Chapter IV

“You should have sent for me to come to you, Mr. Hubbard,” Nicholas Dyall said, with a gentle pity that infuriated the old lawyer, who knew that he himself was young enough to be Dyall’s grandson. Hubbard was jealous--he would not conceal it from himself--bitterly jealous. It had not been hard for him to rationalize Jan Shortmire’s gift of years as a worthless one; that old man’s bitterness and disillusionment had not inspired envy. But this hale and rosy old man seemed to be enjoying his years.

I may not have made any signal contribution to human welfare, Hubbard thought resentfully, but I have done my best. Why must I die at an age fifty years short of the age which this man is allowed to reach?

“I am perfectly able to get about, Mr. Dyall,” he said in icy tones, “since I am in excellent health.”

Which he was, the doctor had told him, adding, however, “for your age.”

“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.”