A great thrill shot through Truggles' breast at these words. Was it possible that Forsythe had weakened? Was it possible that he could lead this strange man back to the path of truth?
"Why not give it up, Forsythe?" he asked in a low, compelling voice. "Why not eschew your dream of a new race and leave such things to higher powers? Send these poor women back to their homes and turn back to your one true, legal wife, Phyllis, and your son."
Forsythe swung to face him. The green eyes were deep and haunted.
"Don't you think that's what I would prefer, above all else?" he asked in a low voice. "Perhaps you didn't know it, but I married Phyllis before I knew I was—different; other than my appearance, I mean. The genuine love of a man for a woman does not die. Do you think even a superman—it's your term, Truggles, not mine—enjoys loneliness? The worship of other women, my affection for them as human beings, can't fill the gap left by the loss of someone who shared complete understanding with me."
He laughed shortly.
"Besides," he added, "you're trying to talk me into committing an immoral act, Truggles. You forget that Phyllis is Dr. Allison's wife now, and Donald is Dr. Allison's son."
Truggles brushed that aside.
"That's no excuse for what you're doing," he said.
"One of the major duties of any individual, of whatever species, is to reproduce his kind, if he can," answered Forsythe soberly. "In the human community, safe as a race through its very numbers, that has been lost sight of and overlaid with social responsibilities. I'm different. I can't ignore it.
"How was the misconception ever begotten that a superman—again, it's your term, not mine—would merely mate with the daughters of men and, lo! a new race? The superman is a new species. Species do not interbreed fertilely very often, even when closely related.