Voiceless, with their environment so favorable that it had never been necessary for them to develop prehensile limbs, female people had nevertheless evolved a method of child care commensurate with their comparatively higher intelligence.
Soft as tender fingers, gentle as the human hand that smooths the awry hair back from the young forehead, Riya's mental caress enfolded Phildee.
Phildee recoiled. The feeling was:
| Warm | Not candy in the mouth |
| Soft | |
| Sweet | |
| Candy in the mouth | Familiar |
| Good | |
| Tasty | |
| Nice | |
| The feeling was | Not Familiar |
| Not Good | |
| Not Tasty | |
| Not Nice |
WHY?:
M is for many motionless months.
T is for tense temper tantrums.
R is for rabid—NO!—rapid rolling wrench.
MTR. Mother.
Phildee's mother wanted Phildee's father. Phildee's mother wanted green grass and apple trees, tight skirts and fur jackets on Fifth Avenue, men to turn and look, a little room where nobody could see her. Phildee's mother had radiation burns. Phildee's mother was dead.
He wavered; physically. Maintaining his position in this world was a process that demanded constant attention from the segment of his mind devoted to it. For a moment, even that small group of brain cells almost became involved in his reaction.
It was that which snapped him back into functioning logically. MTR was Mother. Mother was: