"Wait. I haven't finished. The race did not die completely; it decayed.
Certain among the people stayed alive through sucking the lives of
the others; certain among them still kept some vestiges of the old
traditions and knowledge; certain among them waited."
"Is that the end of your story?"
Hubbard nodded. Emrys' face was ashen. "Well, it's an old wives' tale,"
he sputtered. "All the Morethans want is to be able to compete on an
equal basis with Earth. They don't want to be exploited, nor do they
intend to...." As his eyes caught Hubbard's, his voice trailed off.
"Anyhow, I'll be dead," he said. "I don't give a damn what happens
after I'm dead."
* * * * *
Hubbard didn't believe it. He couldn't. There is no man who has not
some love for his own kind, be it ever so little, merely because they
look like him.
"You won't tell anybody who I really am?" Emrys asked childishly.
"You're still my friend, aren't you?"
Hubbard sighed. Was he still this creature's friend? He didn't know.
"Who would believe me?" he finally asked. "And even if they did, what's
the use? Nothing can be done. The only thing that's ever protected us
from the Morethans is distance. When they reach Earth, they will have
already conquered us. Mental powers are always stronger than physical
powers at close range."
"That's right." Emrys seemed to be relieved at the idea that the
question was out of his hands. "Too late now to do anything about it."
Hubbard nodded. There was no way out that he could see.
"But you _do_ promise not to tell old Dyall that I'm my father instead
of me?" Emrys asked anxiously.
"Even if he believed me, he wouldn't care. All he wants is a good
match for that great-great-granddaughter of his."
But was that all? As far as money went, Nicholas Dyall was reputed to
be the richest man alive. And if he was truly fond of the girl, would
he not at least have investigated the young man?
"You're _hard_!" Emrys complained, but without rancor.
"I have a suspicious nature," Hubbard said thoughtfully. "Perhaps it's
the legal mind. At any rate, I don't care for Nicholas Dyall."
"Well, I don't either, but I don't really give a hang what kind of a
great-great-grandfather-in-law I'm getting. All I care about is Megan.
Do you think it's wrong for me to ask her to marry me?"
"Can't you understand that, at this stage, the girl doesn't matter?"
"No," Emrys said simply. "I cannot imagine her not mattering."
After he had gone, Hubbard still found himself thinking about Nicholas
Dyall. In his whole lifetime, the old lawyer had personally known
only two men whom society had deemed worthy of its highest honor, the
longevity treatment. And these were more than most men had met, for the
longevity treatment was given to very few. Both of the two, Dyall and
Shortmire, had some defect in their personalities that warped them--all
but completely, in Shortmire's case--away from the human virtues.
Was that defect a part of the creative talent that had earned the
individual his right to the treatment? Or did it arise as an effect
of the treatment itself? Because, if that was the case, then Earth's
longevity treatment might be nothing more than a primitive form of the
Morethan "process."
Since only straws remained to be grasped at, no one thing Hubbard did
would be more futile than any other. And since he had nothing better to
do, he might just as well investigate this new avenue. Jan Shortmire
had hated Nicholas Dyall. Had Nicholas Dyall hated Jan Shortmire with
equal venom? And, if so, had he done anything about it?