Slowly, he said, it would have to be slowly. Just a little at a time. For if it were too much, if it were noticeable, the other humans would kill off each mutation as it became apparent. For the human race cannot tolerate divergence from the norm, even though mutation is the process by which the race develops.
The race doesn't kill the mutants any more. It confines them to mental institutions or it forces them into such dead-ends of expression as art or music, or it finds nice friendly exiles for them, where they will be comfortable and have a job to do and where, the normal humans hope, they'll never know what they are.
It's harder to be different now, he thought, harder to be a mutant and escape detection, what with the medical boards and the psychiatrists and all the other scientific mumbo-jumbo the humans have set up to guard their peace of mind.
Five hundred years ago, thought West, they would not have found me out. Five hundred years ago I might not have realized the fact myself.
Controlled mutation? Now that was something different. That was the thing the government had in mind when it sent the commission here to Pluto, taking advantage of the cold conditions to develop hormones that might mutate the race. Hormones that might make a better race, that might develop latent talents or even add entirely new characteristics calculated to bring out the best that was in humanity.
Controlled mutations, those were all right. It was only the wild mutations that the government would fear.
What if the members of the commission had developed a hormone and tried it on themselves?
His thought stopped short, pleased with the idea, with the possible solution.
Upon the bedpost the little monstrosity fingered its mouth, slobbering gleefully.
A knock came on the door.