Hubbard, that old fool! And Emrys had been so sure of his discretion. "My mother was Morethan, yes." Then he realized it was possible that Hubbard, too, had felt there might be something not-quite-human manifest in his body and had tried to prepare the doctor. Emrys made his tone more conciliatory. "On both Morethis and Earth, the child takes citizenship from the father, so--" "I wasn't worrying about any legal problems; I was merely thinking that medical science would be interested." "I do not wish the fact of my--of my birth publicized in any way--until after my death," Emrys added placatorily. "Surely you can understand what hell life would become if people knew I was half Morethan?" The doctor sighed. "Yes, I know. I can't blame you." "Tell me, Doctor," Emrys asked tensely, "is there anything about me that doesn't seem ... quite human?" The doctor shook his head. "Only that you're so young for your age. Mr. Shortmire, was your mother one of the caste they call the 'immortals'?" Then he flushed. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to violate--" Emrys laughed sourly. "Don't worry; I don't hold to the Morethan beliefs. She was one of the so-called gods, yes. They do live somewhat longer than either the common people or terrestrials; I guess that's why the legend arose, probably why I look so young, too. I should be glad I didn't inherit a--less pleasant trait." "You should, indeed," the doctor said somberly. III "I love you, Emrys," the woman said, and died agonizedly in his arms. He looked down at the contorted, leaden face, ravaged by sickness, and thought: _Even when she was beautiful, I could not love her._ He could not even feel sorry for her, except in a remote, intellectual way. He could not even feel sorry for himself and his own inability to feel. Since none of the servants was left in the house--those who were still alive had fled to the country, where there was less chance of contagion--he took her body to the crematorium himself. Other people were there, consigning their grisly burdens to the automatic fires--thin, sickly creatures they were, who would soon be carrion for the firebirds themselves. Whereas he--if he had an emotion left, it would be shame--shame for the radiant youth and health that he saw mirrored in their dully wondering eyes. Outside, the street was clamorous with the taped importunities of the empty vehicles--so many machines, because there were so few people left. But he chose to walk.