Priscilla went to see the genetic physicist. She had already spent hours going through the glossy brochure selecting sperm donors for her proposed baby. It’s not as simple as it seems. In the good old days one would select a football player or a concert pianist or an astronomer to be the father. These days, with genetic engineering, one could select specific genes.
Priscilla had made notes: six foot three, no baldness in the genes, no hairy back, a deep bass voice.
She wanted a competent musician, but not one of those violinist people; nothing namby-pamby; more of a guitarist; they were always popular. And then, she didn’t mind what sport it was provided it wasn’t chess or curling or orienteering or something sissy like that. Rowing would be excellent, or even tennis or mountaineering.
Brain-wise, a good mix between science and the arts would be perfect, as long as one skill didn’t water down the other. A genius was best, but not necessarily a man for all seasons. Speaking of which, no gay genes please. For goodness sake! Oh dear! Goodness me! Her womb wasn’t a charitable organisation.
At last, with the selections made, the genetic physicist’s suggestions argued over, the modifications completed, Priscilla was implanted with one of her own eggs fertilised by… decisions, decisions… donor genes.
Today, her son’s all grown up. He looks remarkably like the genetic physicist and has his mother’s brains.