"Certainly. But why are you trying so hard to convince my friends to be parasites?" Fred stopped for a second, struck by a thought. "Come to think of it, why am I immune?"
There is always a certain small percentage who have crossed mental patterns, whom we can communicate with. What the others see as desirable, you dislike. If you'll think a moment, you'll realize you've always been that way.
Fred nodded. He was the eternal pessimist surrounded by optimists.
My desire is simple. I want a population.
"Why?"
We use animal intelligence. When you die, we absorb the life force directly. It sustains our own.
"In a sense," Fred felt he'd scored, "you also are a parasite. You talk as though there are other sentient planets in the universe."
There are, though not in great numbers. Our life cycle is similar to yours. We are born in cosmic space of elemental material; we attract animal populations that have evolved on the dead planets, and thereby gain the energy needed to live—just as you live from the lower animals. We even grow old and die after two or three billion years. But I'm young, and this is the first time I've been in this portion of the galaxy—I need a population.
"You seem to know what's in my mind," Fred said calmly, "so I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed."
No, I need the others here for a little more time; they must be completely convinced of my wonders so they can take the story home. I can do without you, however. Why do you think I've bothered at all to communicate with you?