"I would call that as much of an achievement as speech itself," Dr. MacNare said to his wife. "His right front leg has asserted its independence. If each of his other three legs can do as well, he can control the robot body." It became obvious that Adam was trying. Though the movements of his body remained non-purposive, the pauses in those movements became more and more pregnant with what was obviously mental effort. During that period there was of course room for argument and speculation about it, and even a certain amount of humor. Had Adam's right front leg, at the moment of achieving meaningful speech, suffered a nervous breakdown? What would a psychiatrist have to say about a white rat that had a nervous breakdown in its right front leg? "The worst part about it," Dr. MacNare said to his wife, "is that if he fails to make it he'll have to be killed. He can't have permanent frustration forced onto him, and, by now, returning him to his natural state would be even worse." "And he has such a stout little heart," Alice said. "Sometimes when he looks at me I'm sure he knows what is happening and he wants me to know he's trying." When they went to bed that night they were more discouraged than they had ever been. Eventually they slept. When the alarm went off, Alice slipped into her robe and went into the study first, as she always did. A moment later she was back in the bedroom, shaking her husband's shoulder. "Joe!" she whispered. "Wake up! Come into the study!" He leaped out of bed and rushed past her. She caught up with him and pulled him to a stop. "Take it easy, Joe," she said. "Don't alarm him." "Oh." Dr. MacNare relaxed. "I thought something had happened." "Something has!" They stopped in the doorway of the study. Dr. MacNare sucked in his breath sharply, but remained silent. Adam seemed oblivious of their presence. He was too interested in something else. He was interested in his hands. He was holding his hands up where he could see them, and he was moving them independently, clenching and unclenching the metal fingers with slow deliberation. Suddenly the movement stopped. He had become aware of them. Then, impossibly, unbelievably, he spoke. "Ma ma," Adam said. Then, "Pa pa." "Adam!" Alice sobbed, rushing across the study to him and sinking down beside him. Her arms went around his metal body. "Oh, Adam," she cried happily. * * * * * It was the beginning. The date of that beginning is not known. Alice MacNare believes it was early in May, but more probably it was in April. There was no time to keep notes. In fact, there was no longer a research project nor any thought of one. Instead, there was Adam, the person. At least, to Alice he became that, completely. Perhaps, also, to Dr. MacNare.