She was slow in answering. “Marj, I don’t know. I haven’t had time to think.”
“Better take time. Because, along about Wednesday, you are going to have to fish or cut bait. I shall not let Ellen be mistreated any further.” I grinned and added, “Smile! Let’s slide over to the post office and be sunny-side-up for Ellen.”
But we didn’t go to the G.P.O.; we didn’t call Ellen at all that trip. Instead we proceeded to drink our dinner and argue. I’m not sure just how the subject of artificial persons got into the discussion. I think it was while Vickie was “proving” still another time how free she was from racial prejudice while exhibiting that irrational attitude every time she opened her mouth. Maori were just dandy and of course American Indians were and Hindu Indians for that matter and the Chinese had certainly produced their quota of geniuses; everybody knew that, but you had to draw the line somewhere. .
We had gone to bed and I was trying to tune out her drivel when something hit me. I raised up. “How would you know?”
“How would I know what?”
“You said, ‘Of course no one would marry an artifact.’ How would you know that a person was artificial? Not all of them carry serial numbers.”
“Huh? Why, Marjie, don’t be silly. A manufactured creature can’t be mistaken for a human being. If you had ever seen one-”
“I’ve seen one. I’ve seen many!”
“Then you know.”
“Then I know what?”
“That you can tell one of those monsters just by looking at it.”
“How? What are these stigmata that mark off an artificial person from any other person? Name one!”
“Marjorie, you’re being dreadfully difficult just to be annoying! This is not like you, dear. You’re turning our holiday into something unpleasant.”
“Not me, Vick. You are. By saying silly, stupid, unpleasant things without a shred of evidence to back them up.” (And that retort of mine proves that an enhanced person is not a superman, as that is exactly the sort of factually truthful remark that is much too cruel to use in a family discussion.)
“Oh! How wicked! How untruthful!”
What I did next can’t be attributed to loyalty to other artificial persons because APs don’t feel group loyalty. No basis for it. I’ve heard that Frenchmen will die for La Belle France-but can you imagine anyone fighting and dying for Homunculi Unlimited, Pty., South Jersey Section? I suppose I did it for myself although, like many of the critical decisions in my life, I have never been able to analyze why I did it. Boss says that I do all of my important thinking on the unconscious level. He may be right.
I got out of bed, whipped off my gown, stood in front of her. “Look me over,” I demanded. “Am I an artificial person? Or not? Either way, how do you tell?”
“Oh, Marjie, quit flaunting yourself! Everybody knows you have the best figure in the family; you don’t have to prove it.”
“Answer me! Tell me which I am and tell me how you know. Use any test. Take samples for laboratory analysis. But tell me which I am and what signs prove it.”
“You’re a naughty girl, that’s what you are.”
“Possibly. Probably. But which sort? Natural? Or artificial?”
“Oh, bosh! Natural, of course.”
“Wrong. I’m artificial.”
“Oh, stop being silly! Put your nightgown on and come back to bed.”
Instead I badgered her with it, telling her what laboratory had designed me, the date I had been removed from the surrogate womb- my “birthday,” although we APs are “cooked” a 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 com
mercial 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.