It reached out with its senses. In dreams of death it had touched the minds of the ape-things that ruled the planet, the minds of the sensitive and the sick, the disturbed and diseased. They were impossibly fragile things, prone to shattering like glass, but even thus broken they heard Pimoa’s call. They heard and answered, serving and worshipping and slaughtering and sacrificing as was required of them. They were crude, simple tools, but they were without number.
Pimoa rumbled with displeasure. The area around it was devoid of all but the crudest life, single-celled organisms without even the spark of sentience, more complex creatures that were yet devoid of any governing impulse but fear and hunger and lust, but it had expected this. It had not expected that it would not encounter any of the ape-things minds. They were fickle creatures incapable of recognizing their own limitations, throwing themselves in the air when they lacked the means to fly, crossing the planet’s oceans in flimsy craft. When it had reached out before, it had always found a few solitary specimens, but now there was nothing. Where were the foolish things?