"I want to talk to him."
"I see." Bish slowly drew some forms from the dispenser on his desk. "There are a few routine papers that have to be filled out first, of course. Just how long did you want to speak to him?"
Ed Doyle gazed steadily into Doctor Bish's bland face. "I want to talk to him several hours. Alone."
"Alone?"
"No robots around."
Doctor Bish said nothing. He stroked the papers he held, creasing the edges with his nail. "Mr Doyle," he said carefully, "I wonder if you're in a proper emotional state to visit your son. You have recently come in from the colonies?"
"I left Proxima three weeks ago."
"Then you have just arrived here in Los Angeles?"
"That's right."
"And you've come to see your son? Or have you other business?"
"I came for my son."
"Mr Doyle, Peter is at a very critical stage. He has just recently been transferred to the Biology Station for his higher training. Up to now his training has been general. What we call the non-differentiated stage. Recently he has entered a new period. Within the last six months Peter has begun advanced work along his specific line, that of organic chemistry. He will --"
"What does Peter think about it?"
Bish frowned. "I don't understand, sir."
"How does he feel? Is it what he wants?"
"Mr Doyle, your son has the possibility of becoming one of the world's finest bio-chemists. In all the time we have worked with human beings, in their training and development, we have never come across a more alert and integrated faculty for the assimilation of data, construction of theory, formulation of material, than that which your son possesses. All tests indicate he will rapidly rise to the top of his chosen field. He is still only a child, Mr Doyle, but it is the children who must be trained."
Doyle stood up. "Tell me where I can find him. I'll talk to him for two hours and then the rest is up to him."
"The rest?"
Doyle clamped his jaw shut. He shoved his hands in his pockets. His face was flushed and set grim with determination. In the nine years he had grown much heavier, more stocky and florid. His thinning hair had turned iron-gray. His clothes were dumpy and unpressed. He looked stubborn.
grim with determination. In the nine years he had grown much heavier, more stocky and florid. His thinning hair had turned iron-gray. His clothes were dumpy and unpressed. He looked stubborn.
"Alone?"
"You can take him away from the Station grounds for that length of time." Doctor Bish pushed the papers over to Doyle. "Fill these out, and I'll have Peter brought here."
He looked up steadily at the man standing before him.
"I hope you'll remember that any emotional experience at this crucial stage may do much to inhibit his development. He has chosen his field, Mr Doyle. He must be permitted to grow along his selected lines, unhindered by situational blocks. Peter has been in contact with our technical staff throughout his entire training period. He is not accustomed to contact with other human beings. So please be careful."
Doyle said nothing. He grabbed up the papers and plucked out his fountain pen.
He hardly recognized his son when the two robot attendants brought him out of the massive concrete Station building and deposited him a few yards from Ed's parked surface car.
Ed pushed the door open. "Pete!" His heart was thumping heavily, painfully. He watched his son come toward the car, frowning in the bright sunlight. It was late afternoon, about four. A faint breeze blew across the parking lot, rustling a few papers and bits of debris.
Peter stood slim and straight. His eyes were large, deep brown, like Ed's. His hair was light, almost blond. More like Janet's. He had Ed's jaw, though, the firm line, clean and well chiseled. Ed grinned at him. Nine years it had been. Nine years since the robot attendant had lifted the rack up from the conveyor pot to show him the little wrinkled baby, red as a boiled lobster.
Peter had grown. He was not a baby any longer. He was a young boy, straight and proud, with firm features and wide, clear eyes.
"Pete," Ed said. "How the hell are you?"
The boy stopped by the door of the car. He gazed at Ed calmly. His eyes flickered, taking in the car, the robot driver, the heavy set man in the rumpled tweed suit grinning nervously at him.
"Get in. Get inside." Ed moved over. "Come on. We have places to go."
The boy was looking at him again. Suddenly Ed was conscious of his baggy suit, his unshined shoes, his gray stubbled chin. He flushed, yanking out his red pocket-handkerchief and mopping his forehead uneasily. "I just got off the ship, Pete. From Proxima. I haven't had time to change. I'm a little dusty. Long trip."
Peter nodded. "4.3 light years, isn't it?"
"Takes three weeks. Get in. Don't you want to get in?"
Peter slid in beside him. Ed slammed the door.
"Let's go." The car started up. "Drive --" Ed peered out the window. "Drive up there. By the hill. Out of town." He turned to Pete. "I hate big cities. I can't get used to them."
"There are no large cities in the colonies, are there?" Pete murmured. "You're unused to urban living."
Ed settled back. His heart had begun to slow down to its normal beat. "No, as a matter of fact it's the other way around, Pete."
"How do you mean?"
"I went to Prox because I couldn't stand cities."
Peter said nothing. The surface car was climbing, going up a steel highway into the hills. The Station, huge and impressive, spread out like a heap of cement bricks directly below them. A few cars moved along the road, but not many. Most transportation was by air, now. Surface cars had begun to disappear.
The road leveled off. They moved along the ridge of the hills. Trees and bushes rose on both sides of them. "It's nice up here," Ed said.
"Yes."
"How -- how have you been? I haven't seen you for a long time. Just once. Just after you were born."
"How -- how have you been? I haven't seen you for a long time. Just once. Just after you were born."
"You been getting along all right?"
"Yes. Quite well."
"They treating you all right?"
"Of course."
After a while Ed leaned forward. "Stop here," he said to the robot driver.
The car slowed down, pulling over to the side of the road. "Sir, there is nothing --"
"This is fine. Let us out. We'll walk from here."
The car stopped. The door slid reluctantly open. Ed stepped quickly out of the car, on to the pavement. Peter got out slowly after him, puzzled. "Where are we?"
"No place." Ed slammed the door. "Go on back to town," he said to the driver. "We won't need you."
The car drove off. Ed walked to the side of the road. Peter came after him. The hill dropped away, falling down to the beginnings of the city below. A vast panorama stretched out, the great metropolis in the late afternoon sun. Ed took a deep breath, throwing his arms out. He took off his coat and tossed it over his shoulder.
"Come on." He started down the hillside. "Here we go."
"Where?"
"For a walk. Let's get off this damn road."
They climbed down the side of the hill, walking carefully, holding on to the grass and roots jutting out from the soil. Finally they came to a level place by a big sycamore tree. Ed threw himself down on the ground, grunting and wiping sweat from his neck.
"Here. Let's sit here."
Peter sat down carefully, a little way off. Ed's blue shirt was stained with sweat. He unfastened his tie and loosened his collar. Presently he searched through his coat pockets. He brought out his pipe and tobacco.
Peter watched him fill the pipe and light it with a big sulphur match. "What's that?" he murmured.