Otherness by David Brin Page A

thing.

    "No, what they appear to be after is the laying down of tracks, pathways, essences . . . to set up the foundations for talents the child will later fill with knowledge during his schooling." Reluctantly, her father admitted that the doctors seemed to have thought these things out. "They are very clever," he said.

    With a sigh he added: "That does not necessarily mean, of course, that they really know what they are doing. They may be too clever by half."

    A warning glare from Yumi shut him up then. But not before Reiko shivered at the tone in his voice.

    Soon she started avoiding her father, and even Yumi. The days dragged on as the weight she carried grew heavier. The fetus stirred much less now. She had a feeling he was paying very close attention to his lessons.

11.

    Pak Clinic technicians visited their house. They examined her with instruments, some familiar and others very strange. At one point they pressed a unit to her skin very near the embedded machine and read its memory. They consulted excitedly, then packed up their tools. Only as an afterthought one of them told Reiko her son was developing nicely. In fact, he was quite a fine specimen.

    Tetsuo came home and told her that there was something new and exciting the Pak people wanted to try.

    "A few fetuses, such as our son, have responded very well indeed to the lessons. Now there is something which may make all he has accomplished so far seem as nothing!"

    Reiko touched his arm. "Tetsu, it is so very near the time he will be born. Only another month or so. Why push little Minoru every minute?" She smiled tentatively, making an unusual effort to contact his eyes. "After all," she pleaded, "students on the outside get occasional vacations. Can he not, as well?"

    Tetsuo did not seem to hear her. His excitement was fiercely intense. "They have discovered something truly fantastic recently, Mother. Some babies actually seem to be telepathic during the final weeks before birth!"

    " Te . . . te-re-paturu ?" Reiko mouthed the gairaigo word.

    "But it is extremely close range in effect. Even mothers usually detect it only as a vague strengthening of their mother-child bonds. And, anyway, the trauma of being born always ends it. Even the most gentle of cesarean deliveries . . ."

    He was rambling. Reiko lowered her eyes in defeat, knowing how impossible it would be to penetrate past the heat of his enthusiasm. Tetsu had not changed, she realized at last. He was still the impetuous boy she had married. Still as reckless as a zoku . Only now he knew better than to express it in unpopular Western eccentricities. He would choose acceptable Eastern ones, instead.

    When the technicians came the next day, she let them work without asking any questions. They gave her a girdle of finely woven mesh to wear over her womb. After they left, she simply lay there and turned her head to the wall.

    Yumi telephoned, but Reiko would not see her. Her parents she put off, claiming fatigue. Little Yukiko, sensitive as always, was told that ladies get moody late in pregnancy. She did her homework quietly and played with her computer tutor alone in her tiny room.

    Tetsuo was promoted. The celebration with his comrades lasted late. When he returned home, smelling of fish, sake, and bar girls, Reiko pretended to be asleep. Actually, though, she was listening. The machine scarcely lit up anymore. It hardly made a sound. Still, she felt she could almost follow its conversations with her son.

    Shapes filled her half dreams . . . impossible shapes, bottles with two openings, and none. Again and again there came one particular word: "topology."

    Over the following days she tried to regain some enthusiasm. There were times when she felt as she had when she had carried Yukiko . . . a communion with her child that ran deeper, stronger than anything the machines could tap. During such moments Reiko almost felt happy.

    Year End came, and most of the husbands were out all week, weaving