Van Alen nodded. "Of course, Daveen. You've done splendidly."
"Thank you, sire," said the Singer gravely. Bowing, the blind man backed unerringly out into the adjoining elevator. Van Alen turned back to Kesley.
"You remember, now, the circumstances under which we last met in this room?"
"Yes," Kesley said. "I came to you—to ask you to abdicate in my favor, Father. You refused."
"And you ran away."
"What else could I do? You were Immortal; I was twenty-three, and you refused to leave the throne. I thought you were wrong in your ways."
"Twenty-three—and you wanted to rule," van Alen repeated reflectively. "Now, of course, you have the wisdom of mature years. Why, you must be nearly thirty, old man!"
"Twenty-eight. And I'm still aging. What was it Stohrbach said, your geneticist? That I'll continue to age until about the age of thirty and then stop?"
"Thirty-five. You haven't reached full maturity yet."
"But my cells show the regenerative pattern of an Immortal."