"What is more," Hubbard continued, "since I was on Ndrikull, it might
have seemed rather presumptuous for me to send for you; whereas I had
always been planning to return to Earth one day. I left at the time of
the plague."
"You were wise. I merely retired to the country. I escaped the
virus, but the rest of my family was less fortunate. I have but one
remaining--my great-great-granddaughter."
"Yes," Hubbard said, "I know. It's because of her I've come to see
you."
He had not really planned ever to return to Earth. Ndrikull had been
comfortable and a man of his age did not risk a trip through space
unless the need was urgent. The memory of Emrys Shortmire had disturbed
him from time to time, but, he thought, probably the young man had died
of the plague. Even if he had not, what good would it do for Peter
Hubbard to be present on Earth? He could not counteract the presence of
an evil force without knowing the quality of that evil.
Then, picking up the kind of journal he did not usually read, he
had seen mentioned the fact that Jan Shortmire's son was "courting"
Nicholas Dyall's great-great-granddaughter. And he had known the need
was now urgent. He must go back to Earth and warn someone; it was his
duty. A letter could not convey the hatred and fear with which the
young man had inspired him. Obviously, old Dyall had been the person to
warn. Yet he did not seem right.
_I do not like this man_, Hubbard thought. And then: _This is the
second man I have taken such an instant dislike to. Can it be senility
rather than perceptiveness, and have I been foolish to come all this
way?_
"You've come because of Megan?" Dyall raised eyebrows that were still
thick and black. "Have you met her? Do you know her?" His voice
sharpened. "She has never spoken of you."
"I have never met her," Hubbard said, and saw Dyall relax. Hubbard
waited, but the other man said nothing, so he went on, "I wanted to
talk to you about the man she's been seeing, this Emrys Shortmire."
Leaning forward, Hubbard spoke slowly, as if, by giving weight to
each word, he could make them sound less fantastic. "He's a monster.
Literally, I mean. His mother was a Morethan. Or _is_. For all I know,
she may still be alive."
* * * * *
Hubbard had not thought of this before, and it shook him. Yet, if Iloa
Tasqi was alive, then Emrys Shortmire must be considered to be, to all
intents and purposes, Morethan entirely, working only for the interests
of that planet. After all, his mother had been the only parent the
boy had known. Even on Clergal, he must have been brought up under a
strong Morethan influence. Now, if the female was still alive, then the
influence would be alive, too. Since Morethans were not permitted on
Earth, there would be an obvious advantage for them in having someone
here.
Dyall was holding back a smile, not too well. "I didn't know a human
and a Morethan could--ah--breed together."
And, obviously, he didn't believe it. There was no way Hubbard could
prove it, unless he asked Emrys to produce his birth certificate again.
"It isn't generally known that the two species can reproduce together,"
he finally said, "nor should it be."
Then he looked directly in Dyall's black eyes--impossible that eyes
so keen should be so deliberately blind, that any aware human being
should not have sensed _something_ of that dark aura. "Haven't you felt
something strange about young Shortmire?" he asked.
"Can't say I have," Dyall chuckled. "He seems an agreeable enough young
fellow."
"He's sixty-five years old."
"Really? I should have taken him to be younger. But youth lasts longer
these days. And there's--" Dyall gave a little laugh--"no crime in
being old, or you and I would be in prison, wouldn't we?"
Hubbard would not let himself be distracted. "He looked less than forty
when he came to Earth, and he hasn't, I understand, changed in the past
ten years."
"Ten years is not so long." Dyall's swarthy hands began playing with
the ornaments on his desk. Clearly, he was impatient to be rid of
his tedious caller, and Hubbard struggled with the instinctive good
breeding that told him to get up and leave. This was not a social call,
so it did not matter that he was boring his host, however.
On the other hand, he was not getting anywhere. Perhaps he could
_blast_ the other out of his smugness. "Look, Dyall, I know this is an
outrageous thing for a man of my profession to say. I haven't a shred
of proof, not a suspicion--but I'm morally sure he killed his father."
Instead of showing shock or anger or even thought, Dyall merely gave
him a tolerant smile. "You're an old man, Mr. Hubbard. We're both old
men," he amended graciously, "so we're apt to--jump at shadows."
_I'm an old man_, Hubbard thought angrily, _and you're an old fool!_
"There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with the young man," Dyall
continued, "or not-so-young man, if you prefer. He appears to be very
fond of Megan, and if he should choose to marry her, it would ease my
mind considerably. I've exceeded my life span myself, you know."
Since Peter Hubbard had done the same, and his span was considerably
shorter, he had no sympathy. "You'd--let the strain continue?"
"Perhaps it's a good strain. I understand the Morethans are said to be
immortal. If so, the genes might be a desirable addition to our own."
He was laughing openly now. Hubbard almost wept with helplessness.
There must be _something_ he could do. But what? He could not take the
trip to Morethis; he would certainly die on the way. And what could
he do there? There was no guarantee that, if there was anything to be
found, he would find it, or even if he reached the planet alive, that
he would go back alive.
"Won't you stay and dine with us tonight, Mr. Hubbard?" Dyall asked.
"No--no, thank you," Hubbard said, feeling no necessity for making an
excuse. The offer had represented only the barest kind of courtesy.