She froze suddenly, a gasp of horror half suppressed. She was seeing things—sensing things beyond comprehension—
She froze suddenly, a gasp of horror half suppressed. She was seeing things—sensing things beyond comprehension—
She froze suddenly, a gasp of horror half suppressed. She was seeing things—sensing things beyond comprehension—
"QX, Mac," the thought went quietly on within her mind, quite as though nothing unusual were occurring. "No intrusion meant. You didn't think it; I already knew that if you started dating ahead you'd be tied up until day after tomorrow. Can I have the next one?"
"Sure, Kim."
"Thanks—the Lens is off for the rest of the evening."
She sighed in relief as he snapped the telepathic line as though he were hanging up the receiver of a telephone.
"I'd like to dance with you all, kids," he addressed a large group of buds surrounding him and eying him hungrily, "but I've got this next one. See you later, perhaps," and he was gone.
"Sorry, fellows," he remarked casually, as he made his way through the circle of men around the gorgeous redhead. "Sorry, but this dance is mine, isn't it, Miss MacDougall?"
She nodded, flashing the radiant smile which had so aroused his ire during his hospitalization. "I heard you invoke your spaceman's god, but I was beginning to be afraid that you had forgotten this dance."
"And she said she wasn't dating ahead—the diplomat!" murmured an ambassador, aside.
"Don't be a dope," a captain of Marines muttered in reply. "She meant withus. That's a Gray Lensman!"
Although the nurse, as has been said, was anything but small, she appeared almost petite against the Lensman's mighty frame as they took off. Silently the two circled the great hall once; lustrous, goldenly green gown—of Earthly nylon, this one, and less revealing than most—swishing in perfect cadence against deftly and softly stepping high-laced boots.
"This is better, Mac," Kinnison sighed, finally, "but I lack just seven thousand kilocycles of being in tune with this. Don't know what's the matter, but it's clogging my jets. I must be getting to be a space-louse."
"A space-louse—you? Uh-uh!" She shook her head. "You know very well what the matter is. You're just too much of a man to mention it."
"Huh?" he demanded.
"Uh-huh," she asserted, positively if obliquely. "Of course you're not in tune with this crowd. How could you be? I don't fit into it any more myself, and what I'm doing isn't even a muffled flare compared to your job. Not one in ten of these fluffs here tonight has ever been beyond the stratosphere; not one in a hundred has ever been out as far as Jupiter, or has ever had a serious thought in her head except about clothes or men; not one of them all has any more idea of what a Lensman really is than I have of hyperspace or of non-Euclidean geometry!"
"Kitty, kitty!" he laughed. "Sheathe the little claws, before you scratch somebody!"
"That isn't cattishness; it's the barefaced truth. Or perhaps," she amended, honestly, "it's both true and cattish, but it's certainly true. And that isn't half of it. No one in the Universe except yourself reallyknowswhat you are doing, and I'm pretty sure that only two others even suspect. And Dr. Lacy is not one of them," she concluded, surprisingly.
Though shocked, Kinnison did not miss a step. "Youdon'tfit into this matrix, any more than I do," he agreed, quietly. "S'pose you and I could do a little flit somewhere?"
"Surely, Kim," and, breaking out of the crowd, they strolled out into the grounds. Not a word was said until they were seated upon a broad, low bench beneath the spreading foliage of a tree.
Then: "What did you come here for tonight, Mac—the real reason?" he demanded, abruptly.
"I ... me ... you ... I mean—Oh, skip it!" the girl stammered, a wave of scarlet flooding her face and down even to her superb, bare shoulders. Then she steadied herself and went on: "You see, I agree with you—as you say, I check you to nineteen decimals. Even Dr. Lacy, with all his knowledge, can be slightly screwy at times, I think."
"Oh, so that's it!" It was not, it was only a very minor part of her reason; but the nurse would have bitten her tongue off rather than admit that she had come to that dance solely and only because Kimball Kinnison was to be there. "You knew, then, that this was old Lacy's idea?"
"Of course. You would never have come, else. He thinks that you may begin wobbling on the beam pretty soon unless you put out a few braking jets."
"And you?"
"Not in a million, Kim. Lacy is as cockeyed as Trenco's ether, and I as good as told him so. He may wobble a bit, butyouwon't. You've got a job to do, and you're doing it. You'll finish it, too, in spite of all the vermin infesting all the galaxies of the macro-cosmic Universe!" she finished, passionately.
"Klono's brazen whiskers, Mac!" He turned suddenly and stared intently down into her wide, gold-flecked, tawny eyes. She stared back for a moment, then looked away.
"Don't look at me like that!" she almost screamed. "I can't stand it—you make me feel stark naked! I know that your Lens is off—I'd simply die if it wasn't—but I think that you're a mind-reader, even without it!"
She did know that that powerful telepath was off and would remain off, and she was glad indeed of that fact; for her mind was seething with thoughts which that Lensman must not know, then or ever. And for his part, the Lensman knew what she did not even suspect; that had he chosen to exert the powers at his command she would have been naked, mentally and physically, to his perception; but he did not exert those powers—then. The amenities of human relationship demanded that some fastnesses of reserve remain inviolate, but he had to know what this woman knew. If necessary, he would take the knowledge away from her by force, so completely that she would never know that she had ever known it. Therefore:
"Just what do you know, Mac, and how did you find it out?" he demanded; quietly, but with a stern finality of inflection that made a quick chill run up and down the nurse's back.
"I know a lot, Kim." The girl shivered slightly, even though the evening was warm and balmy. "I learned it from your own mind. When you called me, back there on the floor, you didn't send just a single, sharp thought, just as though you were speaking to me, as you always did before. Instead, it seemed as though I was actually inside your own mind—the whole of it. I have heard Lensman speak of a wide-open two-way, but I never had even the faintest inkling of what it would be like—no one could who has never experienced it. Of course I didn't—I couldn't—understand a millionth of what I saw, or seemed to see. It was too vast, too incredibly immense. I never dreamed any mortalcouldhave a mind like that, Kim! But it was ghastly, too. It gave me the creepy jitters. It sent me down completely out of control for a second. And you didn't even know it—I know you didn't! I didn't want to look, really, but I couldn't help seeing, and I'm glad I did—I wouldn't have missed it for the world!" she finished, almost incoherently.
"Hm-m-m. That changes the picture entirely." Much to her surprise, the man's voice was calm and thoughtful; not at all incensed. Not even disturbed. "So I spilled the beans myself, on a wide-open two-way, and didn't even realize it. I knew that you were back-firing about something, but thought it was because I might think you guilty of petty vanity. And I calledyoua dumbbell once!" he marveled.
"Twice," she corrected him, "and the second time I was never so glad to be called names in my whole life."
"Now Iknowthat I was getting to be a space-louse."
"Uh-uh, Kim," she denied again, gently. "And you aren't a brat or a lug or a clunker, either, even though I have thought at times that you were all of those things. But, now that I've actually got all this stuff, what can you—what can we—do about it?"
"Perhaps ... probably ... I think, since I gave it to you myself, I'll let you keep it," Kinnison decided, slowly.
"Keep it!" she exclaimed. "Of course, I'll keep it! Why, it's in my mind—I'llhaveto keep it—nobody can takeknowledgeaway from anyone!"
"Oh, sure—of course," he murmured, absently. There were a lot of things that Mac didn't know, and probably no good end would be served my enlightening her further. "You see, there's a lot of stuff in my mind that I don't know much about myself, yet. Since I gave you an open channel, there must have been a good reason for it, even though, consciously, I don't know myself what it was." He thought intensely for moments, then went on: "Undoubtedly the subconscious. Probably it recognized the necessity of discussing the whole situation with someone having a fresh viewpoint, someone whose ideas can help me develop a fresh angle of attack. Haynes and I think too much alike for him to be of much help."
"You trustmethat much?" the girl asked, dumfounded.
"Certainly," he replied without hesitation. "I know enough about you to know that you can keep your mouth shut."
Thus unromantically did Kimball Kinnison, Gray Lensman, acknowledge the first glimmerings of the dawning perception of a vast fact—that this nurse and he were two between whom there never would nor could exist any iota of doubt or of question.
Then they sat and talked. Not idly, as is the fashion of lovers, of the minutiae of their own romantic affairs, did these two converse, but cosmically, of the entire Universe and of the already existent conflict between the culture of Civilization and Boskonia.
They sat there, romantically enough to all outward seeming; their privacy assured by Kinnison's Lens and by his ever-watchful sense of perception. Time after time, completely unconsciously, that sense reached out to other couples who approached, to touch and to affect their minds so insidiously that they did not know that they were being steered away from the tree in whose black moon-shadow sat the Lensman and the nurse.
Finally the long conversation came to an end and Kinnison assisted his companion to her feet. His frame was straighter, his eyes held a new and brighter light.
"By the way, Kim," she asked idly as they strolled back toward the ballroom, "who is this Klono, by whom you were swearing a while ago? Another spaceman's god, like Noshabkeming, of the Valerians?"
"Something like him, only more so," he laughed. "A combination of Noshabkeming, some of the gods of the ancient Greeks and Romans, all three of the Fates, and quite a few other things as well. I think, originally, from Corvina, but fairly widespread through certain sections of the Galaxy now. He's got so much stuff—teeth and horns, claws and whiskers, tail and everything—that he's much more satisfactory to swear by than any other space-god I know of."
"But why do men have to swear at all, Kim?" she queried, curiously. "It's so silly."
"For the same reason that women cry," he countered. "A man swears to keep from crying, a woman cries to keep from swearing. Both are sound psychology. Safety valves—means of blowing off excess pressure that would otherwise blow fuses or burn out tubes."
III.
In the library of the Port Admiral's richly comfortable home, a room as heavily guarded against all forms of intrusion as was his private office, two old but active Lensmen sat and grinned at each other like the two conspirators which in fact they were. One took a squat, red bottle of fayalin from a cabinet and filled two small glasses. The glasses clinked, rim to rim.
"Here's to love!" Haynes gave the toast.
"Ain't it grand!" Surgeon General Lacy responded.
"Down the hatch!" they chanted in unison, and action followed word.
"You aren't asking if everything stayed on the beam." This from Lacy.
"No need. I had a spy ray on the whole performance."
"You would—you're the type. However, I would have, too, if I had a panel full of them inmyoffice. Well, say it, you old space-hellion!" Lacy grinned again, albeit a trifle wryly.
"Nothing to say, sawbones. You did a grand job, and you've got nothing to blow a jet about."
"No? How would you like to have a red-headed spitfire who's scarcely dry behind the ears yet tell you to your teeth that you've got softening of the brain? That you had the mental capacity of a gnat, the intellect of a Zabriskan fontema? And to have to take it, without even heaving the insubordinate young jade into the can for about twenty-five well-earned black spots?"
"Oh, come, now, you're just blasting. It wasn't that bad."
"Perhaps not quite—but it was bad enough."
"She'll grow up, some day, and realize that you were foxing her six ways from the origin."
"Probably. In the meantime, it's all part of the bigger job. Thank God I'm not young any more. They suffer so."
"Check.Howthey suffer!"
"But you saw the ending and I didn't. How did it turn out?" Lacy asked.
"Partly good, partly bad." Haynes slowly poured two more drinks and thoughtfully swirled the crimson, pungently aromatic liquid around and around in his glass before he spoke again. "Hooked—but she knows it, and I'm afraid she'll do something about it."
"She's a smart girl—I told you she was. She doesn't fox herself about anything. Hm-m-m. And separation is indicated, it would seem."
"Check. Can you send out a hospital ship somewhere, so as to get rid of her for two or three weeks?"
"Can do. Three weeks be enough? We can't send him anywhere, you know."
"Plenty. He'll be gone in two." Then, as Lacy glanced at him questioningly, Haynes continued: "Ready for a shock? He's going to Lundmark's Nebula."
"But hecan't! That would take years! Nobody has ever got back from there yet, and there's this new job of his. Besides, this separation is only supposed to last until you can spare him for a while!"
"If it takes very long he's coming back. The idea has always been, you know, that intergalactic matter may be so thin—one atom per liter or so—that such a flit won't take one tenth the time supposed. We recognize the danger. He's going well heeled."
"How well?"
"The best that we can give him."
"I hate to clog their jets this way, but it's got to be done. We'll give her a raise when I send her out—make her sector chief. Huh?"
"Did I hear any such words lately as 'spitfire,' 'hussy,' and 'jade,' or did I dream them?" Haynes asked, quizzically.
"She's all of them, and more—but she's one of the best nurses and one of the finest women this side of Hades, too!"
"QX, Lacy, give her her raise. Of course she's good, or she wouldn't be in on this deal at all. In fact, they're about as fine a couple of youngsters as old Tellus has produced."
"They are that. Man,whata pair of skeletons!"
And in the Nurses' Quarters a young woman with a wealth of red-bronze-auburn hair and tawny eyes was staring at her own reflection in a mirror.
"You half-wit, you ninny, you lug!" she stormed, bitterly if almost inaudibly, at that reflection. "You lame-brained moron, you red-headed, idiotic imbecile, you microcephalic dumbbell, youclunker! Of all the men in this whole cockeyed galaxy, youwouldhave to make a dive at Kimball Kinnison, the one man who never has realized that you are even alive. At a Gray Lensman—" Her expression changed and she whispered softly: "A ... Gray ... Lensman. Hecan'tlove any woman as long as he's carrying that load. They can't let themselves be human—quite; perhaps loving him will be enough—"
She straightened up, shrugged, and smiled; but even that pitiful travesty of a smile could not long endure. Shortly it was buried in waves of pain and the girl threw herself down upon her bed.
"Oh Kim, Kim!" she sobbed. "I wish ... why can't you—Oh, why did I ever have to be born!"
Three weeks later, far out in space, Kimball Kinnison was thinking thoughts entirely foreign to his usual pattern. He was in his bunk, smoking dreamily, staring unseeing at the metallic ceiling. He was not thinking of Boskone.
When he had thought of Mac, back there at that dance, he had, for the first time in his life, failed to narrow down his beam to the exact thought being sent. Why? The explanation he had given the girl was totally inadequate. For that matter, why had he been so glad to see her there? And why, at every odd moment, did visions of her keep coming into his mind—her form and features, her eyes, her lips, her startling hair?
She was beautiful, of course, but not nearly such a seven-sector callout as that thionite dream he had met on Aldebaran II—and his only thought ofherwas an occasional faint regret that he had not half wrung her lovely neck. Why, she wasn't really as good-looking as, and didn't have half theje ne sais quoiof, that blond heiress—what was her name?—oh, yes, Forrester—
There was only one answer, and it jarred him to the core—he would not admit it, even to himself. He couldn't love anybody—it just simply was not in the cards. He had a job to do. The Patrol had spent a million credits making a Lensman out of him, and it was up to him to give them some kind of a run for their money. No Lensman had any business with a wife, especially a Gray Lensman. He couldn't sit down anywhere, and she couldn't flit with him. Besides, nine out of every ten Gray Lensmen got killed before they finished their jobs, and the one that did happen to live long enough to retire to a desk was almost always half machinery and artificial parts—
No, not in seven thousand years. No woman deserved to have her life made into such a hell on earth as that would be—years of agony, of heartbreaking suspense, climaxed by untimely widowhood; or, at best, the wasting of the richest part of her life upon a husband who was half steel, rubber, and phenoline plastic. Red in particular was much too splendid a person to be let in for anything like that—
But hold on—jet back! What made him think that he rated any such girl? That there was even a possibility—especially in view of the way he had behaved while under her care in Base Hospital—that she would ever feel like being anything more to him than a strictly impersonal nurse? Probably not. He had Klono's own brazen gall to think that she would marry him, under any conditions, even if he made a full-power dive at her.
Just the same, she might. Look at what women did fall in love with, sometimes. So he would never make any kind of a dive at her; no, not even a pass. She was too sweet, too fine, too vital a woman to be tied to any space-louse; she deserved happiness, not heartbreak. She deserved the best there was in life, not the worst; the whole love of a whole man for a whole lifetime, not the fractions which were all that he could offer any woman. As long as he could think a straight thought he wouldn't make any motions toward spoiling her life. In fact, he hadn't better see Reddy again. He wouldn't go near any planet she was on, and if he saw her out in space he'd go somewhere else at ten gravities.
With a bitter imprecation Kinnison sprang out of his bunk, hurled his half-smoked cigarette at an ash tray, and strode toward the control room.
The ship he rode was of the Patrol's best. Superbly powered for flight, defense, and offense, she was withal a complete space-laboratory and observatory; and her personnel, over and above her regular crew, was as varied as her equipment. She carried ten Lensmen—a circumstance unique in the annals of space, even for such a trouble-shooting battle wagon as theDauntlesswas; a scientific staff which was practically a cross section of the Tree of Knowledge. She carried Lieutenant Peter van Buskirk and his company of Valerian wild cats; Worsel of Velantia and threescore of his reptilian kinsmen; Tregonsee, the blocky Rigellian Lensman, and a dozen or so of his fellows; Master Technician LaVerne Thorndyke and his crew. She carried three Master Pilots, Prime Base's best—Henderson, Schermerhorn, and Watson.
TheDauntlesswas an immense vessel. She had to be, in order to carry, in addition to the men and the things requisitioned by Kinnison, the personnel and the equipment which Port Admiral Haynes had insisted upon sending with him.
"But great Klono, chief, think of what a hole you're making in Prime Base if we don't get back!" Kinnison had protested.
"You're coming back, Kinnison," the Port Admiral had replied gravely. "That is why I am sending these men and this stuff along—to be as sure as I possibly can that youdoget back."
Now they were out in intergalactic space, and the Gray Lensman, lying flat upon his back with his eyes closed, sent his sense of perception out beyond the confining iron walls and let it roam the void. This was better than a visiplate; with no material barriers or limitations he was feasting upon a spectacle scarcely to be pictured in the most untrammeled imaginings of man. There were no planets, no suns, no stars, no meteorites, no particles of cosmic débris. All nearby space was empty, with an indescribable perfection of emptiness at the very thought of which the mind quailed in uncomprehending horror. And, accentuating that emptiness, at such mind-searing distances as to be dwarfed into buttons, and yet, because of their intrinsic massiveness, starkly apparent in their three-dimensional relationships, there hung poised and motionlessly stately the component galaxies of a universe.
Behind the flying vessel the First Galaxy was a tiny, brightly shining lens, so far away that such minutiae as individual solar systems were invisible, so distant that even the gigantic masses of its accompanying globular star clusters were merged indistinguishably into its sharply lenticular shape. In front of her, to right and to left of her, above and beneath her were other galaxies, never explored by man or by any other beings subscribing to the code of Galactic Civilization. Some, edge on, were thin, waferlike. Others appeared as full disks, showing faintly or boldly the prodigious, mathematically inexplicable spiral arms by virtue of whose obscure functioning they had come into being. Between these two extremes there was every possible variant in angular displacement.
Utterly incomprehensible although the speed of the space-flyer was, yet those galaxies remained relatively motionless, hour after hour. What distances! What magnificence! What grandeur! What awful, what poignantly solemn calm!
Despite the fact that Kinnison had gone out there expecting to behold that very scene, he felt awed to insignificance by the overwhelming, the cosmic immensity of the spectacle. What business had he, a sub-electronic midge from an ultra-microscopic planet, venturing out into macro-cosmic space, a demesne comprehensible only to the omniscient and omnipotent Creator?
He got up, shaking off the futile mood. This wouldn't get him to the first check station, and he had a job to do. And, after all, wasn't man as big as space? Could he have come out here, otherwise? He was. Yes, man was bigger even than space. Man, by his very envisionment of macro-cosmic space, had already mastered it.
Besides, the Boskonians, whoever they might be, had certainly mastered it; he was now certain that they were operating upon an intergalactic scale. Even after leaving Tellus he had hoped and had really expected that his line would lead to a stronghold in some star cluster belonging to his own Galaxy, so distant from it, or perhaps so small, as to have escaped the notice of the chartmakers; but such was not the case. No possible error in either the determination or the following of that line placed it anywhere near any such cluster. It led straight to and only to Lundmark's Nebula; and that Galaxy was, therefore, his present destination.
Man was certainly as good as the pirates; probably better, on the basis of past performance. Of all the races of the Galaxy, man had always taken the initiative, had always been the leader and commander. And, with the exception of the Arisians, man had the best brain in the Galaxy.
The thought of that eminently philosophical race gave Kinnison pause. His Arisian sponsor had told him that by virtue of the Lens the Patrol should be able to make Civilization secure throughout the Galaxy. Just what did that mean—that it could not go outside? Or did even the Arisians suspect that Boskonia was in fact intergalactic? Probably. The mentor had said that, given any one definite fact, a really competent mind could envisage the entire Universe; even though he had added carefully that his own mind was not a really competent one.
But this, too, was idle speculation, and it was time to receive and to correlate some more reports. Therefore, one by one, he got in touch with scientists and observers.
The density of matter in space, which had been lessening steadily, was now approximately constant at one atom per four hundred cubic centimeters. Their speed was therefore about a hundred thousand parsecs per hour; and, even allowing for the slowing up at both ends due to the density of the medium, the trip should not take over ten days.
The power situation, which had been his gravest care, since it was almost the only factor not amenable to theoretical solution, was even better than anyone had dared hope; the cosmic energy available in space had actually been increasing as the matter content decreased—a fact which seemed to bear out the contention than energy was continually being converted into matter in such regions. It was taking much less excitation of the intake screens to produce a given flow of power than any figure ever observed in the denser media within the Galaxy.
Thus, the atomic motors which served as exciters had a maximum power of four hundred pounds an hour; that is, each exciter could transform that amount of matter into pure energy and employ the output usefully in energizing the intake screen to which it was connected. Each screen, operating normally on a hundred-thousand-to-one ratio, would then furnish its receptor on the ship with energy equivalent to the annihilation of four million pounds per hour of material substance. Out there, however, it was being observed that the intake-exciter ratio, instead of being less than a hundred thousand to one, was actually almost a million to one.
It would serve no useful purpose here to go further into the details of any more of the reports, or to dwell at any great length upon the remainder of the journey to the Second Galaxy. Suffice it to say that Kinnison and his highly trained crew observed, classified, recorded, and conferred; and that they approached their destination with every possible precaution. Detectors full out, observers were at every plate, the ship was as immune to detection as Hotchkiss' nullifiers could make it.
Up to the Second Galaxy theDauntlessflashed, and into it. Was this island universe essentially like the First Galaxy as to planets and peoples? If so, had they been won over or wiped out by the horrid culture of Boskonia or was the struggle still going on?
"If we assume, as we must, that the line we followed was the trace of Boskone's beam," argued the sagacious Worsel, "the probability is very great that the enemy is in virtual control of this entire Galaxy. Otherwise—if they were in a minority or were struggling seriously for dominion—they could neither have spared the forces which invaded our Galaxy, nor would they have been in condition to rebuild their vessels as they did to match the new armaments developed by the Patrol."
"Very probably true," agreed Kinnison, and that was the consensus of opinion. "Therefore we want to do our scouting very quietly. But in some ways that makes it all the better. If they are in control, they won't be unduly suspicious."
And thus it proved. A planet-bearing sun was soon located, and while theDauntlesswas still light-years distant from it, several ships were detected. At least, the Boskonians were not using nullifiers!
Spy rays were sent out. Tregonsee, the Rigellian Lensman, exerted to the full his powers of perception, and Kinnison hurled downward to the planet's surface a mental viewpoint and communications center. That the planet was Boskonian was soon learned, but that was all. It was scarcely fortified: no trace could be found of a beam communicating with Boskone.
Solar system after solar system was found and studied, with like result. But finally, out in space, one of the screens showed activity; a beam was in operation between a vessel then upon the plates and some other station. Kinnison tapped it quickly; and, while observers were determining its direction, hardness, and power, a thought flowed smoothly into the Lensman's brain.
"—proceed at once to relieve vessel P4K730. Eichlan, speaking for Boskone, ending message."
"Follow that ship, Hen!" Kinnison directed, crisply. "Not too close, but don't lose him!" He then relayed to the others the orders which had been intercepted.
"The same formula, huh?" Van Buskirk roared, and "Just another lieutenant, that sounds like, not Boskone himself." Thorndyke added.
"Perhaps so, perhaps no." The Gray Lensman was merely thoughtful. "It doesn't prove a thing except that Helmuth was not Boskone, which was already fairly certain. If we can prove that there is such a being as Boskone, and that he is not in this Galaxy—well, in that case, we'll go somewhere else," he concluded, with grim finality.
The chase was comparatively short, leading toward a yellowish star around which swung eight average-sized planets. Toward one of these flew the unsuspecting pirate, followed by the Patrol vessel, and it soon became apparent that there was a battle going on. One spot upon the planet's surface, either a city or a tremendous military base, was domed over by a screen which was one blinding glare of radiance. And for miles in every direction ships of space were waging spectacularly devastating warfare.
Kinnison shot a thought down into the fortress, and with the least possible introduction or preamble, got into touch with one of its high officers. He was not surprised to learn that those people were more or less human in appearance, since the planet was quite similar to Tellus in age, climate, atmosphere, and mass.
"Yes, we are fighting Boskonia," the answering thought came coldly clear. "We need help, and badly. Can you—"
"We're detected!" Kinnison's attention was seized by a yell from the board. "They're all coming at us at once!"
Whether the scientists of Boskone developed the detector-nullifier before or after Helmuth's failure to deduce the Lensman's use of such an instrument is a nice question, and one upon which a great deal has been said. While interesting, the point is really immaterial here; the facts remaining the same—that the pirates not only had it at the time of the Patrol's first visit to the Second Galaxy, but had used it to such good advantage that the denizens of that recalcitrant planet had been forced, in the sheer desperation of self-preservation, to work out a scrambler for that nullification and to surround their world with its radiations. They could not restore perfect detection, but the conditions for complete nullification were so critical that it was a comparatively simple matter to upset it sufficiently so that an image of a sort was revealed. And, at that close range, any sort of an image was enough.
TheDauntless, approaching the planet, entered the zone of scrambling and stood revealed plainly enough upon the plates of enemy vessels. They attacked instantly and viciously; within a second after the lookout had shouted his warning the outer screens of the Patrol ship were blazing incandescent under the furious assaults of a dozen Boskonian beams.
IV.
For a moment all eyes were fixed apprehensively upon meters and recorders, but there was no immediate cause for alarm. The builders of theDauntlesshad builded well; her outer screen, the lightest of her series of four, was carrying the attackers' load with no sign of distress.
"Strap down, everybody," the expedition's commander ordered then. "Inert her, Hen. Match velocity with that base," and as Master Pilot Henry Henderson cut his Bergenholm, the vessel lurched wildly aside as its intrinsic velocity was restored.
Henderson's fingers swept over his board as rapidly and as surely as those of an organist over the banked keys of his console; producing, not chords and arpeggios of harmony, but roaring blasts of precisely controlled power. Each keylike switch controlled one jet. Lightly and fleetingly touched, it produced a gentle urge; at sharp, full contact it yielded a mighty, solid shove; depressed still farther, so as to lock into any one of a dozen notches, it brought into being a torrent of propulsive force of any desired magnitude, which ceased only when its key-release was touched.
And Henderson was a virtuoso. Smoothly, effortlessly, but in a space of seconds the great vessel rolled over, spiraled, and swung until her landing jets were in line and exerting five gravities of thrust. Then, equally smoothly, almost imperceptibly, the line of force was varied until the flame-enshrouded dome was stationary below them. Nobody, not even the two other Master Pilots, and least of all Henderson himself, paid any attention to the polished perfection, the consummate artistry, of the performance. That was his job. He was a Master Pilot, and one of the hallmarks of his rating was the habit of making difficult maneuvers look easy.
"Take 'em now, chief? Can't we, huh?" Chatway, the chief firing officer, did not say those words. He did not need to. The attitude and posture of the C.F.O. and his subordinates made the thought tensely plain.
"Not yet, Chatty," the Lensman answered the unsent thought. "We'll have to wait until they englobe us, so that we can get them all. It's got to be all or none. If even one of them gets away, or even has time to analyze and report on the stuff we're going to use, it'll be just too bad."
He then got in touch with the officer within the beleaguered base and renewed the conversation at the point at which it had been broken off.
"We can help you, I think; but to do so effectively we must have clear ether. Will you please order your ships away, out of even extreme range?"
"For how long? They can do us irreparable damage in one rotation of the planet."
"One-twentieth of that time, at most—if we cannot do it in that time we cannot do it at all. Nor will they direct many beams at you, if any. They will be working on us."
Then, as the defending ships darted away, Kinnison turned to his C. F. O. "QX, Chatty. Open up with your secondaries. Fire at will!"
Then from projectors of a power theretofore carried only by maulers, there raved out against the nearest Boskonian vessels beams of a vehemence compared to which the enemies' own seemed weak, futile. And those were the secondaries!
As has been intimated, theDauntlesswas an unusual ship. She was enormous. She was bigger even than a mauler in actual bulk and mass; and from needle-beaked prow to jet-studded stern she was literally packed with power—power for any emergency conceivable to the fertile minds of Port Admiral Haynes and his staff of designers and engineers. Instead of two, or at most three intake-screen exciters, she had two hundred. Her bus bars, instead of being the conventional rectangular coppers, of a few square inches cross-sectional area, were laminated members built up of co-axial tubing of pure silver to a diameter of over a yard—multiple and parallel conductors, each of whose current-carrying capacity was to be measured only in millions of amperes. And everything else aboard that mighty engine of destruction was upon the same Gargantuan scale.
Titanic though those thrusts were, not a pirate ship was seriously hurt. Outer screens went down, and more than a few of the second lines of defense also failed. But that was the Patrolmen's strategy; to let the enemy know that they had weapons of offense somewhat superior to their own, but not quite powerful enough to be a real menace.
In minutes, therefore, the Boskonians rushed up and englobed the newcomer; supposing, of course, that she was a product of the world below, that she was manned by the race who had so long and so successfully fought off Boskonian encroachment.
They attacked, and under the concentrated fury of their beams, the outer screen of the Patrol ship began to fail. Higher and higher into the spectrum it radiated, blinding white—blue—an intolerable violet glare; then, patchily, through the invisible ultraviolet and into the black of extinction. The second screen resisted longer and more stubbornly, but finally it also went down; the third automatically taking up the burden of defense. Simultaneously, the power of Civilization's projectors weakened, as though theDauntlesswere shifting her power from offense to defense in order to stiffen her third, and supposedly her last, shielding screen.
"Pretty soon, now, Chatway," Kinnison observed. "Just as soon as they can report that they have us in a bad way; that it is just a matter of time until they blow us out of the ether. Better report now—I'll put you on the spool."
"We are equipped to energize simultaneously eight of the new, replaceable-unit primary projectors," the C.F.O. stated, crisply. "There are twenty-one vessels englobing us, and no others within detection. With a discharge period of point six oh second and a switching interval of point oh nine, the entire action should occupy one point nine eight seconds."
"Chief Communications Officer Nelson on the spool. Can the last surviving ship of the enemy report enough in two seconds to do us material harm?"
"In my opinion it cannot, sir," Nelson reported, formally. "The communications officer is neither an observer nor a technician; he merely transmits whatever material is given him by other officers for transmission. If he is already working a beam to his base at the moment of our first blast, he might be able to report the destruction of vessels, but he could not be specific as to the nature of the agent used. Such a report could do no harm, as the fact of the destruction of the vessels will in any event become apparent shortly. Since we are apparently being overcome easily, however, and this is a routine action, the probability is that this detachment is not in direct communication with Base at any given moment. If not, he could not establish working control in two seconds."
"Kinnison now reporting. Having determined to the best of my ability that engaging the enemy at this time will not enable them to send Boskone any information regarding our primary armament, I now give the word to—fire."
The underlying principle of the destructive beam produced by overloading a regulation projector had, it is true, been discovered by a Boskonian technician. In so far as Boskonia was concerned, however, the secret had died with its inventor, since the pirates had at that time no headquarters in the First Galaxy. And the Patrol had had months of time in which to perfect it, for that work was begun before the last of Helmuth's guardian fortress had been destroyed.
The projector was not now fatal to its crew, since they were protected from the lethal back-radiation, not only by shields of force, but also by foot after impenetrable foot of lead, osmium, carbon, and paraffin. The refractories were of neo-cargalloy, backed and permeated by M K R fields; the radiators were constructed of the most ultimately resistant materials known to the science of the age. But even so, the unit had a useful life of but little over half a second, so frightful was the overload at which it was used. Like a rifle cartridge, it was good for only one shot. Then it was thrown away, to be replaced by a new unit.
Those problems were relatively simple of solution. Switching those enormous energies was the great stumbling block. The old Kimmerling block-dispersion circuit breaker was prone to arc over under loads much in excess of a hundred billion KW, hence could not even be considered in this new application. However, the Patrol force finally succeeded in working out a combination of the immersed-antenna and the semi-permeable-condenser types, which they called the Thorndyke heavy-duty switch. It was cumbersome, of course—any device to interrupt voltages and amperages of the really astronomical magnitude in question could not at that time be small—but it was positive, fast-acting, and reliable.
At Kinnison's word of command, eight of those indescribable primary beams lashed out; stilettos of irresistibly penetrant energy which not even a Q-type helix could withstand. Through screens, through wall shields, and through metal they hurtled in a space of time almost too brief to be measured. Then, before each beam expired, it was swung a little, so that the victim was literally split apart or carved into sections. Performance exceeded by far that of the hastily improvised weapon which had so easily destroyed the heavy cruisers of the Patrol; in fact, it checked almost exactly with the theoretical figures of the designers.
As the first eight beams winked out, eight more came into being, then five more; and meanwhile the mighty secondaries were sweeping the heavens with full-aperture cones of destruction. Metal meant no more to those rays than did organic material; everything solid or liquid whiffed into vapor and disappeared. TheDauntlesslay alone in the sky of that new world.
"Marvelous—wonderful!" the thought beat into Kinnison's brain as soon as he re-established rapport with the being so far below. "We have recalled our ships. Will you please come down to our spaceport at once, so that we can put into execution a plan which has been long in preparation?"
"As soon as your ships are down," the Tellurian acquiesced. "Not sooner, as your landing conventions are doubtless very unlike our own and we do not wish to cause disaster. Give me the word when your field is entirely clear."
That word came soon, and Kinnison nodded to the pilots. Once more inertialess, theDauntlessshot downward, deep into atmosphere, before her inertia was restored. Rematching velocity this time was a simple matter, and upon the towering, powerfully resilient pillars of her landing-jets the inconceivable mass of the Tellurian ship of war settled toward the ground, as lightly seeming as a wafted thistle-down.
"Their cradles wouldn't fit us, of course, even if they were big enough—which they aren't, by half," Schermerhorn commented. "Where do they want us to put her?"
"'Anywhere,' they say," the Lensman answered, "but we don't want to take that too literally—without a solid dock she'll make an awful hole, wherever we set her down. Won't hurt her any. She's designed for it. We couldn't expect to find cradles to fit her anywhere except on Tellus. I'd say to lay her down on her belly over there in that corner, out of the way, as close to that big hangar as you can work without blasting it out with your jets."
As Kinnison had intimated, the lightness of the vessel was indeed only seeming. Superbly and effortlessly the big boat seeped downward into the designated corner; but when she touched the pavement she did not stop. Still easily and without jar or jolt she settled—a full twenty feet into the concrete, reinforcing steel and hard-packed earth of the field before she came to a halt.
"What a monster! Who are they? Where could they have come from?" Kinnison caught a confusion of startled thoughts as the real size and mass of the visitor became apparent to the natives. Then again came the clear thought of the officer.
"We would like very much to have you and as many as possible of your companions come to confer with us as soon as you have tested our atmosphere. Come in spacesuits if you must."
The air was tested and found suitable. True, it did not match exactly that of Tellus, or Rigel IV, or Velantia; but then, neither did that of theDauntless, since that gaseous mixture was a compromise one, and mostly artificial to boot.
"Worsel, Tregonsee, and I will go to this conference," Kinnison decided. "The rest of you sit tight. I don't need to tell you to keep on your toes, that anything is apt to happen, anywhere, without warning. Keep your detectors full out and keep your noses clean—be ready like the good little endeavorers you are, 'to do with all your might what your hands find to do.' Come on, fellows," and the three Lensmen strode, wriggled, and waddled across the field, to and into a spacious room of the Administration Building.
"Strangers, or, I should say friends, I introduce you to Wise, our president," Kinnison's acquaintance said, clearly enough, although it was plain to all three Lensmen that he was shocked at the sight of the Earthman's companions.
"I am informed that you understand our language—" the president began doubtfully.
He, too, was staring at Tregonsee and Worsel. He had been told that Kinnison, and therefore, supposed, the rest of the visitors, were beings fashioned more or less after his own pattern. But these two creatures!
For they were not even remotely human in form. Tregonsee, the Rigellian, with his leathery, multiappendaged, oil-drumlike body, his immobile dome of a head and his four blocky pillars of legs must at first sight have appeared fantastic indeed. And Worsel, the Velantian, was infinitely worse. He was repulsive, a thing materialized from sheerest nightmare—a leather-winged, crocodile-headed, crooked-armed, thirty-foot long, pythonish, reptilian monstrosity!
But the President of Medon saw at once that which the three outlanders had in common. The Lenses, each glowingly aflame with its own innate pseudo-vitality—Kinnison's clamped to his brawny wrist by a band of iridium-osmium-tungsten alloy; Tregonsee's embedded in the glossy black flesh of one mighty, sinuous arm; Worsel's apparently driven deep and with cruel force into the horny, scaly hide squarely in the middle of his forehead, between two of his weirdly stalked, repulsively extensible eyes.
"It is not your language we understand, but your thoughts, by virtue of these our Lenses which you have already noticed." The president gasped as Kinnison bulleted the information into his mind. "Go ahead.... Just a minute!" as an unmistakable sensation swept through his being. "We've gonefree! The whole planet, I perceive. In that respect, at least, you are in advance of us. As far as I know, no scientist of any of our races has even thought of a Bergenholm big enough to free a world."
"It was long in the designing; many years in the building of its units," Wise replied. "We are leaving this sun in an attempt to escape from our enemy and yours; Boskone. It is our only chance of survival. The means have long been ready, but the opportunity which you have just made for us is the first that we have had. This is the first time in many, many years that not a single Boskonian vessel is in position to observe our flight."
"Where are you going? Surely the Boskonians will be able to find you if they wish."
"That is possible, but we must run that risk. We must have a respite or perish; after a long lifetime of continuous warfare, our resources are at the point of exhaustion. There is a part of this Galaxy in which there are very few planets, and of those few, none are inhabited or habitable. Since nothing is to be gained, ships seldom or never go there. If we can reach that region undetected, the probability is that we shall be unmolested long enough to recuperate."
Kinnison exchanged flashing thoughts with his two fellow Lensmen, then turned again to Wise.
"We come from a neighboring Galaxy," he informed him, and pointed out to his mind just which Galaxy he meant. "You are fairly close to the edge of this one. Why not move over to ours? You have no friends here, since you think that yours may be the only remaining independent planet. We can assure you of friendship. We can also give you some hope of peace—or at least semipeace—in the near future, for we are driving Boskonia out of our Galaxy."
"What you think of as 'semipeace' would be tranquillity incarnate to us," the old man replied with feeling. "We have, in fact, considered long that very move. We decided against it for two reasons: first, because we knew nothing about conditions there, and hence might be going from bad to worse; and second and more important, because of lack of reliable data upon the density of matter in intergalactic space. Lacking that, we could not estimate the time necessary for the journey, and we could have no assurance that our sources of power, great as they are, would be sufficient to make up the heat lost by radiation."
"We have already given you an idea of conditions and we can give you the data you lack."
They did so, and for a matter of minutes the Medonians conferred. Meanwhile Kinnison went on a mental expedition to one of the power plants. He expected to see supercolossal engines; bus bars ten feet thick, perhaps cooled in liquid helium; and other things in proportion. But what he actually saw made him gasp for breath and call Tregonsee's attention. The Rigellian sent out his sense of perception with Kinnison's, and he also was almost stunned.
"What's the answer, Trig?" the Earthman asked, finally. "This is more down your alley than mine. That motor's about the size of my foot, and if it isn't eating a thousand pounds an hour I'm Klono's maiden aunt. And the whole output is going out on two wires no bigger than number four, jacketed together like ordinary parallel pair. Perfect insulator? If so, how about switching?"
"That must be it, a substance of practically infinite resistance," the Rigellian replied absently, studying intently the peculiar mechanism. "Must have a better conductor than silver, too, unless they can handle voltages of ten to the fifteenth or so, and don't see how they could break such potentials.... Guess they don't use switches ... don't see any ... must shut down the prime sources.... No, there it is—so small that I overlooked it completely. In that little box there! Sort of a jam-plate type; a thin sheet of insulation with a knife on the leading edge, working in a slot to cut the two conductors apart—kills the arc by jamming into the tight slot at the end of the box. The conductors must fuse together at each make and burn away a little at each break, that's why they have renewable tips. Kim, they've really got something! I certainly am going to stay here and do some studying."
"Yes, and we'll have to rebuild theDauntless—"
The two Lensmen were called away from their study by Worsel—the Medonians had decided to accept the invitation to attempt to move to the First Galaxy. Orders were given, the course was changed and the planet, now a veritable spaceship, shot away in the new direction.
"Not as many legs as a speedster, of course, but at that, she's no slouch—we're making plenty of lights," Kinnison commented, then turned to the president. "It seems rather presumptuous for us to call you simply 'Wise,' especially as I gather that that is not really your formal name—"
"That is what I am called, and that is what you are to call me," the oldster replied: "We of Medon do not have names. Each has a number; or, rather, a symbol composed of numbers and letters of our alphabet—a symbol which gives his full classification. Since these things are too clumsy for regular use, however, each of us is given a nickname, usually an adjective, which is supposed to be more or less descriptive. You of Earth we could not give a complete symbol, your two companions we could not give any at all. However, you may be interested in knowing that you three have already been named?"
"Very much so."
"You are to be called 'Keen.' He of Rigel IV is 'Strong,' and he of Velantia is 'Agile.'"
"Quite complimentary to me, but—"
"Not bad at all, I'd say," Tregonsee broke in. "But hadn't we better be getting on with more serious business?"
"We should indeed," Wise agreed. "We have much to discuss with you; particularly the weapon you used."
"Could you get an analysis of it?" Kinnison asked, sharply.
"No. No one beam was in operation long enough. However, a study of the recorded data, particularly the figure for intensity—figures so high as to be almost unbelievable—lead us to believe that the beam is the result of an enormous overload upon a projector otherwise of more or less conventional type. Some of us have wondered why we did not think of the idea ourselves—"
"So did we, when it was used on us," Kinnison grinned and went off to explain the origin of the primary. "But before we go into details, I noticed that your fixed-mount stuff could not work effectively through atmosphere. We have what we call Q-type helices, with which we incase such beams so that they work in a tube of vacuum. We will give you the Q-formulæ and also the working hookup—including the protective devices, because they're mighty dangerous without plenty of force-backing—of the primaries, in exchange for some lessons in power-plant design."
"Such an exchange of knowledge would be helpful indeed," Wise agreed.
"The Boskonians know nothing whatever of this beam, and we do not want them to learn of it," Kinnison cautioned. "Therefore I have two suggestions to make. First, that you try everything else before you use this primary beam. Second, that you don't use it even then unless you can wipe out, as nearly simultaneously as we did out there, every Boskonian who may be able to report back to his base as to what really happened. Fair enough?"
"Eminently so. We agree without reservation—it is to our interest as much as yours that such a secret be kept from Boskone."
"QX. Fellow, let's go back to the ship for a couple of minutes." Then, aboard theDauntless: "Tregonsee, you and your crew want to stay with the planet, to show the Medonians what to do and to help them along generally, as well as to learn about their power system. Thorndyke, you and your gang, and probably Lensman Hotchkiss, had better study these things, too—you'll know what you want as soon as they show you the hookup. Worsel, I'd like to have you stay with the ship. You're in command of her until further orders. Keep her here for, say, a week or ten days, until the planet is well out of the Galaxy. Then, if Hotchkiss and Thorndyke haven't got all the dope they want, leave them here to ride back with Tregonsee on the planet and drill theDauntlessfor Tellus. Keep yourself more or less disengaged for a while, and sort of keep tuned to me. I may not need an ultra-long-range communicator, but you never can tell."
"Why such comprehensive orders, Kim?" asked Hotchkiss. "Who ever heard of a commander abandoning his expeditions? Aren't you sticking around?"
"Nope—got to do a flit. Think maybe I'm getting an idea. Break out my speedster, will you, Allerdyce?"—and the Gray Lensman was gone.
V.
Kinnison's speedster shot away and made an undetectable, uneventful voyage back to the Earth. In due time, therefore, the Gray Lensman was again closeted with Port Admiral Haynes.
"Why the foliage?" the chief of staff asked, almost at sight, for the Gray Lensman was wearing a more-than-half-grown beard.
"I may need to be Chester Q. Fordyce for a while. If I don't, I can shave it off quick. If I do, a real beard is a lot better than an imitation," and he plunged into his subject.
"Very fine work, son, very fine indeed," Haynes congratulated the younger man at the conclusion of his report. "We shall begin at once, and be ready to rush things through when the technicians bring back the necessary data from Medon. But there's one more thing I want to ask you. How did you come to place those spotting-screens so exactly? The beam practically dead-centered them. You said that it was surmise and suspicion before it happened, but I thought then and still think that you had a much firmer foundation than any kind of a mere hunch. What was it?"
"Deduction, based upon an unproved, but logical, cosmogonic theory—but you probably know more about that stuff than I do."
"Highly improbable. I read just a smattering now and then of the doings of the astronomers and astrophysicists. I didn't know that that was one of your specialties, either."
"It isn't, but I had to do a little cramming. We'll have to go back quite a while to make it clear. You know, of course, that a long time ago, before even interplanetary ships were developed, the belief was general that not more than about four planetary solar systems could be in existence at any one time in the whole Galaxy?"
"Yes, I am familiar with that belief—a consequence of the binary-dynamic-encounter theory in a too-limited application. The theory itself is still good, isn't it?"
"Eminently so—every other theory is wrecked by its failure to account for the quantity and above all, the distribution, of angular momentum of planetary systems. But you know what I'm going to say—that 'limited application' proves it!"
"No, just let's say that a bit of light is beginning to dawn. Go ahead."
"QX. Well, when it was discovered that there were millions of times as many planets in the Galaxy as could be accounted for by a dynamic encounter occurring once in two times ten to the tenth years or so, some way had to be figured out to increase, millionfold, the number of such encounters. Manifestly, the random motion of the stars within the Galaxy could not account for it. Neither could the vibration or oscillation of the globular clusters through the Galaxy. The meeting of two Galaxies—the passage of them completely through each other, edgewise—would account for it very nicely. It would also account for the fact that the solar systems on one side of the Galaxy tend to be somewhat older than the ones on the apposite side. Question; find the Galaxy. It was van der Schleiss, I believe, who found it. Lundmark's Nebula. It is edge on to us, with a receding velocity of twelve hundred and forty-six miles per second—the exact velocity which, corrected for gravitational decrement, will put Lundmark's Nebula right here at the time when, according to our best geophysicists and geochemists, old Earth was being born. If that theory was correct, Lundmark's Nebula should also be full of planets. Four expeditions went out to check the theory, and none of them came back. We know why, now—Boskone got them. We got back, because of you, and only you."
"Holy Klono!" the old man breathed, paying no attention to the tribute. "It checks—howit checks!"
"To nineteen decimals."
"But still it doesn't explain why you set your traps on that line."
"Sure it does. How many Galaxies are there in the Universe, do you suppose, that are full of planets?"
"Why, all of them I suppose—or no, not so many perhaps—I don't know—I don't remember of having read anything on that question."
"No, and you probably won't. Only loose-screwed space detectives, like me, and crackpot science-fiction writers, like Wacky Willison, have noodles vacuous enough to harbor such thin ideas. But, according to our admittedly highly tenuous reasoning, there are only two such Galaxies—Lundmark's Nebula and ours."
"Huh? Why?" demanded Haynes.
"Because Galaxies don't collide much, if any, oftener than binaries within a Galaxy do," Kinnison asserted. "True, they are closer together in space, relative to their actual linear dimensions, than are stars; but on the other hand, their relative motions are slower—that is, a star will traverse the average interstellar distance much quicker than a Galaxy will the intergalactic one—so that the whole thing evens up. As nearly as Wacky and I could figure it, two Galaxies will collide deeply enough to produce a significant number of planetary solar systems on an average of once in just about one point eight times ten to the tenth years. Pick up your slide rule and check me on it, if you like."
"I'll take your word for it," the old Lensman murmured absently. "But any Galaxy probably has at least a couple of solar systems all the time—but I see your point. The probability is overwhelmingly great that Boskone would be in a Galaxy having hundreds of millions of planets rather than in one having only a dozen or less inhabitable worlds. But at that, theycouldall have lots of planets. Suppose that our wilder thinkers are right, that Galaxies are grouped into Universes, which are spaced, roughly, about the same as the Galaxies are. Two ofthemcould collide, couldn't they?"
"They could, but you're getting 'way out of my range now. At this point the detective withdraws, leaving a clear field for you and the science-fiction imaginationeer."
"Well, finish the thought—that I'm wackier even than he is!" Both men laughed, and the Port Admiral went on: "It's a fascinating speculation—it does no harm to let the fancy roam at times—but at that, there are things of much greater importance. You think, then, that the thionite ring enters into this matrix?"
"Bound to. Everything ties in. The most intelligent races of this Galaxy are oxygen-breathers, with warm, red blood: the only kind of physique which thionite affects. The more of us who get the thionite habit, the better for Boskone. It explains why we have never got to the first check station in getting any of the real higher-ups in the thionite game; instead of being an ordinary criminal ring they've got all the brains and all the resources of Boskonia back of them. But if they are that big—and as good as we know they are—I wonder why—" Kinnison's voice trailed off into silence; his brain raced.
"I want to ask you a question that is none of my business," the young Lensman went on almost immediately, in a voice strangely altered. "Just how long ago was it that you started losing fifth-year men just before graduation? I mean, that boys sent to Arisia to be measured for their Lenses supposedly never got there? Or at least, they never came back and no Lenses were ever received for them?"
"About ten years. Twelve, I think, to be ex—" Haynes broke off in the middle of the word and his eyes bored into those of the younger man. "What makes you think that there were any such?"
"Deduction again, but this time I know that I'm right. At least one every year. Usually two or three."
"Right, but there have always been space accidents ... or they were caught by the pirates ... you think, then, that—"
"I don't think. Iknow!" Kinnison declared. "They got to Arisia,and they died there. All I can say is, thank God for the Arisians! We can still trust our Lenses; they are seeing to that."
"But why didn't they tell us?" Haynes asked, perplexed.
"They wouldn't; that isn't their way," Kinnison stated, flatly and with conviction. "They have given us an instrumentality, the Lens, by virtue of which we should be able to do the job, and they are seeing to it that that instrumentality remains untarnished. If we cannot handle it properly, that is our lookout. We've got to fight our own battles and bury our own dead. Now that we have smeared up the enemy's military organization in this Galaxy by wiping out Helmuth and his headquarters, the drug syndicate seems to be my best chance of getting a line on the real Boskone. While you are mopping up and keeping them from establishing another war base here, I think I'd better be getting at it, don't you?"
"Probably so—you know your own oysters best. Mind if I ask where you're going to start in?" Haynes looked at Kinnison quizzically as he spoke. "Have you deduced that, too?"
The Gray Lensman returned the look in kind. "No. Deduction couldn't take me quite that far," he replied in the same tone. "You are going to tell me that, when you get around to it."
"Me? Where do I come in?" the Port Admiral feigned surprise.
"As follows. Helmuth probably had nothing to do with the dope running, so its organization must still be intact. If so, they would take over as much of the other branch as they could get hold of, and hit us harder than ever. I haven't heard of any unusual activity around here, so it must be somewhere else. Wherever it is, you would know about it, since you are a member of Galactic Council; and Councillor Ellington, in charge of Narcotics, would hardly take any very important step without conferring with you, as port admiral and chief of staff. How near right am I?"
"On the center of the beam, all the way—your deducer is blasting at maximum," Haynes said, in admiration. "Radelix is the worst—they're hitting it mighty hard. We sent a full unit over there last week. Shall we recall them, or do you want to work independently?"
"Let them go on; I'll be of more use working on my own, I think. I did the boys over there a favor a while back—they would co-operate anyway, of course, but it's a little nicer to have them sort of owe it to me. We'll all be able to play together very nicely if the opportunity arises."
"I'm mighty glad you're taking this on. The Radeligians are stuck, and we had no real reason for thinking that our men could do any better. With this new angle of approach, however, and with you working behind the scenes, the picture looks entirely different."
"I'm afraid that's unjustifiably high—"
"Not a bit of it, lad. Just a minute—I'll break out a couple of beakers of fayalin—Luck!"
"Thanks, chief!"
"Down the hatch!" and again the Gray Lensman was gone. To the spaceport, into his speedster, and away—hurtling through the void at the maximum blast of the fastest space-flier then boasted by the Galactic Patrol.
During the long trip, Kinnison exercised, thought, and studied spool after spool of tape—the Radeligian language. Thoughts of the red-headed nurse obtruded themselves strongly at times, but he put them aside resolutely. He was, he assured himself, off women forever—all women. He cultivated his new beard; trimming it, with the aid of a triplex mirror and four stereoscopic photographs, into something which, although neat and spruce enough, was too full and bushy by half to be a Vandyke. Also, he moved his Lens bracelet up his arm and rayed the white skin thus exposed until his whole wrist was the same even shade of tan.
He did not drive his speedster to Radelix, for that racy little fabrication would have been recognized anywhere for what she was; and private citizens simply did not drive ships of that type. Therefore, with every possible precaution of secrecy, he landed her in a Patrol base four solar systems away. In that base Kimball Kinnison disappeared; but the tall, shock-haired, bushy-bearded Chester Q. Fordyce—cosmopolite, man of leisure, and dilettante in science—who took the next space liner for Radelix was not precisely the same individual who had come to that planet a few days before with that name and those unmistakable characteristics.
Mr. Chester Q. Fordyce, then, and not Gray Lensman Kimball Kinnison, disembarked at Ardith, the world-capital of Radelix. He took up his abode at the Hotel Ardith-Splendide and proceeded, with neither too much nor too little fanfare, to be his cosmopolitan self in those circles of society in which, wherever he might find himself, he was wont to move.
As a matter of course, he entertained, and was entertained by, the Tellurian Ambassador. Equally as a matter of course, he attended divers and sundry functions, at which he made the acquaintance of hundreds of persons, many of them personages. That one of these should have been Vice-Admiral Gerrond, Lensman in charge of the Patrol's Radeligian base, was inevitable.
It was, then, a purely routine and logical development that at a reception one evening Vice-Admiral Gerrond stopped to chat for a moment with Mr. Fordyce; and it was purely accidental that the nearest bystander was a few yards distant. Hence, Mr. Fordyce's conduct was strange enough.
"Gerrond!" he said without moving his lips and in a tone almost inaudible, the while he was offering the Admiral an Alsakanite cigarette. "Don't look at me particularly right now, and don't show surprise. Study me for the next ten minutes, then put your Lens on me and tell me whether you have ever seen me before or not." Then, glancing at the watch upon his left wrist—a time-piece just about as large and as ornate as a wrist watch could be and still remain in impeccable taste—he murmured something conventional and strolled away.
The ten minutes passed and he felt Gerrond's thought. A peculiar sensation, this, being on the receiving end of a single beam, instead of using his own Lens.
"As far as I can tell, I have never seen you before. You are certainly not one of our agents, and if you are one of Haynes' whom I have ever worked with you have done a wonderful job of disguising. I must have met you somewhere, sometime, else there would be no point to your question; but beyond the evident—and admitted—fact that you are a white Tellurian, I can't seem to place you."
"Does this help?" This question was shot through Kinnison's own Lens.
"Since I have known so few Tellurian Lensmen it tells me that you must be Kinnison, but I do not recognize you at all readily. You seem changed—older—besides, who ever heard of an Unattached Lensman doing the work of an ordinary agent?"
"I am both older and changed—partly natural and partly artificial. As for the work, it's a job that no ordinary agent can handle—it takes a lot of special equipment—"