"You must take out the _abasic_ organs. They've served their purpose.
I don't want to live with them. I could become another Demarzule with
the power I have."
Her eyes were faintly blue in the light that came from the panel and
they were intent upon him. In them he read something that made him
afraid.
"There is always a need for men with greater powers and greater
knowledge than the average man," she said. "The race has need of its
mutants. They are dealt so sparingly to us that we cannot afford not to
utilize them."
"_Mutants?_"
"You are a true mutant, whether artificial or not, possessing organs
and abilities that are unique. The race needs them. You cannot ask me
to destroy them."
He had never thought of himself as a mutant, yet she was right for
all practical purposes. His powers and perceptions would perhaps not
have been produced naturally in any man of his race for thousands of
years to come. Perhaps he _could_ use them to assist man's slow rise.
A new wealth of science, a new strength of leadership and guidance if
necessary--.
"I could become the world's greatest criminal," he said. "There's no
secret, no property that's safe from my grasp. I have only to reach out
for possessions, for power."
"You worry too much about that," she said lightly. "You could no more
become a villain than I could."
"Why are you so sure of that?"
"Don't you remember the properties of the _seaa-abasa_? But then you
didn't hear the last words that Jandro ever spoke, did you? He said, 'I
retire to the _seaa-abasa_.' Do you know what that means?"
* * * * *
Suddenly, Underwood felt cold. A score of whisperings came thundering
into his mind. The moment when he had first awakened from the
operation, when it seemed as if death would have him and only the power
of a demanding will had helped him cling to life. The voice that seemed
to penetrate and call him back. The voice of Jandro. And then the final
conflict in the chambers of Demarzule.
New skills and new strength had suddenly come to him as if out of
nowhere. He had been conceited to call it his increased experience
and ability. Yet could it have come from outside himself? He sought
frantically and urgently within his own nerve channels, in the cells of
his own being, and in the pathways of the alien organs that lent him
those unearthly senses. There seemed nothing but an echo, as if within
a great empty hall. There was no answer, yet it seemed as if down
those channels of perception there was the dim shadow of a wary prey
who could never be caught, who could never be found in those endless
pathways, but who would never be far away.
Underwood knew then that if it was Jandro, he would never make himself
known for reasons of his own, perhaps. But there was a sudden peace as
if he had found some secret purification, as if he had been taken to
a high place and looked about the world and had been able to turn his
back upon it. Whether he would ever find Jandro or not, he was sure
that the guardian was there.
Illia was saying, "I can't operate, Del. Even if you hate me for the
rest of our lives, I won't do it. And there is no one else in the world
who would know how. You would be killed if you let anyone else attempt
to cut those nerves. Tell me that you believe I'm right."
"I do," he said in cheerful resignation. "But don't forget it's half
your funeral as well. It means that you're going to have to spend the
rest of your life with a mutant."