Welles held his pencil ready to write.
“Timothy has never been told. After all, he must grow up in this world, and how dreadfully the world has changed in the past thirty years, Dr. Welles! But you would not remember the day before 1945. You have heard, no doubt of the terrible explosion in the atomic plant, when they were trying to make a new type of bomb? At the time, none of the workers seemed to be injured. They believed the protection was adequate. But two years later they were all dead or dying.”
Mrs. Davis shook her head, sadly. Welles held his breath, bent his head, scribbled.
“Tim was born just fourteen months after the explosion, fourteen months to the day. Everyone still thought that no harm had been done. But the radiation had some effect which was very slow—I do not understand such things—Edwin died, and then Emily came home to us with the boy. In a few months she, too, was gone.
“Oh, but we do not sorrow as those who have no hope. It is hard to have lost her, Dr. Welles, but Mr. Davis and I have reached the time of life when we can look forward to seeing her again. Our hope is to live until Timothy is old enough to fend for himself. We were so anxious about him; but you see he is perfectly normal in every way.”
“Yes.”
“The specialists made all sorts of tests. But nothing is wrong with Timothy.”
The psychiatrist stayed a little longer, took a few more notes, and made his escape as soon as he could. Going straight to the school, he had a few words with Miss Page and then took Tim to his office, where he told him what he had learned.
“You mean—I’m a mutation?”
“A mutant. Yes, very likely you are. I don’t know. But I had to tell you at once.”
“Must be a dominant, too,” said Tim, “coming out this way in the first generation. You mean—there may be more? I’m not the only one?” he added in great excitement. “Oh, Peter, even if I grow up past you I won’t have to be lonely?”
There. He had said it.
“It could be, Tim. There’s nothing else in your family that could account for you.”
“But I have never found anyone at all like me. I would have known. Another boy or girl my age—like me—I would have known.”
“You came West with your mother. Where did the others go, if they existed? The parents must have scattered everywhere, back to their homes all over the country, all over the world. We can trace them, though. And, Tim, haven’t you thought it’s just a little bit strange that with all your pen names and various contacts, people don’t insist more on meeting you? Everything gets done by mail. It’s almost as if the editors are used to people who hide. It’s almost as if people are used to architects and astronomers and composers whom nobody ever sees, who are only names in care of other names at post office boxes. There’s a chance—just a chance, mind you—that there are others. If there are, we’ll find them.”
“I’ll work out a code they will understand,” said Tim, his face screwed up in concentration. “In articles—I’ll do it—several magazines and in letters I can inclose copies—some of my pen friends may be the ones—”
“I’ll hunt up the records—they must be on file somewhere—psychologists and psychiatrists know all kinds of tricks—we can make some excuse to trace them all—the birth records—”
Both of them were talking at once, but all the while Peter Welles was thinking sadly, perhaps he had lost Tim now. If they did find those others, those to whom Tim rightfully belonged, where would poor Peter be? Outside, among the puppies-Timothy Paul looked up and saw Peter Welles’s eyes on him. He smiled.
“You were my first friend, Peter, and you shall be forever,” said Tim. “No matter what, no matter who.”
“But we must look for the others,” said Peter.
“I’ll never forget who helped me,” said Tim.
An ordinary boy of thirteen may say such a thing sincerely, and a week later have forgotten all about it. But Peter Welles was content. Tim would never forget. Tim would be his friend always. Even when Timothy Paul and those like him should unite in a maturity undreamed of, to control the world if they chose, Peter Welles would be Tim’s friend—not a puppy, but a beloved friend—as a loyal dog loved by a good master, is never cast out.