"The name of our race," the thing began, "would mean nothing to you. It is sufficient only to say that we have come from another dimensional plane coexistent with your Earth, bound in certain relationships with your world by natural laws.
"We have always been a quiet, peaceable people, previously ignorant of death, for the world from which we come does not know that terrible phenomenon. Our science had overcome that, had passed beyond the point in the histories of all worlds whereat the vibrations of the mind gain dominance over matter; by a very small expenditure of effort we can mould any mass to serve our needs."
Camp snorted blueish smoke. "Go on," he drawled amiably, settling the rifle into a more comfortable position. He felt an almost overwhelming desire to laugh. "Go on. I may as well tell you that you don't actually exist, that I'm only dreaming you, but go ahead anyway. What brought you to Earth, or shouldn't I ask that?"
The creature's soft, wistful eyes regarded him steadily. "From another world alien to us," it continued. "They were a race of conquerors, and to us were as horrible as we must seem to you. They had weapons, and they conducted a swift, merciless war upon us. Most of my people were killed, since we could do no such thing as taking the lives of our foes, even to save our race from total extinction."
The other alien being wriggled forward. When it "spoke," Camp was astounded to detect a difference of timber and expression in the tone of the telepathed words.
"So," the thing said, continuing the rather one-sided conversation, "we left our world. The handful—literally—of us that were left was rotated into this plane and onto this planet, whose existence the experiments of our scientists had led us to suspect. But ... our people could not live with yours. We are terrifically sensitive to certain types of electrical radiations, as you have seen, and the myriad power-operated machines which made things pleasant and comfortable for you would have meant our deaths."
"Um," remarked Camp, and slapped Marvin's sharp little teeth away from his thigh.
"I'm a lone cowhand," the small lizard announced, somewhat irrelevantly. Camp scowled. "So?" he prompted. "What then?"
The thing hesitated, and looked at its companion.
Then, "There is a third plane parallel with our own and this one, but it is a bleak world of eternal gloom, lit only by terrifying sheets of radiation from random stars which dip over its surface. To both your race and mine it would normally be uninhabitable—in fact, we would be unable to survive there under any conditions—but it was thought that all the inhabitants of Earth, all living things, could be placed under suspended animation and rotated into this plane. They would come to no harm, and would know absolutely nothing of what had been done to them. In time we would awaken them and bring them back to their home; we know, you see, that in ten years or so, as you measure time, our enemies will have destroyed themselves."
Camp nodded slowly. "I see," he said thoughtfully. "You had a hell of a nerve, though, to do what you did, but I suppose you had some justification. I suppose, too, that I'm crazy, but I believe you. I'm willing to call the war off and play on your side."
"Thank you," the creatures said together.
"And as a friend," went on one of them, "we ask you not to use any equipment that would generate sparks or short radio waves if you can possibly help it. You've seen what it does to us."
Camp stowed the rifle in a corner where it would be out of the way, but not too unhandy in case of need. These disturbing creatures, with their seal-and-octopus bodies and quiet mental voices, were spooky enough, and while they might be on the level, he thought, still it was best to take no chances.
"Okay," he agreed, however. "Mind if I ask a favor in return? I'd rather you assumed human forms whenever you can, around me. It's a trifle disconcerting to find such lofty ideals and intellects in such—er—unusual—bodies."
The two creatures blurred and expanded swiftly. Again they were twin Lois Temples.
"Ah—no," Camp said hurriedly. "Could one of you change to some other person? I hate to be such a bother, really, but ..."
One of the girls said, "Think of a person; we can imitate his form."
Camp searched his mind for friends, and smiled ruefully as he failed to correctly visualize a single person. When he looked up he gasped.
"Hugo!" he exclaimed. "Hugo Menden!"
"No," corrected the image. "His body idealized by you. I found this figure in the back of your mind, surrounded with much respect and sorrow. Who was Hugo Menden?"
"A rather close friend of mine," Camp explained. "He died in space, while we were bound for Venus." His thoughts rambled for a moment. There was something buzzing around in his brain ...
"Yeah," Camp said suddenly. "Look, I got an idea! Why don't you people go to Venus? I just got back from there, and I know it's approximately the same as Earth. Certainly it offered me no particular inconvenience, and should present none to you. Then you can return my people to their homes, and everybody will be happy.
Manden's figure nodded gravely. "Splendid," he said simply.
Camp's jubilant expression suddenly faded, and he looked comically woeful and downcast.
"Yeah," he said dully. "Yeah, but I've only got one space-sphere, and that won't hold more than three or four of you. There was another ship at Newark, but that was dismantled for repairs or something before I left. Certainly I can't build one ... can't you people do something about it? You did say that you could—ah—mould any mass to suit your needs."
"Not to that extent," Menden revised hastily. "By using the full power of all our minds, we might have, at one time; but now there are too few of us left. So few, I think, that one space-sphere will be quite large enough to carry us all. There are only twenty-seven of my race alive."
Camp tossed his cigarette butt into the water and watched it hiss into black extinction.
"Sure," he protested, "but even twenty-seven are too many to put in the ship. How are you going to manage it?"
Menden smiled. "Simple," he told Camp. "We can put all but three or four in a state of suspended animation for the length of the voyage."
But Camp was yet unsatisfied. "That's fine," he said. "That part's okay, but I just thought of something else. What, precisely, will you do about fuel?"
"No," Lois told him. "The sphere can be moved by telekinesis—mind-power. Three of us can do it."
Camp stood by a smooth-lined, waist-high machine, so-called by him though, as far as he could see, it had no moving parts whatsoever. At his side stood Menden, and shadowing the scene was the great, round bulk of the space-sphere.
"Not very big,' commented Camp, indicating the odd machine. "How does the thing work?"
Menden stepped forward and inserted a fist-sized ball, its surface dotted with an intricate pattern of perforations, into a socket in the device.
"Its action is largely mental," he obligingly explained. "That small globe is a sort of matrix which has been impregnated with the proper thought patterns to set up the automatic operation."
"Stop right there," Camp said. "I can see that it'd be too deep for me to understand." He cast a sidelong glance at his companion. "I'm kind of going to miss you and your people. You've taught me a couple of tricks—besides that little knack of levitation—that wouldn't have been developed by our science for a heap of years."
Manden smiled slowly. "You, in return, have done a lot for us. You've given us a world where we can live in safety and perfect ease of mind. We would not have been happy here, Camp, knowing that we were mere usurpers.
"Yeah," Camp mumbled. "I guess you're right."