He broke off. No soap. You couldn’t explain “green” to a man born blind. These folks didn’t know and wouldn’t believe what real firepower was. The weakest vessel in this oncoming task force could blast both of these boneheads’ fleets into a radiant gas in fifteen seconds flat—and the superdreadnoughts’ primaries would be starkly incredible to both Luda and Darjeeb. They simply had to be seen in action to be believed; and then it would be too late.
These people didn’t stand the chance of a bug under a sledgehammer, but they’d have to be killed before they’d believe it. A damned shame, too. The joy, the satisfaction, the real advancement possible only through cooperation with each other and with the millions of races of Galactic Civilization—if there were only some means of making them believe. . . .
“We—and they—do believe.” Luda broke into his somber musings.
“Huh? What? You do? You were listening?”
“Certainly. At your first thought I put myself en rapport with Darjeeb, and he and our peoples listened to your thoughts.”
“But . . . you really believe me?”
“We all believe. Some will cooperate, however, only as far as it will serve their own ends to do so. Your Lensmen will undoubtedly have to kill that insect Darjeeb and others of his kind in the interest of lasting peace.”
The insulted Nhalian drove in a protesting thought, but Luda ignored it and went on:
“You think, then, Tellurian, that your Lensmen can cope with even such as Darjeeb of Nhal?”
“I’ll say they can!”