"The Loard-vogh will enslave the Galaxy if they are not stopped. Our original home was overrun three thousand years ago, and fourteen times they have caught up with us. Again, Tlembo is being attacked, or perhaps it has not started yet. Fourteen planets named Tlembo lie in our history, and fourteen times have we combed the Galaxy waiting and seeking a race with the proper mental power and technical ability. It would have been useless to energize your minds a thousand years ago, Solarian, for you had not the technical skill to accept it. The shock would have made you all mad. You believe me of superior intellect and knowledge because I have been able to make this machine. I am acknowledged the highest intellect among the Tlembans. I intend to sacrifice my intellect for humanity. The energizing will destroy me." * * * * * The meter in Lane's ship read forty. Forty miles per second. Dead ahead was the lacery of the star field, clustered around the tininess of black that was the meteor of the machine. Somewhere in the invisibility of space was Stellor Downing, coming this way. He knew, because his detector said so. This was not only a test of operator's skill, but of technical superiority, too. Detectors were not calibrated to the last foot of distance, and he who had the best capability in the art of tuning a detector knew better where the other man was at any time. But it was also necessary to judge your opponent's error. For a single error would destroy both. Downing's ship came. It was there and it was gone. Missed by a matter of feet. And yet not a bead of sweat came. Neither had given ground. Lane grinned inwardly as his ship slowed for the turn. Dead ahead was the sealed door to the machine. He touched the button on his drive-rod, and the dymodine flared forth, boring down the shaft and driving great scintillating clouds of super-heated gases up from the bowels of the meteor. The machine was blasted. "You stinking opportunist," snarled Downing. "Mad?" "That was--" "One step ahead of you." "You haven't won--" "Only succeeded. Now we can fight this out for good. Really want to play, Stellor?" "I'll run you right into that hole in the meteor," snarled Downing. The two tiny ships approached on a converging course. Collision course, it was, and somewhere far ahead there was the meteor again. Downing was on the spaceward side, and edging sidewise into Lane's course. Lane was pinched between meteor and Downing; edging outward into Stellor's course and calculated to miss the meteor by several yards--if he did not give. At fifty miles per second they rocketed forward, approaching one another, and telling each other what was going to happen next. * * * * * The communicator in Thompson's ship told the story. Thompson heard it, and Toralen Ki understood it from Thompson's mind. "They--Stop them!" "I cannot," replied Thompson, with a smile.