Joe nodded.
"In case you didn't get the overall picture—their ships," he jerked a thumb at the whine passing back and forth above, "have completely blanketed the world. They have destroyed every means of defense we've used against them. Atomic anti-aircraft, even, hasn't fazed them in the least.
"Yesterday they sent for us. The head of their expedition told us who they are, and it accounts, perhaps, for their anthropoidal appearance. They are from Jupiter, so it's not inconceivable after all that similar forms of life should become dominant in the same solar system.
"They are easily twice our size—and if ability to learn and speak fluently in a half hour, each of the three languages represented here means anything, they have a proportionate I.Q.
"Their leader, Slan, says his title means he is the crown prince of the royal Jovian family. Slan was nothing if not courteous and chivalrous. He told us yesterday he would give us a sporting chance for survival—why, I can't imagine. Apparently this expedition is like a glorified fox hunt to them.
"We are to choose a person to represent the world in an intellectual duel with him. If we win, they withdraw completely, never to bother us again. If we lose, then, he said, we're not worth saving and we'll be completely destroyed—hunted individually, which to them is great sport.
"To prove they could do it, he had his ship's guns turn on the moon. You saw what happened—disintegrated completely."
"Them crumbs!" Mike grated. "We'll murder 'em, Joe!"
"Quiet, Mike."
Mike grumbled, pulled out a cigarette paper and tobacco and rolled his own.