Stormgren’s eyes were open, but his gaze was fixed far beyond the dark barrier of the screen. He was looking into the future, imagining the day that he would never see, when the great ships of the Overlords came down at last to Earth and were thrown open to the waiting world.
“On that day,” continued Karellen, “the human race will experience what can only be called a psychological discontinuity. But no permanent harm will be done: the men of that age will be more stable than their grandfathers. We will always have been part of their lives, and when they meet us we will not seem so — strange — as we would do to you.”
Stormgren had never known Karellen in so contemplative a mood, but this gave him no surprise. He did not believe that he had ever seen more than a few facets of the Supervisor’s personality; the real Karellen was unknown and perhaps unknowable to human beings. And once again Stormgren had the feeling that the Supervisor’s real interests were elsewhere, and that he ruled Earth with only a fraction of his mind, as effortlessly as a master of three-dimensional chess might play a game of draughts.
“And after that?” asked Stormgren softly.
“Then we can begin our real work.”
“I have often wondered what that might be. Tidying up our world and civilizing the human race is only a means — you must have an end as well. Will we ever be able to come out into space and see your universe — perhaps even help you in your tasks?”
“You can put it that way,” said Karellen — and now his voice held a clear yet inexplicable note of sadness that left Stormgren strangely perturbed.
“But suppose, after all, your experiment fails with Man? We have known such things in our own dealings with primitive human races. Surely you have your failures too?”
“Yes,” said Karellen, so softly that Stormgren could scarcely hear him. “We have had our failures.”
“And what do you do then?”