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The United States had already pushed the retirement age to seventy-three, trying to stave off the Social Security debacle. They raised premiums on Medicare and cut the coverage to bare bones, but nothing really made a difference. The cost for these programs had overwhelmed the country, and the bigger question was always looming: At what price life?

When Bernstein was in high school he had been on a debate team, and one of the debates was pro-choice versus pro-life. He was assigned pro-life even though he wanted to debate for the other side. But he got all of his talking points straight and tried his best. He argued that life began at conception and other humans had no right to take a life, and asked, What if they’d aborted Jonas Salk or Winston Churchill? And he was winning. Then someone from the other side said, “The pro-life movement only cares about the human while it’s still in the mother. As soon as it’s born, the pro-choice people have to take care of it.” And Bernstein couldn’t answer. He agreed. And he lost the debate.

He believed that many of the pro-lifers never thought about life as an entire journey. Just get the human beings here any way possible and the rest will be figured out. Who would do that? Who would figure it out? Maybe now that he was president, he could at least start the discussion for real.

* * *

“And at this very desk, Harry Truman made the decision to drop the first atom bomb on Hiroshima.” Betsy Bernstein loved giving the tours almost more than anything else.

Here she was, a plain girl from Detroit, showing the people who cured cancer and muscular dystrophy and Alzheimer’s exactly where former presidents had sat as they determined the fate of the world. She showed off the White House as if it were her own home, and she had done a lot to make it that way. The famous Blue Room was no longer blue, it was now off-white. In another room she replaced all of the antiques with a retro design, furniture made in America from the 1950s. She took out many of the Persian carpets that had been there for over a hundred years, and in their place put Indian rugs and added Southwestern touches throughout to give the famous home a different feel. And for the most part people liked it. There was the normal talk of too much expense, but she made sure that the items were donated and made sure to let everyone know that.

The Muellers were enthralled with the tour, as were the other guests. Betsy took them to the elevator and said, “Now, because you’re such a special group, if you would like, I will take you up to the residence. That’s something not a lot of people see.” Everyone thought that was a fine idea, and when they got to the second floor and walked down the hallway, Maggie Mueller couldn’t believe her eyes. One of the bedroom doors was open and the room was a mess. She nudged her husband.

“Look in there,” she whispered. Sam looked in the door but didn’t see what the big deal was.

“So?”

“The room looks like it hasn’t been made up for days.”

“So what? Maybe his messy brother is staying here.”

“Still,” Maggie said, “it’s the White House. You would think the room would be cleaned as soon as someone is out of it.”

“Maybe they’re still in there, honey.” Sam was now smiling. He loved these discussions about nothing.

“They’re not. You can tell.”

“Maybe the CIA makes them invisible during the tours.”

For one-tenth of a second Maggie thought he was serious. Before she could even laugh, Betsy Bernstein opened a door and said to the group, “Now, for the piece de resistance, the Lincoln Bedroom.” And when she stepped aside there he was, Abraham Lincoln, sitting in a chair, reading, looking as alive as could be. Lincoln looked up and said, “Hello, and welcome.” The people on the tour were giddy.

What started out seventy-five years earlier as crude animatronics at Disneyland had transformed into a machine that looked one hundred percent human. It was as good as any robot produced in 2030. The robot Lincoln had stories to tell, would take questions, and then,