My sane friend grinned at me.
"Okay," I admitted. "I'm protective of my son. So what?"
My sane friend shrugged. "How do you think the cuckoo feels?"
"Birds don't feel."
"If it could feel, how do you think it would feel?"
I thought about it. The first image that came to mind was the silly little bird from the Dr. Seuss story; the one who flew off, leaving Horton the elephant to hatch her egg. I shook my head. "I'm not getting anything useful — ~}
"How do you think Dennis's mother feels?"
I shook my head again. "Everything I've heard about her… I can't empathize."
"All right, try it this way. Under what circumstances would you give Dennis up?"
"I'd die before I'd give him up," I said. "He makes me happier than anybody I've ever known before. Just looking at him, I get an endorphin rush. If anybody started proceedings to take him out of my home, I'd have him on a plane to New Zealand so fast — " I stopped. "Oh, I see what you mean." I thought about it. "If I wasn't able to take care of him, or if I thought I was hurting him, or if I thought I wasn't doing a good enough job — " There was that old familiar twinge again. "If I thought he'd really be better off with someone else, I'd want him to have the best chance possible. But I just can't see that happening."
"Uh-huh…." My sane friend grinned. "Now, how do you think the Martians feel?"
"Huh?"
He repeated the question.
I thought about it for a while. "I'd have to assume that if they have the capability to implant their children in human wombs that they would have a highly developed science and technology and that implies — to me anyway — a highly developed emotional structure and probably a correspondingly well-developed moral structure as well. At least, that's what I'd like to believe."
"And if what you believe is true… " he started to say.
I finished the thought for him."… then the Martians are trusting us with their children."
"Aren't they?" he asked.
I didn't answer. I didn't like where that train of thought might lead. But I followed it anyway.
"Would you trust your child to apes or wolves? " my sane friend asked. "No," I said. "You know what happens to feral children."
He nodded. "I've read the same books you have."
"So, if the Martians are trusting us with their children… then that implies that either they don't care about their children very much — or they do."
"You want my best guess?"
"This is where you resolve everything for me, isn't it?"
"No. This is where I tell you what I think. I think they're engaged in a long-term breeding experiment… to upgrade the level of intelligence and compassion in the human race."
"Yeah?" I gave him my best raised-eyebrow look. "Remember what happened to Spock? He was a half-breed too. His parents wanted to breed a logical human. Instead, they got an emotional Vulcan."
"Have you got a better guess?"
"No," I admitted. "But what kind of Martians are we raising?"
"What kind of Martian are you raising?" he corrected.
And that really did it for me. That was the question. "I don't know," I finally admitted. "But — he is mine to raise, isn't he?"
"Yep," my sane friend agreed.
That thought echoed for a long long moment. Finally, I acknowledged the truth of it with a grin. "Yeah," I said. "I can live with that…."
As a literary puzzle, this is incomplete. As a story, it doesn't work. There's no ending.
There isn't enough evidence for me to even suggest a conclusion. What do we know about the Martians? For that matter, what do we really know about ourselves? There's nothing to extrapolate. And if the Martians are really engaged in some kind of large-scale genetic engineering we won't really know what their intentions are until the Martian children start reaching adulthood. Dennis will be old enough to vote in 2005. And that raises another question. How long have the Martians been planting their babies in human homes? Maybe we already live in a Martian-influenced world?)
Maybe the Martian children will be super geniuses, inventing cold fusion and silicon sentience and nanotechnological miracles — Stephen Hawking and Buckminster Fuller. Maybe they'll be spiritual saviors, bringing such superior technology of consciousness that those of us brave enough to follow will achieve the enlightenment of saints. Maybe they'll be demagogues and dictators. Or maybe they'll be madmen and all end up in institutions. And maybe they'll be monsters, giving us a new generation of serial killers and cult-leaders — Jack the Ripper and Charles Manson.
All we can do is wait and see how it works out.
There's one more thing.
In reviewing the material for this story, I came across a curious coincidence. Kathy Bright had given me several huge stacks of reports on Dennis, written by various therapists and counselors. I hadn't had time to read them all, and after the first few, I stopped — I didn't want their experience of Dennis; I wanted to make up my own mind. But as I paged through the files, looking for Martian stuff, one of them caught my eye. On Saturday, June 27th, 1992, Carolyn Green (the counselor on his case at the time) had noted, "Dennis thinks God doesn't hear his prayers, because he wished for a dad and nothing happened."
I first saw Dennis's picture on Saturday, June 27th, 1992, at about two in the aftemoon. According to Carolyn Green's report, that was the exact time of his weekly session. I cannot help but believe that he was wishing for a dad at the exact moment I first saw his picture. A Martian wish. Was that what I felt so strongly?
Does it mean anything? Maybe. Maybe not. In any case, I know better than to argue with Martian wishes. Tonight, at bed time, he wished for me to be happy.
I had to smile. "Was that a Martian wish?" I asked.
"Yes," he said, in a voice that left no room for disagreement.
"Then, I'm happy," I said. And in fact, I was.
I hadn't realized it before, because I hadn't acknowledged it, not even to myself; but as I walked back down the hall to my office, I had to admit that I was glowing. I'd gotten everything I'd wanted, a wonderful son, a profound sense of family, a whole new reason for waking up in the morning. So what if he's a Martian, it really doesn't matter, does it? He's my son, and I love him. I'm not giving him up. He's special.
When Dennis puts his mind to it, he can predict elevators and make stoplights turn green and help the Dodgers win baseball games. He can make lottery tickets pay off (a little bit, four numbers at a time) and he can wish a father into his life. That's pretty powerful stuff.
I think we might experiment with that a little bit more. We haven't bought any lottery tickets in a while. Maybe we should buy a couple tonight. And if that works, who knows what else he could wish for. I was thinking of asking him to wish for a Hugo award for his dad — just a test, you understand — but this morning, he announced he was going to wish for a mom instead. I'll be very interested to see how that one works out.
AUTHOR'S AFTERWORD:
This story is, to the best of my knowledge, a work of fiction.
Yes, I have an adopted son. Yes, his name is Dennis. No, he is not a Martian.
I asked him if he was. He said he wasn't. Then he came over and whispered in my ear, "I said no because we're not supposed to tell."