It was a journey of thousands miles to the nearest grey place, but the time passed quickly. For epochs, Pimoa had waited. What were a few more days?
It headed towards the nearest, largest grey place, ignoring the smaller islands populated with worthless four-legged beasts. If there were ape-things to be found, they would certainly be in the grey places, their artificial hives where they swarmed like insects.
It found nothing. Not even a single mind it could influence.
Pimoa made its way towards the next grey place, a much shorter journey than its march from the sea to the shore. There were no ape-things there, either. Only a multitude of four-legged beasts, tiny insects, flying creatures that cried out and disappeared into the distance at Pimoa’s approach. Pimoa smashed one of the ape-things’ buildings in frustration, let loose a mighty roar that crumbled more buildings, headed towards the next grey place.
After the third grey place with no ape-things, Pimoa began to feel a sensation it had never felt before. It felt fear.