Twenty years earlier
When Altaira Morbius was six years old she decided that Robby did not know how to make toast.
This was not, strictly speaking, true. Robby knew the chemical composition of everything in that kitchen, the caloric requirements of a six year old human child, fourteen methods of preparing eggs, eleven methods of preserving fruit, and several thousand years of Krell nutritional theory, none of which involved eggs.
What Robby did not understand was toast.
"It's burned."
He examined the slice in his hand. "The surface temperature did not exceed the specified limit."
"It's burned."
"It is brown."
"It's black."
"It is dark brown."
Alta folded her arms. Julia, in the doorway, decided not to intervene.
Robby turned the slice over. The other side was black. He looked at Alta. Alta looked at him.
"Dark brown," said Robby.
Julia laughed, and he turned around.
"I did not know you were there."
"That's because you were losing an argument."
"I was not arguing."
Alta climbed onto her chair. "He was."
"I was providing information."
"That is arguing," said Julia, and kissed the top of her daughter's head on the way past. "Your father would be very proud of you."
"Why?"
"Because you have just described most of his adult life."
Alta grinned into the fruit bowl.
"I will prepare another," said Robby.
"I'll do it."
"I am capable."
"I know."
"You have said that before, immediately prior to doing it yourself."
Julia stopped with the bread in her hand. Alta looked delighted.
"Has he?"
"Frequently."
"Robby."
"Yes, Julia?"
"Give me the bread."
He gave her the bread.
There were mornings when she could almost forget, and the house helped. It had changed in six years, not dramatically, because nothing Edward built ever looked improvised even when it was, but the rooms had taken on a life. Alta's drawings had gone up along the walls at a height determined entirely by how high she could reach. Lake stones sat on the windowsills. There was a wooden animal on the table that Robby had carved after Alta asked whether the Krell had made toys and he had been obliged to say that he did not know. Julia had told him that ignorance was no reason to deprive a child of one, so he had made her a horse. It looked very little like a horse. Alta loved it.
The garden had spread along the western side of the house. Julia had learned which terrestrial plants tolerated the soil of Altair IV and which ones objected to the entire planet. She had lost tomatoes twice and declined to accept it.
Morbius had once observed that this was irrational. Julia had pointed out that he had spent six years translating a civilization that had been dead for two hundred thousand years. He had stopped criticizing the tomatoes.
"Is Father coming up?"
"He said he would."
"You said that yesterday."
"Did I?"
"You did," said Robby.
Julia turned to him. "Thank you."
"You asked."
"I did not."
"You appeared uncertain."
Alta giggled. Julia watched her eat, all elbows and questions and hair that would not stay tied an hour, and thought about Edward promising to show her the third moon through the observatory before breakfast. Breakfast had come. The third moon had evidently managed without him.
"He'll come up," she said.
Alta shrugged. Disappointment would have been easier to take. Children adapt. Adults call it resilience because the other word is an accusation.
Robby set a new slice in front of her. She inspected it.
"Brown."
"Yes."
"Both sides?"
"Yes."
She turned it over. "Good."
Robby inclined his head like a man who had concluded a negotiation between governments.
Then the room tilted. Not much. Only enough that the edge of the counter was somewhere it had not been a moment before, and Julia caught it with one hand.
Robby was beside her before she had finished catching it.
"Mother?"
"I'm fine."
"No," said Robby.
Julia turned her head slowly. "That was a very Edward answer."
"Your balance failed."
"It did not fail. It became temporarily adventurous."
"Your pulse has increased. Your skin temperature is elevated."
Alta was watching both of them now.
"I'm tired," Julia said.
"You have been tired for eleven days."
There were times when his memory was deeply inconvenient.
"Are you sick?" said Alta.
"No."
And Robby said nothing at all.
"Go outside."
"Why?"
"Because I want to speak to Robby."
"About me?"
"No."
"Then I can stay."
"Outside."
Alta weighed resistance, found the odds poor, and slid off the chair. "Can I go to the lake?"
"Not alone."
"Robby can come."
"Stay in the garden."
She looked up at Robby. He did not rescue her.
"Fine."
Julia waited until the door had closed.
"How long have you been watching me?"
"Eleven days."
"You said that already."
"Your fatigue began earlier."
"How much earlier?"
"Twenty-three days."
She closed her eyes. "And you said nothing."
"You attributed it to the garden."
"So did you."
"I accepted your explanation."
"That sounds suspiciously like blame."
"It is not."
"Good." She sat down. He remained standing. "Do you know what it is?"
"No."
"You have the entire medical archive of a starship."
"Yes."
"And?"
"It is an archive." He paused. "It is not a physician."
That sentence stayed with her for what was left of her life.
* * *
Edward came up forty minutes later, because Robby went down and got him.
Julia would remember that afterward. Not that he had been below, which had long since become ordinary. What she remembered was how fast he came once Robby said her name.
He arrived with dust on one sleeve and an instrument still clipped to his belt.
"What happened?"
"Good morning."
"Julia."
"I became dizzy. Once."
"How long have you been ill?"
"I am not certain that I am."
"Twenty-three days," said Robby.
"Robby."
"He asked."
Morbius already had the scanner out. Julia caught his wrist.
"Do not begin."
"Begin what?"
"Solving me."
"I am taking a reading."
"You are looking at me the way you look at a sealed door."
"That is absurd."
"Edward."
He stopped. Six years ago she would have had to explain it. Now he knew, which was not the same as agreeing, and he sat down beside her and used the scanner anyway.
The first readings told them nothing. The second told them slightly more and nothing useful. Inflammatory markers elevated. Cardiac response irregular. A metabolic imbalance Robby could identify and could not explain. No infection, no injury, nothing that belonged tidily to any page in the Bellerophon's medical library.
"Again," said Morbius.
"The result will not change."
"Again."
Robby repeated it.
"Cross-reference the values."
"I have."
"Against the Bellerophon records."
"I have."
"Against all adult female cases."
"I have."
"Then widen it."
"I have."
Morbius looked up sharply. "Then you have missed something."
"No."
He stood. "You possess the accumulated medical knowledge of a starship."
"Yes."
"Then use it."
"I am using it. The information is inadequate."
The room went quiet. Julia knew the expression on her husband's face. It meant the universe had contradicted him personally.
"You read the ship's entire medical library."
"Yes."
"You retain it."
"Yes."
"Then you know what the surgeon knew."
"No," said Robby. "I know what she recorded."
"There is a difference."
"Yes."
"Explain it."
"A physician knows when information does not apply. She knows which questions to ask that are not in the record. She recognizes relationships she was never taught to describe. She has experience of being wrong."
"I understand what experience is."
"Then you understand why I am not a physician."
Julia leaned back in her chair.
"Apparently the android is the only one in this house who knows his own limits."
"That is not helpful."
"No," she said. "It is accurate."
