Triplanetary

Two thousand million or so years ago two galaxies were colliding; or, rather, were passing through each other. A couple of hundreds of millions of years either way do not matter, since at least that much time was required for the inter-passage. At about that same time⁠—within the same plus-or-minus ten percent margin of error, it is believed⁠—practically all of the suns of both those galaxies became possessed of planets.

There is much evidence to support the belief that it was not merely a coincidence that so many planets came into being at about the same time as the galactic inter-passage. Another school of thought holds that it was pure coincidence; that all suns have planets as naturally and as inevitably as cats have kittens.

Be that as it may, Arisian records are clear upon the point that before the two galaxies began to coalesce, there were never more than three solar systems present in either; and usually only one. Thus, when the sun of the planet upon which their race originated grew old and cool, the Arisians were hard put to it to preserve their culture, since they had to work against time in solving the engineering problems associated with moving a planet from an older to a younger sun.

“Very well. We will now confer as to⁠ ⁠… but hold! That thought is not one of ours! Who are you, stranger, to dare to intrude thus upon a conference of the Innermost Circle?”

“I am Enphilistor, a younger student, of the planet Arisia.” This name, too, was a symbol. Nor was the young Arisian yet a Watchman, as he and so many of his fellows were so soon to become, for before Eddore’s arrival Arisia had had no need of Watchmen. “I am not intruding, as you know. I have not touched any one of your minds; have not read any one of your thoughts. I have been waiting for you to notice my presence, so that we could become acquainted with each other. A surprising development, truly⁠—we have thought for many cycles of time that we were the only highly advanced life in this universe.⁠ ⁠…”

“Be silent, worm, in the presence of the Masters. Land your ship and surrender, and your planet will be allowed to serve us. Refuse, or even hesitate, and every individual of your race shall die.”

“Worm? Masters? Land my ship?” The young Arisian’s thought was pure curiosity, with no tinge of fear, dismay, or awe. “Surrender? Serve you? I seem to be receiving your thought without ambiguity, but your meaning is entirely.⁠ ⁠…”

“Address me as ‘Your Supremacy,’ ” the All-Highest directed, coldly. “Land now or die now⁠—this is your last warning.”

“Your Supremacy? Certainly, if that is the customary form. But as to landing⁠—and warning⁠—and dying⁠—surely you do not think that I am present in the flesh?

IV 1918

Sobbing furiously, Captain Ralph Kinnison wrenched at his stick⁠—with half of his control surfaces shot away the crate was hellishly logy. He could step out, of course, the while saluting the victorious Jerries, but he wasn’t on fire⁠—yet⁠—and hadn’t been hit⁠—yet. He ducked and flinched sidewise as another burst of bullets stitched another seam along his riddled fuselage and whanged against his dead engine. Afire? Not yet⁠—good! Maybe he could land the heap, after all!

Slowly⁠—oh, so sluggishly⁠—the Spad began to level off, toward the edge of the wheatfield and that friendly, inviting ditch. If the krauts didn’t get him with their next pass.⁠ ⁠…

He heard a chattering beneath him⁠—Brownings, by God!⁠—and the expected burst did not come. He knew that he had been just about over the front when they conked his engine; it was a toss-up whether he would come down in enemy territory or not. But now, for the first time in ages, it seemed, there were machine-guns going that were not aimed at him!

Seated impassively at the desk there was a gray man. Not only was he dressed entirely in gray, but his heavy hair was gray, his eyes were gray, and even his tanned skin seemed to give the impression of grayness in disguise. His overwhelming personality radiated an aura of grayness⁠—not the gentle gray of the dove, but the resistless, driving gray of the super-dreadnought; the hard, inflexible, brittle gray of the fracture of high-carbon steel.

“Captain Bradley, First Officer Costigan, Miss Marsden,” the man spoke quietly, but crisply. “I had not intended you two men to live so long. That is a detail, however, which we will pass by for the moment. You may remove your suits.”

Neither officer moved, but both stared back at the speaker, unflinchingly.

“I am not accustomed to repeating instructions,” the man at the desk continued; voice still low and level, but instinct with deadly menace. “You may choose between removing those suits and dying in them, here and now.”

“Br-r-r, it’s cold! Let’s go in⁠—Oh! Shut the door!” Clio shrieked, and leaped wildly down into the compartment below, out of Costigan’s way, for he and Bradley had also seen slithering toward them the frightful arm of the Thing.

Almost before the girl had spoken Costigan had leaped to the controls, and not an instant too soon; for the tip of that horrible tentacle flashed into the rapidly narrowing crack just before the door clanged shut. As the powerful toggles forced the heavy wedges into engagement and drove the massive disk home, that grisly tip fell severed to the floor of the compartment and lay there, twitching and writhing with a loathesome and unearthly vigor. Two feet long the piece was, and larger than a strong man’s leg. It was armed with spiked and jointed metallic scales, and instead of sucking disks it was equipped with a series of mouths⁠—mouths filled with sharp metallic teeth which gnashed and ground together furiously, even though sundered from the horrible organism which they were designed to feed.