"Oh, yes," Rezar said. "So recapitulation is unnecessary. But we Gizls, so-called, are still a mystery to you, of course. I suppose you'd like some background. Where from, where to, when, and all that."
"I certainly would," Don said. "So would everybody else, I imagine, especially King Hector here, and Mr. Fogarty."
"By all means let us communicate on the highest level," Rezar said. "First, where from, eh?"
"Right. Are you listening, Mr. Secretary?"
"I sure am," Fogarty said. "What's more, son, you're being piped directly into the White House—and a few other places."
"Good," Rezar said. "Now marvel at our saga."
XII
The end of a civilization is a tragic thing.
On the desert planet of Gorel-zed, the last world to survive the slow nova of its sun, the Gizls, once the pests but now through brain surgery the possessors in their hardy bodies of the accumulated knowledge of the frail human beings, were preparing to flee. Their self-supporting ships were ready, capable of crossing space to the ends of the universe.