Isaac Asimov - The Robots of Dawn

Finally, Fastolfe said, “I don’t know what I ought to tell you, but let me go back some decades. I have two daughters. Perhaps you know that. They are by two different mothers—”

“Would you rather have had sons, Dr. Fastolfe?”

Fastolfe looked genuinely surprised. “No. Not at all. The mother of my second daughter wanted a son, I believe, but I wouldn’t give my consent to artificial insemination with selected sperm—not even with my own sperm—but insisted on the natural throw of the genetic dice. Before you ask why, it is because I prefer a certain operation of chance in life and because I think, on the whole, I wanted a chance to have a daughter. I would have accepted a son, you understand, but I didn’t want to abandon the chance of a daughter. I approve of daughters, somehow. Well, my second proved a daughter and that may have been one of the reasons that the mother dissolved the marriage soon after the birth. On the other hand, a sizable percentage of marriages are dissolved after a birth in any case, so perhaps I needn’t look for special reasons.

“She took the child with her, I take it.”

Fastolfe bent a puzzled glance at Baley. “Why should she do that?—But I forget. You’re from Earth. No, of course not. The child would have been brought up in a nursery, where she could be properly cared for, of course. Actually, though”—he wrinkled his nose as though in sudden embarrassment over a peculiar memory—“she wasn’t put there. I decided to bring her up myself. It was legal to do so but very unusual. I was quite young, of course, not yet having attained the century mark, but already I had made my mark in robotics.”

“Did you manage?”

“You mean to bring her up successfully? Oh yes. I grew quite fond of her. I named her Vasilia. It was my mother’s name, you see.” He chuckled reminiscently. “I get these odd streaks of sentiment—like my affection for my robots. I never met my mother, of course, but her name was on my charts. And she’s still alive, as far as I know, so I could see her but I think there’s something queasy about meeting someone in whose womb you once were.—Where was I?”

“You named your daughter Vasilia.”

“Yes—and I did bring her up and actually grew fond of her. Very fond of her. I could see where the attraction lay in doing something like that, but, of course, I was an embarrassment to my friends and I had to keep her out of their way when there was contact to be made, either social or professional. I remember once—” He paused.

“Yes?”

“It’s something I haven’t thought of for decades. She came running out, weeping for some reason, and threw herself into my arms when Dr. Sarton was with me, discussing one of the very earliest design programs for humaniform robots. She was only seven years old, I think and, of course, I hugged her, and kissed her, and ignored the business at hand, which was quite unforgivable of me. Sarton left, coughing and choking—and most indignant. It was a full week before I could renew contact with him and resume deliberation. Children shouldn’t have that effect on people, I suppose, but there are so few children and they are so rarely encountered.”

“And your daughter—Vasilia—was fond of you?”

“Oh yes—at least, until—She was very fond of me. I saw to her schooling and made sure her mind was allowed to expand to the fullest.”

“You said she was fond of you until—something. You did not finish the sentence. There came a time, then, when she was no longer fond of you. When was that?”

“She wanted to have her own establishment once she grew old enough. It was only natural.”

“And you did not want it?”

“What do you mean I did not want it? Of course, I wanted it. You keep assuming I’m a monster, Mr. Baley.”

“Am I to assume, instead, that once she reached the age when she was to have her own establishment, she no longer felt the same affection for you that she naturally had when she was actively your daughter, living in your establishment as a dependent?”

“Not quite that simple. In fact, it was rather complicated. You see—” Fastolfe seemed embarrassed. “I refused her when she offered herself to me.”

“She offered herself to you?” said Baley, horrified.

“That part was only natural,” said Fastolfe indifferently. “She knew me best. I had instructed her in sex, encouraged her experimentation, taken her to the Games of Eros, done my best for her. It was something to be expected and I was foolish for not expecting it and letting myself be caught.”

“But incest?”

Fastolfe said, “Incest? Oh yes, an Earthly term. On Aurora, there’s no such thing, Mr. Baley. Very few Aurorans know their immediate family. Naturally, if marriage is in question and children are applied for, there is a genealogical search, but what has that to do with social sex? No no, the unnatural thing is that I refused my own daughter.” He reddened—his large ears most of all.

“I should hope so,” muttered Baley.

“I had no decent reasons for it, either—at least none that I could explain to Vasilia. It was criminal of me not to foresee the matter and prepare a foundation for a rational rejection of one so young and inexperienced, if that were necessary, that would not wound her and subject her to a fearful humiliation. I am really unbearably ashamed that. I took the unusual responsibility of bringing up a child, only to subject her to such an unpalatable experience. It seemed to me that we could continue our relationship as father and daughter—as friend and friend—but she did not give up. Whenever I rejected her, no matter how affectionately I tried to do so, matters grew worse between us.”

“Until finally—”

“Finally, she wanted her own establishment. I opposed it at first, not because I didn’t want her to have one, but because I wanted to reestablish our loving relationship before she left. Nothing I did helped. It was, perhaps, the most trying time of my life. Eventually, she simply—and rather violently—insisted on leaving and I could hold out no longer. She was a professional roboticist by then—I am grateful that she didn’t abandon the profession out of distaste for me—and she was able to found an establishment without any help from me. She did so, in fact, and since then there has been little contact between us.”

Baley said, “It might be, Dr. Fastolfe, that, since she did not abandon robotics, she does not feel wholly estranged.”

“It is what she does best and is most interested in. It has nothing to do with me. I know that, for to begin with, I thought as you did and I made friendly overtures, but they were not received.”

“Do you miss her, Dr. Fastolfe?”

“Of course I miss her, Mr. Baley.—That is an example of the mistake of bringing up a child. You give into an irrational impulse—an atavistic desire—and it leads to inspiring the child with the strongest possible feeling of love and then subjecting yourself to the possibility of having to refuse that same child’s first offer of herself and scarring her emotionally for life. And, to add to that, you subject yourself to this thoroughly irrational feeling of regret-of-absence. It’s something I never felt before and have never felt since. She and I both suffered needlessly and the fault is entirely mine.”

Fastolfe fell into a kind of rumination and Baley said gently, “And what has all this to do with Gladia?”

Fastolfe started. “Oh! I had forgotten. Well, it’s rather simple. Everything I’ve said about Gladia is true. I liked her. I sympathized with her. I admired her talent. But, in addition, she resembles Vasilia. I noticed the similarity when I saw the first hyperwave account of her arrival from Solaria. It was quite startling and it made me take an interest.” He sighed. “When I realized that she, like Vasilia, had been sex-scarred, it was more than I could endure. I arranged to have her established near me, as you see. I have been her friend and done my best to cushion the difficulties of adapting to a strange world.”