"The machine," explained Toralen Ki, "is a device which suppresses the mental activity of all races within its field of radiation. It was built by a ruthless and predatory race to hold down the overall galactic mentality. It must be destroyed, for even though it is not running, full and complete regaining of the mental strength will not be possible until the machine is destroyed because a certain amount of residual power exists in the radiating crystal."
Thompson smiled, nodded, and went to the communicator. "O.K., fellows, have your fun. Blast it!"
Two ships circled Thompson's craft—two tiny ships, both as fleet as a beam of light and as maneuverable as thought. They circled one another, winding away from Thompson's ship in a tight twin-corkscrew spiral.
"Twenty thousand years ago—of your years—this race planned to conquer the Galaxy. They were an old race then, a mad race, with dreams of grandeur. Their numbers were countless, for they were spreading through their own section of the Galaxy like a mobile gas.
"They struck trouble, twenty thousand years ago. They hit a race that fought them—that almost succeeded in holding them to their line. Unfortunately, they were too numerous. They won. And then they decided that it would take many thousands of years of work to conquer the Galaxy. And in those years, younger, lustier races might evolve. Races that by sheer youth and strength might outstrip them. And so they made and sent forth horde upon horde of these suppressors.
"Your race," continued Toralen Ki, "has never been able to use its full mental power. That is because of the suppressor. True, you are a long way from the suppressor, but its power is fearsome and its effect is lasting. It passed through your system thousands of years ago and it held sway over your mental ability to now.
"Your race," said Toralen Ki, "is best equipped to fight the Loard-vogh."