Trace carried the feebly stirring alien along the aisle of the
deserted theater, the others following behind him. He went up the
stairs to the balcony and found the entrance to the projection booth;
negotiated those narrow steps and dumped his captive unceremoniously on
the floor between the two big projectors.
"No lock," said Bill, examining the door.
"The place is a trap," said Trace irritably. "Damn it ... but there
wasn't anyplace else to go." He knelt and rolled the green man onto his
back and slapped his face hard. The alien opened his great eye dazedly,
stared round at the three earthlings, and croaked, "What occur?"
"English!" gasped Bill.
"Sure," said Trace. "I expected it. Their emissary learned it and must
have broadcast it to 'em while he was being taught. The helmets, the
helmets. It's logical."
"Chwefft is told English," said the green man, "we talk English all."
He put a hand to his head, and his tight mouth was drawn open into an
oval of surprise. "Hat?" he said uncertainly.
"The first one beamed it to the fleet," agreed Slough. "That makes our
job easier."
"How?" asked Bill.
"Knowledge, boy, the acquiring of knowledge."
The green man made as if to get up. Trace shoved him back. The
creature came away from the floor at him like an enraged panther,
striking up with little skill but immense strength at his head and
chest. Trace dodged through the perfunctory guard and belted him on
the nose, then, as his struggles merely increased, let him have a left
cross high on the cheek, just grazing the rim of the eye. The alien
cringed and held up his hands in supplication.
"Lousy fighter," said Bill.
"If you think so, I'll time the two of you for a couple rounds," said
Trace savagely. "He's scared of his eye being touched; it must be
sensitive as hell. Besides, we've got two of those pistols of theirs
now, and he's no fool."
"Allow go," said the man on the floor. "Not keep."
"First you talk," said Trace, trying to keep basic English. "How many
of you are there?"
"How many? Ah," the thing said, giving a curious one-eyed frown. He had
no hair on his head and only a bald ridge for an eyebrow. "_How many_
indicating number?"
"That's right."
"Not knowing word for how many. More than you," he said, "more on
voyage than you, and more more at home."
"Home? Where's home?"
"The system Lluagor, home planet Chwosst," said the other, sitting
up cautiously and clasping his knees. He smiled. His expression said
clearly, If these insignificant mites want to question me, what harm
can it do? Trace, fighting a surge of Irish rage, went on. Bill prowled
over to the openings that showed the deserted theater, squinting
through the gloom. They had turned on the lights in the projection
booth, and that worried him, for the searchers might come in below at
any minute. He found the house lights and threw them on, so that the
booth would not glow a warning. Thank heaven the power plant's still
working, he thought. As Trace hammered at the green man with questions,
Bill began tinkering with the machines.
* * * * *
Bird-foot was saying, in his unpleasant tones, "How many saucers
about twenty to forty thousand, this worked out by our mathematicians
Chwefft and Hlamnig after learning your system of numbers. Interesting
primitive system without knowing sub-space and lacking even name for
_fpiolhesit_."
"Sub-space!" exclaimed Slough, darting forward until he stood directly
before the alien. "How did he learn the name for that concept, I
wonder? But it makes sense. Certainly it would seem logical that such
an advanced race would have conquered the mathematically-conceived
sub-space, in order to travel interdimensionally from galaxy to galaxy.
How else could they go distances that even at light's speed would take
a portion of eternity?"
The green man eyed Slough, his head cocked. "Intelligent," he croaked.
"Come closer." He reached out a finger that was crooked as if to
beckon, bumped it against Slough, and recoiled, an expression of dismay
fleeting over his hard features. Then the olive-green skin smoothed
out. "Ah. Small, small man. Not know."
"You got a looney," said Bill.
"He's not crazy," said Trace. "I had that sort of figured out before."
He left the subject as Bill frowned at him, quite uncomprehending, and
said to the alien, "What do you want here?"
"Your planet."
The words were rasped out without emotion, but they were as cold as the
wind of January that played outside the theater. Trace said, "Why?"
"Need worlds. Chwosst long ago full, more worlds needing." He labored
ahead, perfectly in command of the English he knew, seeking now and
again for words beyond his ken, substituting others that were yet
clear to the enthralled listeners. For five minutes he talked, and
eight and ten, to the three humans in the projection booth; outside
his bird-footed, one-eyed compatriots padded the empty town, whose
inhabitants they had eliminated with the handguns that morning, down to
the last dog and canary. Now they had found the dead alien and the two
helmets, now they sought those who squatted in the theater; beyond the
town lay the ravaged country, and across its face stretched the lines
of thousands upon thousands of quiescent green saucers, some spied on
by other survivors of humanity, others proud in a total destruction
wrought by their all-shattering rays. Of all of this Trace Roscoe was
aware, and still the story of the captive green man pinned him without
movement to the closing trap of the theater. Once he thought of Jane
Kelly. This thought he battled down, because Trace Roscoe was engaged
in a war, and he couldn't have any personal dreams at all....
Gradually the queer speech of the world-assassin painted the portrait
of his race, his mission, and his egocentric soul.