The boy took a deep breath and raised his head. "I want you to spend some time with me," he said. "I want you to—" he searched the elusive shadows of memory until he found the word he wanted—"I want you to play with me. That's it. I want you to play with me once in a while."
Mr. Ames blinked his eyes and stepped back. "Play," he repeated. "What do you mean play?"
Donnie hesitated. "You know," he said, finally, "take me on long walks and sit down and play games and tell me stories once in a while."
"But you've got all the stories you need," Mr. Ames said, waving his hand at the banks of audiotapes stacked neatly on the wall shelves. "And your audio-prompter can tell them better than I can."
"Yes," Donnie said, "but that's a machine and I want—"
"What's wrong with a machine," Mr. Ames said, his face getting red. "Some of our best things come from machines. Didn't they teach you that at the Incubator?"
"Yes," the boy said, "but isn't there anything besides machines? I can't play with machines, I want to play with you!" He began to sob again.
Mr. Ames dashed his cigar to the floor. "I give up," he said. "By the Red Balls of Jupiter, I give up!"
"Now, Henry," his wife said. "Remember, the boy's only seven."
"Don't 'Henry' me," Mr. Ames said, "And besides, what does being seven have to do with it. When I was his age, I was an honor student in physics. He can't even pass algebra."