"We landed on the isthmus that connects the two areas of land on the Second Hemisphere of Terra. The going was very hard, Vorgan. They drew power out of their sun like a torrent and we caught it all. It was terrible, and it was glorious. Our brave men died like flies--and not even the rock itself could stand against the energy turned loose. But we outnumbered them. We invaded again and again, and divided their power. Now we are screening the sun to run down their power intake. The globe expands, and we are holding most of the southern Land Area. From the northern pole, an invasion circle is spreading to meet the one on the isthmus." "The other planets?" "All taken." "Terra is about through," breathed Vorgan. "They are." "I was deeply afraid," admitted Vorgan. "They are a vicious threat." "Once conquered, though, they will be most useful." "Yes, indeed. A race with the will to live is far superior to a race with a will like a bunch of cattle. They will rise high." "Vorgan, you may have my throat for this, but I feel that it is a shame that we could not have them as equals." "That would never work." "I know it wouldn't. But it is a shame. I feared the landing here, Vorgan. The place is rife with spores, fungi, and bacterial death. But their weapons scoured the area." "The fools." "I know--but we are safe now. Terra is conquered." "Then as soon as possible, bring me the ones I want." "Lord of All, you will have them." * * * * * The air above Terra grew less turbulent, the energy died. Loard-vogh ships found less opposition as they landed at will on the former Planet of Terror. By hundreds and by thousands they landed--and by thousands they died as they tried to flip back their helmets and breathe the air of Terra. They turned black, they fell down, and the growths of ravaging microscopic life raced and built into horrid green mold and whispy hair as the growths of fungus found absolutely no opposition. But with better direction, the Loard-vogh roamed the planet without death, though fungus-spores drifted freely. Their suits grew cultures, and the lubricants teemed with growing life--and if the inhabitant stayed too long in the suit, he died as fungi grew in the lubricant and was carried inside of the suit by mere action. Air-tight to seventy pounds they were, those spacesuits. Seventy pounds inside or outside--and yet the insidious growths slipped inside and killed them. But their numbers! As they died, so they were replaced. And the roadways thundered to the treads of their portables; the sky roared with the passing of their planes; and the cities echoed and re-echoed to the tramp of their feet. The sky was dark with their light spacers, landing, and the air was roiled mechanically with the landing craft that dropped from the spacecraft in never-ending streams.