So far, of course, he had described nothing more than a robot of flesh and blood. The spark, now—what distinguished the better-grade robots from people? Prenatal heat, that was it. Incubation. A mold, a heated mold. Warmth, the spark, the sun, life.
For the skin, he went to Pete Celano, the top syntho-dermatologist in the Department.
"Something special?" Pete asked. "Not just a local skin graft? What then?"
"A wife. A perfect wife."
Pete's grin sagged baffledly. "I don't get it, Joe. Perfect how?"
"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?"