"Thank you, sire," said the Singer gravely. Bowing, the blind man
backed unerringly out into the adjoining elevator. Van Alen turned back
to Kesley.
"You remember, now, the circumstances under which we last met in this
room?"
"Yes," Kesley said. "I came to you--to ask you to abdicate in my favor,
Father. You refused."
"And you ran away."
"What else could I do? You were Immortal; I was twenty-three, and you
refused to leave the throne. I thought you were wrong in your ways."
"Twenty-three--and you wanted to rule," van Alen repeated reflectively.
"Now, of course, you have the wisdom of mature years. Why, you must be
nearly thirty, old man!"
"Twenty-eight. And I'm still aging. What was it Stohrbach said, your
geneticist? That I'll continue to age until about the age of thirty and
then stop?"
"Thirty-five. You haven't reached full maturity yet."
"But my cells show the regenerative pattern of an Immortal."
Kesley let the other newly-awakened memories filter through his mind.
"I left you," he said. "Angrily. I had myself teleported through your
Barrier and into North America, where I intended to live under an
assumed name and work for the overthrow of Winslow--as a start."
"Is that it?" van Alen asked. "I was never sure of your plan."
Kesley nodded. "I intended gradually to seize the Twelve Empires--and
then ask you to lower your force-screen."
Van Alen smiled slowly. "Worthy of a Duke, son. But it didn't work.
One of Winslow's mutant telepaths--now dead and out of circulation,
happily--discovered your true identity. Word traveled fast among the
Twelve Dukes that I had had a son who bore the Immortal traits. They
resolved to kill you, hoping I would never have another. And you were
caught, there in Winslow's own home yard. It was Daveen who rescued
you. The rest you've already relearned."