“Of course! I told you I should forever cure him of his mad infatuation.”
“But why didn’t you kill him, as you killed the others? It would have been the most merciful way.”
Sir Basil showed his teeth in his ugly smile. “A creator is never merciful.”
A quiver passed through the Indian’s body and presently, he sighed deeply and opened his eyes. He seemed dazed, puzzled. He looked from Hale to the scientist, and turned seeking eyes to other parts of the laboratory.
“Aña!” he called weakly. “Where is Aña?”
He pulled himself a little unsteadily to his feet—to the spatulated, hairy rodent feet that had come out of the life-machine. Staggering, he would have fallen, had he not thrown out his arm to steady himself. Instinctively he tried to grasp something for support, and then, for the first time, he discovered his deformity.
Hale was never to forget that expression of horror and disgust that swept over the Indian’s face as he spread open his revolting extremities and stared at them.
A sudden, wild roar of despair rang through the room. “Aimu! My hands!”
The scientist smiled with evident amusement. “You are a grotesque sight, Unani Assu. Do you want to see Aña now?”