"Shall I tell you what they are?" asked Kimnar enthusiastically. "They are in the hands of Fate!"
"If you know what they are, don't get corny, Scarface!" roared Weston, climbing out of his sling and grabbing the gun from Edwards. "Spill it!"
Calmly but swiftly, Kimnar told the story, and he explained the issue that hung in the balance—Earth's alternate future against this already existing Galactic Civilization.
"Here and now," he concluded, "Fate can decide. Perhaps it is not in our own hands, after all."
Dr. Edwards stared at him aghast, the whole explanation of Henry's and Martia's precociousness striking him at last. Then he looked again at the approaching spheres.
"Do they know what we represent?" he asked.
"Yes," smiled Kimnar. "I communicated the message to them some time ago. I thought I was lying to them then, or doing some wishful thinking, merely to make them come for us—but now it's no longer a lie. You can stop that moon bomb and strike a new alternate across a billion years of space and time! But if you do, I and my friends and a Galactic Civilization will cease to exist!"
All this time, the pilot, Kennedy, had been like a man coming out of anesthesia. He was a tall, gaunt young fellow with heavy, forward jutting brows and far seeing eyes. His long chin was way out as he watched everything and listened, with his wiry right hand lying inertly beside the simple bank of the ship's main controls.
"Kennedy!" yelled Weston. "What kind of guns are in those blisters?"