Free Destroyer of Worlds by Larry Niven Page A

radiant, striped, roiling with storms, dominated the sky. Two cold spots—whole worlds themselves—transited the great orb.
    And Gw’oth like himself crept about on their arid, rocky surfaces!
    He was first among the sixteen to reach the central work space. Quickly the others arrived, emerging from their meditation spaces, most colored the same anxious reds and far reds he now showed. Their common task, unchanged for several shifts, glowed on the assignment board: Find the Others.
    Er’o knew the task was urgent. Also impossible, unless the aliens responded to his people’s plea.
    He extended one tubacle, trembling, and then another. Both limbs were taken up. Within, ears went all but deaf, registering only the beating of hearts. Within, eyes and heat receptors went dark.
    A jolt like electricity coursed through his thoughts.
    More! He needed more! Switching to ventral respiration, he extended his remaining tubacles. He groped about for contact, felt probing in return. Limb found limb, aligned, conjoined . . .
    Ganglia meshing!
    Feedback swelling!
    Heart racing!
    Electricity surging!
    We will take over.
The thought roared in Er’ o’s mind. His own musings, feeble things, plodding, inconsequential, faded. . . .
    Ol’t’ro, the group mind, had emerged.
    Intelligence was
wonderful
.
    Â 
    â€œ IT AIN’T WHAT YOU DON’T know that kills you,” Sigmund recited softly. “It’s what you know that ain’t so.”
    â€œTo what do you refer, sir?” Jeeves replied.
    Sigmund had been talking to himself but chose not to admit it. “Our slithery friends.”
    â€œThat’s why we’re here,” Jeeves said.
    It was a neutral response, signifying nothing. An answering noise, not an answer. Sigmund missed the reasoning power—and the friend—that had been Medusa. Wishful thinking got him nowhere.
    Then what about some productive thinking? “Jeeves, bring up a picture of a Gw’oth ensemble.” An image shimmered over the relax-room table. “Thanks, Jeeves.”
    Images of the Gw’oth had become familiar. A Gw’o had five limbs arrayed about a central disc, sort of like a starfish. Spines covered the skin, again like a starfish. There the resemblance ended. A Gw’ o’s skin changed colors like a squid or octopus. Its appendages were flexible, like those of an octopus, and hollow like tubeworms. Tier after tier of sharp teeth ringed the inner surface of each tube. Eyes and other as-yet unidentified sensors peeked out from behind the teeth. Almost certainly Gw’oth had evolved from some type of symbiotic carnivorous worm colony. Yes, Gw’oth had become familiar, singly and in groups. Except—
    Fascinated and repulsed, Sigmund examined a pile of writhing Gw’oth. The archival image was flat—in the era of
Explorer
’s visits, the Gw’oth had yet to develop holography—and for that Sigmund was grateful. Those piled, pulsing tubes, ends swallowing one another, the throbbing flesh, the occasional limb disconnecting and groping free of the twisting mass (to breathe?) came just a little too close to . . . what? A spill of loose intestines? A nest of snakes having an orgy?
    No one would look Sigmund in the eye around pictures like this. Puppeteers wouldn’t discuss sex with anyone but Puppeteers, and not among themselves for all Sigmund knew. They had imposed much of their prudery on New Terrans. Not that this pile of protoplasm was engaged in sex. Mature Gw’oth sprayed gametes into reefs and let nature take its course.
    With a sigh, Sigmund called Kirsten’s comm. “Can I pick your brain for a bit? I’m in the relax room.”
    â€œBe right up. Give me a few minutes to finish something.” Faint background noises suggested she was in the engine room.
    She strode into the relax room a few minutes later and suddenly noticed something interesting about her