“I hope so.” murmured Wayne. “I certainly hope so, And thanks, Boyd.” He smiled tiredly, crookedly. “By the way, Karen, you have your superman there. The greatest genius, in his way, that the world ever saw—and if he hadn’t had some kind of protective civilization to grow up in and, now, to teach him the elements of thought, he’d never have lived. I’m afraid this particular kind of superman just isn’t a survivor type.”

“No,” whispered Karen, “nor human. But he’s our son.”

Time Patrol

-1-

MEN WANTED—21–40, pref. single, mil. or tech. exp., good physique, for high-pay work with foreign travel. Engineering Studies Co., 305 E. 45, 9–12 & 2–6.

“The work is, you understand, somewhat unusual,” said Mr. Gordon. “And confidential. I trust you can keep a secret?”

“Normally,” said Manse Everard. “Depends on what the secret is, of course.”

Mr. Gordon smiled. It was a curious smile, a closed curve of his lips which was not quite like any Everard had seen before. He spoke easy colloquial General American, and wore an undistinguished business suit, but there was a foreignness over him which was more than dark complexion, beardless cheeks, and the incongruity of Mongolian eyes above a thin Caucasian nose. It was hard to place.

“We’re not spies, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said.

Everard grinned. “Sorry. Please don’t think I’ve gone as hysterical as the rest of the country. I’ve never had access to confidential data anyway. But your ad mentioned overseas operations, and the way things are—I’d like to keep my passport, you understand.”

He was a big man, with blocky shoulders and a slightly battered face under crew-cut brown hair. His papers lay before him: Army discharge, the record of work in several places as a mechanical engineer. Mr. Gordon had seemed barely to glance at them.

The office was ordinary, a desk and a couple of chairs, a filing cabinet, and a door leading off in the rear. A window opened on the banging traffic of New York, six stories down.

“Independent spirit,” said the man behind the desk. “I like that. So many of them come cringing in, as if they’d be grateful for a kick. Of course, with your background you aren’t desperate yet. You can still get work, even in…ah, I believe the current term is a rolling readjustment.”

“I was interested,” said Everard. ‘‘I’ve worked abroad, as you can see, and would like to travel again. But frankly, I still don’t have the faintest idea what your outfit does.”

“We do a good many things,” said Mr. Gordon. “Let me see…you’ve been in combat. France and Germany.” Everard blinked; his papers had included a record of medals, but he’d have sworn the man hadn’t had time to read them. “Um…would you mind grasping those knobs on the arms of your chair? Thank you. Now, how do you react to physical danger?”

Everard bristled. “Look here—”

Mr. Gordon’s eyes flicked to an instrument on his desk: it was merely a box with an indicator needle and a couple of dials. “Never mind. What are your views on internationalism?”