“Sons of the Great Selina,” Moawha whispered in awe. “They are the smartest and greatest men on our sphere. It is said that there are only one hundred of them in their race.”
For some time the twenty bulbous-headed men sat gazing at the Americans in silence. Their gaze was penetrating, far-reaching, cutting.
“You are earth men,” the leader finally remarked in slow, manufactured English. “We saw you coming in the disk, and placed a trap for you. How did you get here?”
“We came in a flying machine,” Epworth answered, determined to put on a bold front in the hope that they had not heard of Toplinsky and would release them. “Who are you?”
The pigmy frowned. It was an ugly, dangerous contraction of a peculiar round face, and it made him look fiendish.
“We compose the council of Lunar,” he said softly, his eyebrows stretching across his moon-shaped face like a rainbow. “We are the brains of this world. We make the laws, we furnish the thought, we are the scientists who visualized the great world out in space and brought its language to our people; we rule through Carza, our queen, who was taught from childhood to obey our slightest command. Just as soon as we capture the Land of the Selinites we shall be complete rulers of the world.”
“You are quite an honorable and distinguished body,” Epworth agreed, bowing courteously, “but I fear that you are not destined to rule this world much longer.”
The leader glanced at him inquiringly, and when he saw that Epworth was not making a military move against him, smiled gently.
“I am afraid that you will have very little to say about it,” he suggested mildly.
“You need not worry about me,” Epworth added with another bow. “Just wait until Toplinsky gets his hooks in.”