"But you _do_ promise not to tell old Dyall that I'm my father instead of me?" Emrys asked anxiously. "Even if he believed me, he wouldn't care. All he wants is a good match for that great-great-granddaughter of his." But was that all? As far as money went, Nicholas Dyall was reputed to be the richest man alive. And if he was truly fond of the girl, would he not at least have investigated the young man? "You're _hard_!" Emrys complained, but without rancor. "I have a suspicious nature," Hubbard said thoughtfully. "Perhaps it's the legal mind. At any rate, I don't care for Nicholas Dyall." "Well, I don't either, but I don't really give a hang what kind of a great-great-grandfather-in-law I'm getting. All I care about is Megan. Do you think it's wrong for me to ask her to marry me?" "Can't you understand that, at this stage, the girl doesn't matter?" "No," Emrys said simply. "I cannot imagine her not mattering." After he had gone, Hubbard still found himself thinking about Nicholas Dyall. In his whole lifetime, the old lawyer had personally known only two men whom society had deemed worthy of its highest honor, the longevity treatment. And these were more than most men had met, for the longevity treatment was given to very few. Both of the two, Dyall and Shortmire, had some defect in their personalities that warped them--all but completely, in Shortmire's case--away from the human virtues. Was that defect a part of the creative talent that had earned the individual his right to the treatment? Or did it arise as an effect of the treatment itself? Because, if that was the case, then Earth's longevity treatment might be nothing more than a primitive form of the Morethan "process." Since only straws remained to be grasped at, no one thing Hubbard did would be more futile than any other. And since he had nothing better to do, he might just as well investigate this new avenue. Jan Shortmire had hated Nicholas Dyall. Had Nicholas Dyall hated Jan Shortmire with equal venom? And, if so, had he done anything about it? VII A Gong sounded and a mechanical voice announced, "Mr. Peter Hubbard to see Mr. Dyall and Mr. Shortmire." "Do you mean to say he has the _gall_ to come see us, after the accusations he made against you, Emrys?" Dyall demanded incredulously. "I still can't understand why you sent him an invitation to the wedding, but that he should make a casual social call...!" "We've come to terms." Emrys smiled. "After all, at his age, he can't be held accountable for everything he says." "I'm at least fifty years older than he is!" the old engineer almost spat. "And you--do you mean that I am not responsible for what I say?"