Of the _Energasts_ there was no sign--not a single violet globe remained in all that vast expanse, under the blazing glory of the eternal stars. But the victory had been almost a defeat. Countless vessels from all six planets, and still more countless dead would lie forever beneath Saturn's shimmering sea. But the relentless fury of the _Energasts_ had been stilled. And yet.... It was not over. The enemy was helpless for a while. He must not be given time to strike again. For beneath those billowing mountains of translucent liquid that seemed to be strewn with flashing stars, cities--immense cities filled with _Energasts_, what remained of them, had not felt their power as yet. The Absolute only knew what fiendish plans even now were being framed, while the victors strove to recover a measure of strength, and sanity. * * * * * In the great central cabin of the spacer, where scientists and experts had collected, to lighten in a measure the awful tension of so many hours, Bill Nardon suddenly looked up from the piano--the only real luxury he had requested for himself--and said softly as if thinking aloud: "So many cities lie in ruins ... so many nations have been bombed. But this will be the first time in history that a great sea is bombed from shore to distant shore, until not a single shard remains of their structures!" He looked at Nydron. "Eh?" Nydron seemed to swim up from a great weariness, and became tense, alert. "You mean, we'll project the Dispersal Beam into the depths and systematically bomb mile after mile of sea with radiant bombs?" His eyes were awed. "It might take years!" "Precisely," Nardon nodded with superlative calm. "Even if it takes a century, until not a single _Energast_ remains to pollute Saturn!" He smiled coldly, and his long, narrow hands evoked a melodious ripple from the keys. "Among my studies in correlation, are the appraisal of the methods of the Ancients, from immemorial times. There was one Nation, in reality a city, which was periled by the rivalry of another great metropolis. And in their war of extinction, one city--Rome, evolved a ghastly slogan which guided its treatment of its enemy, the slogan was: '_Delenda est Cartago!_' And if it takes a century, we shall be able to say, '_Delenda est Cinnabar!_' He fell silent, and in the momentary hush, his hands began to weave a mesh of beauty as they hovered over the piano keys. It was a magical undulation of the B Flat tonality ... a divine lullaby to a wonderful child--a girl utterly beloved. End of Project Gutenberg's Keeper of the Deathless Sleep, by Albert dePina