Instead of showing shock or anger or even thought, Dyall merely gave him a tolerant smile. "You're an old man, Mr. Hubbard. We're both old men," he amended graciously, "so we're apt to--jump at shadows." _I'm an old man_, Hubbard thought angrily, _and you're an old fool!_ "There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with the young man," Dyall continued, "or not-so-young man, if you prefer. He appears to be very fond of Megan, and if he should choose to marry her, it would ease my mind considerably. I've exceeded my life span myself, you know." Since Peter Hubbard had done the same, and his span was considerably shorter, he had no sympathy. "You'd--let the strain continue?" "Perhaps it's a good strain. I understand the Morethans are said to be immortal. If so, the genes might be a desirable addition to our own." He was laughing openly now. Hubbard almost wept with helplessness. There must be _something_ he could do. But what? He could not take the trip to Morethis; he would certainly die on the way. And what could he do there? There was no guarantee that, if there was anything to be found, he would find it, or even if he reached the planet alive, that he would go back alive. "Won't you stay and dine with us tonight, Mr. Hubbard?" Dyall asked. "No--no, thank you," Hubbard said, feeling no necessity for making an excuse. The offer had represented only the barest kind of courtesy. Dyall got up. "Perhaps another night then?" "Perhaps." Hubbard rose to his feet also, trying to appear brisk and alert and _young_. At least he could walk without aid, he thought, staring pointedly at the stick leaning against the wall. "I would rather you didn't tell Shortmire I had come to see you about him." "Of course not, if you wish." But Hubbard knew Dyall would not keep the stranger's visit from his friend. Odd that Dyall and young Shortmire should be friends. Not so odd either, though; young Shortmire had no reason to love his father. Besides, although Jan Shortmire had hated Nicholas Dyall, that did not mean Nicholas Dyall had hated Jan Shortmire, or even knew of the other man's animosity. * * * * * As he was riding back to his hotel, Hubbard let his tired old body indulge the aches and pains that were its rightful heritage. As his body relaxed, his mind relaxed, and he began to think more clearly. Perhaps Dyall would not listen to him--perhaps Dyall had some reason for not listening--but the government might.