The doctor shook his head. "Only that you're so young for your age. Mr. Shortmire, was your mother one of the caste they call the 'immortals'?" Then he flushed. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to violate—"
Emrys laughed sourly. "Don't worry; I don't hold to the Morethan beliefs. She was one of the so-called gods, yes. They do live somewhat longer than either the common people or terrestrials; I guess that's why the legend arose, probably why I look so young, too. I should be glad I didn't inherit a—less pleasant trait."
"You should, indeed," the doctor said somberly.
III
"I love you, Emrys," the woman said, and died agonizedly in his arms. He looked down at the contorted, leaden face, ravaged by sickness, and thought: Even when she was beautiful, I could not love her. He could not even feel sorry for her, except in a remote, intellectual way. He could not even feel sorry for himself and his own inability to feel.
Since none of the servants was left in the house—those who were still alive had fled to the country, where there was less chance of contagion—he took her body to the crematorium himself. Other people were there, consigning their grisly burdens to the automatic fires—thin, sickly creatures they were, who would soon be carrion for the firebirds themselves. Whereas he—if he had an emotion left, it would be shame—shame for the radiant youth and health that he saw mirrored in their dully wondering eyes.