When Hugo lifted his head, he knew. Yet, to his astonishment, there was no look of fear in Hardin’s blue eyes. Instead, they were moderately surprised, vastly interested. He did not speak for some time. Then he said: “Thanks, Danner. I believe you saved my life. Should you mind picking up that rock again?”

Hugo dismissed the Indians with a few words. He glanced again at Hardin to make sure of his composure. Then he lifted the square stone back to its position.

Hardin was thinking aloud. “That stone must weigh four tons. No man alive can handle four tons like that. How do you do it, Hugo?”

Hot, streaming sun. Tumbled débris. This profound question asked again, asked mildly for the first time. “My father—was a biologist. A great biologist. I was—an experiment.”

“Good Lord! And—and that’s why you’ve kept your past dark, Hugo?”

“Of course. Not many people—”

“Survive the shock? You forget that we—here—are all scientists. I won’t press you.”

“Perhaps,” Hugo heard himself saying, “I’d like to tell you.”

“In that case—in my room—to-night. I should like to hear.”

That night, after a day of indecision, Hugo sat in a dim light and poured out the story of his life. Hardin never interrupted, never commented, until the end. Then he said softly: “You poor devil. Oh, you poor bastard.” And Hugo saw that he was weeping. He tried to laugh.

“It isn’t as bad as that—Dan.”

“Son”—his voice choked with emotion—“this thing—this is my life-work. This is why you came to my office last winter. This is—the most important thing on earth. What a story! What a man you are!”

“On the contrary—”

“Don’t be modest. I know. I feel. I understand.”