Everything was all right – or seemed to be. The house drowsed in the morning light and the statue still stood upon the sweep of lawn – the statue of that long-gone ancestor who had vanished on the star-path. Allen Webster, who had been the first to leave the Solar System, heading for Centauri – even as the expedition now on Mars would head out in a day or two.
There was no stir about the house, no sign of any moving thing.
Webster's hand moved out and flipped a toggle. The screen went dead.
His hand reached out, set up another combination.
He waited for long seconds before the face came on the screen.
"What is it, Tyler?" asked the face.
"Just got a report that Joe-"
Jon Culver nodded. "I just got it, too. I'm checking up."
"What do you make of it?"
The face of the World Security chief wrinkled quizzically. "Softening up, maybe. We've been pushing Joe and the other mutants pretty hard: The dogs have done a top-notch job."
"But there has been no sign of it," protested Webster. "Nothing in the records to indicate any trend that way."
"Look," said Culver. "They haven't drawn a breath for more than a hundred years we haven't known about. Got everything they've done down on tape in black and white. Every move they've made, we've blocked; At first they figured it was just tough luck, but now they know it isn't. Maybe they've up and decided they are licked."
"I don't think, so," said Webster, solemnly. "Whenever those babies figure they're licked, you better start looking for a place that's soft to light."
"I'll keep on top of it," Culver told him. "I'll keep you posted."
The plate faded and was a square of glass. Webster stared at it moodily.
The mutants weren't licked – not by a long shot. He knew that, and so did Culver. And yet Why had Joe gone to Jenkins? Why hadn't he contacted the government here in Geneva? Face saving, maybe. Dealing through a robot. After all, Joe had known Jenkins for a long, long time.
Unaccountably, Webster felt a surge of pride. Pride that if such were the case, Joe had gone to Jenkins. For Jenkins, despite his metal hide, was a Webster, too.
Sitting at the desk, he clasped his hands in front of him, stared at the evening light pouring through the window.
Waiting, he confessed. Waiting for the snicker of the signal that would tell him Jenkins was calling to report on Joe. If only– if only an understanding could be reached. If only mutants and men could work together. If they could forget this half hidden war of stalemate, they could go far, the three of them together – man and dog and mutants
Webster shook his head. It was too much to expect. The difference was too great, the breach too wide. Suspicion on the part of men and a tolerant amusement on the part of the mutants would keep the two apart. For the mutants were a different race, an offshoot that had jumped too far ahead. Men who had become true individuals with no need of society, no need of human approval, utterly lacking in the herd instinct, that had held the race together, immune to social pressures.
And because of the mutants the little group of mutated dogs so far had been of little practical use to their older brother, Man. For the dogs had watched for more than a hundred years, had been the police force that kept the human mutants under observation.
Webster slid back his chair, opened a desk drawer, took out a sheaf of papers.
One eye on the televisor plate, he snapped over the toggle that called his secretary.
"Yes, Mr. Webster."
"I'm going to call on Mr. Fowler," said "Webster. "If a call comes through-"
