"Evil is every man's business," answered Truggles boldly. "These good people are enraged that you should flout the laws of society so brazenly." "Naturally," replied Forsythe, smiling. "And you enraged them. As long as everyone here minded his own business, no harm was done." "I expected you to take that attitude, Forsythe," shouted Truggles. "Have you no sense of responsibility, no respect for the customs that others have established for their protection?" "Certainly," said Forsythe, but he added, logically: "Would you be bound by the customs of a colony of mice, if they interfered with your pursuit of greater ends?" "Listen at him!" cried Truggles, turning to the crowd and spreading his hands. "You see what high regard he has for you, who have befriended him? He scorns you! He calls you mice!" He turned back to the mansion with clenched fists and took a step forward. "You monster!" he shouted. "Even mice can be dangerous!" The crowd behind him surged forward with a roar. Forsythe's voice rang out above it. "Wait!" he cried. "I appeal to your reason! I have no higher power. I can't strike you dead, or vanish from your sight. All I can do is ask you one question. Will you destroy me because I violate your customs, when I represent the hope of your race to become something greater?" His words fell on deaf ears. The crowd inched forward, ugly, dangerous. A figure brushed past Truggles. It was Phyllis Allison, and she tugged the boy Donald with her. "Stop her!" cried Truggles. "Don't let her get in his clutches!" Alone, for these words seemed only to confuse those near him, Truggles ran after Phyllis and the boy. But they stopped, halfway to the porch, and Truggles reached them. He placed his hand on Phyllis' arm and pulled at her compellingly. He was close enough to her to hear her words to the boy. "Donnie!" she urged anxiously. "You remember the game we played? Use the Power!" The boy looked apprehensively toward the porch. "Daddy said don't," he demurred. Dr. Alex Allison stood, his hands gripping the rail of the porch, looking out over the ugly crowd. There was no mistaking the moment. At any instant, the mob would surge over the porch. "Blan, I can't let them kill you because I've wronged you," said Allison in a clear, agonized voice. "Donald is your son!" There was a cry from Phyllis and she clutched the boy convulsively, twisting free of Truggles' grip. The people on the lawn fell silent, their upturned faces white in the light, waiting, sensing the import of the revelation. "I told you there was the possibility that the tetraploid could reproduce with the diploid," said Allison. "It's true Donald's cells don't contain 96 chromosomes--but neither do they contain just 48. They contain 72 chromosomes--an even number, a viable number! Not always, but sometimes the hybrid is superior to both diploid and tetraploid. Blan, with all your unexplored qualities, you're just the vehicle of the new race. Donald is the superman!"