Paradise! Heaven for the asking! And the end of humanity! The end of all the ideals and all the dreams of mankind, the end of the race itself.
The green light on his desk flashed and chirped and he strode back across the room.
“What is it?” he asked.
The tiny screen flashed and a face was there.
“The dogs just reported, sir, that Joe, the mutant, went to your residence and Jenkins let him in.”
“Joe! You’re sure?”
“That’s what the dogs said. And the dogs are never wrong.”
“No,” said Webster slowly, “no, they never are.”
The face faded from the screen and Webster sat down heavily.
He reached with numbed fingers for the contro1 panel on his desk, twirled the combination without looking.
The house loomed on the screen, the house in North America that crouched on the windy hilltop. A structure that had stood for almost a thousand years. A place where a long line of Websters had lived and dreamed and died.
Far in the blue above the house a crow was flying and Webster heard, or imagined that he heard, the wind-blown caw of the soaring bird.
Everything was all right—or seemed to be. The house drowsed in the morning light and the statue still stood upon the sweep of lawn—the statue of that long-gone ancestor who had vanished on the star-path. Allen Webster, who had been the first to leave the Solar System, heading for Centauri—even as the expedition now on Mars would head out in a day or two.
There was no stir about the house, no sign of any moving thing.
Webster’s hand moved out and flipped a toggle. The screen went dead.
Jenkins can handle things, he thought. Probably better than a man could handle them. After all, he’s got almost a thousand years of wisdom packed in that metal hide of his. He’ll be calling in before long to let me know what it’s all about.
His hand reached out, set up another combination.
He waited for long seconds before the face came on the screen.
“What is it, Tyler?” asked the face.
“Just got a report that Joe—”
Jon Culver nodded. “I just got it, too. I’m checking up.”
“What do you make of it?”
The face of the World Security chief crinkled quizzically. “Softening up, maybe. We’ve been pushing Joe and the other mutants pretty hard. The dogs have done a top-notch job.”
“But there have been no signs of it,” protested Webster. “Nothing in the records to indicate any trend that way.”
“Look,” said Culver. “They haven’t drawn a breath for more than a hundred years we haven’t known about. Got everything they’ve done down on tape in black and white. Every move they’ve made, we’ve blocked. At first they figured it was just tough luck, but now they know it isn’t. Maybe they’ve up and decided they are licked.”
“I don’t think so,” said Webster, solemnly. “Whenever those babies figure they’re licked, you better start looking for a place that’s soft to light.”
“I’ll keep on top of it,” Culver told him. “I’ll keep you posted.”
The plate faded and was a square of glass. Webster stared at it moodily.
The mutants weren’t licked—not by a long shot. He knew that, and so did Culver. And yet—
Why had Joe gone to Jenkins? Why hadn’t he contacted the government here in Geneva? Face saving, maybe. Dealing through a robot. After all, Joe had known Jenkins for a long, long time.
Unaccountably, Webster felt a surge of pride. Pride that if such were the case, Joe had gone to Jenkins. For Jenkins, despite his metal hide, was a Webster, too.
Pride, thought Webster. Accomplishment and mistake. But always counting for something. Each of them down the years. Jerome, who had lost the world the Juwain philosophy. And Thomas, who had given the world the space-drive principle that now had been perfected. And Thomas’ son, Allen, who had tried for the stars and failed. And Bruce, who had first conceived the twin civilization of man and dog. Now, finally, himself—Tyler Webster, chairman of the World Committee.
Sitting at the desk, he clasped his hands in front of him, stared at the evening light pouring through the window.
Waiting, he confessed. Waiting for the snicker of the signal that would tell him Jenkins was calling to report on Joe. If only—
If only an understanding could be reached. If only mutants and men could work together. If they could forget this half-hidden war of stalemate, they could go far, the three of them together—man and dog and mutant.
Webster shook his head. It was too much to expect. The difference was too great, the breach too wide. Suspicion on the part of men and a tolerant amusement on the part of the mutants would keep the two apart. For the mutants were a different race, an offshoot that had jumped too far ahead. Men who had become true individuals with no need of society, no need of human approval, utterly lacking in the herd instinct that had held the race together, immune to social pressures.
And because of the mutants the little group of mutated dogs so far had been of little practical use to their older brother, man. For the dogs had watched for more than a hundred years, had been the police force that kept the human mutants under observation.
Webster slid back his chair, opened a desk drawer, took out a sheaf of papers.
One eye on the televisor plate, he snapped over the toggle that called his secretary.
“Yes, Mr. Webster.”
“I’m going to call on Mr. Fowler,” said Webster. “If a call comes through—”
The secretary’s voice shook just a little. “If one does, sir, I’ll contact you right away.”
“Thanks,” said Webster.
He snapped the toggle back.
They’ve heard of it already, he thought. Everyone in the whole building is standing around with their tongues hanging out, waiting for the news.
Kent Fowler lounged in a chair in the garden outside his room, watching the little black terrier dig frantically after an imagined rabbit.
“You know, Rover,” said Fowler, “you aren’t fooling me.”
The dog stopped digging, looked over his shoulder with grinning teeth, barked excitedly. Then went back to digging.
“You’ll slip up one of these days,” Fowler told him, “and say a word or two and I’ll have you dead to rights.”
Rover went on digging.
Foxy little devil, thought Fowler. Smarter than a whip. Webster sicked him on me and he’s played the part, all right. He’s dug for rabbits and he’s been disrespectful to the shrubs and he’s scratched for fleas—the perfect picture of a perfect dog. But I’m on to him. I’m on to all of them.
A foot crunched in the grass and Fowler looked up.
“Good evening,” said Tyler Webster.
“I’ve been wondering when you’d come,” said Fowler shortly. “Sit down and give it to me—straight. You don’t believe me, do you?”
Webster eased himself into the second chair, laid the sheaf of papers in his lap.
“I can understand how you feel,” he said.
“I doubt if you can,” snapped Fowler. “I came here, bringing news that I thought was important. A report that had cost me more than you can imagine.”
He hunched forward in his chair. “I wonder if you can realize that every hour I’ve spent as a human being has been mental torture.”
“I’m sorry,” said Webster. “But we had to be sure. We had to check your reports.”
“And make certain tests?”
Webster nodded.
“Like Rover over there?”
“His name isn’t Rover,” said Webster, gently. “If you’ve been calling him that, you’ve hurt his feelings. All the dogs have human names. This one’s Elmer.”
Elmer had stopped his digging, was trotting toward them. He sat down beside Webster’s chair, scrubbed at his dirt-filled whiskers with a clay-smeared paw.