"It might be more than dangerous. To fight a war on many fronts is death. To warn a thousand races between the Loard-vogh and Terra might be the balance."
"Then we must hope," said Vorgan. "And only as a last resort will we drive forward."
"Face the fact," smiled Lindoo. "Kregar has—will have soon—the Little Man in his power. The cohort of the Little Man comes next. Dispose of them and the Planet of Terror will never know what it missed, in spite of the destruction of the suppressor. If nothing more than that happens, we are still safe. The Extremes fight one another—or fought one another. One or both of them may be dead. Grant the impossible and assume that Kregar is not successful and that Toralen Ki and Hotang Lu escape. Without the Extremes, releasing the mental torpor of the Planet of Terror will be most difficult.
"Now," continued Lindoo, with a very superior smile, "we grant the complete failure of our plans. All escape. Toralen Ki explains his plan to the Extremes. Have you any idea of sheer rivalry? Then consider your own attitude upon being asked to relinquish your identity to your most bitter rival."
Vorgan nodded. "How simple it would have been to wipe out all Tlembans so many hundreds of years ago instead of permitting those few to escape. I curse Mangare and I think I will erect a statue to his dishonor, that all Loard-vogh may spit at he who was not thorough."
Kregar's muscles tensed, wrapped him in knots, and his head jerked to one side in a spasm of pain. His eyes opened, glazed. They stayed open—wide and glassy.
Slowly he started, and with accelerated motion, he toppled to the floor. His frame went into one spasm, and he curled convulsively over his stomach. Then he stretched out straight and stiff.
"Dead," said Neckal, frantically.
"Dead?" echoed Lindoo.