"How ... how old must he be?"
"As young as possible. As soon as all is ready. Tomorrow, if that were possible."
"A child!"
"For at least a little while he will be more than the equal of a 'good' man. Child, or youth, or man, I will free him from fear and loneliness on the long voyage. If he reaches Challon, they will understand and perhaps not think I have blundered too badly. They will heal him, study him, free him. Then it will be his problem to free his race. If you are very lucky, you may still be alive at that time."
"And if he never reaches—"
"You will never know. Are you ready?"
Phil looked desperately at the setting sun and the long, long shadows, as though he were a doomed man awaiting execution.
"Get on with it," he said huskily.
Very little happened. There was a small lapse of time during which an observer would have seen certain lines of tension vanish almost magically from the man's face—might even have thought that some years seemed to drop from his age. Presently the man roused himself, stretching with the careless vigor of a youth as he experienced a serene peace of mind that he had not known since he was very young indeed. He glanced casually at the boy seated near him—a boy who looked at the world with an air of fleeting puzzlement—then dropped on his knees and cradled an ugly, grizzled head in his arms. A last flicker enlivened the eyes and a dry tongue touched his hand just once.