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?