The significance was horrible, of course, but it was doubly or rather trebly awful for me personally, because Bill Cuff was my cousin.
His father, who'd died before Bill was born, had been my mother's brother.
And the reason I say it was trebly bad for me was that upstairs my wife Nessa lay asleep, and stirring in her was our child.
And if Bill Cuff was right, then that child and I myself came of a race that was only partly human; and neither of us could call ourselves by the proud title of Man.
At the end of ten minutes, the creature called Old One roused himself and gave a grunt. It seemed to be a two-syllable word, but of no language I ever knew.
Bill Cuff nodded and replied, "Yes he does, Old One," showing that it had actually conveyed meaning. I looked again at that ferocious mask, and I think I began believing Bill Cuff's story with an intelligent awareness of its truth, right them. Old One was a Neanderthal. Only a blind idiot could have doubted it.
"Now here's the reason I've come here to tell you this," began Bill Cuff, and I waved a hand to stop him.
"I know why," I said huskily. "We're cousins. You think the same blood may run in my veins."
"It does without a doubt. You see, I've checked on my mother, who's still living; and she isn't a carrier. So it was my father—your uncle. And you may not have the memory, Ray, but you have the blood. You're Neanderthal too."
"So you want me to come out to the swamps and join you?"