"--but to kill them, every one. To hunt out the strain and wipe it
from the face of the Earth so ruthlessly and completely that it can
never rise again. And to wipe out with it the first new link in the
evolution of Man since the dawn of history."
Slowly Roger Schiml's eyes traveled from Jeff Meyers' form on the bed
to Paul Conroe's grave face. "There's no other way?"
"None," said Paul Conroe.
* * * * *
"Jeff," said Dr. Schiml. "Jeff Meyer."
The figure on the cot stirred ever so slightly. The eyes slowly closed,
then reopened, looking slightly less blank. Jeff's lips parted in an
almost inaudible groan, hardly more than a breath.
"Jeff. You've got to hear me a minute. Listen, Jeff, we're trying to
help you. Can you hear that? We're trying to help you, Jeff, and we
need your help."
The eyes shifted, turned to Schiml's face. They were haunted eyes--eyes
that had seen the grave and beyond it.
"Please, Jeff. Listen. We're hunting. We're trying to find a way to
help you. You know about your father now, the truth about your father,
don't you?"
The eyes wavered, came back, and the head nodded ever so slightly. "I
know," came the sighing reply.
"You've got to tell us what to do, Jeff. There are good powers here in
your mind, and there are terrible powers, ruinous powers. We've got to
find them both, find where they lie, how they work. You must tell us,
as we probe--tell us when we strike the good, when we strike the bad.
Do you understand, Jeff?"
Again the head nodded. Jeff's jaw tightened a trifle and an expression
of infinite fatigue crossed his face. "Go on, Doc."
Dr. Schiml leaned over the proper controls and moved the dial on the
microvernier. He moved it again, watching, moving it still again. A
fine sweat broke out on his forehead as he worked, and he felt Conroe's
soft eyes on him, waiting, hoping....
And then a whimper broke from Jeff's lips, an indefinable sound,
helpless and childlike, a little cry of terror. Dr. Schiml looked up,
his heart thumping in his throat. Jeff's eyes were wide again, staring
lifelessly, and his breath was shallow and thready. Schiml glanced
quickly at Conroe, then back, his eyes reflecting the fear and tension
in his mind. And as he worked his shoulders slumped forward, prepared
for defeat. Because what he was doing was impossible, and he knew it
was impossible. But he knew, above all, that it had to succeed.