“Did it ever dawn on you that you had missed your purpose entirely?”

The words were like cold water to Hugo. He pulled himself together with a physical effort and replied: “You mean—that I have not guessed it so far?”

“Precisely.”

“It never occurred to me. Not that I had missed it entirely.”

“You have.”

“Then, for the love of God, what is it?”

Hardin smiled a gentle, wise smile. “Easy there. I’ll tell you. And listen well, Hugo, because to-night I feel inspired. The reason you have missed it is simple. You’ve tried to do everything single-handed—”

“On the contrary. Every kind of assistance I have enlisted has failed me utterly.”

“Except one kind.”

“Science?”

“No. Your own kind, Hugo.”

The words did not convey their meaning for several seconds. Then Hugo gasped. “You mean—other men like me?”

“Exactly. Other men like you. Not one or two. Scores, hundreds. And women. All picked with the utmost care. Eugenic offspring. Cultivated and reared in secret by a society for the purpose. Not necessarily your children, but the children of the best parents. Perfect bodies, intellectual minds, your strength. Don’t you see it, Hugo? You are not the reformer of the old world. You are the beginning of the new. We begin with a thousand of you. Living by yourselves and multiplying, you produce your own arts and industries and ideals. The new Titans! Then—slowly—you dominate the world. Conquer and stamp out all these things to which you and I and all men of intelligence object. In the end—you are alone and supreme.”

Hugo groaned. “To make a thousand men live my life—”

“But they will not. Suppose you had been proud of your strength. Suppose you had not been compelled to keep it a secret. Suppose you could have found glorious uses for it from childhood—”

“In the mountains,” Hugo whispered, his eyes bemused, “where the sun is warm and the days long—these children growing. Even here, in this place—”

“So I thought. Don’t you see, Hugo?”

“Yes, I see. At last, thank God, I do see!”

For a long time their thoughts ran wild. When they cooled, it was to formulate plans. A child taken here. Another there. A city in the jungle—the jungle had harboured races before: not only these Mayas, but the Incas, Khmers, and others. A modern city for dwellings, and these tremendous ruins would be the blocks for the nursery. They would teach them art and architecture—and science. Engineering, medicine—their own, undiscovered medicine—the new Titans, the sons of dawn—so ran their inspired imaginations.

When the night was far advanced and the camp was wrapped in slumber, they made a truce with this divine fire. They shook each other’s hands.

“Good-night, Hugo. And to-morrow we’ll go over the notes.”

“I’ll bring them.”

“Till evening, then.”