Harris stared at his hands—the hands of an Earthman, with Darruui flesh within.
He thought: All our striving is for nothing.
A new race, a glorious race, nurtured by the Medlins, brought into being on Earth. The galaxy waited for them. They were demigods.
He had regarded the Earthers as primitives, creatures with a mere few thousand years of history behind them, mere pale humanoids of no importance. But he was wrong. Long after Darruu had become a hollow world, these Earthers would roam the galaxies.
Looking up, he said, "I guess we made a mistake, we of Darruu. I was sent here to help sway the Earthers to the side of Darruu. But it's the other way around; it's Darruu that will have to swear loyalty to Earth, some day."
"Not soon," Wrynn said. "The true race is not yet out of childhood. Twenty years more must pass. And we have enemies on Earth."
"The old Earthmen," Coburn said. "How do you think they'll like being replaced? They're the real enemy. And that's why we're here. To help the mutants until they can stand fully alone. You Darruui are just nuisances getting in our way."
That would have been cause for anger, once. Harris merely shrugged. His whole mission had been without purpose.
But yet, a lingering doubt remained, a last suspicion. The silent voice of the unborn superman said, He still is not convinced.
"I'm afraid he's right," Harris murmured. "I see, and I believe—and yet all my conditioning tells me that it's impossible. Medlins are hateful creatures; I know that, intuitively."