“From what I’ve seen,” answered Saunders slowly, “golden ages are only superficially better. They may be easier on the surface, but there’s death in them. To travel hopefully, believe me, is better than to arrive.”

“That has been true in all past ages, aye. It was the great mistake of the Vro-Hi. We should have known better, with ten million years of civilization behind us.” There was a deep and tragic note in the rolling thought-pulse. “But we thought that since we had achieved a static physical state in which the new frontiers and challenges lay within our own minds, all beings at all levels of evolution could and should have developed in them the same ideal.

“With our help, and with the use of scientific psychodynamics and the great cybernetic engines, the coordination of a billion planets became possible. It was perfection, in a way—but perfection is death to imperfect beings, and even the Vro-Hi had many shortcomings. I cannot explain all the philosophy to you; it involves concepts you could not fully grasp, but you have seen the workings of the great laws in the rise and fall of cultures. I have proved rigorously that permanence is a self-contradictory concept. There can be no goal to reach, not ever.”

“Then the Second Empire will have no better hope than decay and chaos again?” Saunders grinned humorlessly. “Why the devil do you want one?”

Vargor’s harsh laugh shattered the brooding silence. “What indeed does it matter?” he cried. “What use to plan the future of the universe, when we are outlaws on a forgotten planet? The Anvardi are coming!” He sobered, and there was a set to his jaw which Saunders liked. “They’re coming, and there’s little we can do to stop it,” said Vargor. “But we’ll give them a fight. We’ll give them such a fight as the poor old Galaxy never saw before!”

Chapter 5

Attack of the Anvardi

“Oh, no—oh no—oh no.”

The murmur came unnoticed from Vargor’s lips, a broken cry of pain as he stared at the image which flickered and wavered on the great interstellar communiscreen. And there was horror in the eyes of Taury, grimness to the set of Hunda’s mighty jaws, a sadness of many hopeless centuries in the golden gaze of the Dreamer.

After weeks of preparation and waiting, Saunders realized matters were at last coming to a head.

“Aye, your majesty,” said the man in the screen. He was haggard, exhausted, Worn out by strain and struggle and defeat. “Aye fifty-four shiploads of us, and the Anvardian fleet in pursuit.”

“How far behind?” rapped Hunda.

“About half a light-year, sir, and coming up slowly. We’ll be close to Sol before they can overhaul us.”

“Can you fight them?” rapped Hunda.

“No sir, said the man. “We’re loaded with refugees, women and children and unarmed peasants, hardly a gun on a ship—Can’t you help?” It was a cry, torn by the ripping static that filled the interstellar void. “Can’t you help us, your majesty? They’ll sell us for slaves!”