The Patrimony

Epilogue

Dr. Sternheimer painfully flexed his arthritic joints enough to take his place at the conference table. All chitchat among the men and women already at that table had ceased immediately he entered the room at a shuffling hobble. Despite the pain of his swollen, inflamed joints, he was smiling broadly. But his smile did nothing to ease the nervous tension which crackled like electricity in the cool, humidified atmosphere of the locked, soundproofed room.

This body, the Council of Directors, might rule the Center in theory and in name, but in actual fact there was only a single individual who had guided it—through fortune and misfortune, through victories and defeats, through good years and lean—almost from its very inception nearly a thousand years in the past. That man was David Sternheimer, D.M.S., D.S., Ph. D.

He cleared his throat, but still spoke huskily. “Doctors, for centuries we have been seeking a way to displace the mutants whose advent foiled our reconquest of the areas that were once known as Georgia, North and South Carolina, Virginia and Maryland. We attempted many fine, well-laid-out plans, only to find that some were not laid out well enough.”

“But in all these efforts, we were treating the symptoms—as it were—rather than attacking the disease, proper. Because of the very real and very dangerous mental abilities of the mutants in general and of their leader, Milo Moray, in particular, we feared to put a body occupied by one of us into really close proximity to the mutants.”

“However, a little more than ten years ago, a new and radical plan was broached to me. I first weighed all aspects of it with my usual thoroughness, then began its implementation. In order to do this, I was forced to sacrifice something which I—which we and the Center—have been seeking since first we became aware that such existed; I refer, of course, to a live mutant. Our agents in the north had access to a young female mutant, but I ordered that that person be prepared for a mission, rather than be brought here for experiments.”

“Now, dammit all, David,” snapped a black-haired, blue-eyed young man, who looked about twenty years old, “you exceeded the authority we—this Council—granted you! It is of vast importance that we learn just what processes make a mutant. For only when we share their strengths and know their weaknesses can we stand up to these people with even a bare chance of defeating them and reuniting our nation. And if we don’t have a mutant or two to take apart, how can we hope to understand them?”

“I, for one, will here state that I’m damned tired of transferring my mind to a younger body every two- or three-score years. If we could have bodies that never aged, that were next to impossible to kill, as the mutants have, think of what we could accomplish.”

“I say that we void this current scheme, reclaim the mutant and bring it here.”

All looked to Sternheimer, but he just shrugged. “Dr. Seiget, even if I agreed with you, and I do not, reclamation of that particular mutant will be impossible for some years to come. It is now accepted by the chief mutant and en route to the capital of that so-called Confederation. Not even it knows that it is anything more than what it seems, so mental prying will not betray it. Only an intricate series of tones will awaken the memories deeply buried in its subconscious … and only I own the instrument capable of producing that series of tones.”

“You will get your experimental mutant in time, Lewis, never fear. Maybe you’ll even get more than one. And that damned Milo Moray will get his comeuppance, too! He’s been happily torturing and butchering our colleagues and agents for far too long with virtual impunity. But now, now, I’ve implanted a humanoid time bomb in his very bosom. And when I feel the time is right …”