I Sing the Body Electric

At last he looked up and tried to see the doctor. “What’ll we tell Polly?” His voice was hardly a whisper.

“We’ll work that out this morning, as soon as you feel up to it.”

“What happens after that? Is there any way to—change it back?”

“We’ll try. That is, if you give us permission to try. After all, it’s your child. You can do anything with him you want to do.”

“Him?” Horn laughed ironically, shutting his eyes. “How do you know it’s a him?” He sank down into darkness. His ears roared.

Wolcott was visibly upset. “Why, we—that is—well, we don’t know, for sure.”

Horn drank more of his drink. “What if you can’t change him back?”

“I realize what a shock it is to you, Mr. Horn. If you can’t bear to look upon the child, we’ll be glad to raise him here, at the Institute, for you.”

Horn thought it over. “Thanks. But he still belongs to me and Polly. I’ll give him a home. Raise him like I’d raise any kid. Give him a normal home life. Try to learn to love him. Treat him right.” His lips were numb, he couldn’t think.

“You realize what a job you’re taking on, Mr. Horn? This child can’t be allowed to have normal playmates; why, they’d pester it to death in no time. You know how children are. If you decide to raise the child at home, his life will be strictly regimented, he must never be seen by anyone. Is that clear?”

“Yes. Yes, it’s clear. Doc. Doc, is he all right mentally?”

“Yes. We’ve tested his reactions. He’s a fine healthy child as far as nervous response and such things go.”

“I just wanted to be sure. Now, the only problem is Polly.”

Wolcott frowned. “I confess that one has me stumped. You know it is pretty hard on a woman to hear that her child has been born dead. But this, telling a woman she’s given birth to something not recognizable as human. It’s not as clean as death. There’s too much chance for shock. And yet I must tell her the truth. A doctor gets nowhere by lying to his patient.”

Horn put his glass down. “I don’t want to lose Polly, too. I’d be prepared now, if you destroyed the child, to take it. But I don’t want Polly killed by the shock of this whole thing.”

“I think we may be able to change the child back. That’s the point which makes me hesitate. If I thought the case was hopeless I’d make out a certificate of euthanasia immediately. But it’s at least worth a chance.”

Horn was very tired. He was shivering quietly, deeply. “All right, doctor. It needs food, milk, and love until you can fix it up. It’s had a raw deal so far, no reason for it to go on getting a raw deal. When will we tell Polly?”

“Tomorrow afternoon, when she wakes up.”

Horn got up and walked to the table which was warmed by a soft illumination from overhead. The blue pyramid sat upon the table as Horn held out his hand.

“Hello, Baby,” said Horn.

The blue pyramid looked up at Horn with three bright blue eyes. It shifted a tiny blue tendril, touching Horn’s fingers with it.

Horn shivered.

“Hello, Baby.”

The doctor produced a special feeding bottle.

“This is woman’s milk. Here we go.”

Baby looked upward through clearing mists. Baby saw the shapes moving over him and knew them to be friendly. Baby was newborn, but already alert, strangely alert. Baby was aware.

There were moving objects above and around Baby. Six cubes of a gray-white color, bending down. Six cubes with hexagonal appendages and three eyes to each cube. Then there were two other cubes coming from a distance over a crystalline plateau. One of the cubes was white. It had three eyes, too. There was something about this White Cube that Baby liked. There was an attraction. Some relation. There was an odor to the White Cube that reminded Baby of itself.

Shrill sounds came from the six bending-down gray-white cubes. Sounds of curiosity and wonder. It was like a kind of piccolo music, all playing at once.

Now the two newly arrived cubes, the White Cube and the Gray Cube, were whistling. After a while the White Cube extended one of its hexagonal appendages to touch Baby. Baby responded by putting out one of its tendrils from its pyramidal body. Baby liked the White Cube. Baby liked. Baby was hungry. Baby liked. Maybe the White Cube would give it food…

The Gray Cube produced a pink globe for Baby. Baby was now to be fed. Good. Good. Baby accepted food eagerly.

Food was good. All the gray-white cubes drifted away, leaving only the nice White Cube standing over Baby looking down and whistling over and over. Over and over.

They told Polly the next day. Not everything. Just enough. Just a hint. They told her the baby was not well, in a certain way. They talked slowly, and in ever-tightening circles, in upon Polly. Then Dr. Wolcott gave a long lecture on the birth-mechanisms, how they helped a woman in her labor, and how, this time, they short-circuited. There was another man of scientific means present and he gave her a dry little talk on dimensions, holding up his fingers, so! one, two, three, and four. Still another man talked of energy and matter. Another spoke of underprivileged children.

Polly finally sat up in bed and said, “What’s all the talk for? What’s wrong with my baby that you should all be talking so long?”

Wolcott told her.

“Of course, you can wait a week and see it,” he said. “Or you can sign over guardianship of the child to the Institute.”

“There’s only one thing I want to know,” said Polly.

Dr. Wolcott raised his brows.

“Did I make the child that way?” asked Polly.

“You most certainly did not!”

“The child isn’t a monster, genetically?” asked Polly.

“The child was thrust into another continuum. Otherwise, it is perfectly normal.”

Polly’s tight, lined mouth relaxed. She said, simply, “Then, bring me my baby. I want to see him. Please. Now.”

They brought the “child.”

The Horns left the hospital the next day. Polly walked out on her own two good legs, with Peter Horn following her, looking at her in quiet amazement.

They did not have the baby with them. That would come later. Horn helped his wife into their helicopter and sat beside her. He lifted the ship, whirring, into the warm air.

“You’re a wonder,” he said.

“Am I?” she said, lighting a cigarette.

“You are. You didn’t cry. You didn’t do anything.”

“He’s not so bad, you know,” she said. “Once you get to know him. I can even—hold him in my arms. He’s warm and he cries and he even needs his triangular diapers.” Here she laughed. He noticed a nervous tremor in the laugh, however. “No, I didn’t cry, Pete, because that’s my baby. Or he will be. He isn’t dead, I thank God for that. He’s—I don’t know how to explain—still unborn. I like to think he hasn’t been born yet. We’re waiting for him to show up. I have confidence in Dr. Wolcott. Haven’t you?”

“You’re right. You’re right.” He reached over and held her hand. “You know something? You’re a peach.”