Three

Through the transparent wall of his study, Alec Richmond was allowed a serene view of the central garden. A fat bush-carefully stripped of thorns-it was a white rose, he thought-was centered behind the glass; it succeeded in interrupting but not in any way desecrating the natural view. He often came here to the study late at night to sit and work and think and watch. The garden rarely moved him when he was actually out in it, but at a greater distance the bright foliage did produce an attitude of stately beneficence, a collective tranquillity, which was both relaxing and-as far as work was concerned-inspirational. He had completed the android designs in this very room.

Eathen-the fruit of his work-had been presented to him here. He had been working here last night when Ted Mencken called to say that General Hopkins had agreed to issue a contract. Success, he recalled. That was what he had told Ted: we are now successful.

That recollection made him smile. The truth was that success now seemed the most hollow of words. What did it mean? In the garden nothing could be seen-not even shadows-for the real moon and stars were hidden by the dome and the artificial lights had been extinguished. Even the white rose-naked without its thorns-could barely be seen. He turned his chair away from the wall. Now he sat facing another wall lined with tapes and books, technical works concerning every known field of human science, a handful of histories and biographies, perhaps a dozen novels. Four of the novels-old frail paperbacks smelling of dust and age-sat on a small table beside his elbow. During the past hour, he had read all four, moving mechanically from one to the next. The words had drifted weakly through his mind. Each refused to connect with the one following; concepts had emerged abstract but senseless. He knew he needed something stronger than any book. Liquor? Drugs? He used neither. All that was left to him was himself: poor, frail Superior. He concentrated his attention there.

He could read a book as fast as the pages could be turned. He could feel another man's radiated emotions as if such qualities were bright signs printed for any person to read. He could do higher mathematics with a speed approaching that attained by more primitive computers. It was true: he could do this and that and the other. And, why not? He was Alec Richmond-a Superior. But what was the use? The point?

Where did all of these talents lead? His greatest accomplishment so far was producing a flesh-and-blood machine capable of committing legal murder with speed and precision. His employer was dead. His wife verged on sheer looniness. And himself?

All he could do was sit alone in a dark room and feel sorry for himself.

This was more of the same. Self-pity: the most common of human frailties next to jealousy. Well, sometimes he felt jealous too, and there was no purpose served by being ashamed of these base reactions. If he was indeed a little bit human, maybe he ought to admit it. Self-pity? Well, there were good reasons.

Years before, the Inner Circle had chosen to reject the term superman in favor of Superior (always capitalized). A superman, it was said, and Alec never quite understood this, conjured up visions of an overly muscled creature dressed in brightly colored long underwear. But-in spite of that-whatever it meant-he thought it was the more proper term. They were superior, yes, but many extraordinary men were that too. They were supermen, a new race, as far removed from simple Homo sapiens as that form of life had exceeded the ape.

But we pay the price, he thought. We are a tiny minority submerged within a vast majority. We are alone, fearful, paranoid. Our very existence is a deep, dark secret.

And that was without even mentioning the key factor, that supreme point around which all their existence necessarily revolved.

We are supermen, Alec thought, but we are incomplete supermen.

Was it a sign, a curse, a price? Perhaps it had to be that way. He could dimly recall, as a young boy, only faintly aware of his own painful heritage, reading an old novel about superior mutants. What had it been? In the book? Long tendrils-that was it-growing out of the skull of each mutant. That had been their sign. Well, the Superiors suffered from no such outward manifestation. By and large, they were handsome and healthy but otherwise no different from any human. Their sign-their curse-the price they paid for superiority-lay deep inside.

It was called sterility.

In all of recorded time-since the first two Superiors had met nearly a half-century past-no child (not one) had been born to them. The Inner Circle said this would pass in time. They were very optimistic about the situation. But-as with other official positions-Alec was skeptical. The Inner Circle said, We must wait until our race has matured, then we shall flood the earth with our children. Alec smiled. It wasn't maturity-it was fate.

Nor was that all. There was reversion to consider too. Anna suffered from this but she was not alone. Fits of madness. Irrationality. Insanity. Crimes perpetrated.

Murder. Suicide. Why? If they were superior, why couldn't they at least control their baser instincts?

Alec remembered how the Inner Circle had once distributed a list of various famous people who had died childless. Alec, without amusement, had protested the project; he suggested a second, contrary listing: all of those men and women throughout history who had committed mass murder, who had died in asylums, who had been burned as witches. These were just as likely to be historical Superiors as all the great childless men and women whose names could be discovered.

But they would not admit that. His protest had gone unanswered. The Inner Circle-under Astor's direction-had a simple solution for everything, even madness.

Reversion was exactly what the term implied. Since Superiors were supermen who had not quite yet achieved maturity, then ugly vestiges of humanity undoubtedly lingered on. It was this buried curse that rose up and usurped the careful functioning of the Superior mind. It took control. Madness-murder-suicide. This was another price to be paid, but once maturity was attained-that same distant goal again-then real inward peace would reign.

Or consider the case of the others-the ones who had murdered Ted Mencken. The Inner Circle position concerning the existence of the others was sheer wish-fulfill-ment fantasy. For years-ever since the Superiors had first discovered each other-they had been plagued by a series of inexplicable incidents. Strange accidents. Vicious murders-like Ted's. It soon became clear that someone-or something-was behind all this. Who? What? Men who had somehow stumbled upon the secret of the Superiors and were determined to crush them? Was it the government, acting officially but in secret? Or was it something worse-uglier-something alien? The Inner Circle made no effort to answer these questions. When Astor heard about Ted, he would no doubt react as he always did, shaking his head and saying what a horrible thing it was. But the others? Astor would laugh. That was pure myth-a horror story-there was no such thing. The accidents, incidents, murders? Sheer coincidence, nothing more.

Sheer stupidity, Alec thought, nothing more. But Astor and the Circle were scared. He couldn't blame them. Thinking of Ted, he was scared too.

Then he heard a scream.

He stopped dead and stood up.

The scream came again.

Oh. He sat back down. Only Anna. She often awoke like this-driven from a drugged sleep by unseen demons she would never describe.

She screamed again.

This time he moved. Where was Eathen? He stepped into the corridor with deliberate lack of haste. Anna's room was close-by. She was still screaming, her shrill terror penetrated his defenses, causing him to walk faster than he wished.

When he reached the bedroom door, it stood open. He remained in the corridor and peered inside. The room was very dark. He could sense her radiated fear but it was softer now, more subdued. He thought he could hear a voice.

Suddenly, Eathen filled the doorway.

Alec made a move to enter the room but Eathen reached out with a wide arm and blocked his way.

"She is sleeping," he said.

"She wasn't a minute ago." Alec glared at the arm in front of him. "Get out of my way."

"She said she didn't want you."

"She said that?"

"Yes, sir," Eathen replied, coldly. "She dreamed about you and didn't want to see you."

"But she's sleeping now." Alec fought to maintain his dignity in front of the android. But he couldn't help hating them-Anna and Eathen-his wife and son. "Are you sure? She won't wake up again?"

"She is resting peaceably now."

Alec confirmed this observation. He sensed Anna. She was radiating a strong contentment now, a sense of peace.

"All right," he said, turning away from the dark room. "Go back in and stay with her."

"I intend to, sir." But Eathen did not move.

"Then do it," Alec said.

"Yes, sir."

But still Eathen did not vacate his position at the doorway until Alec's dim footsteps had disappeared down the soft, carpeted hallway.