Sethos stared. He was alone in the room. A constriction grew in his throat, and he felt weak. Indeed, man had changed.
"Sethos?"
Mr. First stood in the door.
"Yes...."
Now the pattern was clear. Sethos—the curious man, the genius—was doomed. He had lost a battle in which he never had a chance. Still, he had fought.
But walking down the corridor with the mechanoid, he knew that no one lost completely. He knew that Sethos, the human, the adjusted hobbyist, would soon look back on this night as though it were an ordinary phase of life.
Then, on the table, with the gently humming mechanism lowered to his head, the knot in his throat softened.
"All yours," said Mr. First to Mr. Third.
"A remarkable case," said Mr. Third. "Sometimes I wish we kept a record of his kind. It might be very interesting."
"Someday, perhaps. When our work grows dull."