enough that he give
me all of his attention. I should have spared a thought for him, his
needs and limitations, but it's too late now." The answering voice was
subtly changed from that of a boy, and strangely gentle. "A dog's life
is so short, hardly more than today and tomorrow. A breath or two, and
it has begun and ended. When Homer dies he will be free, and I will no
longer exist."

A chill slid over the man.

What makes a voice? Air and musculature and tissue, but what more?
A brain, a mind--a life. An accumulative series of reactive patterns
called Life grows like a fragile crystal around a seeding impulse
that lacks a name acceptable to all, and the resulting structure is
called "personality" or "character" and it influences what it touches
in a manner peculiar to itself alone. Given the crude tools of a
sound-producing mechanism it will, if it chooses and has the skill,
disclose some trifle of its own true nature. Phil heard words that
should have sounded idiotic coming from a boy, but they carried complete
and instant conviction. Without elocutionary tricks, without fire and
oratory, the boy-voice had changed in timbre, acquired a quality that
could sway multitudes--the wild thought crossed Phil's mind that what
it had acquired was the quality of complete sanity.

A suspicion, planted deliberately and nurtured through the years,
matured on the triggered instant. Phil twisted around--alert, wary,
almost hostile, his eyes searching the somewhat bony young face. His
gaze was returned steadily, with assured composure.

* * * * *

"Who are you?" he demanded bluntly. "_What_ are you?"

Timmy laughed lightly, patently at ease.

"I am nothing, Phil. Nothing at all."

"Rot. You are flesh and blood, human, and were born to Helen and Jerry.
What else?"

"Is there more?"

"Stop playing!" Phil jumped up angrily, standing tall over the seated
figure. "I've watched you for years. You've given yourself away
repeatedly."

"Ah, that 'advanced scientific knowledge' worried you badly, didn't it?"

"I ... see. You revealed it deliberately. There are other things. Your
aversion to crowds--"

"Their thinking confused me. They were dangerous."

"Were?"

"After tonight, crowds will not matter."

"Because Homer will be dead?"

"Because Homer will be dead, poor beast. My conscience will be dead."

"What on earth does that mean? I find it impossible either to doubt you
or to think of