"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." "Ten years is not so long." Dyall's swarthy hands began playing with the ornaments on his desk. Clearly, he was impatient to be rid of his tedious caller, and Hubbard struggled with the instinctive good breeding that told him to get up and leave. This was not a social call, so it did not matter that he was boring his host, however. On the other hand, he was not getting anywhere. Perhaps he could _blast_ the other out of his smugness. "Look, Dyall, I know this is an outrageous thing for a man of my profession to say. I haven't a shred of proof, not a suspicion--but I'm morally sure he killed his father."