“You adopted me instead of having a child of your own because it was cheaper?”
“Yes, but—I mean, we grew to love you as our own, dear. You always were such a good little boy.”
Aaron got up, made his way to the dumbwaiter, lifted a cold cup of coffee to his lips. Frowning, he put it back and asked LAR to zap it in the microwave.
“Who were my birth parents?”
“A man and woman in Toronto.”
“Have you met them?”
“I met the woman once, just after you were born. A sweet young thing. I—I’ve forgotten her name.”
A lie, thought Aaron. Mom’s voice always catches just a tad when she’s lying.
“I’d like to know her name.”
“I can’t help you with that. Wasn’t it on the adoption certificate?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry, dear. You know how these things are. They’re kept confidential.”
“But maybe she wants to see me.”
“Maybe she does. There is a way to find out, I think.”
Aaron sat up straight. “Oh?”
“Whatever ministry is responsible, I forget what it’s called—”
“Community and Social Services.”
“That’s it. They operate a—a registry service, I guess you’d call it.”
“Which means?”
“Well, it’s simple, really. If an adopted child and a birth parent both happen to register, saying they want to find each other, then the ministry will arrange the meeting. Perhaps your birth mother registered with the ministry.”
“Great. I’ll try that. But what if she hasn’t?”
“Then I’m afraid the ministry will refuse to set up the meeting.” She was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, it’s a place to start anyway.” He looked at his mother, her simple brown eyes. “But I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell me I was adopted. Maybe not when I was a kid, okay. But once I became an adult, why not?”
His mother looked out the window, out at the trees devoid of leaves, ready for the coming of winter. “I’m sorry, dear. We thought it was for the best. We just didn’t see how knowing would make you any happier.”
Beauty, said Margaret Wolfe Hungerford, is in the eye of the beholder. I’d never really understood what that meant until now. To be sure, there are things I find beautifuclass="underline" the smooth, polished lines of well-designed and well-maintained machinery; the intense aesthetic quality of an intricate, balanced equation; even the raw randomness of some fractal patterns. But, to me, people had always been people, the variations in individual physiognomy and physique of interest only insofar as they aided identification.
Now, though, seeing the world through the eyes of Aaron Rossman, I did perceive what beauty meant, what made one human more attractive than another.
Take Beverly Hooks, for instance. The first time I met her, I noted her race (Caucasian, the skin unusually pale), the color of her eyes (deep green), the color of her hair (naturally dark at the roots, but with the rest of it dyed a black so black that it reflected almost no visible light at all), and a few other specific details to aid me in recognizing her again in the future.
When Aaron Rossman first met her, twenty-two days before our departure from Earth, he began cataloging her features from behind as he approached her. Great caboose, was his first thought—Aaron, with his interest in trains, being one of the few people on Earth left who knew what a caboose was. I, too, now looked at her rear end through his eyes. The flaring of the hips, the gentle rounded curves of the buttocks, the fine synthetic weave of her black pants stretched tightly across them, a fold of it caught between the two cheeks.
“Excuse me,” said Aaron.
Bev had been staring out the great bay window. It overlooked the staging area for the sky elevator that linked the yellow-and-brown Kenya countryside with the orbiting Starcology Argo. A trio of giraffes wandered by its broad base.
She turned and smiled. To Aaron, it seemed a bright—no, a radiant smile, although I doubted that her teeth, large and white though they were, really cast back that much of the ambient light. “Yes?” she said, her voice a bit squeaky. To me, it had always been reminiscent of the sound made by a machine requiring lubrication, but Aaron found even this endearing.
“Hi,” he said. “Uh, I-Shin Chang said you might be able to help me out.”
She smiled again. Her face, to Aaron, was beautifuclass="underline" high cheekbones, tiny nose. “What did you have in mind?”
“Umm.” Aaron swallowed, and I realized suddenly that he was flustered because he found her beautiful. “You’re Bev Hooks, aren’t you?”
“Guilty.”
“Well, uh, my name is Aaron Rossman, and—”
“Pleased to meet you, Aaron.”
“Likewise. I hear, uh, you’re a cracker.”
“Depends who is asking and why they want to know.”
“I need to see some records.”
“What sort of iron we talking about?”
“Government network. In Ontario—that’s a province in Canada.”
“I know it. I’m from Illinois. Got friends in Sault Sainte Marie.”
“Ah.”
“So why do you want to break into the Ontario government? By the time we get back, the statute of limitations will be up on just about any crime you might have committed.” She smiled that megawatt smile again.
“Oh, no! It’s nothing like that. It’s just that, well, I found out that I’m adopted. I’d like to meet my birth parents before we go. To say hello.” He paused. “And to say good-bye.”
“Adoption records?” She frowned, but even her frown appealed to Aaron. “Easy. Couple of password prompts, maybe a little file cement, a directory barricade if they’ve been real clever. Twenty minutes to get in, tops.”
“Well, could you do it?”
“Of course. What’s in it for me?”
“Uh, well, what would you like?”
“Take me to dinner?”
“I’m engaged.”
“So? I’m married. A woman still has to eat, you know?”
The household god looked down on Aaron from a monocular camera mounted above the mezuzah on the doorjamb. “Yes?” it said, its voice, the product of a cheap Magnavox synthesizer chip, sounding low and dull.
“My name is Aaron. I’d like to see Eve Oppenheim.”
“Ms. Oppenheim has no appointments scheduled for this evening.”
“I realize that. I—I’m only going to be in town this one night.”
“There is no one named Aaron on her list of friends or business contacts.”
“Yes, I know. Please, is she in? Tell her—tell her that I’m an old friend of the family.”
The god sounded dubious. “I will tell her. Please wait.” Aaron shoved his hands into his pockets, this time as much because of the cool night breeze as out of habit. He waited and waited (how strange to not know precisely how long!) until finally the door to the house slid aside. Aaron swung around. In the doorway stood a woman who looked several years shy of forty. Aaron stared at her, her angular face, her strange multicolored eyes, her sandy hair. It was as if he was staring into some gender-bending flesh mirror. There was no doubt in his mind, no doubt at all, of who this woman was. Her youth was the only surprise.
For her part, the woman’s gaze seemed dull. She wasn’t seeing in Aaron’s face what Aaron was seeing in hers, partially, I supposed, because she wasn’t looking for it. “Yes,” she said, her voice, like Aaron’s own, deep and warm. “I’m Eve Oppenheim. What can I do for you?”
Aaron was at a loss for words. An odd sensation: not knowing what to say next—having too much to say, and no algorithm for determining the order of presentation. Finally he blurted, “I just wanted to meet you. To see what you looked like. To say hello.”