"They are as they are," replied the professor.
"I shall do for them what I can--when I am gone they must
look to themselves. I can see no way out of it."

"What you have given you may take away," said von Horn,
in a low tone.

Professor Maxon shuddered. Those three horrid days in
the workshop at Ithaca flooded his memory with all the
gruesome details he had tried for so many months to
forget. The haunting ghosts of the mental anguish that
had left him an altered man--so altered that there were
times when he had feared for his sanity!

"No, no!" he almost shouted. "It would be murder.
They are--"

"They are THINGS," interrupted von Horn. "They are
not human--they are not even beast. They are terrible,
soulless creatures. You have no right to permit them
to live longer than to substantiate your theory. None
but us knows of their existence--no other need know of
their passing. It must be done. They are a constant and
growing menace to us all, but most of all to your daughter."

A cunning look came into the professor's eyes.

"I understand," he said. "The precedent once established,
all must perish by its edict--even those which may not be