X.
Stellor Downing's hard fist came down on the table with a shattering crash. "I will not!" he said in a powerful tone.
"And I agree," echoed Cliff Lane.
Kennebec smiled patiently. "So far as I know it is the first time you've ever agreed on anything."
"The future—?" pleaded Toralen Ki.
Kennebec nodded at the Tlemban. "He's willing to die. He thinks enough of the future to die for it. You two might sublimate your lives just a little for it."
"Get a couple of others!"
"There are none suitable."
"What a stinking set-up," grunted Lane. "I've got to forget my identity and become a sheer hyphen."
"Look," snapped Downing, "it happens that you're sneering at my personality, remember?"
"I wouldn't have your personality for a gift."
"You couldn't—it's too big for the like of you!"
"All right," said Kennebec. "Stop it."
Toralen Ki said, sorrowfully: "I might have been dishonest, Co-ordinator Kennebec. I should have told them that the mental transformation would prove who was the better man."
"A convincing lie for the benefit of mankind is often better than the disquieting truth," observed Kennebec.
Thompson looked up. "What they need is to have their heads knocked together," he said sourly. "A fine rotten pair."
"Look," started Downing.
"Now listen," grated Lane.
"Shut up!" snapped Thompson. "You've both heard what Toralen Ki said. You know what's heading this way. You are aware of just what can happen on Sol if Sol isn't smart. And you sit there like a pair of flat-headed imbeciles, prating about your own petty fight. Patricia was right. It is a sorry day for civilization when it must depend upon the likes of you. Why don't you get smart? Where is your good sense?"
"You've no right—"
"Shut up!" snapped Thompson. "I have every right in the world and by thunder I'm going to use it! It was funny, for years now, that you two were running all over your respective worlds, crowing like a pair of bantam roosters. The Favorite Son of Mars and the Pride of Venus! A bright pair of grown-up juvenile delinquents! Well, bright boys, civilization still depends on you."
Stellor Downing turned on Thompson and snarled: "No one is asking you to give up your identity. I haven't noticed any passion for anonymity in you, Thompson."
"You won't find any," gritted Thompson. He turned to Toralen Ki and asked: "Is there any way in which I may take either of their places?"
"Mine," offered Stellor Downing.
"Over my corpse!" shouted Cliff Lane.
"That I can arrange," ground Downing at Lane.
Toralen Ki shook his head, part in negation and part in the hopelessness of the situation. "No, on two counts," he said slowly. "One, your mind is not of an extreme nature. Second, your mind is already energized."
"Hm-m-m," mused Thompson. "Energized but still slumbering, I gather. Thanks for the tip, Toralen Ki."
He turned and bore his gaze on the battling pair.
"Listen—and carefully," he said.
"Why?"
"Because I tell you so," he said in a hard voice. "I'm tired—as everyone is—of your foolishness. I'll say no more about it. I've said my last." He opened his eyes slightly, and caught their gaze. He said nothing, but held their eyes as though what they saw must not be lost from sight lest disaster follow. For minutes he held them, and then he said in a quiet, low voice: "You will become mental twins. The battle for supremacy between you will and can become one of sheer mental force. You will each have that which you sneer at in the other. With all factors in the mind, you will struggle. Whichever of you is best fitted for existence under such circumstances will emerge victor. Understand. There will never be a public admission of mediocrity on the part of either one of you, for you will both change toward the one that is victorious. Now if you really want to finish that fight, this is a way to do it."
He turned to Kennebec. "At this point, they'll do it or I'll strap 'em both down—"
Toralen Ki interrupted. "They must enter it willingly."
Thompson looked the pair over. "Shall I call in the Interplanetary Press?"
Downing had been thinking deeply. He looked up and shook his head. "Lane, I'm willing to bet my mind against yours. Put up or shut up."
"Anything you can do I can do better—and faster!"
"Baloney. Toralen Ki can start right now, if the other half isn't afraid."
"Afraid—!"
"Well, are you?" sneered Downing.
"That doesn't even rate an answer. I'll take your mind over."
"Uh-huh. This time we'll have an answer. O.K., Billy. Bring on your devil-gadget and we'll play ball."
Toralen Ki looked about him, his face a mask. Stonily silent, he walked to the greenhouse and looked out over the landscape. He basked in the warm sunshine, and thought how much it reminded him of the bright sunshine of Tlembo. The buildings on the edge of the clearing were vast; Toralen Ki felt dwarfed by them, and he felt all alone and utterly alien in this world of giant beings.
A phonograph was playing somewhere, a piece of Terran music that suited the Tlemban fancy, and Toralen Ki was drinking it in.
The greenhouse was slid open in one section, and mingled with the soft phonograph were the myriad sounds of living. Faintly there came the raucous rattle of a rivet gun, the rumble of a sky train passing overhead on its way to the antipodes. He slid the section shut, closing the sounds of this alien world of monsters from his ears. He pressed a button and the steel shutter closed off the light that was so much like his own Tlemban sunshine.
It seemed wrong that such a familiar sun should shine down upon buildings of such vastness, glint against skycraft of such magnitude, and give warmth and life to a race so huge and so very, very young.
He turned and ran his hand over a bookcase. He touched a favorite volume, but did not remove it from its place. He had not the time.
He ran his hand over the tiny controls of his little craft. It had carried him so many light-leagues of space faithfully and well, following the dictates of his hands on the worn plastic handles.
End of quest!
This was it. He had come to the end of his search, the answer to his desire. This race would carry on where he and his race could not. The flaming torch—
Toralen Ki broke off with a bitter laugh. He was sounding slightly overdramatic to himself.
He faced them. Hotang Lu, who was looking at the blank wall with intent stare, and the Extremes, Lane and Downing, whose huge frames were cramped in the tiny control room.
Even here, they were. He could not escape them—and he admitted that he did not want to escape them. Yet he felt the touch of resentment. Unthinkable light-years from his home, surrounded and overwhelmed on every side with utter bigness—slumbering giants, all of them, awaiting the touch of his mind to awaken them to their rightful place.
It might have been Tlembo's rightful place were it not for sheer size and other natural factors. Why couldn't fate have given Tlembo that gift instead of this race?
But, time went on. And there was so little time—
Toralen Ki went to his desk and took a quick drink from the tall tube, and then inhaled the aroma deeply. It had no smell to Terrans, nor taste, but Toralen Ki loved it for its powers—not too much, Toralen Ki, you have a job to do!
He went over and slipped the headset on.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I did want this last minute—"
He took up the hypo, inserted the needle in the vein of his arm, and pushed the plunger home.
Countless light-years away, Lindoo watched his meters rise higher and higher as he increased the penetration. Ever seeking, ever tuning, Lindoo strove to find another man whose mind was at balance and receptive. Given time—
And with a rush, all meters hit zero. A backlashing surge of power drove Lindoo back from his position. He turned and faced Vorgan.
"As with Kregar—" he started.
"Kregar died," said the Lord of All, ominously.
"Kregar died of mental overload. I received no such punishment. Kregar, recall, was in charge of the mind of the Susceptible One who thought of himself as Tawmpsahn. He was forced out and away, and pursued by Tawmpsahn and the Toralen Ki himself."
"So—?"
"Toralen Ki is dead."
"Good!"
Lindoo shook his head. "He did not die in vain."
Vorgan blinked. "They—?"
"I have failed. I have been trying to find another one to control. Those who may be controlled were in no political position to do any good—I found several others."
Vorgan nodded. "Time was short."
"I did not locate one controllable among those who might have done some good. And now I never will. The Extremes have joined!"
"And the shock wave?"
"Has undone all the good our suppressor did for twenty thousand years."
"Order the attack."
"Yes, Lord of All. The logisticians indicate a short period of mobilization and preparation. The Enilode Sector is being stripped of our men—they're not too hard to handle now—and a tenth of the men in all other sectors not actively fighting are being sent to the spearhead sector. I hate time. It takes so much of it to handle thirty million men and the supplies necessary for their support."
"That," grumbled Vorgan, "and the inoculations. A man undergoing them is a sick Loard-vogh for a week."
"Our initial attack may be some time in coming. But it will be complete, throughout that entire sector. We'll destroy the menace immediately, and from then on, all we'll have to do is to hold that sector against any possible enemy."
"A long and dismal prospect," said Vorgan. "But we must not give them time."
"They will have no time to do more than plan," said Lindoo. "It takes time to put a new skill into practice. We shall conquer them!"
"We shall conquer them," echoed Vorgan, the Lord of All.
"And we shall have to force the catmen, too, Lord of All."
"Why?" thundered the Lord of All.
"Because the catmen of Sscantoo are unsympathetic to all forms of alliance."
"They need never know."
"They will be told. Sol will ask their help."
"But ... I see," agreed Vorgan. "Being against all forms of alliance means that they will form an alliance, temporarily, in order to keep from being included in an everlasting tie. Yes, you are right. We may have to force them. But let us conquer Sol at any cost. And soon."
"As soon as we can prepare."
"Better cut the preparation somewhat. Let the initial attack come before full preparation. Only in that way will we gain time."
"It is a gamble."
"I know it is a gamble," agreed Vorgan. "But one must gamble if the Galaxy is worth the fight."
"I wonder if we could convince the Sscantovians that our interests—No, it would not work. I like not that idea."
"Sscantoo would demand proof. It is far easier to prove that we have been all-conquering than otherwise. An alliance with them could not be made. To do so would require that we give them full confidence. And we cannot control a quarter of a galaxy of Loard-vogh slaves so well that they must not speak. And their weapons are less efficient than ours—we could gain nothing but manpower which we do not need.... No, Lindoo, we must go forward alone as we always have."
Lindoo smiled. "We must be on the everlasting lookout for spies."
"We shall. I wonder if it would not be best to exterminate them completely."
"I could do it alone."
"I know. I wonder. They are a hardy race, though, and ambitious workers. Extermination—"
"Merely eliminates one menace."
"I don't think it would work."
"May I try?"
"May I have your head if you fail?" snarled Vorgan.
"Then I shall not try, Lord of All."
Vorgan nodded cryptically. "Losing faith in your own ability?"
"No. I merely have reason to respect your judgment."
"You are a true diplomat, Lindoo. Someday it will get you into trouble."
"When it does, that is a sign that I am not as good a diplomat as I thought I was."
"Or that someone has exceeded you, Lindoo."
"I might wear out—"
"No. When you fail, Lindoo, it will be because you have confronted yourself with your superior."
"And then?"
"Then the Lord of All will have a new Head of Strategy."
Lindoo laughed. "At that time I shall expect you to need one. Well, I must start preparation. I have much to do."
"You have," nodded Vorgan.
Throughout the lands and planets of the Loard-vogh there started a slow and gradual crawl. The forces of the Loard-vogh began to move slowly, like the rivers of the ocean. They could be felt; slowly and inexorably, though they could not be seen. Throughout a thousand suns the soldiery left their billets in twos and threes. They bade good-by to their temporary homes, kissed their slave-lovers and serf-women farewell and faced new fields. They collected along the frontier, planets full of brawling Loard-vogh that swarmed like the all-consuming locusts. They fought among themselves. They stole and they looted, and they took souvenirs of value. Native women—some of them the intellectual superiors of the Loard-vogh—were not safe on the streets, and the fighting was not without its overwhelming toll of innocent bystanders.
Somehow it was very few of the Loard-vogh that got hurt.
And the planets began to pile deep with equipment. It was a real springboard, this planet frontier. Like a storm cloud collecting electrons, they would pile up to the bursting point and then with a crackle and a flash of lightning, they would hurl themselves across space to blast the focal point.
Terra!