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It was again a race awake, rejuvenated by a change! As the great sea of yellow fire that was that strange sun had faded behind their fleeing ships, leaving their dead planets still circling a dead sun, he had thought their last chance was gone forever. But hope had reawakened, with the birth of new ideas, new ways of doing things. Tordos Gar had been right!
Their mighty bulks seemed to dwarf even the huge buildings about them. Yet these ships were his for he had learned their secrets and designed them, and now he was to command them as they flew out across space in that flight to the distant star. He turned briefly to the Elder, Tordos Gar. "Soon we leave," he said, a faint edge of triumph in his voice. "We will prove that our way is right."
Taj Lamor, who had listened with a mixture of amusement and impatience to the recital of a history he knew as well as the aged, garrulous narrator, waited out of the inborn respect which every man held for the Elders. At length he exclaimed: "I see no point " "But you will when I finish or, at least, I hope you will." Tordos Gar's words and tone were gently reproving.
His eyes opened, and he raised a thin hand to check the younger man's protest. "I know I know in this we do not see as one. Yet perhaps some day you will learn even as I have that to rest is better than to engage in an endless struggle. Suns and planets die. Why should races seek to escape the inevitable?" Tordos Gar turned slowly away and gazed fixedly into the night sky.
A point of radiance that held the last hopes of an incredibly ancient race. The quiet voice of Tordos Gar came through the semidarkness of the room, a pensive, dreamlike quality in its tones. "You, Taj Lamor, and those young men who have joined you in this futile expedition do not think deeply enough. Your vision is too narrow. You lack perspective.
One by one the three planets became tremendous, roofed-in cities. Only their vast powers, their mighty machines made the task possible, but it was done." The droning voice of Tordos Gar ceased.
Momentarily Taj Lamor's gaze followed the retreating figure of Tordos Gar, the Elder; a figure with stooped shoulders and bowed head. His quiet yet vibrant parting words still resounded in his ears: "Taj Lamor, remember what I tell you. If you win this awful war you lose. As will our race. Only if you lose will you win."
He turned to the other man in the high, cylindrical, dimly lit tower room overlooking the dark metropolis, a man far older than Taj Lamor, his narrow shoulders bent, and his features grayed with his years. His single short, tight-fitting garment of black plastic marked him as one of the Elders. The voice of Taj Lamor was vibrant with feeling: "Tordos Gar, at last we are ready to seek a new sun.
And to a race that had not known war for so many untold ages, it was an unthinkable thing that they must kill other living, intelligent beings in order that they might live. They had no need of moving, Tordos Gar and many others had argued; they could stay where they were forever, and never find any need for leaving their planet.
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