There was a long silence, until the bear said, "That sounds fine. Go downstairs and give it to her."
Another long silence.
"It isn’t quite right. She won’t understand."
Inside the bear, a small computer worked through its program of possibilities. "Why not do it again in crayon?"
When David did not answer, the bear repeated his suggestion. "Why not do it again in crayon?"
David was staring out of the window. "Teddy, you know what I was thinking? How do you tell what are real things from what aren’t real things?"
The bear shuffled its alternatives. "Real things are good."
"I wonder if time is good. I don’t think Mummy likes time very much. The other day, lots of days ago, she said that time went by her. Is time real, Teddy?"
"Clocks tell the time. Clocks are real. Mummy has clocks so she must like them. She has a clock on her wrist next to her dial."
David started to draw a jumbo jet on the back of his letter. "You and I are real, Teddy, aren’t we?"
The bear’s eyes regarded the boy unflinchingly. "You and I are real David." It specialized in comfort.
Monica walked slowly about the house. It was almost time for the afternoon post to come over the wire. She punched the Post Office number on the dial on her wrist, but nothing came through. A few minutes more.
She could take up her painting. Or she could dial her friends. Or she could wait till Henry came home. Or she could go up and play with David…
She walked out into the hall and to the bottom of the stairs.
"David!"
No answer. She called again and a third time.
"Teddy!" she called, in sharper tones.
"Yes, Mummy!" After a moment’s pause, Teddy’s head of golden fur appeared at the top of the stairs.
"Is David in his room, Teddy?"
"David went into the garden, Mummy."
"Come down here, Teddy!"
She stood impassively, watching the little furry figure as it climbed down from step to step on its stubby limbs. When it reached the bottom, she picked it up and carried it into the living room. It lay unmoving in her arms, staring up at her. She could feel just the slightest vibration from its motor.
"Stand there, Teddy. I want to talk to you." She set him down on a tabletop, and he stood as she requested, arms set forward and open in the eternal gesture of embrace.
"Teddy, did David tell you to tell me he had gone into the garden?"
The circuits of the bear’s brain were too simple for artifice. "Yes, Mummy."
"So you lied to me."
"Yes. Mummy."
"Stop calling me Mummy! Why is David avoiding me? He’s not afraid of me, is he?"
"No. He loves you."
"Why can’t we communicate?"
"David’s upstairs."
The answer stopped her dead. Why waste time talking to this machine? Why not simply go upstairs and scoop David into her arms and talk to him, as a loving mother should to a loving son? She heard the sheer weight of silence in the house, with a different quality of silence pouring out of every room. On the upper landing, something was moving very silently – David, trying to hide away from her…
He was nearing the end of his speech now. The guests were attentive; so was the Press, lining two walls of the banqueting chamber, recording Henry’s words and occasionally photographing him.
"Our serving-man will be, in many senses, a product of the computer. Without computers, we could never have worked through the sophisticated biochemics that go into synthetic flesh. The serving-man will also be an extension of the computer – for he will contain a computer in his own head, a microminiaturized computer capable of dealing with almost any situation he may encounter in the home. With reservations, of course." Laughter at this; many of those present knew the heated debate that had engulfed the Synthank boardroom before the decision had finally been taken to leave the serving-man neuter under his flawless uniform.
"Amid all the triumphs of our civilization – yes, and amid the crushing problems of overpopulation too – it is sad to reflect how many millions of people suffer from increasing loneliness and isolation. Our serving-man will be a boon to them: he will always answer, and the most vapid conversation cannot bore him.
"For the future, we plan more models, male and female – some of them without the limitations of this first one, I promise you! – of more advanced design, true bio-electronic beings.
"Not only will they possess their own computer, capable of individual programming; they will be linked to the World Data Network. Thus everyone will be able to enjoy the equivalent of an Einstein in their own homes. Personal isolation will then be banished forever!"
He sat down to enthusiastic applause. Even the synthetic serving-man, sitting at the table dressed in an unostentatious suit, applauded with gusto.
Dragging his satchel, David crept round the side of the house. He climbed on to the ornamental seat under the living-room window and peeped cautiously in.
His mother stood in the middle of the room. Her face was blank, its lack of expression scared him. He watched fascinated. He did not move; she did not move. Time might have stopped, as it had stopped in the garden.
At last she turned and left the room. After waiting a moment, David tapped on the window. Teddy looked round, saw him, tumbled off the table, and came over to the window. Fumbling with his paws, he eventually got it open.
They looked at each other.
"I’m no good, Teddy. Let’s run away!"
"You’re a very good boy. Your Mummy loves you."
Slowly, he shook his head. "If she loved me, then why can’t I talk to her?"
"You’re being silly, David. Mummy’s lonely. That’s why she had you."
"She’s got Daddy. I’ve got nobody ’cept you, and I’m lonely."
Teddy gave him a friendly cuff over the head. "If you feel so bad, you’d better go to the psychiatrist again."
"I hate that old psychiatrist – he makes me feel I’m not real." He started to run across the lawn. The bear toppled out of the window and followed as fast as its stubby legs would allow.
Monica Swinton was up in the nursery. She called to her son once and then stood there, undecided. All was silent.
Crayons lay on his desk. Obeying a sudden impulse, she went over to the desk and opened it. Dozens of pieces of paper lay inside. Many of them were written in crayon in David’s clumsy writing, with each letter picked out in a color different from the letter preceding it. None of the messages was finished.
"My dear Mummy, How are you really, do you love me as much—"
"Dear Mummy, I love you and Daddy and the sun is shining—"
"Dear dear Mummy, Teddy’s helping me write to you. I love you and Teddy—"
"Darling Mummy, I’m your one and only son and I love you so much that some times—"
"Dear Mummy, you’re really my Mummy and I hate Teddy—"
"Darling Mummy, guess how much I love—"
"Dear Mummy, I’m your little boy not Teddy and I love you but Teddy—"
"Dear Mummy, this is a letter to you just to say how much how ever so much—"
Monica dropped the pieces of paper and burst out crying. In their gay inaccurate colors, the letters fanned out and settled on the floor.
Henry Swinton caught the express home in high spirits, and occasionally said a word to the synthetic serving-man he was taking home with him. The serving-man answered politely and punctually, although his answers were not always entirely relevant by human standards.
The Swintons lived in one of the ritziest city-blocks, half a kilometer above the ground. Embedded in other apartments, their apartment had no windows to the outside; nobody wanted to see the overcrowded external world. Henry unlocked the door with his retina pattern-scanner and walked in, followed by the serving-man.