He wept.
When he could bring himself to touch them, the child was beautiful, the magic of slumber still doelike in its wide blue eyes, vigor in the clasp of its small fingers.
"He knows you, O'Hara."
Yes. Why shouldn't he? My child, my son, my own son—yes, he knows me.
"Nedra—"
"Not now." Her fingers touched his lips. "A little while—"
Then the voice from nowhere, absent all these months, came back.
"Good evening, O'Hara. You forgive me now, don't you?" Softly, very softly: "It has been difficult for you, but there was no other way. Without my guidance, you would have destroyed yourself, your woman and the child—and not with your gun. You must come to me at once."
"With Nedra and my son."
"They will be safer there."