Mr. Ames, who was incubator-born himself, was completely sold on the ingenious system the Federation of World Councils had devised. No more hit-and-miss mass reproduction, where morons were gradually out-breeding intelligent beings, but instead, selective artificial insemination through which only the best strains were permitted to reproduce. Each generation, the human race got healthier and smarter. Insanity and inherited diseases were a thing of the past and nature's primitive law--only the fittest shall survive--was now a glittering reality. Why the Federated Incubators even took over the burden of educating the children for the first five years. Parents no longer had to be bothered caring for helpless, bawling brats. By the time Incubates were placed on the available list, they were completely self-sufficient and emotionally conditioned to fit into any family group. Parents simply picked what they wanted. Mr. Ames, of course, had selected a future nuclear-chemist. It was a beautiful system, Mr. Ames told himself, and even more important, it worked. But somehow, some way, there was something radically wrong with their child. "Definite neurotic symptoms," Mr. Ames murmured, half aloud. By Jupiter, there was only one thing to do. He shut the folder firmly and spun around to the trans-audio. A green light appeared on the panel almost immediately. "Your connection, please?" the automon said. "Give me the local Incubator." There was a pause, then a click. "Federated Health and Service, coordinator speaking. May I help you?" "Yes. This is Mr. Henry Ames, over at the Amarillo Group Project. I have a complaint to make." "Yes?" The coordinator, a woman, was carefully polite. "It's about the child you sent us." "Specimen please?" "What? Oh, it's a boy, Class Triple A, breed, nuclear chemistry. We got him about 18 months ago and--" "What is your number please?" "It's ... just a minute." Mr. Ames consulted the folder. "My number is 34-72-oh-41. And we've got a three-year guarantee," he added pointedly. "Yes, sir. Just a minute sir." There was a whirring sound at the other end of the circuit. After a short wait, the coordinator's voice came through again. "Well, sir," she said. "You have the select model in our scientific line of seven-year-olds. According to our records, he checked out perfectly on all phases of learning and aptitude. Have you tried memory teaching?" "Yes, I've tried memory teaching. He learns fine." Mr. Ames stopped. "Look, you don't seem to understand. He's okay as far as performance goes. He does everything we tell him and all that, but he's still a real pain in the--I mean, he's developing very annoying characteristics." "Please go on, Mr. Ames." The coordinator's voice was warm and sympathetic. "How does he annoy you?" "Well, for one thing, he's getting pronounced possessive tendencies. He almost seems to resent being left alone. Why, just this evening he told me he wants us to _play_ with him!"