"It does not matter to you that we are apart like this?"
"But you sent me away from you, O'Hara."
"And you will never forgive me."
"Oh, yes. I do forgive you, O'Hara. But I shan't pity you, as you seem to wish. I have not forgotten that when you wished to talk of solemn, stuffy things, philosophizing with the Father, you sent me to bed. And you'd do that again, for all men do it. It is only in the night, like this, when you want me, O'Hara, that our separation is a torture to you. Why don't you read those books?"
He pounded both his fists against the metal screen.
But there were nights when O'Hara did read. Dust had collected on these volumes now for better than a century, the last archivist's entry being dated 2124. And the name signed to it was the Father's—Stephen Bryce. It was a daily journal that O'Hara discovered on the last shelf at the far end of the hall.
"It has been a tragic mistake," was written in beautiful, rolling script. "We have gambled and lost. Maria died last week—and today, when I tried to awaken him, Wilson's hands were clutched around the crucifix he always wore, as if with his last breath he prayed forgiveness for our sin. I am now the last of us, unless in the mountains beyond the Mississippi, where the pollution is not so intense, some of those who fled our perfect civilization still exist in their imperfect way.
"Yet in this last week of his life," was written on the yellowed page, "Wilson developed his ultimate formula. He could have taken it and been with me today. He preferred instead to die.
"And I prefer to die. But what of these creatures whom our blunders have brought forth upon these continents? Is it not my obligation to keep striving to redeem our race? Am I free to choose life or death? I think not. I must live, I must preserve what we have left while I continue seeking to regenerate. For to any problem there must be an answer. There will be one for this!!"
Some mathematical calculations followed, and then came the notation: