Nebogipfel told me something now of the rearing and education of the Morlock young.

The Morlock began his life in these birth farms and nursery communities — the whole of the earth, to my painful recollection, had been given over to one such — and there, in addition to the rudiments of civilized behavior, the youngster was taught one essential skill: the ability to learn. It is as if a schoolboy of the nineteenth century — instead of having drummed into his poor head a lot of nonsense about Greek and Latin and obscure geometric theorems — had been taught, instead, how to concentrate, and to use libraries, and how to assimilate knowledge — how, above all, to think. After that, the acquisition of any specific knowledge depended on the needs of the task in hand, and the inclination of the individual.

When Nebogipfel summarized this to me, its simplicity of logic struck me with an almost physical force. Of course! — I said to myself — so much for schools! What a contrast to the battleground of Ignorance with Incompetence that made up my own, unlamented schooldays!

I was moved to ask Nebogipfel about his own profession.

He explained to me that once the date of my origin had been fixed, he had made himself into something of an expert in my period and its mores from the records of his people; and he had become aware of several significant differences between the ways of our races.

“Our occupations are not as consuming as yours,” he said. “I have two loves — two vocations.” His eyes were invisible, making his emotions even more impossible to read. He said: “Physics, and the training of the young.”

Education, and training of all sorts, continued throughout a Morlock’s lifetime, and it was not unusual for an individual to pursue three or four “careers,” as we might call them, in sequence, or even in parallel. The general level of intelligence of the Morlocks was, I got the impression, rather higher than that of the people of my own century.

Still, Nebogipfel’s choice of vocations startled me; I had thought that Nebogipfel must specialize solely in the physical sciences, such was his ability to follow my sometimes rambling accounts of the theory of the Time Machine, and the evolution of History.

“Tell me,” I said lightly, “for which of your talents were you appointed to supervise me? Your expertise in physics — or your nannying skills?”

I thought his black, small-toothed mouth stretched in a grin.

Then the truth struck me — and I felt a certain humiliation burn in me at the thought. I am an eminent man of my day, and yet I had been put in the charge of one more suited to shepherding children!

…And yet, I reflected now, what was my blundering about, when I first arrived in the Year 657,208, but the actions of a comparative child?

Now Nebogipfel led me to a corner of the nursery area. This special place was covered by a structure about the size and shape of a small conservatory, done out in the pale, translucent material of the Floor — in fact, this was one of the few parts of that city-chamber to be covered over in any way. Nebogipfel led me inside the structure. The shelter was empty of furniture or apparatus, save for one or two of the partitions with glowing screens which I had noticed elsewhere. And, in the center of the Floor, there was what looked like a small bundle — of clothing, perhaps — being extruded from the glass.

The Morlocks who attended here had a more serious bent than those who supervised the children, I perceived. Over their pale hair they wore loose smocks — vest-like garments with many pockets — crammed with tools which were mostly quite incomprehensible to me. Some of the tools glowed faintly. This latest class of Morlock had something of the air of the engineer, I thought: it was an odd attribute in this sea of babies; and, although they were distracted by my clumsy presence, the engineers watched the little bundle on the Floor, and passed instruments over it periodically.

My curiosity engaged, I stepped towards that central bundle. Nebogipfel hung back, letting me proceed alone. The thing was only a few inches long, and was still half-embedded in the glass, like a sculpture being hewn from some rocky surface. In fact it did look a little like a statue: here were the buds of two arms, I thought, and there was what might become a face — a disc coated with hair, and split by a thin mouth. The bundle’s extrusion seemed slow, and I wondered what was so difficult for the hidden devices about manufacturing this particular artifact. Was it especially complex, perhaps?

And then — it was a moment which will haunt me as long as I live — that tiny mouth opened. The lips parted with a soft popping sound, and a mewling, fainter than that of the tiniest kitten, emerged to float on the air; and the miniature face crumpled, as if in some mild distress.

I stumbled backwards, as shocked as if I had been punched.

Nebogipfel seemed to have anticipated something of my distress. He said, “You must remember that you are dislocated in Time by a half million years: the interval between us is ten times the age of your species…”

“Nebogipfel — can it be true? That your young — you yourself — are extruded from this Floor, manufactured with no more majesty than a cup of water?” The Morlocks had indeed “mastered their genetic inheritance,” I thought — for they had abolished gender, and done away with birth.

“Nebogipfel,” I protested, “this is — inhuman.”

He tilted his head; evidently the word meant nothing to him. “Our policy is designed to optimize the potential of the human form — for we are human too,” he said severely. “That form is dictated by a sequence of a million genes, and so the number of possible human individuals — while large — is finite. And all of these individuals may be” — he hesitated — “imagined by the Sphere’s intelligence.”

Sepulture, he told me, was also governed by the Sphere, with the abandoned bodies of the dead being passed into the Floor without ceremony or reverence, for the dismantling and reuse of their materials.

“The Sphere assembles the materials required to give the chosen individual life, and—”

“ ’Chosen’?” I confronted the Morlock, and the anger and violence which I had excluded from my thoughts for so long flooded back into my soul. “How very rational. But what else have you rationalized out, Morlock? What of tenderness? What of love?”

I stumbled out of that grisly birthing-hut and stared around at the huge city-chamber, with its ranks of patient Morlocks pursuing their incomprehensible activities. I longed to shout at them, to shatter their repulsive perfection; but I knew, even in that dark moment, that I could not afford to allow their perception of my behavior to worsen once more.

I wanted to flee even from Nebogipfel. He had shown some kindness and consideration to me, I realized: more than I deserved, perhaps, and more, probably, than men of my own age might have afforded some violent savage from a half-million years before Christ. But still, he had been, I sensed, fascinated and amused by my reactions to the birthing process. Perhaps he had engineered this revelation to provoke just such an extreme of emotion in me! Well, if such was his intention, Nebogipfel had succeeded. But now my humiliation and unreasoning anger were such that I could scarcely bear to look on his ornately coiffed features.

And yet I had nowhere else to go! Like it or not, I knew, Nebogipfel was my only point of reference in this strange Morlock world: the only individual alive whose name I knew, and — for all I knew of Morlock politics — my only protector.

Perhaps Nebogipfel sensed some of this conflict in me. At any rate, he did not press his company on me; instead, he turned his back, and once more evoked my small sleeping — but from the Floor. I ducked into the hut and sat in its darkest corner, with my arms wrapped around me — I cowered like some forest animal brought to New York!