Jonathan took a deep breath. "Where did Allavarg come from, Richie?"
But Richie shook his head stubbornly, lips pressed tight. "I promised!"
"Richie, a promise like that isn't a good one," pleaded Jonathan. "Allavarg wouldn't want you to disobey your father and mother, would he?"
The child sat and stared at him.
This was a very disturbing thought and Jonathan could see Richie did not know how to deal with it.
He pressed his momentary advantage. "Allavarg takes care of little boys and girls, doesn't he? He plays with them and he looks after them, I'll bet."
Richie nodded uncertainly.
"And," continued Jonathan, smiling what he hoped was a winning, comradely smile at his son, "I'll bet that Allavarg came from some place far, far away, didn't he?"
"Yes," said Richie softly.
"And it's his job to be here and look after the—the nursery?" Jonathan bit his lip. Nursery? Earth? Carooms—Martians? His head began to ache. "Son, you've got to help me understand. Do you—do you murv me?"