Pulling in all his extensions, he shot a tight beam to a fellow-being, Litosa by symbol, and tuned his mind precisely to hers. (“Hers” being perhaps a trifle better than either “his” or “its”.)
“For some little time you too have felt the need of fulfillment,” he informed his proposed complement in level, passionless thought. “You and I match well; there being no duplications, no incompatibles, no antagonistics in our twelve basics. Our fulfillment, Medosalitury, and our products, Midora and Letusy, would all three be super-primes.”
“Yes.” What a freight of rebellion against fate was carried by that monosyllable! “But why discuss it? Why reach for the unattainable? From now on we die—we all die—unfulfilled and without product. All life in this universe—in this galaxy, at least—ends with us now here.”
“I hope not. I think not. There are many solar systems. . . .”
“To what end?” Litosa broke in, her thought a sneer. “Can you kindle utterly frigid fuel? Can you work in a sun’s core? Or can you, perhaps, take a piece of star-core stuff through empty space to a cold planet and. . . .” The thought changed in tone, became what would have been on Earth a schoolgirl’s squeal of rapture:
“You CAN! Or you wouldn’t have brought up such a harrowing subject. You REALLY CAN!”
“Not that, exactly, but something just as good. I found sparks and kindling on a cold, solid planet.”
“NO!” The thought was ecstasy. “You DIDN’T!”
“I did. Whenever you’re ready, we’ll go.”
“I’ve been ready for CYCLES!”