Little boys are made of something and snails and puppydogs' tails. What are little girls made of? Joe didn't want a little girl; he wanted one about a hundred and twenty-two pounds and five feet, four inches high. He wanted her to be flat where she should be and curved where she should be, with blonde hair and gray-green eyes and an exciting smile. He had a medical degree, among his others. The nerves, muscles, flesh, circulatory system could be made--and better than they were ever made naturally. The brain would be cybernetic and fashioned after his own, with his own mental background stored in the memory circuits. 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?" "My new wife is going to be." Pete shrugged and began putting together the ingredients for the kind of skin Joe had specified. They're all the same, Joe thought, Sam and Pete and the rest. They seemed to think his idea childish. He built the instillers and incubator that night. The mold would be done by one of the Department's engravers. Joe had the sketches and dimensions ready. Wednesday afternoon, Burke called him in. Burke was the Senior assistant, a job Joe had expected and been miffed about. Burke was a jerk, in Joe's book. This afternoon, Burke's long nose was twitching and his thin face was gravely bleak. He had a clipped, efficient way of speaking. "Tired, Joe?" "What do you mean?" "Not hitting the ball, not on the beam, no zipperoo." "I'm--yes, I guess you're right. I've been working at home on a private project." "Scientific?" "Naturally." "Anything in particular?" Joe took a breath, looked away, and back at Burke. "Well, a wife." A frown, a doubtful look from the cold, blue eyes. "Robot? Dishwasher and cook and phone answerer and like that?" "More than that." Slightly raised eyebrows. "More?" "Completely human, except she will have no human faults." Cool smile. "Wouldn't be human, then, of course." "_Human, but without human faults, I said!_" "You raised your voice, Joe." "I did." "I'm the Senior Assistant. Junior Assistants do not raise their voices to Senior Assistants." "I thought you might be deaf, as well as dumb," Joe said.