Hubbard tapped the papers. "You understand that these must be checked before you receive your father's estate?"
"I understand perfectly." Emrys' voice was soft as a Si-yllan cat-man's, and even more insulting. "They will be gone over thoroughly for any possible error, any tiny imperfection, anything that could invalidate my claim. But you will find them entirely in order."
"I'm sure of that." And Hubbard knew, if the papers were forgeries, they would be works of art.
"You'll probably want me to undergo an equally thorough physical examination for signs of—ah—surgical tampering. Yes, I see I'm right."
Ungenerous hope leaped inside Hubbard. "You would object?"
"On the contrary, I'd be delighted. Haven't had a thorough medical checkup for years." On this cooperative note, Emrys Shortmire bowed and left.
Hubbard sighed back against the velvet cushions of his chair—real silk, for he was a very rich old man. Unfortunately, he could not doubt that this was Jan Shortmire's progeny. But—and Hubbard sat upright—no matter how much Emrys resembled his father, that was only one parent. Who had the young man's mother been?
Quickly, Hubbard searched through the papers for the birth certificate. The name was Iloa Tasqi. The nationality: Morethan.
No wonder the affair had been kept so secret. No wonder Emrys seemed so strange and that Jan had lied about his previous visit to the dark planet. Small wonder, too, that he'd had a son he was not aware of. Who would have believed that human and Morethan could breed together? For the Morethans, although humanoid, were not at all human.