_Why doesn't he leave me alone?_ Peter Hubbard thought, as, wearily, he
told the Dyall machine to let Emrys Shortmire up. _I am a very old man
and I will die soon. Can't he leave me alone in the little time left?_
But he could not forget the obligations of courtesy. He was polite to
Emrys Shortmire when the other man came in. Even if he hadn't been, he
saw, Emrys wouldn't have noticed; he was too full of his own thoughts.
"Peter," he cried, almost before he was fully in the room, "did you
know that, in dying, Nicholas Dyall won a final victory over me?"
The old man muffled a yawn. "You mean you can't die? Well, I was afraid
of that. I am sorry for you, Jan, but you brought this upon yourself."
"I know," Emrys said, looking a little disappointed that the knowledge
did not startle the lawyer. "I will be alive when they come," he went
on, more subdued. "I will be waiting, or so they think."
"I imagine that's what they counted on," Hubbard said indifferently.
"You not only giving them the secret of the engines but acting as a--an
outpost. They didn't sell their wares cheap, did they?"
Emrys' eyes flashed copper fire. "But I will _not_ be waiting to help
them. I will be waiting to _fight_ them."
"Brave words."
"You think I can't fight them?"
"Of course you can't. They have powers far beyond yours. And why should
you want to fight them? I know you hadn't planned to be alive when they
came, but it won't be bad for you. You're one of them now."
Emrys sat down on the couch. "Physically I am. That's why I _can_
fight them. Look, Peter, I have centuries ahead of me. By giving me
immortality, they have also given me time."
"Splendid. Time to do what?"
"I don't know," Emrys confessed. "But time is such a valuable commodity
in itself. With it, I could learn how to turn their own powers against
them."
"Easier said than done," Hubbard observed.
"Maybe I could--oh--invent a machine that will amplify my mind powers
until it can overcome all of theirs...."
Hubbard said nothing.
"Well, then, the engines I gave them can't take them out of this galaxy
any more than those same engines can take humanity out of it. But,
given time, I can invent _new_ engines, Peter--engines that can jump
the gap from galaxy to galaxy. If I cannot give Man the weapons with
which to fight, at least I can give him the means by which to flee!
And, since I was the man who invented the one, I can be the man to
invent the other!"
* * * * *
That was true, Hubbard thought, hope rising in him, despite all his
efforts to hold it back. That was possible. But would Emrys do this?
Right now, in the first flush of repentance, he might try to. But if
the work grew tedious, might he not say to himself: _Why bother? I'm
bound to live forever, anyway. Why should I care what happens to the
others of my kind?_
"Who knows, Peter," Emrys cried, "I may be able to invent engines that
can move the whole world--all our worlds--to another galaxy, where the
Morethans will never be able to follow!"
"What's in it for you, Emrys?" Hubbard asked bluntly.
"I want to save humanity ... and, of course," Emrys added, his eyes
lighting exultantly, "by doing that, I will do more than Dyall ever
did. My name will go down in history, and his--"
"Do you hate him so much, Emrys, even though he's dead?" Hubbard asked
wonderingly, unable to conceive of such a thing.
"_Especially_ because he's dead," Emrys snarled. "Because now I'll
never have the pleasure of mocking him." He looked anxiously at
Hubbard. "Don't you think I'm doing the right thing, Peter?"
The right thing, but for the wrong reason. Only for the wrong reason,
though, was Emrys sure to finish what he had set out to do. It was the
one motive that would keep him working long after he grew bored with
the work. It was humanity's only chance, and so it did not matter _why_
Emrys was doing this.
"It's a splendid thing you're planning to do, Emrys," Hubbard said
warmly. "A splendid thing!"
What if Emrys _did_ go down in history? It would be thanks to him that
history had continued at all.
* * * * *
Yes, he was a vicious man. And Dyall had been equally vicious. And
Peter Hubbard was a good man--and it was he who had _not_ been granted
that fifty extra years of life. What was goodness? Was it inherently
opposed to greatness? Did things get done only out of malevolent
motives--anger and ruthlessness and spite? If, as it seemed, goodness
was a passive force, and evil an active one, perhaps the world needed
both. And if, as it seemed, evil could beget good, then evil could not
be all bad.
_So_, Peter Hubbard thought, _there is hope for the Morethans as well
as for humanity._