“But—” said Mrs. Cuberle.
“This much you understand, doubtless. Now, Mary, what you object to is that our society offers you, and the others like you, no convincing logic on the side of waiting until age nineteen. It is all taken for granted, and you want to know why! It is that simple. A nontechnical explanation will not suffice—mercy no! The modern child wants facts, solid technical data, to satisfy her every question. And that, as you can both see, will take a good deal of reorganizing.”
“But—” said Mary.
“The child is upset, nervous, tense; she acts strange, peculiar, odd, worries you and makes herself ill because it is beyond our meagre powers to put it across. I tell you, what we need is a whole new basis for learning. And, that will take doing. It will take doing, Mrs. Cuberle. Now, don’t you worry about Mary, and don’t you worry, child. I’ll prescribe some pills and—”
“No, no, doctor! You’re all mixed up,” cried Mrs. Cuberle.
“I beg your pardon, Madam?”
“What I mean is, you’ve got it wrong. Tell him, Mary, tell the doctor what you told me.”
Mary shifted uneasily in the chair.
“It’s that—I don’t want it.”
The doctor’s well-proportioned jaw dropped.
“Would you please repeat that?”
“I said, I don’t want the Transformation.”
“D—Don’t want it?”
“You see? She told me. That’s why I came to you.”
The doctor looked at Mary suspiciously.
“But that’s impossible! I have never heard of such a thing. Little girl, you are playing a joke!”
Mary nodded negatively.
“See, doctor. What can it be?” Mrs. Cuberle rose and began to pace.
The Doctor clucked his tongue and took from a small cupboard a black box covered with buttons and dials and wire.
“Oh no, you don’t think—I mean, could it?”
“We shall soon see.” The doctor revolved a number of dials and studied the single bulb in the center of the box. It did not flicker. He removed handles from Mary’s head.
“Dear me,” the doctor said, “dear me. Your daughter is perfectly sane, Mrs. Cuberle.”
“Well, then what is it?”
“Perhaps she is lying. We haven’t completely eliminated that factor as yet; it slips into certain organisms.”
More tests. More machines and more negative results.
Mary pushed her foot in a circle on the floor. When the doctor put his hands to her shoulders, she looked up pleasantly.
“Little girl,” said the handsome man, “do you actually mean to tell us that you prefer that body?”
“Yes sir.”
“May I ask why.”
“I like it. It’s—hard to explain, but it’s me and that’s what I like. Not the looks, maybe, but the me.”
“You can look in the mirror and see yourself, then look at—well, at your mother and be content?”
“Yes, sir.” Mary thought of her reasons; fuzzy, vague, but very definitely there. Maybe she had said the reason. No. Only a part of it.
“Mrs. Cuberle,” the doctor said, “I suggest that your husband have a long talk with Mary.”
“My husband is dead. That affair near Ganymede, I believe. Something like that.”
“Oh, splendid. Rocket man, eh? Very interesting organisms. Something always seems to happen to rocket men, in one way or another. But—I suppose we should do something.” The doctor scratched his jaw. “When did she first start talking this way,” he asked.
“Oh, for quite some time. I used to think it was because she was such a baby. But lately, the time getting so close and all, I thought I’d better see you.”
“Of course, yes, very wise. Er—does she also do odd things?”
“Well, I found her on the second level one night. She was lying on the floor and when I asked her what she was doing, she said she was trying to sleep.”
Mary flinched. She was sorry, in a way, that Mother had found that out.
“To—did you say ‘sleep’?”
“That’s right.”
“Now where could she have picked that up?”
“No idea.”
“Mary, don’t you know that nobody sleeps anymore? That we have an infinitely greater lifespan than our poor ancestors now that the wasteful state of unconsciousness has been conquered? Child, have you actually slept? No one knows how anymore.”
“No sir, but I almost did.”
The doctor sighed. “But, it’s unheard of! How could you begin to try to do something people have forgotten entirely about?”
“The way it was described in the book, it sounded nice, that’s all.” Mary was feeling very uncomfortable now. Home and no talking man in a foolish white gown. …
“Book, book? Are there books at your Unit, Madam?”
“There could be—I haven’t cleaned up in a while.”
“That is certainly peculiar. I haven’t seen a book for years. Not since ’17.”
Mary began to fidget and stare nervously about.
“But with the tapes, why should you try and read books—where did you get them?”
“Daddy did. He got them from his father and so did Grandpa. He said they’re better than the tapes and he was right.”
Mrs. Cuberle flushed.
“My husband was a little strange, Doctor Hortel. He kept those things despite everything I said.”
“Dear me, I—excuse me.”
The muscular, black-haired doctor walked to another cabinet and selected from the shelf a bottle. From the bottle he took two large pills and swallowed them.
“Sleep—books—doesn’t want the Transformation—Mrs. Cuberle, my dear good woman, this is grave. Doesn’t want the Transformation. I would appreciate it if you would change psychiatrists: I am very busy and, uh, this is somewhat specialized. I suggest Centraldome. Many fine doctors there. Goodbye.”
The doctor turned and sat down in a large chair and folded his hands. Mary watched him and wondered why the simple statements should have so changed things. But the doctor did not move from the chair.
“Well!” said
