the mighty host of vessels formed smoothly into symmetrical groups of seven. Each
group then moved with mathematical precision into its allotted position in a complex
geometrical formation—a gigantic, seven-ribbed, duplex cone in space. The flagship
flew at the apex of this stupendous formation; behind, and protected by, the full power
of the other floating citadels of the forty nine groups of seven. Due north the amazing
armada sped in rigorous alignment, flying along a predetermined meridian— due north!
At the end of his watch Kromodeor relinquished his board to the officer relieving
him and shot into the air, propelled by the straightening of the powerful coils of his
snake-like body and tail. Wings half spread, lateral and vertical ruddering fins outthrust,
he soared across the room toward a low opening. Just before they struck the wall upon
either side of the doorway the great wings snapped shut, the fins retracted, and the long
and heavy body struck the floor of the passage without a jar. With a wriggling,
serpentine motion he sped like a vibrant arrow along the hall and into a wardroom.
There, after a brief glance around the room, he coiled up beside a fellow officer who
with one eye was negligently reading a scroll held in three or four hands; while with
another eye, poised upon its slender pedicle, he watched a moving picture upon a
television screen.
“Hello, Kromodeor,” Wixill, Chief Power Officer greeted the newcomer in the
wailing, hissing language of the Vorkuls. He tossed the scroll into the air, where it
instantly rolled into a tight cylinder and shot into an opening in the wall of the room.
“Glad to see you. Books and shows are all right on practice cruises, but I can’t seem to
work up much enthusiasm about such things now.”
Kromodeor elevated an eye and studied the screen, upon which, to the
accompaniment of whistling, shrieking sound, whirled and gyrated an interlacing group
of serpentine forms.
“A good show, Wixill,” the projector officer replied, “but nothing to hold the
attention of men engaged in what we are doing. Think of it! After twenty years of
preparation—two long lifetimes—and for the first time in our history, we are actually
going to war!”
“I have thought of it at length. It is disgusting. Compelled to traffic with an alien
form of life! Were it not to end in the extinction of those unspeakable hexans, it would be
futile to the point of silliness. I cannot understand them at all. There is ample room upon
this planet for all of us. Our races combined are not using one seven-thousandth of its
surface. You would think that they would shun all strangers. Yet for ages have they
attacked us, refusing to let us alone, until finally they forced us to prepare means for
their destruction. They seem as senselessly savage as the jungle growths, and, but for
their very evident intelligence, one would class them as such. You would think that,
being intelligent, and being alien to us, they would not have anything to do with us in
any way, peacefully or otherwise. However, their intrusions and depredations are about
to end.”
“They certainly are. Vorkulia has endured much—too much—but I am glad that
our forefathers did not decide to exterminate them sooner. If they had, we could not
have been doing this now.”
“There speaks the rashness of youth, Kromodeor. It is a violation of all our
instincts to have any commerce with outsiders, as you will learn as soon as you see one
of them. Then, too, we will lose heavily. Since we have studied their armaments so long,
and have subjected every phase of the situation to statistical analysis, it is certain that
we are to succeed—but you also know at what cost.”
“Two sevenths of our force, with a probable error of one in seven,” replied the
younger Vorkul. “And because that figure cannot be improved within the next seven
years and because of the exceptional weakness of the hexans due to their
unexpectedly great losses upon Callisto, we are attacking at this time. Their spherical
vessels are nothing, of course. It is in the reduction of the city that we will lose men and
vessels. But at that, each of us has five chances in seven of returning, which is good
enough odds—much better than we had in that last expedition into the jungle. But by
the Mighty Seven, I shall make myself wrap around one hexan, for my brother’s sake,”
and his coils tightened unconsciously. “Hideous, repulsive monstrosities! Creatures so
horrible should not be allowed to live—they should have been tossed over the wall to
the jungle ages ago!” Kromodeor curled out an eye as he spoke, and complacently
surveyed the writhing cylinder of sinuous, supple power that was his own body.
“Better avoid contact work with them if possible,” cautioned Wixill. “You might not
be able to unwrap, and to touch one of them is almost unthinkable. Speaking of
wrapping, you know that they are putting on the finals of the contact work in the star this
evening. Let’s watch them.”
They slid to the floor and wriggled away in perfect “step”—undulating along in
such nice synchronism that their adjacent sides, only a few inches apart, formed two
waving, rigidly parallel lines. Deep in the lower part of the fortress they entered a large
assembly room, provided with a raised platform in the center and having hundreds of
short, upright posts in lieu of chairs; most of which were already taken by spectators.
The two officers curled their tails comfortably around two of the vacant pillars, elevated
their heads to a convenient level of sight, and directed each an eye or two upon the
stage. This was of course heptagonal. Its sides, like those of the mighty flying forts
themselves, were not straight, but angled inward sufficiently to make the platform a
seven-pointed star. The edge was outlined by a low rail, and bulwark and floor were
padded with thick layers of a hard, but smooth and yielding fabric.
In this star-shaped ring two young Vorkuls were contending for the championship
of the fleet in a contest that seemed to combine most of the features of wrestling,
boxing, and bar-room brawling, with no holds barred. Four hands of each of the
creatures held heavy leather billies, and could be used only in striking with those
weapons, the remaining hands being left free to employ as the owner saw fit. Since the
sport was not intended to be lethal, however, the eyes and other highly vulnerable parts
were protected by metal masks, and the wing ribs were similarly guarded by leathern
shields. The guiding fins, being comparatively small and extremely tough, required no
protection.
“We’re just in time,” Kromodeor whistled. “The main bout is nicely on. See
anyone from the flagship? I might stake a couple of korpels that Sintris will paint the
symbol upon his wing.”
“Most of their men seem to be across the star,” Wixill replied, and both beings fell
silent, absorbed in the struggle going on in the ring.
It was a contest well worth watching. Wing crashed against mighty wing and the
lithe, hard bodies snapped and curled this way and that, almost faster than the eye
could follow, in quest of advantageous holds. Above the shrieking wails of the crowd
could be heard the smacks and thuds of the eight flying clubs as they struck against the
leather shields or against tough and scaly hides. For minutes the conflict raged, with no
advantage apparent. Now the fighters were flat upon the floor of the star, now dozens of
feet in the air above it, as one or the other sought to gain a height from which to plunge
downward upon his opponent; but both stayed upon or over the star—to leave its
boundaries was to lose disgracefully.
Then, high in air, the visiting warrior thought that he saw an opening and
grappled. Wings crashed in fierce blows, hands gripped and furiously wrenched. Two
powerful bodies, tapering smoothly down to equally powerful tails, corkscrewed around
each other viciously, winding up into something resembling tightly-twisted lamp cord;
and the two Vorkuls, each helpless, fell to the mat with a crash. Fast as was Zerexi, the
gladiator from the flagship, Sintris was the merest trifle faster. Like the straightening of a
twisted spring of tempered steel that long body uncoiled as they struck the floor, and up
under those shielding wings—an infinitesimal fraction of a second slow in
interposing—that lithe tail sped. Two lightning loops flashed around the neck of the
visitor and tightened inexorably. Desperately the victim fought to break that terrible
strangle hold, but every maneuver was countered as soon as it was begun. Beating
wings, under whose frightful blows the very air quivered, were met and parried by wings
equally capable. Hands and clubs were of no avail against that corded cable of sinew,
and Sintris, his head retracted between his wings and his own hands re-enforcing that