"In all ways." Joe's face was grave. "Someone ideal to live with."
"How about Vera? What was wrong with her?"
"A sentimentalist, too romantic, kind of--well, maybe not dumb,
exactly, but--"
"But not perfect. Who is, Joe?"
"My new wife is going to be."
Pete shrugged and began putting together the ingredients for the kind
of skin Joe had specified.
They're all the same, Joe thought, Sam and Pete and the rest. They
seemed to think his idea childish. He built the instillers and
incubator that night. The mold would be done by one of the Department's
engravers. Joe had the sketches and dimensions ready.
Wednesday afternoon, Burke called him in. Burke was the Senior
assistant, a job Joe had expected and been miffed about. Burke was a
jerk, in Joe's book.
This afternoon, Burke's long nose was twitching and his thin face was
gravely bleak. He had a clipped, efficient way of speaking.
"Tired, Joe?"
"What do you mean?"
"Not hitting the ball, not on the beam, no zipperoo."
"I'm--yes, I guess you're right. I've been working at home on a private
project."
"Scientific?"
"Naturally."
"Anything in particular?"