Be it observed that the Arisians were not fighting for themselves. As individuals or as a race they had nothing to fear. Even less than the Eddorians could they be killed by any possible application of physical force. Past masters of mental science, they knew that no possible concentration of Eddorian mental force could kill any one of them. And if they were to be forced out of normal space, what matter? To such mentalities as theirs, any given space would serve as well as any other.
No, they were fighting for an ideal; for the peaceful, harmonious, liberty-loving Civilization which they had envisaged as developing throughout, and eventually entirely covering the myriads of planets of, two tremendous Island Universes. Also, they felt a heavy weight of responsibility. Since all these races, existing and yet to appear, had sprung from and would spring from the Arisian life-spores which permeated this particular space, they all were and would be, at bottom, Arisian. It was starkly unthinkable that Arisia would leave them to the eternal dominance of such a rapacious, such a tyrannical, such a hellishly insatiable breed of monsters.
Therefore the Arisians fought; efficiently if insidiously. They, did not—they could not—interfere openly with Eddore’s ruthless conquest of world after world; with Eddore’s ruthless smashing of Civilization after Civilization. They did, however, see to it, by selective matings and the establishment of blood-lines upon numberless planets, that the trend of the level of intelligence was definitely and steadily upward.
Four Molders of Civilization—Drounli, Kriedigan, Nedanillor, and Brolenteen, who, in fusion, formed the “Mentor of Arisia” who was to become known to every wearer of Civilization’s Lens—were individually responsible for the Arisian program of development upon the four planets of Tellus, Rigel IV, Velantia, and Palain VII. Drounli established upon Tellus two principal lines of blood. In unbroken male line of descent the Kinnisons went back to long before the dawn of even mythical Tellurian history. Kinnexa of Atlantis, daughter of one Kinnison and sister of another, is the first of the blood to be named in these annals; but the line was then already old. So was the other line; characterized throughout its tremendous length, male and female, by peculiarly spectacular red-bronze-auburn hair and equally striking gold-flecked, tawny eyes.
Nor did these strains mix: Drounli had made it psychologically impossible for them to mix until the penultimate stage of development should have been reached.
While that stage was still in the future Virgil Samms appeared, and all Arisia knew that the time had come to engage the Eddorians openly, mind to mind. Gharlane-Roger was curbed, savagely and sharply. Every Eddorian, wherever he was working, found his every line of endeavor solidly blocked.
Gharlane, as has been intimated, constructed a supposedly irresistible weapon and attacked his Arisian blocker, with results already told. At that failure Gharlane knew that there was something terribly amiss; that it had been amiss for over two thousand million Tellurian years. Really alarmed for the first time in his long life, he flashed back to Eddore; to warn his fellows and to take counsel with them as to what should be done. And the massed and integrated force of all Arisia was only an instant behind him.
* * *
Arisia struck Eddore’s outermost screen, and in the instant of impact that screen went down. And then, instantaneously and all unperceived by the planet’s defenders, the Arisian forces split. The Elders, including all the Molders, seized the Eddorian who had been handling that screen—threw around him an impenetrable net of force—yanked him out into intergalactic space.
Then, driving in resistlessly, they turned the luckless wight inside out. And before the victim died under their poignant probings, the Elders of Arisia learned everything that the Eddorian and all of his ancestors had ever known. They then withdrew to Arisia, leaving their younger, weaker, partially-developed fellows to do whatever they could against mighty Eddore.
Whether the attack of these lesser forces would be stopped at the second, the third, the fourth, or the innermost screen; whether they would reach the planet itself and perhaps do some actual damage before being driven off; was immaterial. Eddore must be allowed and would be allowed to repel that invasion with ease. For cycles to come the Eddorians must and would believe that they had nothing really to fear from Arisia.
The real battle, however, had been won. The Arisian visualizations could now be extended to portray every essential element of the climactic conflict which was eventually to come. It was no cheerful conclusion at which the Arisians arrived, since their visualizations all agreed in showing that the only possible method of wiping out the Eddorians would also of necessity end their own usefulness as Guardians of Civilization.
Such an outcome having been shown necessary, however, the Arisians accepted it, and worked toward it, unhesitatingly.
CHAPTER 2
As has been said, The HILL, which had been built to be the Tellurian headquarters of the Triplanetary Service and which was now the headquarters of the half-organized Solarian Patrol, was—and is—a truncated, alloy-sheathed, honeycombed mountain. But, since human beings do not like to live eternally underground, no matter how beautifully lighted or how carefully and comfortably air-conditioned the dungeon may be, the Reservation spread far beyond the foot of that gray, forbidding, mirror-smooth cone of metal. Well outside that farflung Reservation there was a small city; there were hundreds of highly productive farms; and, particularly upon this bright May afternoon, there was a Recreation Park, containing, among other things, dozens of tennis courts.
One of these courts was three-quarters enclosed by stands, from which a couple of hundred people were watching a match which seemed to be of some little local importance. Two men sat in a box which had seats for twenty, and watched admiringly the pair who seemed in a fair way to win in straight sets the mixed-doubles championship of the Hill.
“Fine-looking couple, Rod, if I do say so myself, as well as being smooth performers.” Solarian Councillor Virgil Samms spoke to his companion as the opponents changed courts. “I still think, though, the young hussy ought to wear some clothes— those white nylon shorts make her look nakeder even than usual. I told her so, too, the jade, but she keeps on wearing less and less.”
“Of course,” Commissioner Roderick K. Kinnison laughed quietly. “What did you expect? She got her hair and eyes from you, why not your hard-headedness, too? One thing, though, that’s all to the good—she’s got what it takes to strip ship that way, and most of ‘em haven’t. But what I can’t understand is why they don’t . . :’ He paused.
“I don’t either. Lord knows we’ve thrown them at each other hard enough, and Jack Kinnison and Jill Samms would certainly make a pair to draw to. But if they won’t . . . but maybe they will yet. They’re still youngsters, and they’re friendly enough”
If Samms pere could have been out on the court, however, instead of in the box, he would have been surprised; for young Kinnison, although smiling enough as to face, was addressing his gorgeous partner in terms which carriers little indeed of friendliness.
“Listen, you bird-brained, knot-headed, grand-standing half-wit!” he stormed, voice low but bitterly intense. “I ought to beat your alleged brains out! I’ve told you a thousand times to watch your own territory and stay out of mine! If you had been where you belonged, or even taken my signal, Frank couldn’t have made that thirty-all point; and if Lois hadn’t netted she’d’ve caught you flat-footed, a kilometer out of position, and made it deuce. What do you think you’re doing, anyway—playing tennis or seeing how many innocent bystanders you can bring down out of control?”
“What do you think?” the girl sneered, sweetly. Her tawny eyes, only a couple of inches below his own, almost emitted sparks. “And just look at who’s trying to tell who how to do what! For your information, Master Pilot John K. Kinnison, I’ll tell you that just because you can’t quit being ‘Killer’ Kinnison even long enough to let two good friends of ours get a point now and then, or maybe even a game, is no reason why I’ve got to turn into ‘Killer’ Samms. And I’ll also tell you . . “
“You’ll tell me nothing, Jill—I’m telling you! Start giving away points in anything and you’ll find out some day that you’ve given away too many. I’m not having any of that kind of game—and as long as you’re playing with me you aren’t either—or else. If you louse up this match just once more, the next ball I serve will hit the tightest part of those fancy white shorts of yours—right where the hip pocket would be if they had any—and it’ll raise a welt that will make you eat off of the mantel for three days. So watch your step!”
“You insufferable lug! I’d like to smash this racket over your head! I’ll do it, too, and walk off the court, if you don’t. . . “