at St. Luke's this moment, unaware of the brother who awaits her infant son. How will she react? She has always been so helpful, so understanding. But an experiment like this, within her own domain, involving her own newborn son…
I must not worry myself needlessly. I must get ready. I must prepare for the arrival of Peter Fitzpatrick, brother of Machine.
June 11, 1997. I am outraged, outraged and deceived. Today I learned that the man who called upon me last month was not the scientific reporter he claimed to be. Now I know that he was a representative of a local newspaper, looking for a sensational Sunday feature with which to tickle the vulgar curiosity of its readers.
What a fool I was to grant him the interview! This morning, I found the article, illustrated by a terrible and inaccurate portrait of Mac and my son. "ROBOTIC PROFESSOR RAISES ROBOT AND SON AS BROTHERS…"
I have hidden the scandalous article from Ila's eyes. She is still bedridden, and I am worried about her failure to gain strength. Can it be that my experiment is the real cause of her illness? I believed, after her first hysterical outburst of protest, that she had become accustomed to the idea. She seemed so willing to cooperate, so completely aware of what I was trying to do. And yet, the way she looks at Mac, the evident horror in her eyes when she sees him touch our son…
No, I am sure she understands. Ila was never strong; she had rheumatic fever as a child, perhaps this is the belated result. I am sure she will be better when warmer weather comes. Perhaps if we went away…
But I cannot go away, of course, not at this early stage of my experiment. So far, all has gone well. At four months, Fitz is developing along normal lines. His little body has gone from asymmetric postures to symmetric postures, his eyes now converge and fasten upon any dangling object held at midpoint. As for Mac, he is advancing even more rapidly. He is beginning to learn control of his limbs; it is apparent that he will walk before his human brother. Before long, he will learn to speak; already I hear rumbles within the cavity of the sound-box in his chest. Fitz can only gurgle and coo his delight at being alive.
I believe Ila was right; Fitz does look like me. I would have preferred him to have Ila's green eyes and fair skin, but he is dark like myself. I feel an unscientific pride in my boy.
Sept. 10, 1997. Must happiness and despair always live side by side? It would seem that is my fate. Today, I thought I would surprise Ila with the extraordinary progress of our robot child. I knew that Mac has been developing the power of coherent speech, and has already said some simple words. For the past week, I have been teaching him phrases, beginning with the one I thought would please Ila most. But I have been foolish. I believe Ila must resent Mac's rapid development. Fitz, at the age of seven months, is just now displaying coordination. He can transfer objects from hand to hand, and he makes sounds that might be taken, or mistaken, for words.
But Mac is far ahead of him. And this morning, at ten o'clock, I brought him into Ila's bedroom. She was still fast asleep; her illness seems to produce the need for sleep. She stirred when she heard our footsteps (Mac's metal feet are too noisy; I must muffle his lumbering stride). I said:
"Ila, I have a little surprise…"
She raised her head from the pillow and looked at me, avoiding contact with Mac's silvery face.
"What is it?" she said.
"It's Mac. He wants to say something to you."
"What are you talking about?"
I smiled.
"All right, Mac."
His metal face lifted towards her. From the featureless surface, a small, uncertain voice emerged.
"He… llo… mo… ther…"
I almost laughed aloud in satisfaction and delight, and turned to Ila in search of her approval and pleasure. But her face bore an expression that amazed and frightened me, an expression of utter horror I had never seen before. Her lips moved soundlessly, and her eyes, always feverish, burned brighter than ever. And then she screamed. God help me, she screamed as if the devil were in the room, bringing up her hands to clutch at her hair. In the nursery next door, little Fitz set up a sympathetic wail, and I saw Mac's metal body shiver as if in reaction to the sound.
I tried to calm her, but she was lost in hysteria. Eventually her sobs stopped, but then she fell back upon the pillow with such exhaustion that I became concerned and telephoned for medical help. Dr. Foster arrived half an hour later and shut me out of the bedroom. When he finally emerged, he mumbled something about shock, and prescribed rest and tranquilizing drugs.
I went into Ila's room a few minutes ago. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was shallow. I spoke to her, but she merely lifted her hand and said nothing. My poor Ila! Why must she face so much misery, while I experience such joy and satisfaction in my work?
Jan. 1, 1998. It has been almost two months since I last touched this journal, but I must take strength in this New Year and continue. It has been hard for me to work at all; there has been too much bitterness in my mind and unhappiness in my heart since Ila's death.
As I write these words, little Fitz is sleeping peacefully in his crib, watched over by his new nursemaid, Annette. But Mac, who needs no sleep, is sitting in the study chair beside my desk, watching me through the expressionless eyes I have placed in his silver skull. Yet, blank as they are, somehow I sense emotion in those eyes as he watches me. Somehow, I feel my robot creation knows the torment I suffer, and knows the void in our home since Ila's death. Does he miss her, too? It is so difficult to tell. Even with Fitz, my human child, it is hard to recognize the signs of sorrow he must be feeling.
During these past weeks, I began to believe that my experiment was all a conceit. But now I realize it was only grief that brought such thoughts; I must continue. Already, I believe Mac thinks of Fitz as his brother, and I know that someday Fitz will reciprocate. There will be much to learn from both of them. I cannot fail my mission now. I will go on.
July 25, 2002. Today, my family and I began life in new surroundings, and as difficult as the transplantation has been, I am glad now that we made the move. It had become too much of a burden to face the curiosity and gibes of the neighborhood; we have attracted too much attention. For this reason, I have purchased this small home in the exurbs of the city, just outside the town of Fremont.