Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net REJECT BY JOHN JOHNSON _The officials had been napping the day Donnie passed inspection.... How else could you explain such an error in his emotional conditioning?_ [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, August 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Donnie clenched his small fists and tried not to cry, but two elliptical tears ran slowly down his cheeks. The sight of them made Mr. Ames even madder. "Look at him," he stormed, turning to Martha. "Just look at him. Every damn time I try to reason with him, he starts to snivel like an animal, instead of acting like a normal human being." Mr. Ames flicked his cigar ashes toward a vacuum cup on the wall and looked down at the boy. "Now stop that stupid crying and tell me what this is all about." Donnie sniffled a couple of times and wiped his nose on the back of one of his blue uniform sleeves. "Well," Mr. Ames said, coldly. The boy took a deep breath and raised his head. "I want you to spend some time with me," he said. "I want you to--" he searched the elusive shadows of memory until he found the word he wanted--"I want you to _play_ with me. That's it. I want you to play with me once in a while." Mr. Ames blinked his eyes and stepped back. "Play," he repeated. "What do you mean _play_?" Donnie hesitated. "You know," he said, finally, "take me on long walks and sit down and play games and tell me stories once in a while." "But you've got all the stories you need," Mr. Ames said, waving his hand at the banks of audiotapes stacked neatly on the wall shelves. "And your audio-prompter can tell them better than I can." "Yes," Donnie said, "but that's a machine and I want--" "What's wrong with a machine," Mr. Ames said, his face getting red. "Some of our best things come from machines. Didn't they teach you that at the Incubator?" "Yes," the boy said, "but isn't there anything besides machines? I can't play with machines, I want to play with you!" He began to sob again. Mr. Ames dashed his cigar to the floor. "I give up," he said. "By the Red Balls of Jupiter, I give up!" "Now, Henry," his wife said. "Remember, the boy's only seven." "Don't 'Henry' me," Mr. Ames said, "And besides, what does being seven have to do with it. When I was his age, I was an honor student in physics. _He_ can't even pass algebra." Donnie stared at the toes of his boots.