Galactic Patrol

                         By E. E. Smith, Ph.D.

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
           Astounding Stories September, October, November,
                December 1937, January, February 1938.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


Dominating twice a hundred square miles of campus, parade ground,
airport, and space port, a ninety-story edifice of chromium and glass
sparkled dazzlingly in the bright sunlight of a June morning. This
monumental pile was Wentworth Hall, in which the Tellurian candidates
for the Lens of the Galactic Patrol live and move and have their being.
One wing of its topmost floor seethed with tense activity, for that
wing was the habitat of the lordly five-year men, this was graduation
day, and in a few minutes Class 5 was due to report in Room A.

Room A, the private office of the commandant himself; the dreadful lair
into which an undergraduate was summoned only to disappear from the
Hall and from the cadet corps; the portentous chamber into which each
year the handful of graduates marched and from which they emerged, each
man in some subtle fashion changed.

In their cubicles of steel the graduates scanned each other
narrowly, making sure that no wrinkle or speck of dust marred the
black-and-silver perfection of the dress uniform of the patrol;
that not even the tiniest spot of tarnish or dullness violated the
glittering golden meteors upon their collars or the resplendently
polished ray pistols and other equipment at their belts. The
microscopic mutual inspection over, the kit boxes were snapped shut and
racked, and the embryonic Lensmen made their way out into the assembly
hall.

In the wardroom Kimball Kinnison, captain of the class by virtue of
graduating at its head, and his three lieutenants, Clifford Maitland,
Raoul LaForge, and Widel Holmberg, had inspected each other minutely
and were now simply awaiting, in ever-increasing tension, the zero
minute.

"Now, fellows, remember that drop!" the young captain jerked out.
"We're dropping the shaft free, at higher velocity and in tighter
formation than any class ever tried before. If anybody hashes the
formation--our last show and with the whole corps looking on----"

"Don't worry about the drop, Kim," advised Maitland. "All three
platoons will take that like clockwork. What's got me all of a dither
is what is really going to happen in Room A."

"Uh-_huh_!" exclaimed LaForge and Holmberg as one.

"You can play that across the board for the whole class," Kinnison
agreed. "Well, we'll soon know. It's time to get going."

The four officers stepped out into the assembly hall, the class
springing to attention at their approach.

Kinnison, now all brisk captain, stared along the mathematically exact
lines and snapped: "Report!"

"Class 5 present in full, sir!" The sergeant major touched a stud at
his belt and all vast Wentworth Hall fairly trembled under the impact
of an all-pervading, lilting, throbbing melody as the world's finest
military band crashed into "Our Patrol."

"Squads left--march!" Although no possible human voice could have
been heard in that gale of soul-stirring sound, and although
Kinnison's lips did not move, his command was carried to the very
bones of those for whom it was intended--and to no one else--by the
tight-beam ultra-communicators strapped upon their chests. "Close
formation--forward--march!"

       *       *       *       *       *

In perfect alignment and cadence, the little column marched down the
hall. In their path yawned the shaft--a vertical pit some twenty feet
square extending from main floor to roof of the Hall; more than a
thousand sheer feet of unobstructed air, cleared now of all traffic
by flaring red lights. Five left heels clicked sharply, simultaneously
upon the lip of the stupendous abyss. Five right legs swept out
into emptiness. Five right hands snapped to belts and five bodies,
rigidly erect, arrowed downward at such an appalling velocity that to
unpracticed vision they simply vanished.

Six tenths of a second later, precisely upon a beat of the stirring
march, those ten heels struck the main floor of Wentworth Hall, but not
with a click. Dropping with a velocity of almost two thousand feet per
second though they were at the instant of impact, yet those five husky
bodies came from full speed to an instantaneous, shockless, effortless
halt at contact. The drop had been made under complete neutralization
of inertia--"free," in space parlance. Inertia restored, the march
was resumed--or rather continued--in perfect time with the band. Five
left feet swung out, and as the right toes left the floor the second
rank, with only bare inches to spare, plunged down into the space its
predecessor had occupied a moment before.

Rank after rank landed and marched away with machinelike precision. The
dread door of Room A opened automatically at the approach of the cadets
and closed behind them.

"Column right--march!" Kinnison commanded inaudibly, and the
class obeyed in clockwork perfection. "Column left--march! Squads
right--march! Company--halt! Salute!"

In company front, in a huge, square room devoid of furniture, the class
faced the ogre--Inspector General Fritz von Hohendorff, commandant of
cadets. Martinet, tyrant, dictator--he was known throughout the system
as the embodiment of soullessness; and, insofar as he had ever been
known to show emotion or feeling before any undergraduate, he seemed to
glory in his repute of being the most pitilessly rigid disciplinarian
that Earth had ever known. His thick, white hair was roached fiercely
upward into a stiff pompadour. His left eye was of glass and his face
bore dozens of tiny, thread-like scars; for not even the marvelous
plastic surgery of that age could repair entirely the havoc wrought
by the lethal rays of space combat. Also, his right leg and left arm,
although practically normal to all outward seeming, were in reality
largely products of science and art instead of nature.

Kinnison faced, then, this reconstructed potentate, saluted crisply,
and snapped: "Sir, Class 5 reports to the commandant."

"Take your post, sir." The veteran saluted as punctiliously; and as
he did so a semicircular desk rose around him from the floor--a desk
whose most striking feature was an intricate mechanism surrounding a
splintlike form so shaped as to receive a man's left arm.

"No. 1, Kimball Kinnison!" Von Hohendorff barked. "Front and
center--march! The oath, sir."

"Before the omnipotent witness I promise never to lower the standard of
the Galactic Patrol," Kinnison said reverently; and, baring his left
arm, thrust it into the hollow form.

       *       *       *       *       *

From a small container labeled: "No. 1, Kimball Kinnison," the
commandant shook out what was apparently an ornament--a lenticular
jewel fabricated of hundreds of tiny, dead-white gems. Taking it up
with a pair of insulated forceps, he touched it momentarily to the
bronzed skin of the arm before him, and at that fleeting contact a
flash as of many-colored fire swept over the stones. Satisfied, he
dropped the jewel into a recess provided for it in the mechanism, which
at once burst into activity.

The forearm was wrapped in thick insulation; molds and shields snapped
into place, and there flared out an instantly suppressed flash of
brilliance intolerable. Then the molds fell apart; the insulation was
removed; there was revealed the Lens. Clamped to Kinnison's brawny
wrist by a massive bracelet of imperishable, almost unbreakable, metal
in which it was embedded it shone in all its lambent splendor--no
longer a whitely inert piece of jewelry, but a lenticular polychrome of
writhing, almost fluid radiance, which proclaimed to all observers in
symbols of ever-changing flame that here was a Lensman of the Galactic
Patrol.

In similar fashion each man of the class was invested with the symbol
of his rank. Then the stern-faced inspector general touched a button
and from the bare metal floor there arose deeply upholstered chairs,
one for each graduate.

"Fall out!" he commanded, then smiled almost boyishly--the first
intimation any of the class had ever had that the hard-boiled old
tyrant _could_ smile--and went on in a strangely altered voice: "Sit
down, men, and smoke up. We have an hour in which to talk things over,
and now I can tell you what it is all about. Each of you will find his
favorite refreshment in the arm of his chair.

"No, there's no catch to it," he continued, in answer to amazedly
doubtful stares, and lighted a huge black cigar of Venus-grown tobacco
as he spoke. "You are Lensmen now, and henceforth each of you is
accountable only to himself and to GHQ. Of course, you have yet to go
through the formalities of commencement, but they don't count. Each of
you really graduated when the Lens was welded around his arm.

"We know your individual preferences, and each of you has his favorite
weed, from Tillotson's Pittsburgh stogies up to Snowden's Alsakanite
cigarettes--even though Alsakan is just about as far away from here as
a planet can be and still lie within the galaxy.

"We also know that you are all immune to the lure of noxious drugs.
If you were not, you would not be here to-day. So smoke up and speak
up. Ask any questions you care to, and I will try to answer them.
Nothing is barred now. This room is shielded against any spy ray or
communicator beam operable upon any known frequency."

There was a brief and rather uncomfortable silence. Then Kinnison
suggested, diffidently: "Might it not be best, sir, to tell us all
about it, from the ground up? I imagine that most of us are in too
much of a daze to ask intelligent questions."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Perhaps. While some of you undoubtedly have your suspicions, I
will begin by telling you what is behind what you have been put
through during the last five years. Feel perfectly free to break in
with questions at any time. You know that every year one million
eighteen-year-old boys of Earth are chosen as cadets by competitive
examinations. You know that during the first year, before any of them
see Wentworth Hall, that number shrinks to less than fifty thousand.
You know that by graduation day there are only, approximately, one
hundred left in the class. Now I am allowed to tell you that you
graduates are those who have come with flying colors through the most
brutally rigid, the most fiendishly thorough process of elimination
that it has been possible to develop.

"Every man who can be made to reveal any sign of weakness is dropped.
Most of these are dismissed from the patrol. There are many splendid
men, however, who, for some reason not involving moral turpitude, are
not quite what a Lensman must be. These men make up our organization,
from grease monkeys up to the highest commissioned officers below the
rank of Lensman. This explains what you already know--that the Galactic
Patrol is the finest body of intelligent beings yet to serve under one
banner.

"Of the million who started, you few are left. As must every being who
has ever worn or who ever will wear the Lens, each of you has proven
repeatedly, to the cold verge of death itself, that he is in every
possible respect worthy to wear it. For instance, Kinnison here once
had a highly adventurous interview with a lady of Aldebaran II and her
friends. He did not know that we knew all about it, but we did."

Kinnison's very ears burned scarlet, but the commandant went
imperturbably on: "So it was with Voelker and the hypnotist of
Karalon; with LaForge and the bentlam eaters; with Flewelling when the
Ganymede-Venus thionite smugglers tried to bribe him with ten million
in gold."

"Good Heavens, commandant!" broke in one outraged youth. "Didn't we do
any real work at all?"

"Plenty of it; but at the same time each of you underwent enough
testing to prove definitely that you could not be cracked. And none of
you need be ashamed, for you have passed every test. Those who did not
pass them were those who were dropped.

"Nor is it any disgrace to have been dismissed from the service before
graduation into the patrol. The million who started with you were
the pick of the planet, yet we knew in advance that of that selected
million scarcely one in ten thousand would measure up in every
essential. Therefore, it would be manifestly unfair to stigmatize the
rest of them because they were not born with that extra something, that
ultimate quality of fiber which does, and of stern necessity _must_,
characterize the wearers of the Lens. For that reason not even the man
himself knows why he was dismissed, and no one save those who wear the
Lens knows why they were selected--and a member of the patrol does not
talk.

"It is necessary to consider the history and background of the patrol
in order to bring out clearly the necessity for such care in the
selection of its personnel. You are all familiar with it, but probably
very few of you have thought of it in that connection. The patrol is,
of course, an outgrowth of the old planetary police systems; and, until
its development, law enforcement always lagged behind law violation.
Thus, in the old days following the invention of the automobile,
State troopers could not cross State lines. Then, when the national
police finally took charge, they could not follow the rocket-equipped
criminals across national boundaries.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Still later, when interplanetary flight became a commonplace, the
planetary police were at the same old disadvantage. They had no
authority off their own worlds, while the public enemies flitted
unhampered from planet to planet. And finally, with the invention of
the inertialess drive and the consequent traffic between the worlds
of hundreds of thousands of solar systems, crime became so rampant,
so utterly uncontrollable, that it threatened the very foundations of
civilization. A man could perpetrate any crime imaginable without fear
of consequences, for in an hour he could be thousands of light years
away from the scene and safely beyond the reach of the law.

"And helping powerfully toward utter chaos were the new vices, which
were spreading from world to world; among others the taking of new and
horrible drugs. Thionite, for instance; occurring only upon Trenco; a
drug as much deadlier than heroin as that compound is than coffee, and
which even now commands such a fabulous price that a man can carry a
fortune in one hollow boot heel.

"Thus our patrol came into being. At first it was a pitiful enough
organization. It was handicapped from without by politics and
politicians, and at the same time it was honeycombed from within by the
usual small but utterly poisonous percentage of the unfit--grafters,
corruptionists, bribe takers, and out-and-out criminals. It was also
hampered by the fact that there was then no emblem or credential which
could not be counterfeited. No one could tell with certainty that the
man in uniform was a patrolman and not a criminal in disguise.

"Slowly the patrol perfected itself. One of its greatest advances
came with the invention of the Lens; which, being proof against
counterfeiting or imitation, renders identification of all Lensmen
automatic. The patrol then set up its own military courts and executed
the few of its members guilty of misconduct. Standards of entrance were
raised ever higher, and when it had become evident that the patrol was,
to a man, incorruptible, it was granted more and ever more authority.

"Now its power is practically absolute. Its armament and equipment are
the ultimate; its members can follow the lawbreaker wherever he may
go. Furthermore, a Lensman can commandeer any material or assistance,
wherever and whenever required; and the Lens is so respected throughout
the galaxy that any wearer of it may be called upon at any time to be
judge, jury, and executioner. Wherever he goes, upon, in, or through
any land, water, air, or space, anywhere within the confines of our
Island Universe, his word is _law_.

"That, I think, explains what you have been forced to undergo. The
only excuse for its severity is that it produces results. In the last
hundred years no wearer of the Lens has disgraced it. Any questions?
About the Lens, for instance?"

"We have all wondered about the Lens, sir, of course," Maitland
ventured. "The outlaws apparently keep up with us in science. Boskone
himself is supposed to be a genius, and to have surrounded himself with
a scientific staff second to none in the known universe. I have always
supposed that what science can build, science can duplicate. Surely
more than one Lens has fallen into the hands of the outlaws?"

"If it had been a scientific invention it would have been duplicated
long ago," the commandant made surprising answer. "It is, however, not
essentially scientific in nature. It is almost entirely philosophical,
and was developed for us by the Arisians.

"Yes, each of you was sent to Arisia quite recently," Von Hohendorff
went on, as the newly commissioned officers glanced at each other in
dawning understanding. "What did you think of them, Murphy?"

"At first, sir, I thought that they were some new kind of dragon; but
dragons with brains that you could actually _feel_. I was glad to get
away, sir. They fairly gave me the creeps, even though I never did see
one of them so much as move."

       *       *       *       *       *

"They are a peculiar race," the commandant went on. "Essentially
antisocial--or rather, supremely indifferent to all material things.
For hundreds of thousands of generations they have devoted themselves
to thinking; mainly of the essence of life. They say that they know
scarcely anything fundamental concerning it; but even so they know more
about it than does any other known race. While ordinarily they will
have no intercourse whatever with outsiders, they did consent to help
the patrol, for the good of all intelligence.

"Thus, each being about to graduate into the patrol is sent to Arisia,
where a Lens is built to match its individual life force. While no mind
other than that of an Arisian can understand its operation, thinking of
your Lens as being synchronized with, or in exact resonance with your
own vital principle or ego will give you a rough idea of it. The Lens
is not really alive, as we understand the term. It is, however, endowed
with a sort of pseudolife, by virtue of which it gives off its strong,
characteristically changing light as long as it is in metal-to-flesh
circuit with the living mentality for which it was designed. Also, by
virtue of that pseudolife, it acts as a telepath through which you may
converse with other intelligences, even though they may possess no
organs either of sight or of hearing as we know those senses. It also
has other highly important uses.

"The Lens cannot be removed by any one except its wearer without
dismemberment; it glows as long as its rightful owner wears it; and it
ceases to glow in the instant of its owner's death. Also--and here is
the thing that renders impossible the impersonation of a Lensman--not
only does the Lens not glow if worn by an impostor; but if a patrolman
be dismembered and his Lens removed, that Lens kills, in a space of
minutes, any living being who attempts to wear it. Its pseudolife
interferes so strongly with any life to which it is not attuned that
that life force cannot exist in this plane."

       *       *       *       *       *

A brief silence fell, during which the young men absorbed the stunning
import of what their commandant had been saying. More, there was
striking into each young consciousness a realization of the stark
heroism of the grand old Lensman before them; a man of such fiber that
although physically incapacitated and long past the retirement age, he
had conquered his human emotions sufficiently to accept deliberately
his ogre's rôle, because in that way he could best further the progress
of his patrol!

"I have scarcely broken the ground," Von Hohendorff continued. "I have
merely given you an introduction to your new status. During the next
few weeks, before you are assigned to duty, other officers will make
clear to you the many things about which you are still in the dark. Our
time is growing short, but perhaps we have time for one more question."

"Not a question, sir, but something more important," Kinnison spoke
up. "I speak for the class when I say that we have misjudged you
grievously, and we wish to apologize."

"I thank you sincerely for the thought, although it is unnecessary.
You could not have thought otherwise of me than as you did. It is not
a particularly pleasant task that we old men have--that of weeding
out the unfit. But we are too old for active duty in space--we no
longer have the instantaneous nervous responses that are for that duty
imperative--so we do what we can. However, the work has its brighter
side, since each year there are about a hundred found worthy of the
Lens. This, my one hour with the graduates, more than makes up for the
year that precedes it; and the other oldsters have somewhat similar
compensations.

"In conclusion, you are now able to understand fully what kind of
mentalities compose our patrol. You know that any creature wearing the
Lens is in every sense a Lensman, whether he be human or, hailing from
some strange and distant planet, a monstrosity of a shape you have as
yet not even imagined. Whatever his form, you may rest assured that he
has been tested even as you have been; that he is as worthy of trust as
are you yourselves. My last word is this--men of the Galactic Patrol
die, but they do not fold up; individuals come and go, but the patrol
goes on!"

Then, again all martinet: "Class 5, attention!" he barked. "Report upon
the stage of the main auditorium!"

The class, again a rigidly military unit, marched out of Room A and
down the long corridor toward the great theater in which, before the
massed cadet corps and a throng of civilians, they were to be formally
graduated.

As they marched along the graduates realized in what way the wearers
of the Lens who emerged from Room A were different from the candidates
who had entered it such a short time before. They had gone in as
boys--nervous, apprehensive, and still somewhat unsure of themselves,
in spite of their survival through the five long years of grueling
tests which now lay behind them. They emerged from Room A as men; men
knowing for the first time the real meaning of the physical and mental
tortures they had undergone; men able to wield justly the vast powers
whose scope and scale they could even now but dimly comprehend.




                                  II.


Barely a month after his graduation, even before he had entirely
completed the postgraduate tours of duty mentioned by Von Hohendorff,
Kinnison was summoned to Prime Base by no less a personage than
Port Admiral Haynes himself. There, in the admiral's private aëro,
whose flaring lights cleared a path as though by magic through the
swarming traffic, the novice and the veteran flew slowly over the vast
establishment of the base.

Shops and factories, citylike barracks, landing fields stretching
beyond the far horizon; flying craft ranging from tiny, one-man
helicopters through small and large scouts, patrol ships and cruisers
up to the immense, globular superdreadnaughts of space--all these were
observed and commented upon. Finally, the aëro landed beside a long,
comparatively low building--a structure heavily guarded, inside the
base although it was--within which Kinnison saw a thing that fairly
snatched away his breath.

A space ship it was--but what a ship! In bulk it was vastly larger even
than the superdreadnaughts of the patrol; but, unlike them, it was,
in shape, a perfect teardrop, streamlined to the ultimate possible
degree.[1]

[Footnote 1: In the "big teardrops"--cruisers and battleships--the
driving force is always directed upward, along the geometrical axis of
the ship, and the artificial gravity is always downward along that same
line. Thus, throughout any possible maneuvering, free or inert, "down"
and "up" have the same significance as within any Earthly structure.

These vessels are ordinarily landed only in special docks, but in
emergencies can be landed almost anywhere, sharp stern down, as their
immense weight drives them deep enough into even the hardest ground to
keep them upright. They sink in water, but are readily maneuverable,
even under water.]

"What do you think of her?" the port admiral asked.

"Think of her!" The young officer gulped twice before he attained
coherence. "I can't put it in words, sir; but some day, if I live long
enough and develop enough force, I hope to command a ship like that."

"Sooner than you think, Kinnison," Haynes told him, flatly. "You are in
command of her beginning to-morrow morning."

"Huh? Me?" Kinnison exclaimed, but sobered quickly. "Oh, I see, sir.
It takes ten years of proved accomplishment to rate command of a
first-class enforcement vessel, and I have no rating at all. You have
already intimated that this ship is experimental. There is, then,
something about her that is new and untried, and so dangerous that you
do not want to risk an experienced commander in her. I am to give her
a work-out, and if I can bring her back in one piece I turn her over
to her real captain. But that's all right with me, admiral--thanks a
lot for picking me out. What a chance! _What_ a chance!" Kinnison's eye
gleamed at the prospect of even a brief command of such a creation.

"Right--and wrong," the old admiral made surprising answer. "It is
true that she is new, untried, and dangerous, so much so that we are
unwilling to give her to any of our present captains. No, she is not
really new, either. Rather, her basic idea is so old that it has been
abandoned for centuries. She uses explosives, of a type that cannot be
tried out fully except in actual combat. Her primary weapon is what we
have called the 'Q-gun.' The propellent is heptadetonite; the shell
carries a charge of twenty metric tons of duodecaplylatomate."

"But, sir----" Kinnison began.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Just a minute, I'll go into that later. While your premises were
correct, your conclusion is not. You graduated No. 1, and in every
respect, save experience, you are as well qualified to command as is
any captain of the fleet; and since the _Brittania_ is such a radical
departure from any conventional type, battle experience is not a
prerequisite. Therefore, if she holds together through one engagement
she is yours for good. In other words, to make up for the possibility
of having yourself scattered all over space, you have a chance to win
that ten years' rating you mentioned a minute ago, all in one trip.
Fair enough?"

"Fair? It's fine--wonderful! And thanks a----"

"Never mind the thanks until you get back. You were about to comment,
I believe, upon the impossibility of using explosives against a free
opponent?"

"It can't be impossible, of course, since the _Brittania_ has been
built. I just don't quite see how it could have been made effective."

"You lock to the pirate with tractors, screen to screen--dex about ten
kilometers. You blast a hole through his screens to his wall shield.
The muzzle of the Q-gun mounts an annular multiplex projector which
puts out a Q-type tube of force--Q47SM9, to be exact. As you can see
from the type formula, this helix extends the gun barrel from ship to
ship and confines the propellent gases behind the projectile, where
they belong. When the shell strikes the wall shield of the pirate and
detonates, _something_ will have to give way.

"The tube and tractors, being pure force and computed for this
particular combination of explosions, will hold; and our physicists
have calculated that the ten-kilometer column of inert propellent
gases will offer so much inertia and resistance that any possible wall
shield will have to go down. That is the point that cannot be tried out
experimentally. It is quite within the bounds of possibility that the
pirates may have been able to develop wall screens as powerful as our
Q-type helices.

"It should not be necessary to point out to you that if they _have_
been able to develop a wall shield that will stand up under detonating
duodecaplylatomate, the back blast through the breech of the Q-gun will
blow the _Brittania_ apart as though she were made of matchwood. That
is only one of the chances--and perhaps not the greatest one--that you
and your crew will have to take. They are all volunteers, by the way,
and will get plenty of extra rating if they come through alive. Do you
want the job?"

"You don't have to ask me that, chief--you _know_ I want it!"

"Of course, but I had to go through the formality of asking, sometime.
But to get on with the discussion. This pirate situation is entirely
out of control, as you already know. We don't even know whether Boskone
is a reality, a figurehead, a symbol, or simply a figment of somebody's
imagination. But whoever or whatever Boskone really is, some being or
some group of beings has perfected a mighty efficient organization of
outlaws; so efficient that we haven't been able to locate their main
base.

       *       *       *       *       *

"You may as well know now a fact that is not yet public property; that
even convoyed vessels are no longer safe. The pirates have developed
ships of a new and extraordinary type; ships that are much faster than
our heavy battleships, and yet vastly more heavily armed than our fast
cruisers. Thus, they can outfight any enforcement vessel that can catch
them, and can outrun anything of ours armed heavily enough to stand up
against their beams."

"That accounts for the recent heavy losses," Kinnison mused.

"Yes," Haynes went on, grimly. "Ship after ship of our best has been
blasted out of the ether, doomed before it pointed a beam, and more
will be. We cannot force an engagement on our terms; we must fight on
theirs.

"That is the present intolerable situation. We _must_ learn what
the pirates' new power system is. Our scientists say that it may
be anything, from cosmic-energy receptors and converters down to a
controlled space warp--whatever that may be. Anyway, they haven't
been able to duplicate it, so it is up to us to find out what it is.
The _Brittania_ is the tool our engineers have designed to get that
information. She is the fastest thing in space, developing at full
blast an inert acceleration of _ten gravities_. Figure out for yourself
what velocity that means free in open space!"

"You have just said that we can't have everything in one ship,"
Kinnison said, thoughtfully. "What did they sacrifice to get that
speed?"

"All the conventional offensive armament," Haynes replied frankly. "She
has no long-range beams at all, and only enough short-range stuff to
help drive the Q-helix through the enemy's screens. Practically her
only offense is the Q-gun. But she has plenty of defensive screens; she
has speed enough to catch anything afloat; and she has the Q-gun--which
we hope will be enough.

"Now we'll go over the general plan of action. The engineers will go
into all the technical details with you, during a test flight that
will last as long as you like. When you and your crew are thoroughly
familiar with every phase of her operation, bring the engineers back
here to base and go out on patrol.

"Somewhere in the galaxy you will find a pirate vessel of the new type.
You lock to him, as I said before. You attach the Q-gun well forward,
being sure that the point of attachment is far enough away from the
power rooms so that the essential mechanisms will not be destroyed.
You board and storm--another revival of the technique of older times.
Specialists in your crew, who will have done nothing much up to that
time, will then find out what our scientists want to know. If at all
possible, they will send it in instantly via tight-beam communicator.
If, because of distance or for any other reason, it should be
impossible for them to communicate, the whole thing is again up to you."

The port admiral paused, his eyes boring into those of the younger man,
then went on impressively: "That information _must_ get back to base.
If it does not, the _Brittania_ is a failure; we will be right back
where we started from; the slaughter of our men and the destruction
of our ships will continue unchecked. As to how you are to do it,
we cannot give you even general instructions. All I can say is that
you have the most important assignment in the universe to-day, and
repeat--_that information must get back to base_. Now come aboard and
meet your crew and the engineers."

       *       *       *       *       *

Under the expert tutelage of the designers and builders of the
_Brittania_ Vice Commander Kinnison drove her hither and thither
through the trackless wastes of the galaxy[2]. Inert and "free," under
every possible degree of power he maneuvered her; attacking imaginary
foes and actual meteorites with equal zeal. Maneuvered and attacked
until he and his ship were one; until he reacted automatically to
her slightest demand; until he and every man of his eager and highly
trained crew knew to the final volt and to the ultimate ampere her
Gargantuan capacity both to give it and to take it.

[Footnote 2: Navigation. Each ship has a reference sphere held rigidly
by gyroscopes so that its great circle of galactic longitude is always
parallel to the galactic equator. Its line of zeros is always parallel
to the line joining Centralia, the central solar system of the galaxy,
with the system of Vandemar, which is on its very rim. Thus, courses
are expressed in galactic longitude and latitude, from 0 to 360 degrees
in each circle.

Position is expressed in galactic coördinates of "x," "y," and "z."
The origin is at Centralia, and the line of positive "x" is the
above-mentioned Centralia-Vandemar line.

The position of the ship in the galaxy is known at all times by
that of a moving dot in the tank. This dot is shifted automatically
by calculating machines coupled inductively to the leads of the
drives. When the ship is inert this device is inoperative, as any
distance traversed in inert flight is entirely negligible in galactic
computations. Due to various perturbations and other slight errors,
cumulative discrepancies occur, for which the pilot must from time to
time correct manually the position of the dot in the tank representing
his ship.]

Then and only then did he return to base, unload the engineers, and
set out upon the quest. Trail after trail he followed, but all were
cold. Alarm after alarm he answered, but always he arrived too late;
arrived to find gutted merchantmen and riddled enforcement vessel, with
no life in either and with nothing to indicate in which direction the
marauders might have gone.

Finally, however: "QBT! Calling QBT!" The _Brittania's_ code call
blared from the sealed-band speaker, and a string of numbers
followed--the spatial coördinates of the luckless vessel's position.

Chief Pilot Henry Henderson punched the figures upon his locator, and
in the "tank"--the enormous, minutely cubed model of the galaxy--there
appeared a redly brilliant point of light. Kinnison rocketed out of his
narrow bunk, digging the sleep out of his eyes, and shot himself into
his place beside the pilot.

"Right in our laps!" he exulted. "Scarcely ten light years away! Start
scrambling the ether!" And as the vengeful cruiser darted toward the
scene of depredation all space became filled with blast after blast of
static interference through which, it was hoped, the pirate could not
summon the help he was so soon to need.

But that howling static gave the pirate commander pause. Surely this
was something new? Before him lay a richly laden freighter, its two
convoying enforcement ships already practically _hors de combat_. A few
more minutes and the prize would be his. Nevertheless, he darted away,
swept the ether with his detectors, saw the _Brittania_, and turned in
headlong flight. For if this streamlined freighter was sufficiently
convinced of its prowess to try to blanket the ether against _him_,
that information was something that Boskone would value far above one
shipload of material wealth.

       *       *       *       *       *

But the pirate craft was now upon the visiplates of the _Brittania_,
and, entirely ignoring the crippled space ships, Henderson flung his
vessel after the other. Manipulating his incredibly complex controls
purely by touch, the while staring into his plate not only with his
eyes, but with every fiber of his being as well, he hurled his huge
mount hither and thither in frantic leaps. After what seemed an age
he snapped down a toggle switch and relaxed long enough to grin at
Kinnison.

"Holding 'em?" the young commander demanded.

"Got 'em, skipper," the pilot replied, positively. "It was touch and go
for ninety seconds, but I've got a CRX tracer on him now at full pull.
He can't put out enough jets to get away from _that_. I can hold him
forever!"

"Fine work, Hen!" Kinnison strapped himself into his seat and donned
his headset. "General call! Attention! Battle stations! By stations,
report!"

"Station 1, tractor beams--hot!"

"Station 2, repellers--hot!"

"Station 3, projector 1--hot!"

Thus station after station of the warship of the void reported, until:
"Station 58, the Q-gun--hot!" Kinnison himself reported; then gave to
the pilot the words which throughout the space-ways of the galaxy had
come to mean complete readiness to face any emergency.

"Hot and tight, Hen--let's take 'em!"

The pilot shoved his blast lever, already almost at maximum, clear
out against its stop and hunched himself even more intently over his
instruments. As moved his pointers, so varied the direction of the
thrust that was driving the _Brittania_ toward the enemy at the
unimaginable velocity of ninety parsecs an hour[3]--a velocity possible
only to inertialess matter being urged through an almost perfect vacuum
by a driving blast capable of lifting the stupendous normal tonnage of
the immense sky rover against a gravity ten times that of her native
Earth.

[Footnote 3: With the neutralization of inertia it was discovered that
while inert mass is limited to the velocity of light, there is no limit
whatever to the velocity of inertialess matter. A "free" ship takes
on instantly the velocity at which the force of her drive is exactly
equalled by the friction of the medium. This velocity is determined
by many factors; but, assuming an ultra-fast shape, a standard
mass-to-volume ratio, a power to develop an inert acceleration of ten
Earth gravities, and a density of matter in space of one atom per ten
cubic centimeters, such speeds are not at all unusual.

It may be of interest to note here that Mays and Cornell recently
made the transgalactic run along the line of zeros, from Alsakan past
Centralia to Vandemar, a distance of 100,309.46 parsecs, in 1253.486
hours (Galactic Standard); thus establishing a new galactic record of
812.44 parsecs per hour for the entire distance.]

Unimaginable? Completely so--the ship of the Galactic Patrol was
hurling herself through space at a pace in comparison with which any
speed that the mind can grasp would be the merest crawl: a pace to make
light itself seem stationary.

Ordinary vision would have been useless, but the observers of that day
used no antiquated optical system. Their detector beams, converted into
light only at their plates, were heterodyned upon and were carried by
subethereal ultra-waves; vibrations residing far below the level of the
ether and thus possessing a velocity and a range infinitely greater
than those of any possible ether-borne wave.

Although stars moved across the visiplates in flaming, zigzag lines
of light, as pursued and pursuer passed system after solar system in
fantastic, light-years long hops, yet Henderson kept his cruiser upon
the pirate's tail and steadily cut down the distance between them. Soon
a tractor beam licked out from the patrol ship, touched the fleeing
marauder lightly, and the two space ships flashed toward each other.

       *       *       *       *       *

Nor was the enemy unprepared for combat. One of the crack raiders of
Boskone, master pirate of the known universe, she had never before
found difficulty in conquering any vessel fleet enough to catch her.
Therefore, her commander made no attempt to cut the beam. Or rather,
since the two inertialess vessels flashed together to repeller-zone
contact in such a minute fraction of a second that any human action
within that time was impossible, it would be more correct to say that
the pirate captain changed his tactics instantly from those of flight
to those of combat.

He thrust out tractor beams of his own, and from the already white-hot
refractory throats of his projectors there raved out horribly potent
beams of annihilation, beams of dreadful power which tore madly at the
straining defensive screens of the patrol ship. Screens flared vividly,
radiating all the colors of the spectrum. Space itself seemed a rainbow
gone mad, for there were being exerted there forces of a magnitude to
stagger the imagination--forces to be yielded only by the atomic might
from which they sprang--forces whose neutralization set up visible
strains in the very fabric of the ether itself.

The young commander, seated at his conning plate, clenched his fists
and swore a startled, deep-space oath as his eyes swept over the
delicately accurate meters and gauges before him; for under the
frightful impact of that instantaneously launched attack his outer
screen was already down and his second was beginning to crack!

"We'll have to scrap the regulation battle plan!" he barked into his
microphone. "Open all motors to absolute top; cut all resistance out
of No. 3 Circuit. Dalhousie, cut all repellers, bring us right up to
their zone. All you beamers, concentrate on area K. _Break down those
screens!_" Kinnison was hunched rigidly over his panel; his voice came
grittily through locked teeth. "Cut _all_ your resistors if you have
to, the motors and accumulators will hold long enough. There, that's
better. Our third is up again and theirs is going down. Come on, boys,
burn 'em down! Give 'em everything you can put through the bare bus
bars! No matter what it takes, get through to that wall shield, so that
I can use this Q-gun!"

Little by little, under the stupendous force of the _Brittania's_
attack the defenses of the enemy began to fail, and Kinnison's hands
flew over his controls. A port opened in the patrol ship's armored side
and an ugly snout protruded--the projector-ringed muzzle of a squat and
monstrous cannon. From its projector bands there leaped out, with the
velocity of light, a tube of quasi-solid force which was, in effect, a
continuation of the rifle's grim barrel; a tube which crashed through
the weakened third screen of the enemy with a space-racking shock and
struck savagely, with writhing, twisting thrusts, at the second.

Aided by the massed concentration of the _Brittania's_ every battery
of short-range beams, it went through--and through the first. Now it
struck the very wall shield of the outlaw--that impregnable screen
which, designed to bear the brunt of any possible inert collision,
had never been pierced or ruptured by any material substance, however
applied.

To this inner defense the immaterial gun barrel clung. Simultaneously,
the tractor beams, hitherto exerting only a few dynes of force,
stiffened into unbreakable, inflexible rods of energy, binding the two
ships of space into one rigid system; each, relative to the other,
immovable.

       *       *       *       *       *

Then Kinnison's flying finger tip touched a button and the Q-gun spoke.
From its sullen throat there erupted a huge torpedo. Slowly the giant
projectile crept along, watched in awe and amazement by the officers
of both vessels. For to those space-hardened veterans the velocity of
light was a veritable crawl; and here was a thing that would require
four or five whole seconds to cover a mere ten kilometers of distance!

[Illustration: _Slowly the giant projectile crept along--watched in
awe and amazement by the officers of both vessels._]

[Illustration: _For to those space-hardened veterans the velocity of
light was a veritable crawl--and here was a thing that would require
four or five whole seconds._]

But, although slow, this bomb _might_ prove dangerous, therefore the
pirate commander threw his every resource into attempts to cut the tube
of force, to blast away from the tractor beams, to explode the sluggish
missile before it could reach his wall shields. In vain; for the
_Brittania's_ every beam was set to protect the torpedo and the mighty
rods of energy without whose grip the inertialess mass of the enemy
vessel would offer no resistance whatever to the force of the proposed
explosion.

Slowly, _so_ slowly, as the age-long seconds crawled into eternity,
there extended from enforcement vessel almost to pirate wall a
raging, white-hot-pillar--the gases of combustion of the propellent
heptadetonite--ahead of which there rushed the Q-gun's tremendous
shell with its horribly destructive freight. What would happen?
Could even the almost immeasurable force of that frightful charge of
duodecaplylatomate break down a wall shield designed to withstand the
cosmic assaults of meteoric missiles? And what would happen if that
wall screen held?

In spite of himself Kinnison's mind insisted upon painting the ghastly
picture: the awful explosion; the pirate's screen still intact; the
raving gases driven backward along the tube of force. The bare metal of
the Q-gun's breech, he knew, was not and could not be reënforced by the
infinitely stronger, although immaterial shields of pure energy which
protected the hull; and no conceivable substance, however resistant,
could impede, save momentarily, the unimaginable forces about to be
unleashed.

Nor would there be time to release the Q-tube after the explosion but
before the _Brittania's_ own destruction; for if the enemy's shield
stayed up for even a fraction of a second, the unthinkable pressure
of the blast would propagate backward through the already densely
compressed gases in the tube, would sweep away as though it were
nothing the immensely thick metallic barrier of the gun breech, and
would wreak within the bowels of the patrol ship a destruction even
more complete than that intended for the foe.

Nor were his men in better case. Each knew that this was the climactic
instant of his whole existence; that life itself hung poised upon the
issue of the next split second. Hurry it up! Snap into it! Will that
crawling, creeping thing _never_ strike? Some prayed briefly; some
swore bitterly; but prayers and curses were alike unconscious and had
precisely the same meaning--each man, white of face and grim of jaw,
clenched his hands and waited, tense and straining, for the impact.




                                 III.


The missile struck, and in the instant of its striking the coldly
brilliant stars were blotted from sight in a vast globe of intolerable
flame. The pirate's shield had failed, and under the cataclysmic force
of that horrible detonation the entire nose section of the enemy vessel
had flashed into incandescent vapor and had added itself to the rapidly
expanding cloud of fire. As it expanded, the cloud cooled. Its fierce
glare subsided to a rosy glow, through which the stars again began to
shine. It faded, cooled, darkened, revealing the crippled hulk of the
pirate ship. She was still fighting; but ineffectually, now that all
her heavy forward batteries were gone.

"Needlers, fire at will!" barked Kinnison, and even that feeble
resistance was ended. Keen-eyed needle-ray men, working at spy-ray
visiplates, bored hole after hole into the captive, seeking out and
destroying the control-panels of the remaining beams and screens.

"Pull 'er up!" came the next order. The two ships of space flashed
together--the yawning, blasted-open fore end of the once cigar-shaped
raider solidly against the _Brittania's_ armored side. A great port
opened.

"Now, Bus, it's all yours. Classification to three places--A point A A.
They're human or approximately so. Board and storm!"

Back of that port there had been massed a hundred fighting men--dressed
in full panoply of space armor, armed with the deadliest weapons known
to the science of the age, and powered by the gigantic accumulators of
their ship. At their head was Sergeant VanBuskirk, six and a half feet
of Dutch-Valerian dynamite, who had fallen out of Valeria's cadet corps
only because of an innate inability to master the intricacies of higher
mathematics. Now the attackers swept forward in a black-and-silver wave.

Four squatly massive semiportable projectors crashed down upon their
magnetic clamps and in the fierce ardor of their beams the thick
bulkhead before them ran the gamut of the spectrum and puffed outward.
Some score of defenders were revealed, likewise clad in armor, and
battle again was joined. Explosive and solid bullets detonated against
and ricocheted from that highly efficient armor, the beams of DeLameter
hand projectors splashed in torrents of man-made lightning off its
protective fields of force.

But that skirmish was soon over. The semiportables, whose vast energies
no ordinary personal armor could withstand, were brought up and clamped
down; and in their holocaust of vibratory destruction all life vanished
from the pirates' compartment.

"One more bulkhead and we're in their control room!" VanBuskirk cried.
"Beam it down!"

But when the beams pressed their switches nothing happened. The pirates
had managed to jury rig a screen generator, and with it had cut the
power beams behind the invading forces. Also they had cut loopholes in
this bulkhead, through which, in frantic haste, they were trying to
bring heavy projectors of their own into alignment.

"Bring up the ferral paste," the sergeant commanded. "Get up as close
to that wall as you can, so they can't blast us!"

The paste--an ultra-modern development of thermite--was brought up and
the giant Dutchman himself troweled it on in furious swings, from floor
up and around in a huge arc and back down to floor. He fired it, and
simultaneously some of the enemy gunners managed to angle a projector
sharply enough to reach the farther ranks of the enforcement men. Then
mingled the flashing, scintillating, gassy glare of the thermite and
the raving energy of the pirates' beam to make of that confined space a
veritable inferno.

       *       *       *       *       *

But the paste had done its work, and as the semicircle of wall fell out
the soldiers of the Lens leaped through the hole in the still-glowing
wall to struggle hand to hand against the pirates, now making a
desperate last stand. The semiportables and other heavy ordnance
powered from the _Brittania's_ accumulators were, of course, useless.
Pistols were ineffective against the pirates' armor of hard alloy; hand
rays were equally impotent against its defensive shields.

Now heavy hand grenades began to rain down among the combatants,
blowing enforcement men and no few pirates to bits. For the outlaw
chiefs cared nothing that they killed some of their own men, if in
so doing they could take a proportionately greater toll of the law.
And worse, a crew of gunners was swiveling a mighty projector around
upon its hastily improvised mount, to cover that sector of the great
compartment in which the policemen were most densely massed.

But the minions of the law had one remaining weapon, carried expressly
for this eventuality, and no mean weapon it proved to be. The space
ax--a combination and sublimation of battle ax, mace, and bludgeon--a
massively needle-pointed implement of potentialities limited only by
the physical strength and bodily agility of its wielder.

Now, all the men of the _Brittania's_ storming party were Valerians,
and therefore were big, hard, fast, and agile; and of them all, their
sergeant leader was the biggest, hardest, fastest, and most agile. When
the space-tempered apex of that thirty-pound monstrosity, driven by the
four-hundred-odd pounds of rawhide and whalebone that was his body,
struck pirate armor, that armor gave way. Nor did it matter whether
or not that hellish beak of steel struck a vital part after crashing
through the armor. Head or body, leg or arm, the net result was the
same; a man does not fight effectively when he is breathing space in
lieu of atmosphere.

VanBuskirk perceived the danger to his men in the slowly turning ray
projector, and for the first time called his chief.

"Kim," he spoke in level tones into his microphone. "Blast that delta
ray, will you?... Or have they cut this beam, so you can't hear me?...
Guess they have."

"They've cut our communication," he informed his troopers then. "Keep
them off me as much as you can and I'll attend to that delta-ray outfit
myself."

Aided by the massed interference of his men, he plunged toward the
threatening mechanism, hewing to right and to left as he strode.
Beside the temporary projector mount at last, he aimed a tremendous
blow at the man at the delta-ray controls; only to feel the ax flash
instantaneously to its mark and strike it with a gentle push, and to
see his intended victim float effortlessly away from the blow. The
pirate commander had played his last card: VanBuskirk floundered, not
only weightless, but inertialess as well!

But the huge Dutchman's mind, while not mathematical, was even faster
than his lightninglike muscles, and not for nothing had he spent
arduous weeks in inertialess tests of strength and skill. Hooking feet
and legs around a convenient wheel, he seized the enemy operator and
jammed his helmeted head down between the base of the mount and the
long, heavy steel lever by means of which it was turned. Then, throwing
every ounce of his wonderful body into the effort, he braced both feet
against the projector's grim barrel and heaved. The helmet flew apart
like an eggshell; blood and brains gushed out in nauseous blobs. But
the delta-ray projector was so jammed that it would not soon again
become a threat.

Then VanBuskirk drew himself across the room toward the main control
panel of the warship. Officer after officer he pushed aside, then
reversed two double-throw switches, restoring gravity and inertia to
the riddled cruiser.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the meantime the tide of battle had continued in favor of
enforcement. Few survivors though there were of the black-and-silver
force, of the pirates there were still fewer, fighting now a desperate
and hopeless defensive. But in this combat quarter was not, _could_
not be thought of, and Sergeant VanBuskirk again waded into the fray.
Four times more his horribly effective hybrid weapon descended like
the irresistible hammer of Thor, cleaving and crushing its way through
steel and flesh and bone. Then, striding to the control board, he
manipulated switches and dials, then again spoke evenly to Kinnison.

"You can hear me now, can't you?... All mopped up. Come and get the
dope!"

The specialists, headed by Chief Technician LaVerne Thorndyke, had been
waiting strainingly for that word for minutes. Now they literally flew
at their tasks, in furious haste, but following rigidly and in perfect
coördination a prearranged schedule. Every control and lead, every bus
bar and immaterial beam of force was traced and checked. Instruments
and machines were dismantled; sealed mechanisms were ruthlessly torn
apart by jacks or sliced open with cutting beams. And everywhere,
everything and every movement was being photographed, charted, and
diagramed.

"Getting the idea now, Kim," the chief technician said finally, during
a brief lull in his work. "A sweet system----"

"Look at this!" a mechanic interrupted. "Here's a machine that's all
shot to pieces!"

The shielding cover had been torn from a monstrous fabrication of
metal, apparently a motor or generator of an exceedingly complex type.
The insulation of its coils and windings had fallen away in charred
fragments; its copper had melted down in sluggish, viscous streams.

"That's what we've been looking for," Thorndyke declared. "Check those
leads! Alpha!"

"Seven-three-nine-four!" And the minutely careful study went on until:
"That's enough; we've got everything we need now. Have you draftsmen
and photographers got everything down solid?"

"On the boards!" and "In the cans!" rapped out the two reports as one.

"Then let's go!"

"And go _fast_!" Kinnison ordered, brusquely. "I'm afraid that we're
going to run out of time as it is!"

All hands hurried back into the _Brittania_, paying no attention to
the bodies littering the decks. So desperate was the emergency, each
man knew, that nothing could be done about the dead, whether friend or
foe. Every resource of mechanism, of brain and of brawn, must needs
be strained to the utmost if they themselves were not soon to be in
similar case.

"Can you talk, Nels?" demanded Kinnison of his communications officer,
even before the air lock had closed.

"No, sir. They're blanketing us plenty," that worthy replied instantly.
"Space's so full of static that you couldn't drive a power beam through
it, let alone a communicator. Couldn't talk direct, anyway. Look where
we are." He pointed out in the tank their present location.

"Hm-m-m. We couldn't have got much farther away from Earth without
jumping the galaxy entirely. Boskone got a warning, either from
that ship back there or from the disturbance. They are undoubtedly
concentrating on us now. One of them will spear us with a tractor, just
as sure as hell's a man-trap----"

       *       *       *       *       *

The fledgling commander rammed both hands into his pockets and thought
in black intensity. He _must_ get this data back to base. But how?
_HOW?_ Henderson was already driving the vessel back toward the solar
system with every iota of her inconceivable top speed, but it was out
of the question even to hope that she would ever get there. The life
of the _Brittania_ was now, he was coldly certain, to be measured
in hours--and all too scant measure, even of them. For there were
hundreds of pirate vessels tearing through the void, forming a gigantic
net to cut off her return to base. Fast though she was, one of that
barricading horde would certainly manage to clamp a tracer ray upon
her--and when that happened her flight was done.

Nor could she fight. She had conquered one first-class war vessel of
the public enemy, it was true; but at what awful cost her captain knew
only too well. The prodigious drain of power had almost emptied her
accumulators. Also, and worse, the refractories of her main projectors
were burned away practically to the shells. Without vastly heavier
bracing fields than the _Brittania_ carried, no substance, however
stable, could stand up long under such hellish loads as they had had to
handle.

The Q-gun was as useless as a fountain pen without full-driven
offensive beams. One fresh vessel, similar to the one they had just
left, could very easily blast his crippled mount out of space. Nor
would there be only one. Within a space of minutes after the attachment
of a tracer ray, the enforcement vessel would be surrounded by the
cream of Boskone's fighters. There was apparently only one way out
offering any chance at all of success; and slowly, thoughtfully, and
finally grimly, young Vice Commander Kinnison--now and briefly Captain
Kinnison--decided to take it.

"Everybody open your communicators and listen!" he ordered. "We
must get this information back to base, and we can't do it in the
_Brittania_. The pirates are bound to catch us, and our chance in
another fight is exactly zero. We'll have to abandon ship and take to
the lifeboats, in the hope that at least one of us will be able to get
through their lines.

"The technicians and specialists will take all the data they
got--information, descriptions, diagrams, pictures, everything--boil it
down, and put it on a spool of tape. They will make thirty-nine copies
of it, since there are just forty of us left, and one spool will be
given to each man.

"There will be twenty boats, two men to a boat. We will start launching
them after we have gone as far toward base as it is safe to go in this
ship. Once away, use very little detectable power, or, better yet,
no power at all, until you are sure that the pirates have chased the
_Brittania_ a good many parsecs away from where you are. From then on
you'll be strictly on your own. Do it any way you can; but some way,
_any_ way, get your spool back to base. There's no use in me trying to
impress you with the importance of this stuff; you know what it means
as well as I do.

"Boat mates will be drawn by lot. The quartermaster will write all our
names on slips of paper and draw them out of a helmet two at a time.
The only exception to this is that if two navigators, such as Henderson
and I, are drawn together, both names go back into the helmet. Get to
work!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Twice the name of Kinnison came out together with that of another
skilled in astronautics and was replaced. The third time, however,
it came out paired with VanBuskirk, to the manifest joy of the giant
policeman and to the approval of the crowd as well.

"That was a break for me, chief!" the sergeant called over the cheers
of his fellows. "I'm dead sure of getting back now!"

"Pretty strong talk, I'm afraid, but I don't know of any one I'd rather
have at my back than you," Kinnison replied, with a boyish grin.

The pairings were made; DeLameters, spare batteries, and other
equipment were checked and tested; the spools of tape were sealed in
their corrosionproof containers and distributed; and Kinnison sat
talking with the chief technician.

"So they've solved the problem of the really efficient reception and
conversion of cosmic radiation!" Kinnison whistled softly through his
teeth. "And a sun--even a small one--radiates the energy given off by
the annihilation of one-to-several million tons of matter per second!
_Some_ power!"

"That's the story, skip, and it explains completely why their ships
have been so much superior to ours. They could have installed faster
drives even than the _Brittania's_. They probably will, now that it has
become necessary. Also, if the bus bars in that receptor-converter had
been a few square centimeters larger in cross section, they could have
held their wall shield, even against our duodec bomb. Then what? They
had plenty of intake, but not quite enough distribution."

"They have atomic motors, the same as ours, just as big and just as
efficient," Kinnison cogitated. "But those motors are all we _have_
got, while they use them, and at full power, too, simply as first-stage
exciters for the cosmic-energy screens. Blinding blue blazes, what
power! Some of us _have_ to get back, Verne. If we don't, Boskone's got
the whole galaxy by the tail, and civilization is sunk without a trace."

"I'll say so; but also I'll say this for those of us who don't get
back--it won't be for lack of trying. Well, I'd better go check up on
my boat. If I don't see you again, Kim old man, clear ether!"

They shook hands briefly and Thorndyke strode away. En route, however,
he paused beside the quartermaster and signaled to him to disconnect
his communicator.

"Clever lad, Allerdyce!" Thorndyke whispered, with a grin. "Kinda
loaded the dice a trifle once or twice, didn't you? I don't think
anybody but me smelled a rat, though. Certainly neither the skipper nor
Henderson did, or you'd 've had it to do over again."

"At least one team has got to get through," the quartermaster replied,
quietly and obliquely, "and the strongest teams we can muster will find
the going none too easy. Any team made up of strength and weakness is
a weak team. Captain Kinnison, our only Lensman, is, of course, the
best man aboard this buzz buggy. Who would you pick for No. 2?"

"VanBuskirk, of course, the same as you did. I wasn't criticizing you,
man, I was complimenting you; and thanking you, in a roundabout way,
for giving me Henderson. He's got plenty of what it takes, too."

"It wasn't 'VanBuskirk, of course,' by any means," the quartermaster
rejoined. "It's mighty hard to figure either you or Henderson third, to
say nothing of fourth, in any kind of company, however fast--mentally
or physically. However, it seemed to me that you fitted in better with
the pilot. I could hand pick only two teams without getting caught
at it--you spotted me as it was--but I think that I picked the two
strongest teams possible. At least one of you will get through, for
all the tea there is in China. If none of you four can make it, nobody
could."

"Well, here's hoping, anyway. Thanks again. See you again sometime,
maybe. Clear ether!"

Chief Pilot Henderson had, a few minutes since, changed the course of
the cruiser from right-line flight to fantastic, zigzag leaps through
space, and now he turned frowningly to Kinnison.

"We'd better begin dumping them out pretty soon now, I think," he
suggested. "We haven't detected anything yet, but according to the
figures it won't be long now; and after they get their traps set we'll
run out of time mighty quick."

"Right."

And then, one after another, but even so several light years apart in
space, eighteen of the small boats were launched into the void. In
the control room there were left only Henderson and Thorndyke with
VanBuskirk and Kinnison, who were to be the last to leave.

"All right, Hen, now we'll try out your roulette-wheel director by
chance," Kinnison said, then went on, in answer to Thorndyke's
questioning glance. "A bouncing ball on an oscillating table. Every
time the ball caroms off a pin it shifts the course through a fairly
large, but entirely unpredictable angle. Pure chance--we thought it
might cross them up a little."

Hair-line beams were connected from panels to pins, and soon four
interested spectators looked on while, with no human guidance, the
_Brittania_ lurched and leaped even more erratically than she had done
under Henderson's direction. Now, however, the ever-changing vectors of
her course were as unexpected and surprising to her passengers as to
any possible external observer.

       *       *       *       *       *

One more lifeboat left the enforcement vessel, and only the Lensman
and his giant aide remained. While they were waiting the required few
minutes before their own departure, Kinnison spoke.

"Bus, there's one more thing we ought to do, and I've just figured out
how to do it. We don't want this ship to fall into the pirates' hands
intact, as there's a lot of stuff in her that would probably be as new
to them as it was to us. They know that we got the best of that ship of
theirs, but they don't know what we did or how we did it. On the other
hand, we want her to drive on as long as possible after we leave her.
The farther away from us she gets, the better our chance of making our
get-away.

"We should have something that will touch off those duodec torpedoes
we have left--all seven of them at once--at the first touch of a spy
beam; both to keep them from studying her and to do a little damage
if possible. They'll go inert and pull her up close as soon as they
get a tracer on her. Of course, we can't do it by stopping the spy ray
altogether, with a spy screen, but I think I can establish an R7TX7M
field outside our regular screens that will interfere with a TX7 just
enough--say one tenth of one per cent--to actuate a relay in the
field-supporting beam."

"One tenth of one per cent of one milliwatt is one microwatt, isn't
it? Not much power, I'd say, but that's a little out of my line. You
can do it, and do it before we run out of time, or you wouldn't have
suggested it. Go ahead. I'll observe while you're busy."

Thus it came about that, a few minutes later, the immense sky rover
of the Galactic Patrol darted along entirely untenanted. And it was
her nonhuman helmsman, operating solely by chance, that prolonged the
chase far more than even the most optimistic member of her crew could
have hoped. For the pilots of the pirate pursuers were intelligent, and
assumed that their quarry also was directed by intelligence. Therefore,
they aimed their vessels for points toward which the _Brittania_ should
logically go; only and maddeningly to watch her go somewhere else.

Senselessly, she hurled herself directly toward enormous suns,
once grazing one so nearly that the harrying pirates gasped at the
foolhardiness of such exposure to lethal radiation. For no reason at
all she shot straight backward, almost into a cluster of pirate craft,
only to dash off on another unexpected tangent before the startled
outlaws could lay a beam against her.

But finally she did it once too often. Flying between two vessels, she
held her line the merest fraction of a second too long. Two tractors
lashed out and the three vessels flashed together, zone to zone to
zone. Then, instantly, the two pirate ships became inert, to anchor in
space their wildly fleeing prey. Then spy beams licked out, to explore
the _Brittania's_ interior.

       *       *       *       *       *

At the touch of those beams, light and delicate as they were, the
relay clicked and the torpedoes let go. Those frightful shells were
so designed and so charged that one of them could demolish any inert
structure known to man. What of seven? There was an explosion to
stagger the imagination and which must be left to the imagination,
since no words in any language of the galaxy can describe it adequately.

The _Brittania_, literally blown to bits, partially fused and even
partially volatilized by the inconceivable fury of the outburst, was
hurled in all directions in streamers, droplets, chunks, and masses,
each component part urged away from the center of pressure by the
ragingly compressed gases of detonation. Furthermore, each component
was now, of course, inert and therefore capable of giving up its full
measure of kinetic energy to any inert object with which it should come
in contact.

One mass of wreckage, so fiercely sped that its victim had time neither
to dodge nor become inertialess, crashed full against the side of
the nearer attacker. Meteorite screens flared brilliantly violet and
went down. The full-driven wall shield held; but so terrific was the
concussion that what few of the crew were not killed outright would
take no interest in current events for many hours to come.

The other, slightly more distant attacker was more fortunate. Her
commander had had time to render her inertialess, and as she rode
lightly away, ahead of the outermost, most tenuous fringe of vapor, he
reported succinctly to his headquarters all that had transpired. There
was a brief interlude of silence.

Then a speaker gave tongue. "Helmuth, speaking for Boskone," snapped
from it. "Your report is neither complete nor conclusive. Find, study,
photograph, and bring in to headquarters every fragment and particle
pertaining to the wreckage, paying particular attention to all bodies
or portions thereof.

"Helmuth, speaking for Boskone!" roared from the general-wave
unscrambler. "Commanders of all vessels, of every class and tonnage,
upon whatever mission bound, attention! The vessel referred to in our
previous message has been destroyed, but it is feared that some or all
of her personnel were allowed to escape. Every unit of that personnel
must be killed before he has opportunity to communicate with any
patrol base. Therefore cancel your present orders, whatever they may
be, and proceed at maximum blast to the region previously designated.
Scour that entire volume of space. Beam out of existence every vessel
whose papers do not account unquestionably for every intelligent being
aboard. Investigate every possible avenue of escape. More detailed
orders will be given each of you upon your nearer approach to the
neighborhood under search."




                                  IV.


Space-suited complete, except for helmets, and with those ready at
hand, Kinnison and VanBuskirk sat in the tiny control room of their
lifeboat as it drifted inert through interstellar space. Kinnison
was poring over charts taken from the _Brittania's_ pilot room; the
sergeant gazed idly into a detector plate.

"No clear ether yet, I don't suppose," the captain remarked, as he
rolled up a chart and tossed it aside.

"No let-up for a second; they're not taking any chances at all. Found
out where we are? Alsakan ought to be hereabouts somewhere, hadn't it?"

"I've got our coördinate roughly. Alsakan would be fairly close for
a ship, but it's out of the question for us. Nothing much inhabited
around here, either, apparently; to say nothing of being civilized.
Scarcely one to the block. Don't think I've been out here before. Have
you?"

"Off my beat entirely. How long do you figure it'll be before it's
safe for us to blast off?"

"Can't start blasting until your plates are clear. Anything we can
detect can detect us as soon as we start putting out power."

"We may be in for a spell of waiting then----" VanBuskirk broke off
suddenly and his tone changed to one of tense excitement. "Great blasts
of fire! Look at that!"

"Blinding blue blazes!" Kinnison exclaimed, staring into the plate.
"With all macro-universal space and all the time in eternity to play
around in, the blind god of chance had to bring her back here and now!"

For there, right in their laps, not a hundred miles away, lay the
_Brittania_ and her two pirate captors!

"Better go free, hadn't we?" whispered VanBuskirk.

"Daren't!" grunted Kinnison. "At this range they'd spot us in a split
second. Acting like a hunk of loose metal's our only chance. We'll be
able to dodge any flying chunks, I think. There she goes!"

From their coign of vantage the two patrolmen saw their gallant ship's
terrific end, saw the one pirate vessel suffer collision with the
flying fragment, saw the other escape inertialess, saw her disappear.

The inert pirate vessel had now almost exactly the same velocity as the
lifeboat, both in speed and in direction; only very slowly were the
large craft and the small approaching each other. Kinnison stood rigid,
staring into his plate, his nervous hands grasping the switches whose
closing, at the first sign of detection, would render them inertialess
and would pour full blast into their driving projectors. But minute
after minute passed and nothing happened.

"Why don't they do something?" he burst out, finally. "They know we're
here. There isn't a detector made that could be badly enough out of
order to miss us at this distance. Why, they can _see_ us from there,
with no detectors at all!"

"Asleep, unconscious, or dead," VanBuskirk diagnosed. "And they
certainly are not asleep. And believe me, Kim, that ship was nudged.
It's quite possible that she was hit hard enough to lay out most of
her crew cold--anyway enough of them to put her out of control. And
say, it's a practical certainty that she has a standard emergency inlet
port. How about it, huh?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Kinnison's mind leaped eagerly at the daring suggestion of his
subordinate, but he did not reply at once. Their first, their _only_
duty, concerned the safety of two spools of tape. But if the lifeboat
lay there inert until the pirates regained control of their craft,
detection and capture were certain. The same fate was as certain
should they attempt flight with all near-by space so full of enemy
fliers. Therefore, hare-brained though it appeared at first glance,
VanBuskirk's wild idea was actually the safest course!

"All right, Bus, we'll try it. We'll take a chance on going free and
using a tenth of a dyne of drive for a hundredth of a second. Get into
the lock with your magnets."

The lifeboat flashed against the pirate's armored side and the
sergeant, by deftly manipulating his two small hand magnets, worked it
rapidly along the steel plating toward the driving jets. There, in the
conventional location just forward of the main driving projectors, was
indeed the emergency inlet port, with its galactic-standard controls.

[Illustration: _There--in the conventional location just forward of
the main driving projectors--was the emergency inlet port._]

In a few minutes the two warriors were inside, dashing toward the
control room. There Kinnison glanced at the board and heaved a sigh of
relief.

"Fine! Same type as the one we studied. Same race, too," he went on,
eyeing the motionless forms scattered about the floor. Seizing one of
the bodies, he propped it against a panel, thus obscuring a multiple
lens.

"That's the eye overlooking the control room," he explained
unnecessarily. "We can't cut their headquarters visibeams without
creating suspicion, but we don't want them looking around in here until
after we have done a little stage setting for them."

"But they'll get suspicious anyway when we go free," VanBuskirk
protested.

"Sure, but we'll arrange for that later. First thing we've got to do is
to make sure that all the crew, except possibly one or two in here, are
really dead. Don't beam unless you have to; we want to make it look as
though everybody got killed or fatally injured in the crash."

A complete tour of the vessel, with a grim and distasteful
accompaniment, was made. Not all of the pirates were dead, or even
disabled; but, unarmored as they were and taken completely by surprise,
the survivors could offer but little resistance. A cargo port was
opened and the _Brittania's_ lifeboat was drawn inside. Then back to
the control room, where Kinnison picked up another body and strode to
the main panels.

"This fellow," he announced, "was hurt badly, but managed to get to
the board. He threw in the free switch, like this, and then full-blast
drive, so. Then he pulled himself over to the steering globe and tried
to lay the pointers back toward headquarters, but couldn't quite make
it. He died with the course set right there. Not exactly toward the
solar system, you notice--that would be too much of a coincidence--but
close enough to help a lot. His bracelet got caught in the guard, like
this. There is clear evidence as to exactly what happened. Now we'll
get out of range of that eye, and let the body that's covering it float
away naturally."

"Now what?" asked VanBuskirk, after the two had hidden themselves.

"Nothing whatever until we have to," was the reply. "Wish we could
go on like this for a couple of weeks, but there's not a chance.
Headquarters will get curious pretty quick as to why we're shoving off."

       *       *       *       *       *

Even as he spoke a furious burst of noise erupted from the
communicator; a noise which meant:

"Vessel F47U596! Where are you going, and why? Report!"

At that brusque command one of the still forms struggled weakly to its
knees and tried to frame words, but fell back dead.

"Perfect!" Kinnison breathed into VanBuskirk's ear. "Couldn't have been
better. Now they'll probably take their time about rounding us up.
Listen, here comes some more."

The communicator was again sending. "See if you can get a direction on
their transmitter!"

"If there are any survivors able to report, do so at once!" Kinnison
understood the dynamic cone to say. Then the voice moderating, as
though the speaker had turned from his microphone to someone near-by,
it went on, "No one answers, sir. This, you know, is the ship that was
lying closest to the new patrol ship when she exploded; so close that
her navigator did not have time to go free before collision with the
débris. The crew were apparently all killed or incapacitated by the
shock."

"If any of the officers survive have them brought in for trial," a more
distant voice commanded, savagely. "Boskone has no use for bunglers
except to serve as examples. Have the ship seized and returned here as
soon as possible."

"Could you trace it, Bus?" Kinnison demanded. "Even one line on their
headquarters would be mighty useful."

"No, it came in scrambled--couldn't separate it from the rest of the
static out there. Now what?"

"Now we eat and sleep. Particularly and most emphatically, we sleep."

"Watches?"

"No need; I'll be awakened in plenty of time if anything happens. My
Lens, you know."

They ate ravenously and slept prodigiously; then ate and slept again.
Rested and refreshed, they studied charts, but VanBuskirk's mind was
very evidently not upon the maps before them.

"You understand that jargon, and it doesn't even sound like a language
to me," he pondered. "It's the Lens, of course. Maybe it's something
that shouldn't be talked about?"

"No secret--not among us, at least," Kinnison assured him. "The Lens
receives as pure thought any pattern of force which represents, or is
in any way connected with, thought. My brain receives this thought in
English, since that is my native language. At the same time my ears
are practically out of circuit, so that I actually hear the English
language instead of whatever noise is being made. I do not hear the
foreign sounds at all. Therefore, I haven't the slightest idea what the
pirates' language sounds like, since I have never heard any of it.

"Conversely, when I want to talk to some one who doesn't know any
language I do, I simply think into the Lens and direct its force at
him. He thinks I'm talking to him in his own mother tongue. Thus, you
are hearing me now in perfect Valerian Dutch, even though you know
that I can speak only a dozen or so words of it, and those with a vile
American accent. Also, you are hearing it in my voice, even though you
know I am actually not saying a word, since you can see that my mouth
is wide open and that neither my lips, tongue, nor vocal cords are
moving. If you were a Frenchman you would be hearing this in French;
or, if you were a Manarkan and couldn't talk at all, you would be
getting it as regular Manarkan telepathy."

"Oh--I see--I think," the astounded Dutchman gulped. "Then why couldn't
you talk back to them through their phones?"

"Because the Lens, although a mighty fine and versatile thing, is not
omnipotent," Kinnison replied, dryly. "It sends out only thought;
and thought waves, lying below the level of the ether, cannot affect
a microphone. The microphone, not being itself intelligent, cannot
receive thought. Of course, I can broadcast a thought--everybody does;
more or less--but even with the full amplification of the Lens the
range is very limited. In Lens-to-Lens communication we can cover real
distances, but without a Lens at the other end I can cover only a few
thousand kilometers. Of course, power increases with practice, and I'm
not very good at it yet."

"You can receive a thought----Everybody broadcasts----Then you can
read minds?" VanBuskirk stated, rather than asked.

"When I so will it, yes. That was what I was doing while we were
mopping up. I demanded the galactic coördinates of their base from
every one of them alive, but none of them knew them. I got a lot of
pictures and descriptions of the buildings, layout, arrangements and
personnel of the base, but not a hint as to its location in space. The
navigators were all dead, and not even the Arisians understand death.
But that's getting pretty deeply into philosophy and it's time to eat
again. Let's go!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Days passed uneventfully, but finally the communicator again began to
talk. Two pirate ships were closing in upon the supposedly derelict
cruiser, discussing with each other the exact point of convergence of
the three courses.

"I was hoping that we'd be able to communicate with base before they
caught up with us," Kinnison remarked. "But I guess it's no dice--the
ether's as full of interference as ever. They're a suspicious bunch,
and they aren't going to let us get away with a single thing if
they can help it. You've got that duplicate of their communications
unscrambler built?"

"Yes. That was it you just listened to. I built it out of our own
stuff, and I've gone over the whole ship with a cleaner. As far as
I can see there isn't a trace, not even a fingerprint, to show that
anybody except her own crew has ever been aboard."

"Good work! This course takes us right through a planetary system in
a few minutes and we'll have to unload there. Let's see. This chart
marks planets two and three as inhabited, but with a red reference
number, twenty-seven. That means practically unexplored and unknown. No
patrol representation or connection--no commerce--state of civilization
unknown--visited only once, in the Third Galactic Survey. That was
in the days of the semi-inert drive, when it took years to cross the
galaxy. Not so good, apparently--but maybe all the better for us, at
that. Anyway, it's a forced landing, so get ready to shove off."

They boarded their lifeboat, placed it in the cargo lock, opened
the outer port upon its automatic block, and waited. At their awful
galactic speed the diameter of a solar system would be traversed in
such a small fraction of a second that observation would be impossible,
to say nothing of computation. They would have to act first and compute
later.

They flashed into the strange system. A planet loomed terrifyingly
close--at their frightful velocity almost invisible even upon their
ultra-vision plates. The lifeboat shot out, becoming inert as it passed
the screen. The cargo port swung shut. Luck had been with them; the
planet was scarcely a million miles away. While VanBuskirk drove toward
it, Kinnison made hasty observations.

"Could have been better--but could have been a lot worse," he reported.
"This is Planet 4. Uninhabited, which is very good. Three, though, is
clear over across the Sun, and Two isn't any too close for a space-sun
flight--better than eighty million miles. Easy enough as far as
distance goes--we've all made longer hops in our suits--but we'll be
open to detection for at least twenty minutes. Can't be helped, though.
Here we are!"

"Going to land her free, huh?" VanBuskirk whistled. "What a chance!"

"It'd be a bigger one to take the time to land her inert. Her power
will hold--I hope. We'll inert her and match velocities with her when
we come back. We'll have more time then."

       *       *       *       *       *

The lifeboat stopped instantaneously, in a free landing, upon the
uninhabited, desolate, rocky soil of the strange world. Without a word
the two men leaped out, carrying fully packed knapsacks. A portable
projector was then dragged out and its fierce beam directed into the
base of the hill beside which they had landed. A cavern was quickly
made, and while its glassy walls were still smoking-hot the lifeboat
was driven within it. With their DeLameters the two wayfarers then
undercut the hill, so that a great slide of soil and rock obliterated
every sign of the visit. Kinnison and VanBuskirk could find their
vessel again, from their accurately taken bearings; but, they hoped, no
one else could.

[Illustration: _With their DeLameters they undercut the hill--so that
a great slide of soil and rock obliterated every sign of their visit._]

Then, still without a word, the two adventurers flashed upward. The
atmosphere of the planet, tenuous and cold though it was, nevertheless,
so sorely impeded their progress, that minutes of precious time
were required for the driving projectors of their suits to force
them through its thin layer. Eventually, however, they were in
interplanetary space and were flying at quadruple the speed of light.
Then VanBuskirk spoke.

"Landing the boat, hiding it, and this trip are the danger spots. Heard
anything yet?"

"No, and I don't believe we will. I think probably we've lost them
completely. Won't know definitely, though, until after they catch the
ship, and that won't be for ten minutes yet. We'll be landed by then."

A world now loomed beneath them, a pleasant, Earthly-appearing world of
scattered clouds, green forests, rolling plains, wooded and snow-capped
mountain ranges, and rolling oceans. Here and there were to be seen
what looked like cities, but Kinnison gave them a wide berth, electing
to land upon an open meadow in the shelter of a towering black and
glassy cliff.

"Ah, just in time; they're beginning to talk," Kinnison announced.
"Unimportant stuff yet, opening the ship and so on. I'll relay the
talk as nearly verbatim as possible when it gets interesting." He fell
silent, then went on in a singsong tone, as though he were reciting
from memory, which, in effect, he was:

"'Captains of ships P4J263 and EQ769B47 calling Helmuth! We have
stopped and have boarded the F47U569. Everything is in order and as
deduced and reported by your observers. Every one aboard is dead. They
did not all die at the same time, but they all died from the effects of
the collision. There is no trace of outside interference and all the
personnel are accounted for.'

"'Helmuth, speaking for Boskone. Your report is inconclusive. Search
the ship minutely for tracks, prints, scratches. Note any missing
supplies or misplaced items of equipment. Study carefully all
mechanisms, particularly converters and communicators, for signs of
tampering or dismantling.'

"Whew!" whistled Kinnison. "They'll find where you took that
communicator apart, Bus, just as sure as hell's a man-trap!"

"No, they won't," declared VanBuskirk as positively. "I did it with
rubber-nosed pliers, and if I left a scratch or a scar or a print on it
I'll eat it, tubes and all!"

A pause.

"'We have studied everything most carefully, O Helmuth, and find no
trace of tampering or visit.'

"Helmuth again: 'Your report is still inconclusive. Whoever did what
has been done is probably a Lensman, and certainly has _brains_. Give
me the present recorded serial number of all port openings, and the
exact number of times you have opened each port.'

"Ouch!" groaned Kinnison. "If that means what I think it does, all
hell's out for noon. Did you see any numbering recorders on those
ports? I didn't. Of course, neither of us thought of such a thing. Shut
up, here comes some more stuff.

"'Port-opening recorder serial numbers are as follows.' They don't mean
a thing to us. 'We have opened the emergency inlet port once and the
starboard lock twice. No other port at all.'

"And here's Helmuth again: 'Ah, as I thought. The emergency port was
opened once by outsiders, and the starboard cargo port twice. The
Lensman came aboard, headed the ship toward Sol, took his lifeboat
aboard, listened to us, and departed at his leisure. And this in the
very midst of our fleet, the entire personnel of which was supposed to
be looking for him! How supposedly intelligent spacemen could be guilty
of such utter and indefensive stupidity?'

"He's tellin' 'em plenty, Bus, but there's no use repeating it. The
tone can't be reproduced, and it's simply taking the hide right off
their backs. Here's some more: 'General broadcast! Ship F47U596 in its
supposedly derelict condition flew from the point of destruction of
the patrol ship, on course longitude three five one point two seven
degrees, latitude five point two three degrees, distance twenty-four
thousand seven hundred parsecs. Cancel all previous orders and
investigate.' No use repeating it, Bus, he's simply giving directions
for scouring our whole line of flight. Fading out--they're going on,
or back. This outfit, of course, is good for only the closest kind of
close-up work."

"And we're out of the frying pan into the fire, huh?"

"Oh, no; we're a lot better off than we were. We're on a planet and not
using any power that they can trace. Also, they've got to cover so much
territory that they can't comb it very fine, and that gives the rest
of the fellows a break. Furthermore----"

       *       *       *       *       *

A crushing weight descended upon his back, and the two found themselves
fighting for their lives. From the bare, supposedly safe rock face
of the cliff there had emerged rope-tentacled monstrosities in a
ravenously attacking swarm. In the raving blasts of DeLameters hundreds
of the gargoyle horde vanished in vivid flashes of radiance, but on
they came, by thousands and, it seemed, by millions, dashing madly
toward them.

Eventually, the batteries energizing the projectors became exhausted.
Then flailing coil met shearing steel, fierce-driven parrot beaks
clanged against space-tempered armor, bulbous heads pulped under
hard-swung axes; but not for the fractional second necessary for
inertialess flight could the two patrolmen win clear. Then Kinnison
sent out his S O S.

"A Lensman calling help! A Lensman calling help!" he broadcast with the
full power of mind and Lens.

Immediately a high, girlish voice poured into his brain: "Coming,
wearer of the Lens! Coming at speed to the cliff of the Catlats. Hold
until I come! I arrive in thirty----"

Thirty what? What possible intelligible relative measure of that
unknown and unknowable concept, time, can be conveyed by thought alone?

"Keep slugging, Bus!" Kinnison panted. "Help is on the way. A local
cop--voice sounds like a woman--will be here in thirty somethings.
Don't know whether it's thirty minutes or thirty days; but we'll still
be here."

"Maybe so and maybe not," grunted the Dutchman. "Something's coming
besides help. Look up and see if you see what I think I do."

Kinnison did. Through the air from the top of the cliff there was
hurtling downward toward them a veritable dragon: a nightmare's horror
of hideously reptilian head, of leathern wings, of viciously fanged
jaws, of frightfully taloned feet, of multiple knotty arms, of long,
sinuous, heavily scaled serpent's body. In fleeting glimpses through
the writhing tentacles of his opponents Kinnison perceived, little
by little, the full picture of that unbelievable monstrosity; and,
accustomed as he was to the outlandish denizens of worlds even yet
scarcely known to man, his very senses reeled at the sight.

       *       *       *       *       *

As the quasi-reptilian organism descended, the cliff dwellers went mad.
Their attack upon the two patrolmen, already vicious, became insanely
frantic. Abandoning the gigantic Dutchman entirely, every Catlat within
reach threw himself upon Kinnison and so enwrapped the Lensman's head,
arms, and torso that he could scarcely move a muscle. Then entwining
captors and helpless man moved slowly toward the largest of the
openings in the cliff's obsidian face.

Upon that slowly moving mélange VanBuskirk hurled himself, deadly space
ax swinging. But, hew and smite as he would, he could neither free his
chief from the grisly horde enveloping him nor impede, measurably, that
horde's progress toward its goal. However, he could and did cleave away
the comparatively few cables confining Kinnison's legs.

"Clamp a leg lock around my waist, Kim," he directed, the flashing
thought in no whit interfering with his prodigious ax play, "and as
soon as I get a chance, before the real tussle comes, I'll couple us
together with all the belt snaps I can reach. Wherever we're going
we're going together! Wonder why they haven't ganged up on me, too, and
what that lizard is doing? Been too busy to look, but thought he'd have
been on my back before this."

"He won't be on your back. That's Worsel, the lad who answered my call.
I told you his voice was funny? They can't talk or hear--use telepathy,
like the Manarkans. He's cleaning them out in great shape. If you can
hold me for three minutes, he'll have the lot of them whipped."

"I can hold you for three minutes against all the vermin between here
and Andromeda," VanBuskirk declared. "There, I've got four snaps on
you."

"Not too tough, Bus," Kinnison cautioned. "Leave enough slack so that
you can cut me loose if you have to. Remember that the spools are more
important than any one of us. Once inside that cliff we'll all be
washed up--even Worsel can't help us there--so drop me rather than go
in yourself."

"Um," grunted the Dutchman, non-committally. "There, I've tossed my
spool out onto the ground. Tell Worsel that if they get us he is to
pick it up and carry on. We'll go ahead with yours, inside the cliff if
necessary."

"I said cut me loose if you can't hold me!" Kinnison snapped, "and I
meant it. That's an official order. Remember it!"

"Official order be damned!" snorted VanBuskirk, still plying his
ponderous mace. "They won't get you into that hole without breaking me
in two, and that will be a job of breaking in anybody's language. Now
shut your pan," he concluded grimly. "We're here, and I'm going to be
too busy, even to think, very shortly."

He spoke truly. He had already selected his point of resistance, and as
he reached it he thrust the head of his mace into the crack behind the
open trap-door, jammed its shaft into the shoulder socket of his armor,
set blocky legs and Herculean arms against the side of the cliff,
arched his mighty back, and held. And the surprised Catlats, now inside
the gloomy fastness of their tunnel, thrust anchoring tentacles in the
wall and pulled harder, ever harder.

Under the terrific stress Kinnison's heavy armor creaked as its
air-tight joints accommodated themselves to their new and unusual
positions. That armor, of space-tempered alloy, would, of course, not
give way--but what of its human anchor?

       *       *       *       *       *

Well it was for Kimball Kinnison that day, and well for our present
civilization, that the _Brittania's_ quartermaster selected Peter
VanBuskirk for the Lensman's mate; for death, inevitable and horrible,
resided within that cliff, and no human frame of Earthly upbringing,
however armored, could have borne, for even a fraction of a second, the
violence of the Catlats' pull.

But Peter VanBuskirk, although of Earthly Dutch ancestry, had been
born and reared upon the planet Valeria, and that massive planet's
gravity--over two and one half times Earth's--had given him a physique
and a strength almost inconceivable to us life-long dwellers upon
small, green Terra. His head, as has been said, towered seventy-eight
inches above the ground; but at that he appeared squatty because of his
enormous spread of shoulder and his startling girth. His bones were
elephantine--they had to be, to furnish adequate support and leverage
for the incredible masses of muscle overlaying and surrounding them.
But even VanBuskirk's Valerian strength was now being taxed to the
uttermost.

The anchoring chains hummed and snarled as the clamps bit into the
rings. Muscles writhed and knotted; tendons stretched and threatened
to snap; sweat rolled down his mighty back. His jaws locked in agony
and his eyes started from their sockets with the effort; but still
VanBuskirk held.

"Cut me loose!" commanded Kinnison at last. "Even you can't take much
more of that. No use letting them break your back. _Cut_, I tell you. I
said _cut_, you big, dumb, Valerian ape!"

But if VanBuskirk heard or felt the savagely voiced commands of
his chief, he gave no heed. Straining to the very ultimate fiber
of his being, exerting every iota of loyal mind and every atom of
Brobdingnagian frame, grimly, tenaciously, stubbornly the gigantic
Dutchman held.

Held while Worsel of Velantia, that grotesquely hideous, that
fantastically reptilian ally, plowed toward the two patrolmen through
the horde of Catlats; a veritable tornado of rending fang and shearing
talon, of beating wing and crushing snout, of mailed hand and trenchant
tail.

Held while that demon incarnate drove closer and closer, hurling entire
Catlats and numberless dismembered fragments of Catlats to the four
winds as he came.

Held while the raging tumult, whose center was Worsel, swept over his
rigid body like an ocean wave breaking over an immovable rock.

Held until Worsel's snakelike body, a supple and sentient cable of
living steel, tipped with its double-edged, razor-keen, scimitarlike
sting, slipped into the tunnel beside Kinnison and wrought grisly havoc
among the Catlats close-packed there!

As the terrific tension upon him was suddenly released VanBuskirk's
own efforts hurled him away from the cliff. He fell to the ground, his
overstrained muscles twitching uncontrollably, and on top of him fell
the fettered Lensman. Kinnison, his hands now free, unfastened the
clamps linking his armor to that of VanBuskirk and whirled to confront
the foe. But the fighting was over. The Catlats had had enough of
Worsel of Velantia; and, shrieking in baffled rage, the last of them
were disappearing into their caves. He turned back to VanBuskirk, who
was getting shakily to his feet.

"Thanks a lot, Worsel; we were just about to run out of time----"
VanBuskirk began, only to be silenced by an insistent thought from the
grotesque stranger.

"Stop that radiating! Do not think at all if you cannot screen your
minds!" came the urgent mental commands. "These Catlats are a very
minor pest of this planet Delgon. There are others worse by far.
Fortunately, your thoughts are upon a frequency never used here--if
I had not been so very close to you I would not have heard you at
all--but should the Overlords have a listener upon that band, your
unshielded thinking may already have done irreparable harm. Follow me.
I will slow my speed to yours, but hurry all possible!"

[Illustration: _"Stop that radiating! Do not think at all if you
cannot screen your mind," came the mental command._]

"You tell 'im, chief," VanBuskirk said, and fell silent; his mind as
nearly a perfect blank as his iron will could make it.

"This is a screened thought, through my Lens," Kinnison took up the
conversation. "You don't need to slow down on our account. We can
develop any speed you wish. Lead on!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The Velantian leaped into the air and flashed away in headlong
flight. Much to his surprise, the two human beings kept up with him
effortlessly upon their inertialess drives, and after a moment Kinnison
directed another thought.

"If time is an object, Worsel, know that my companion and I can carry
you anywhere you wish to go at a speed hundreds of times greater than
this that we are using," he vouchsafed.

It developed that time was of the utmost possible importance and the
three closed in. Mighty wings folded back, hands and talons gripped
armor chains, and the group, inertialess all, shot away at a pace
that Worsel of Velantia had never even imagined in his wildest dreams
of speed. Their goal, a small, featureless tent of thin sheet metal,
occupying a barren spot in a writhing, crawling expanse of lushly green
jungle, was reached in a space of minutes. Once inside, Worsel sealed
the opening and turned to his armored guests.

"We can now think freely in open converse. This wall is the carrier of
a screen through which no thought can make its way."

"This world you call by a name I have interpreted as Delgon," Kinnison
began, slowly. "You are a native of Velantia, a planet now beyond the
Sun. Therefore, I assumed that you were taking us to your space ship.
Where is that ship?"

"I have no ship," the Velantian replied, composedly, "nor have I need
of one. For the remainder of my life--which is now to be measured in a
few of your hours--this tent is my only----"

"No ship!" VanBuskirk broke in. "I hope we won't have to stay on this
God-forsaken planet forever--and I'm not very keen on going much
farther in that lifeboat, either."

"We may not have to do either of those things," Kinnison reassured his
sergeant. "Worsel comes of a long-lived tribe, and the fact that he
thinks his enemies are going to get him in a few hours doesn't make it
true, by any means. There are three of us to reckon with now. Also,
when we need a space ship we'll get one, if we have to build it. Now,
let's find out what this is all about. Worsel, start at the beginning
and don't skip a thing. Between us we can surely find a way out, for
all of us."

       *       *       *       *       *

Then the Velantian told his story. There was much repetition, much
roundabout thinking, as some of the concepts were so bizarre as to defy
transmission, but finally the Earthman had a fairly complete picture of
the situation within that strange solar system.

The inhabitants of Delgon were bad, being characterized by a type and
a depth of depravity impossible for a mind of Earth to visualize. Not
only were the Delgonians enemies of the Velantians in the ordinary
sense of the word; not only were they pirates and robbers; not only
were they their masters, taking them both as slaves and as food
cattle; but there was something more, something deeper and worse,
something only partially transmissible from mind to mind--a horribly
and repulsively Saturnalian type of mental and intellectual, as well as
biological, parasitism. This relationship had gone on for ages.

Finally, however, a thought-screen had been devised, behind which
Velantia developed a high science of her own. The students of this
science lived with but one purpose in life: to free Velantia from the
tyranny of the Overlords of Delgon. Each student, as he reached the
zenith of his mental power, went to Delgon, to study and if possible
destroy the tyrants. And after disembarking upon the soil of that
dread planet no Velantian, whether student or scientist or private
adventurer, had ever returned to Velantia.

"But why don't you lay a complaint against them before the council?"
demanded VanBuskirk. "They'd straighten things out in a hurry."

"We have not heretofore known, save by the most unreliable and
roundabout reports, that such an organization as your Galactic Patrol
really exists," the Velantian replied, obliquely. "Nevertheless, many
years since, we launched a space ship toward its nearest reputed base.
However, since that trip requires three normal lifetimes, with deadly
peril in every moment, it will be a miracle if the ship ever completes
it.

"Furthermore, even if the ship should reach its destination, our
complaint will probably not even be considered, because we have not
a single shred of real evidence with which to support it. No living
Velantian has ever seen a Delgonian, nor can any one testify to the
truth of anything I have told you. While we believe that that is the
true condition of affairs, our belief is based, not upon evidence
admissible in a court of law, but upon deductions from occasional
thoughts radiated from this planet. Nor were these thoughts alike in
tenor----"

"Skip that for a minute--we'll take the picture as correct," Kinnison
broke in. "Nothing you have said so far shows any necessity for you to
die in the next few hours."

"The only object in life for a trained Velantian is to liberate his
planet from the horrors of subjection to Delgon. Many such have come
here, but not one has found a workable idea; not one has either
returned to or even communicated with Velantia after starting work
here. I am a Velantian. I am here. Soon I shall open that door and get
in touch with the enemy. Since better men than I am have failed, I do
not expect to succeed. Nor shall I return to my native planet. As soon
as I start to work the Delgonians will command me to come to them. In
spite of myself I will obey that command, and very shortly thereafter I
shall die, in what fashion I do not know."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Snap out of it, Worsel!" barked Kinnison, roughly. "That's the rankest
kind of defeatism, and you know it. Nobody ever got to the first check
station on that kind of fuel."

"You are talking about something now about which you know nothing
whatever." For the first time Worsel's thoughts showed passion. "Your
thoughts are idle--ignorant--vain. You know nothing whatever of the
mental power of the Delgonians."

"Maybe not--I make no claim of being a mental giant--but I do know that
mental power alone cannot overcome a definitely and positively opposed
_will_. An Arisian could probably break my will, but I'll stake my life
that no other mentality in the known universe can do it!"

"You think so, Earthling?" And a seething sphere of mental force
encompassed the Tellurian's brain. Kinnison's senses reeled at the
terrific impact; but he shook off the attack and smiled.

"Come again, Worsel. That one jarred me to the heels, but it didn't
quite ring the bell."

"You flatter me," the Velantian declared in surprise. "I could scarcely
touch your mind--could not penetrate even its outermost defenses, and
I exerted all my force. But that fact gives me hope. My mind is, of
course, inferior to theirs, but since I could not influence you at all,
even in direct contact and at full power, you may be able to resist
the minds of the Delgonians. Are you willing to hazard the stake you
mentioned a moment ago? Or rather, I ask you, by the Lens you wear, so
to hazard it--with the liberty of an entire people dependent upon the
outcome."

"Why not? The spools come first, of course--but without you our spools
would both be buried now inside the cliff of the Catlats. Fix it so
that your people will find these spools and carry on with them in case
we fail, and I'm your man. There--now tell me what we're apt to be up
against, and then let loose your dogs."

"That I cannot do. I know only that they will direct against you
mental forces such as you never even imagined. I cannot forewarn you
in any respect whatever as to what forms those forces may appear to
assume. I know, however, that I shall succumb to the first bolt of
force. Therefore, bind me with these chains before I open the shield.
Physically, I am extremely strong, as you know; therefore, be sure to
put on enough chains so that I cannot possibly break free, for if I can
break away I shall undoubtedly kill both of you."

"How come all these things here, ready to hand?" asked VanBuskirk,
as the two patrolmen so loaded the passive Velantian with chains,
manacles, handcuffs, leg irons and straps that he could not move even
his tail.

"It has been tried before, many times," Worsel replied bleakly, "but
the rescuers, being Velantians, also succumbed to the force and took
off the irons. Now I caution you, with all the power of my mind--no
matter what you see, no matter what I may command you or beg of you, no
matter how urgently you yourself may wish to do so--_do not liberate me
under any circumstances_ unless and until things appear exactly as they
do now and that door is shut. Know fully and ponder well the fact that
if you release me while that door is open it will be because you have
yielded to Delgonian force, and that not only will all three of us die,
lingeringly and horribly, but also, and worse, that our deaths will not
have been of any benefit to civilization. Do you understand? Are you
ready?"

"I understand. I am ready," thought Kinnison and VanBuskirk as one.

"Open that door."

       *       *       *       *       *

Kinnison did so. For a few minutes nothing happened. Then
three-dimensional pictures began to form before their eyes--pictures
which they knew existed only in their own minds, yet which were
composed of such solid substance that they obscured from vision
everything else in the material world. At first hazy and indistinct,
the scene--for it was in no sense now a picture--became clear and
sharp. And, piling horror upon horror, sound was added to sight. And
directly before their eyes, blotting out completely even the solid
metal of the wall only a few feet distant from them, the two outlanders
saw and heard something which can be represented only vaguely by
imagining Dante's Inferno an actuality and raised to the _n_th power!

In a dull and gloomy cavern there lay, sat, and stood hordes of
_things_. These beings--the "nobility" of Delgon--had reptilian bodies,
somewhat similar to Worsel's, but they had no wings and their heads
were distinctly apish rather than crocodilian. Every greedy eye in the
vast throng was fixed upon an enormous screen which, like that in a
motion-picture theater, walled off one end of the stupendous cavern.

Slowly, shudderingly, Kinnison's mind began to take in what was
happening upon that screen. And it was really happening, Kinnison was
sure of that. This was not a picture any more than this whole scene was
an illusion. It was all an actuality--somewhere.

Upon that screen there were stretched out victims. Hundreds of these
were Velantians, more hundreds were winged Delgonians, and scores were
creatures whose like Kinnison had never seen. And all these were being
tortured; tortured to death both in fashions known to the Inquisitors
of old and ways of which even those experts had never an inkling.

Some were being twisted outrageously in three-dimensional frames.
Others were being stretched upon racks. Many were being pulled horribly
apart, chains intermittently but relentlessly extending each helpless
member. Still others were being lowered into pits of constantly
increasing temperatures or were being attacked by gradually increasing
concentrations of some foully corrosive vapor which ate away their
tissues, little by little. And, apparently the pièce de résistance of
the hellish exhibition, one luckless Velantian, in a spot of hard, cold
light, was being pressed out flat against the screen, as an insect
might be pressed between two panes of glass. Thinner and thinner he
became, under the influence of some awful, invisible force, in spite
of every exertion of inhumanely powerful muscles driving body, tail,
wings, arms, legs, and head in every frantic maneuver which grim and
imminent death could call forth.

Physically nauseated, brainsick at the atrocious visions blasting his
mind and at the screaming of the damned assailing his ears, Kinnison
strove to wrench his mind away, but was curbed savagely by Worsel.

"You _must_ stay! You _must_ pay attention!" commanded the Velantian.
"This is the first time any living being has seen so much! You _must_
help me now! They have been attacking me from the first; but, braced
by the powerful negatives in your mind, I have been able to resist and
have transmitted a truthful picture so far. But they are surprised at
my resistance and are concentrating more force. I am slipping fast. You
_must_ brace my mind! And when the picture changes--as change it must,
and soon--do not believe it. Hold fast, brothers of the Lens, for your
own lives and for the people of Velantia. There is more--and worse!"

Kinnison stayed. So did VanBuskirk, fighting with all his stubborn
Dutch mind. Revolted, outraged, nauseated as they were at the sights
and sounds, they stayed. Flinching with the victims as they were fed
into the hoppers of slowly turning mills; wincing at the unbelievable
acts of the boilers, the beaters, the scourgers, the flayers; suffering
themselves every possible and many apparently impossible nightmares.

The light in the cavern now changed to a strong, greenish-yellow glare;
and in that hard illumination it was to be seen that each dying being
was surrounded by a palely glowing aura. And now, crowning horror of
that unutterably horrible orgy of sadism resublimed, from the eyes of
each one of the monstrous audience there leaped out visible beams of
force. These beams touched the aura of the dying prisoners--touched and
clung. And as they clung the aura shrank and disappeared.

The Overlords of Delgon were actually _feeding_ upon the ebbing life
forces of their tortured, dying victims!




                                  VI.


Gradually and so insidiously that the Velantian's dire warnings might
as well never have been uttered, the scene changed. Or rather, the
scene itself did not change, but the observers' perception of it slowly
underwent such a radical transformation that it was in no sense the
same scene it had been a few minutes before; and they felt almost
abjectly apologetic as they realized how unjust their previous ideas
had been.

For the cavern was not a torture chamber, as they had supposed. It
was, in reality, a hospital, and the beings they had thought victims
of brutalities unspeakable were, in reality, patients undergoing
treatments and operations for various ills. In proof whereof the
patients--who should have been dead by this time were the early ideas
well-founded--were now being released from the screenlike operating
theater. And not only was each one completely whole and sound in
body, but he was also possessed of a mental clarity, power, and grasp
undreamed of before his hospitalization and treatment by Delgon's super
surgeons!

Also, the intruders had misunderstood completely the audience and
its behavior. They were really medical students, and the beams which
had seemed to be devouring rays were simply visibeams, by means of
which each student could follow, in close-up detail, each step of the
operation in which he was most interested. The patients themselves were
living, vocal witnesses of the visitors' mistakenness, for each, as he
made his way through the assemblage of students, was voicing his thanks
for the marvelous results of his particular treatment or operation.

Kinnison now became acutely aware that he himself was in need of
immediate surgical attention. His body, which he had always regarded
so highly, he now perceived to be sadly inefficient; his mind was in
even worse shape than his physique; and both body and mind would be
improved immeasurably if he could get to the Delgonian hospital before
the surgeons departed. In fact, he felt an almost irresistible urge
to rush away toward that hospital instantly, without the loss of a
single precious second. And, since he had had no reason to doubt the
evidence of his own senses, his conscious mind was not aroused to
active opposition. However, in his subconscious, or his essence, or
whatever you choose to call that ultimate something of his that made
him a Lensman, a "dead, slow bell" began to sound.

"Release me and we'll all go, before the surgeons leave the hospital,"
came an insistent thought from Worsel. "But hurry--we haven't much
time!"

VanBuskirk, completely under the influence of the frantic compulsion,
leaped toward the Velantian, only to be checked bodily by Kinnison,
who was foggily trying to isolate and identify one thing about the
situation that did not ring quite true.

"Just a minute, Bus. Shut that door first!" he commanded.

"Never mind the door!" Worsel's thought came in a roaring crescendo.
"Release me instantly! Hurry, or it will be too late, for all of us!"

"All this terrific rush doesn't make any kind of sense at all,"
Kinnison declared, closing his mind resolutely to the clamor of the
Velantian's thoughts. "I want to go just as badly as you do, Bus, or
maybe more so--but I can't help feeling that there's something screwy
somewhere. Anyway, remember the last thing Worsel said, and let's shut
the door before we unsnap a single chain."

Then something clicked in the Lensman's mind.

"Hypnotism, through Worsel!" he barked, opposition now aflame. "So
gradual that it never occurred to me to build up a resistance. Holy
rackets, what a fool I've been! Fight 'em, Bus--_fight 'em!_ Don't let
'em kid you any more, and pay no attention to anything Worsel sends at
you!" Whirling around, he leaped toward the open door of the tent.

But as he leaped his brain was invaded by such a concentration of force
that he fell flat upon the floor, physically out of control. He must
_not_ shut the door. He _must_ release the Velantian. They _must_ go to
the Delgonian cavern. Fully aware now, however, of the source of the
waves of compulsion, he threw the sum total of his mental power into an
intense negation and struggled, inch-wise, toward the opening.

       *       *       *       *       *

Upon him now, in addition to the Delgonians' compulsion, beat at
point-blank range the full power of Worsel's mighty mind, demanding
release and compliance. Also, and worse, he perceived that some
powerful mentality was being exerted to make VanBuskirk kill him. One
blow of the Valerian's ponderous mace would shatter helmet and skull,
and all would be over. Once more the Delgonians would have triumphed.
But the stubborn Dutchman, although at the very verge of surrender, was
still fighting. He would take one step forward, bludgeon poised aloft,
only to throw it convulsively backward.

Again and again VanBuskirk repeated his futile performance, while the
Lensman struggled nearer and nearer the door. Finally, he reached it
and kicked it shut. Instantly, the mental turmoil ceased and the two
white and shaking patrolmen released the limp, unconscious Velantian
from his bonds.

"Wonder what we can do to help him revive," gasped Kinnison. But his
solicitude was unnecessary; the Velantian recovered consciousness as he
spoke.

"Thanks to your wonderful power of resistance, I am alive, unharmed,
and know more of our foes and their methods than any other of my race
has ever learned," Worsel thought, feelingly. "But it is of no value
whatever unless I can send it back to Velantia. The thought-screen is
carried only by the metal of these walls; and if I make an opening in
the wall to think through, however small, it will now mean death. Of
course, the science of your patrol has not perfected an apparatus to
drive through such a screen."

"No. Anyway, it seems to me that we'd better be worrying about
something besides thought-screens," Kinnison suggested. "Surely, now
that they know where we are, they'll be coming out here after us, and
we haven't got much of any defense."

"They don't know where we are, or care----" began the Velantian.

"Why not?" broke in VanBuskirk. "Any spy ray capable of such scanning
as you showed us--I never saw anything like it before--would certainly
be as easy to trace as an out-and-out gas blast!"

"I sent out no spy ray or anything of the kind," Worsel thought,
carefully. "Since our science is so foreign to yours, I am not sure
that I can explain satisfactorily, but I shall try to do so. First, as
to what you saw. When that door is open, no barrier to thought exists.
I merely broadcast a thought, placing myself _en rapport_ with the
Delgonian Overlords in their retreat. This condition established, of
course I heard and saw exactly what they heard and saw--and so, equally
of course, did you, since you were also _en rapport_ with me. That is
all."

"That's _all_!" echoed VanBuskirk. "What a system! You can do a thing
like that, without apparatus of any kind, and yet say 'that's all'!"

"It is results that count," Worsel reminded him gently. "While it is
true that we have done much--this is the first time in history that any
Velantian has encountered the mind of a Delgonian Overlord and lived.
It is equally true that it was the will power of you patrolmen that
made it possible, not my mentality. Also, it remains true that we
cannot leave this room and live."

"Why won't we need weapons?" asked Kinnison, returning to his previous
line of thought.

"Thought screens are the only defense we will require," Worsel stated,
positively, "for they use no weapons except their minds. By mental
power alone they make us come to them; and, once there, their slaves
do the rest. Of course, if my race is ever to rid the planet of them,
we must employ offensive weapons of power. We have such, but we have
never been able to use them. For, in order to locate the enemy, either
by telepathy or by spy ray, we must open our metallic shields--and the
instant we release those screens we are lost. From those conditions
there is no escape," Worsel concluded, hopelessly.

"Don't be such a pessimist," Kinnison commanded. "There are a lot
of things not tried yet. For instance, from what I have seen of
your generator equipment and that screen, you don't need a metallic
conductor any more than a snake needs hips. Maybe I'm wrong, but I
think we're a bit ahead of you there. If a DeVilbiss projector can
handle that screen--and I think it can, with special tuning--VanBuskirk
and I can fix things in an hour so that all three of us can walk out of
here in perfect safety--from mental interference, at least. While we're
trying it out, tell us all the new stuff you got on them just now, and
anything else that, by any possibility, may prove useful. And remember
you said this is the first time any of you had been able to cut them
off. That fact ought to make them sit up and take notice. Probably
they'll stir around more than they ever did before. Come on, Bus--let's
tear into it!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The DeVilbiss projectors were rigged and tuned. Kinnison had been
right; they worked. Then plan after plan was made, only to be discarded
as its weaknesses were pointed out.

"Whichever way we look there are too many 'ifs' and 'buts' to suit me,"
Kinnison summed up the situation finally. "_If_ we can find them, and
_if_ we can get up close to them without losing our minds to them, we
could clean them out _if_ we had some power in our accumulators. So I'd
say the first thing for us to do is to get our batteries charged. We
saw some cities from the air, and cities always have power. Lead us to
power, Worsel--almost _any_ kind of power--and we'll soon have it in
our guns."

"There are cities, yes"--Worsel was not at all enthusiastic--"dwelling
places of the ordinary Delgonians, the people you saw being eaten in
the cavern of the Overlords. As you saw, they resemble us Velantians to
a certain extent. Since they are of a lower culture and are much weaker
in life force than we are, however, the Overlords prefer us to their
own slave races.

"To visit any city of Delgon is out of the question. Every inhabitant
of every city is an abject slave and his brain is an open book.
Whatever he sees, whatever he thinks, is communicated instantly to
his master. And I now perceive that I may have misinformed you as to
the Overlords' ability to use weapons. While the situation has never
arisen, it is only logical to suppose that as soon as we are seen by
any Delgonian the controllers will order all the inhabitants of the
city to capture us and bring us to them."

"What a guy!" interjected VanBuskirk. "Did you ever see his top for
looking at the bright side of life?"

"Only in conversation," the Lensman replied. "When the ether gets
crowded, you notice, he's right in here, blasting away and not saying a
word. But there's one thing we haven't thought of: power. I've got only
eight minutes of free flight left in my battery; and with your mass,
you must be about out. Come to think of it, didn't you land a trifle
hard when we sat down here?"

"Practically inert."

"That means we've _got_ to get some power. Well, it's not so bad, at
that; there's a city right close."

"Yes, but as far as I'm concerned it might as well be on Mars. You
know as well as I do what's between here and there. You can take my
batteries and I'll wait here."

"On your emergency food, water, and air? That's out!"

"What else, then?"

"I can spread my field to cover all three of us," proposed Kinnison.
"That will give us at least one minute of free flight--almost, if not
quite, enough to clear the jungle. They have night here; and, like us,
the Delgonians are night sleepers. We start at dusk, and to-night we
recharge our batteries."

       *       *       *       *       *

The following hour, during which the huge, hot Sun dropped to the
horizon, was spent in intense discussion, but no significant
improvement upon the Lensman's plan could be devised.

"It is time to go," Worsel announced, curling out one extensile eye
toward the vanishing orb. "I have recorded all my findings. Already I
have lived longer and, through you, have accomplished more, than any
one believed possible. I am ready to die. I should have been dead long
since."

"Living on borrowed time's a lot better than not living at all,"
Kinnison replied, with a grin. "Link up. Ready? Go!"

He snapped his switches and the close-linked group of three shot into
the air and away. As far as the eye could reach in any direction
extended the sentient, ravenous growth of the jungle; but Kinnison's
eyes were not upon that fantastically inimical green carpet. His whole
attention was occupied by two all-important meters and by the task of
so directing their flight as to gain the greatest possible horizontal
distance with the power at his command.

Fifty seconds of flashing flight, then: "All right, Worsel, get out in
front and get ready to pull!" Kinnison snapped. "Ten seconds of drive
left, but I can hold us free for five seconds after my driver quits.
Pull!"

Kinnison's driver expired, its small accumulator completely exhausted;
and Worsel, with his mighty wings, took up the task of propulsion.
Inertialess still, with Kinnison and VanBuskirk grasping his tail, each
beat a mile-long leap, he struggled on. But all too soon the battery
powering the neutralizers also went dead and the three began to plummet
downward at a sharper and sharper angle, in spite of the Velantian's
Herculean efforts to keep them aloft.

Some distance ahead of them the green of the jungle ended in a sharply
cut line, beyond which there was a heavy growth of fairly open forest.
A couple of miles of this and there was the city, their objective--so
near and yet so far!

"We'll either just make the timber or we just won't," Kinnison,
mentally plotting the course, announced dispassionately. "Just as well
if we land in the jungle, I think. It'll break our fall, anyway; and
hitting solid ground inert at this speed might be pretty serious."

"If we land in the jungle we will never leave it"--Worsel's thought did
not slow the incredible tempo of his prodigious pinions--"but it makes
little difference whether I die now or later."

"It does to us, you pessimistic croaker!" flared Kinnison. "Forget
that dying complex of yours for a minute! Remember the plan and follow
it! We're going to strike the jungle, about ninety or a hundred meters
in. If you come in with us you die at once, and the rest of our scheme
is all shot to pieces. So when we let go, you go ahead and land in
the woods. We'll join you there, never fear; our armor will hold long
enough for us to cut our way through a hundred meters of any jungle
that ever grew--even this one. Get ready, Bus. Leggo!"

       *       *       *       *       *

They dropped. Through the lush succulence of close-packed upper leaves
and tentacles they crashed--through the heavier, wooded main branches
below, through to the ground. And there they fought for their lives;
for those voracious plants nourished themselves not only upon the soil
in which their roots were embedded, but also upon anything organic
unlucky enough to come within reach. Flabby but tough tentacles
encircled them; ghastly sucking disks, exuding a potent corrosive,
slobbered wetly at their armor; knobbed and spiky bludgeons whanged
against tempered steel as the monstrous organisms began dimly to
realize that these particular titbits were encased in something more
resistant far than skin, scales, or bark.

But the Lensman and his giant companion were not quiescent. They came
down oriented and fighting. VanBuskirk, in the van, swung his frightful
space ax as a reaper swings his scythe--one solid, short step forward
with each swing. And close behind the Valerian strode Kinnison, his own
flying ax guarding the giant's head and back.

Masses of that obscene vegetation crashed down upon their heads from
above, revolting cupped orifices sucking and smacking; and they were
showered continually with floods of the opaque, corrosive sap to the
action of which even their armor was not entirely immune. But, hampered
as they were and almost blinded, they struggled indomitably on; while
behind them an ever-lengthening corridor of demolition marked their
progress.

"Ain't we got fun?" grunted the Dutchman, in time with his swing. "But
we're quite a team at that, chief--brains and brawn, huh?"

"Uh-huh," dissented Kinnison, his flying weapon a solid disk of steel
to the eye. "Grace and poise; or, if you want to be really romantic,
ham and eggs."

"Rack and ruin will be more like it if we don't break out before this
confounded goo eats through our armor. But we're making it--the stuff's
thinning out and I think I can see trees up ahead."

"It is well if you can," came a cold, clear thought from Worsel, "for I
am sorely beset. Hasten or I perish!"

At that thought the two patrolmen forged ahead in a burst of furious
activity. Crashing through the thinning barriers of the jungle's
edge, they wiped their lenses partially clear, glanced quickly about,
and saw the Velantian. That worthy was "sorely beset" indeed. Six
animals--huge, reptilian, but lithe and active--had him down. So
helplessly immobile was Worsel that he could scarcely move his tail,
and the monsters were already beginning to gnaw at his scaly, armored
hide.

"I'll put a stop to that, Worsel!" called Kinnison, referring to the
fact, well known to all us moderns, that any real animal, no matter how
savage, can be controlled by any wearer of the Lens. For, no matter how
low in the scale of intelligence the animal is, the Lensman can get in
touch with whatever mind the creature has and reason with it.

But these monstrosities, as Kinnison learned immediately, were not
really animals. Even though of animal form and mobility, they were
purely vegetable in motivation and behavior, reacting only to the
stimuli of food and of reproduction. Weirdly and completely inimical
to all other forms of created life, they were so utterly noisome, so
completely alien that the full power of mind and Lens failed entirely
to gain rapport.

       *       *       *       *       *

Upon that confusedly writhing heap the patrolmen flung themselves,
terrible axes destructively a-swing. In turn, they were attacked
viciously; but this battle was not long to endure. VanBuskirk's first
terrific blow knocked one adversary away, almost spinning end over end.
Kinnison took out one, the Dutchman another, and the remaining three
were no match at all for the humiliated and furiously raging Velantian.
But it was not until the monstrosities had been gruesomely carved and
torn apart, literally limb from hideous limb, that they ceased their
insensately voracious attacks.

"They took me by surprise," explained Worsel, unnecessarily, as the
three made their way through the night toward their goal, "and six of
them at once were too much for me. I tried to hold their minds, but
apparently they have none."

"How about the Overlords?" asked Kinnison. "Suppose they have received
any of our thoughts? We patrolmen at least have been doing a lot of
unguarded radiating lately."

"No," Worsel made positive reply. "The thought-screen batteries, while
small and of very little actual power, have, nevertheless, a very long
service life. Now let us again go over the next steps of our plan of
action."

Since no more untoward events marred their progress toward the
Delgonian city, they soon reached it. It was for the most part dark and
quiet, its somber buildings merely blacker blobs against a background
of black. Here and there, however, were to be seen automotive vehicles
moving about, and the three invaders crouched against a convenient
wall, waiting for one to come along the "street" in which they were.
Eventually one did.

As it passed them Worsel sprang into headlong, gliding flight,
Kinnison's heavy knife in one gnarled fist. And as he sailed he
struck--lethally. Before that luckless Delgonian's brain could radiate
a single thought it was in no condition to function at all; for the
head containing it was bouncing in the gutter. Worsel backed the
peculiar conveyance along the curb and his two companions leaped into
it, lying flat upon its floor and covering themselves from sight as
best they could.

Worsel, familiar with things Delgonian and looking enough like a native
of the planet to pass a casual inspection in the dark, drove the car.
Streets and thoroughfares he traversed at reckless speed, finally
drawing up before a long, low building, entirely dark. He scanned his
surroundings with care, in every direction. Not a creature was in sight.

"All is clear, friends," he thought, and the three adventurers sprang
to the building's entrance. The door--it had a door, of sorts--was
locked, but VanBuskirk's ax made short work of that difficulty.
Inside, they braced the wrecked door against intrusion. Then Worsel led
the way into the unlighted interior. Soon he flashed his lamp about him
and stepped upon a black, peculiarly marked tile set into the floor;
whereupon a harsh, white light illuminated the room.

"Cut it, before somebody takes alarm!" snapped Kinnison.

"No danger of that," replied the Velantian. "There are no windows in
any of these rooms; no light can be seen from outside. This is the
control room of the city's power plant. If you can convert any of this
power to your uses, help yourselves to it. In this building is also
Delgon's closest approximation to a munitions plant. Whether or not
anything in it can be of service to you is, of course, for you to say.
I am now at your disposal."

While the Velantian was thinking these things Kinnison had been
studying the panels and instruments. Now he and VanBuskirk tore open
their armor--they had already learned that the atmosphere of Delgon,
while not as wholesome for them as that in their suits, would, for a
time at least, support human life--and wrought diligently with pliers,
screw drivers, and other tools of the electrician. Soon their exhausted
batteries were upon the floor beneath the instrument panel, greedily
absorbing the electrical fluid from the busbars of the Delgonians.

"Now, while they're getting filled up, let's see what they mean by
'munitions' in these parts," Kinnison ordered. "Lead on, Worsel!"




                                 VII.


With Worsel in the lead, the three interlopers hastened along a
corridor, past branching and intersecting hallways, to a distant wing
of the structure. There, it was evident, manufacturing of weapons
was carried on; but a quick study of the queer-looking devices and
mechanisms upon the benches and inside the storage racks lining its
walls convinced Kinnison that the room could yield them nothing of
permanent benefit. There were high-powered beam projectors, it was
true; but they were so heavy that they were not even semiportable.
There were also hand weapons of various peculiar patterns, but without
exception they were ridiculously inferior to the DeLameters of the
patrol in every respect of power, range, controllability, and storage
capacity. Nevertheless, after testing them out sufficiently to make
certain of the above findings, Kinnison selected an armful of the most
powerful models and turned to his companions.

"Let's go back to the power room," he urged. "I'm nervous as a cat. I
feel stark naked without my batteries; and if any one should happen to
drop in there and do away with them, we'd be sunk without a trace."

Loaded down with Delgonian weapons, they hurried back the way they had
come. Much to Kinnison's relief he found that his forebodings had been
groundless; the batteries were still there, still absorbing myriawatt
hour after myriawatt hour from the Delgonian generators. Staring
fixedly at the innocuous-looking containers, he frowned in thought.

"Better we insulate those leads a little heavier and put the cans back
in our armor," he suggested finally. "They'll charge just as well in
place, and it doesn't stand to reason that this drain of power can go
on for the rest of the night without _somebody_ noticing it. And when
that happens those Overlords are bound to take plenty of steps--the
nature of none of which we can even guess at."

"We must have power enough now so that we can all fly away from any
possible trouble," Worsel suggested.

"But that's just exactly what we are _not_ going to do!" Kinnison
declared, with finality. "Now that we've found a good charger, we
aren't going to leave it until our accumulators are chocka-block. It's
coming in faster than full draft will take it out, and we're going to
get a full charge if we have to stand off all the vermin of Delgon to
do it."

Far longer than Kinnison had thought possible they were unmolested,
but finally a couple of Delgonian engineers came to investigate the
unprecedented shortage in the output of their completely automatic
generators. At the entrance they were stopped, for no ordinary tools
could force the barricade VanBuskirk had erected behind that portal.
With leveled weapons the patrolmen stood, awaiting the expected
attack. But none developed. Hour by hour the long night wore away,
uneventfully. At daybreak, however, a storming party appeared and
massive battering-rams were brought into play.

As the dull, heavy concussions reverberated throughout the building
the patrolmen each picked up two of the weapons piled before them and
Kinnison addressed the Velantian.

"Drag a couple of those metal benches across that corner and coil up
behind them," he directed. "They'll be enough to ground any stray
charges. If they can't see you they won't know you're here, so probably
nothing much will come your way direct."

The Velantian demurred, declaring that he would not hide while his two
companions were fighting his battle.

But Kinnison silenced him fiercely. "Don't be a fool!" the Lensman
snapped. "One of these beams would fry you to a crisp in ten seconds,
whereas the defensive fields of our armor could neutralize a thousand
of them, from now on. Do as I say, and do it quick, or I'll beam you
unconscious and toss you in there myself!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Realizing that Kinnison meant exactly what he said, and knowing that,
unarmored as he was, he was utterly unable to resist either the
Tellurian or their common foe, Worsel unwillingly erected his metallic
barrier and coiled his sinuous length behind it. He hid himself just in
time.

The outer barricade had fallen, and now a wave of reptilian forms
flooded into the control room. Nor was this any ordinary investigation.
The Overlords had studied the situation from afar, and this wave was
one of heavily armed--for Delgon--soldiery. On they came, projectors
fiercely aflame, confident in their belief that nothing could stand
before their blasts.

But how wrong they were! The two repulsively erect bipeds before them
neither burned nor fell. Beams, no matter how powerful, did not reach
them.

[Illustration: _The two repulsively erect bipeds before them neither
burned nor fell. Beams--no matter how powerful--did not reach them at
all----_]

Nor were these outlandish beings inoffensive. Utterly careless of
the service life of the pitifully weak Delgonian projectors, they
were using them at maximum drain and at extreme aperture--and in the
resultant beams the Delgonian soldier slaves fell in scorched and
smoking heaps. On came reserves, platoon after platoon, only and
continuously to meet the same fate; for as soon as one projector
weakened the invincibly armored man would toss it aside and pick up
another. But finally the last commandeered weapon was exhausted and
the beleaguered pair brought their own DeLameters--the most powerful
portable weapons known to the military scientists of the Galactic
Patrol--into play.

And what a difference! In _those_ beams the attacking reptiles did not
smoke or burn. They simply vanished in a blaze of flaming light, so did
also the near-by walls and a good share of the building beyond! The
Delgonian hordes having disappeared, VanBuskirk shut off his DeLameter.

Kinnison, however, left his on, angling its beam sharply upward,
blasting into fiery vapor the ceiling and roof over their heads,
remarking: "While we're at it we might as well fix things so that we
can make a quick get-away if we want to."

Then they waited. Waited, watching the needles of their meters creep
ever closer to the "full-charge" marks; waited while, as they shrewdly
suspected, the distant, cowardly hiding Overlords planned some other,
more promising line of physical attack.

Nor was it long in developing. Another small army appeared, armored
this time; or, more accurately, advancing behind metallic shields.
Knowing what to expect, Kinnison was not surprised when the beam of his
DeLameter not only failed to pierce one of those shields, but did not
in any way impede the progress of the Delgonian column.

"Well, we're all done here, anyway, as far as I'm concerned." Kinnison
grinned at the Dutchman as he spoke. "My cans've been showing full back
pressure for the last five minutes. How about yours?"

"Same here," VanBuskirk reported, and the two leaped lightly into the
Velantian's refuge. Then, inertialess all, the three shot into the
air at such a pace that to the slow senses of the Delgonian slaves
they simply disappeared. Indeed, it was not until the barrier had been
blasted away and every room, nook, and cranny of the immense structure
had been literally and minutely combed that the Delgonians--and through
their enslaved minds the Overlords--became convinced that their prey
had in some uncanny and unknown fashion eluded them.

       *       *       *       *       *

Now high in the air, the three troopers traversed, in a matter of
minutes, the same distance that had cost them so much time and strife
the day before. Over the monster-infected forest they sped, over the
deceptively peaceful green lushness of the jungle, to slant down toward
Worsel's thoughtproof tent. Inside that refuge they snapped off their
thought-screens and Kinnison yawned prodigiously.

"Working days and nights both is all right for a while, but it gets
monotonous in time. Since this seems to be the only really safe spot on
the planet, I suggest that we take a day or so off and catch up on our
eats and sleeps."

They slept and ate; slept and ate again.

"The next thing on the program," Kinnison announced then, "is to clean
out that den of Overlords. Then Worsel will be free to help us get
going about our own business."

"You speak lightly indeed of the impossible," Worsel, again all glum
despondency, reproved him. "I have already explained why the task is,
and must remain, beyond our power."

"Yes, but you don't quite grasp the possibilities of the stuff we've
got to work with now," the Tellurian replied. "Listen: you could
never do anything because you couldn't see through or work through
your thought-screens. Neither we nor you could, even now, enslave a
Delgonian and make him lead us to the cavern, because the Overlords
would know all about it 'way ahead of time and the slave would lead
us anywhere else except to the cavern. However, one of us can cut his
screen and surrender; possibly keeping just enough screen up to keep
the enemy from possessing his mind fully enough to learn that the other
two are coming along. The big question is--which of us is to surrender?"

"That is already decided," Worsel made instant reply. "I am the
logical--in fact, the _only_ one--to do it. Not only would they think
it perfectly natural that they should overpower me, but also I am the
only one of us three sufficiently able to control his thoughts so as to
keep from them the knowledge that I am being accompanied. Furthermore,
you both know that it would not be good for your minds, unaccustomed as
they are to the practice, to surrender their control voluntarily to an
enemy."

"I'll say it wouldn't!" Kinnison agreed, feelingly. "I might do it if I
had to, but I wouldn't like it and don't think I'd ever quite get over
it. I hate to put such a horrible job off onto you, Worsel, but you're
undoubtedly the best equipped to handle it--and even you may have your
hands full."

"Yes," the Velantian said, thoughtfully. "While the undertaking is
no longer an absolute impossibility, it is difficult--very. In any
event you will probably have to beam me yourselves, if we succeed in
reaching the cavern. The Overlords will see to that. If so, do it
without regret. Know that I expect it and am well content to die in
that fashion. Thousands of better men than I am would be only too glad
to be in my place, meaning what it does to all Velantia. Know also that
I have already reported what is to occur, and that your welcome to
Velantia is assured, whether or not I accompany you there."

"I don't think I'll have to kill you, Worsel," Kinnison replied,
slowly, picturing in detail exactly what that steel-hard reptilian
body would be capable of doing when, unshackled, its directing mind
was completely taken over by an utterly soulless and conscienceless
Overlord. "If we can't keep from going off the deep end, of course
you'll get pretty tough and I know that you're hard to handle. However,
as I told you back there, I think I can beam you unconscious without
killing you. I may have to burn off a few scales, but I'll try not to
do any damage that can't be repaired."

"If you can so stop me it will be wonderful indeed. Are we ready?"

They were ready. Worsel opened the door and in a moment was hurtling
through the air, his giant wings arrowing him along at a pace no winged
creature of Earth would even approach. And, following him easily at
a little distance, floated the two patrolmen upon their inertialess
drives.

       *       *       *       *       *

During that long flight scarcely a thought was exchanged, even between
Kinnison and VanBuskirk. To direct a thought at the Velantian was, of
course, out of the question. All lines of communication with him had
been cut; and, furthermore, his mind, able as it was, was being taxed
to the ultimate cell in doing what he had set out to do. And the two
patrolmen were reluctant to converse with each other, even upon their
tight beams, radios, or sounders, for fear that some slight leakage
of thought energy might reveal their presence to the ever-watchful
Overlords. If this opportunity were lost, they knew, another chance to
wipe out that hellish horde might never present itself.

Land was traversed, and sea; but finally a stupendous range of
mountains reared before them and Worsel, folding back his tireless
wings, shot downward in a screaming, full-weight dive. In his line of
flight Kinnison saw the mouth of a cave, a darker spot of blackness in
the black rock of the mountain's side. Upon the ledged approach there
lay a Delgonian--a guard or lookout, of course.

The Lensman's DeLameter was already in his hand, and at sight of the
guardian reptile he sighted and fired in one incredibly fast motion.
But, rapid as it was, it was still too slow. The Overlords had seen
that the Velantian had companions of whom he had been able to keep them
in ignorance theretofore.

Instantly, Worsel's wings again began to beat, bearing him off at a
wide angle; and, although the patrolmen were insulated against his
thought, the meaning of his antics was very plain. He was telling them
in every possible way that the hole below was _not_ the cavern of
the Overlords, that it was over this way, that they were to keep on
following him to it. Then, as they refused to follow him, he rushed
upon Kinnison in mad attack.

"Beam him down, Kim!" VanBuskirk yelled. "Don't take any chances with
that bird!" He leveled his own DeLameter.

"Lay off, Bus!" the Lensman snapped. "I can handle him--a lot easier
out here than on the ground."

And so it proved. Inertialess as he was, the buffetings of the
Velantian affected him not at all; and when Worsel coiled his supple
body around him and began to apply pressure, Kinnison simply expanded
his thought-screen to cover them both, thus releasing the mind of his
temporarily inimical friend from the Overlord's grip. Instantly the
Velantian became himself, snapped on his own shield, and the three
continued, as one, their interrupted downward course.

[Illustration: _Inertialess as he was, the buffetings of the
Velantian affected him not at all----Then he simply expanded his
thought-screen----_]

Worsel came to a halt upon the ledge, beside the practically
incinerated corpse of the lookout, knowing, unarmored as he was, that
to go farther meant sudden death. The armored pair, however, shot on
into the gloomy passage. At first they were offered no opposition. The
Overlords had had no time to muster an adequate defense. Scattering
handfuls of slaves rushed them, only to be blasted out of existence as
their hand weapons proved useless against the armor of the Galactic
Patrol. Defenders became more numerous as the cavern itself was
approached; but neither were they allowed to stay the patrolmen's
progress. Finally, a palely shimmering barrier of metal appeared to
bar their way. Its fields of force neutralized or absorbed the blasts
of the DeLameters, but its material substance offered but little
resistance to a thirty-pound sledge swung by one of the strongest men
ever produced by any planet colonized by the humanity of Earth.

       *       *       *       *       *

Now they were in the cavern itself--the sanctum sanctorum of the
Overlords of Delgon. There was the hellish torture screen, with its
burden of mental and physical pain. There was the horribly avid
audience, now milling about in a mob frenzy of panic. There, upon a
raised balcony, were the "big shots" of this nauseous clan; now doing
their utmost to marshal some force able to cope effectively with this
unheard-of violation of their age-old immunity.

A last wave of Delgonian slaves hurled themselves forward, futile
projectors furiously aflame, only to disappear in the DeLameters' fans
of force. The patrolmen hated to kill those mindless slaves, but it
was a nasty job that had to be done. The slaves out of the way, those
ravening beams bored on into the massed Overlords.

And now Kinnison and VanBuskirk killed, if not joyously, at least
relentlessly, mercilessly, and with neither sign nor sensation of
compunction. For this unbelievably monstrous tribe needed killing, root
and branch. Not a scion or shoot of it should be allowed to survive, to
continue to contaminate the civilization of the galaxy. Back and forth,
to and fro, up and down swept the raging beams of the DeLameters,
playing on until in all the vast volume of that gruesome chamber
nothing lived save the two grim figures in its portal.

Assured of this fact, but with DeLameters still in hand, the two
destroyers retraced their way to the tunnel's mouth, where Worsel
anxiously awaited them. Lines of communication again established,
Kinnison informed the Velantian of all that had taken place, and the
latter gradually cut down the power of his thought-screen. Soon it was
at zero strength and he reported jubilantly that for the first time in
untold ages, the Overlords of Delgon were off the air!

"But surely the danger isn't over yet!" protested Kinnison. "We
couldn't have got them all in this one raid. Some of them must have
escaped, and there must be other dens of them on this planet somewhere?"

"Possibly; possibly." The Velantian waved his tail airily--the first
sign of joyousness he had shown. "But their power is broken, definitely
and forever. With these new screens, and with the arms and armament
which, thanks to you, we can now fabricate, the task of wiping them
out completely will be comparatively simple. Now you will accompany me
to Velantia where, I assure, the resources of the planet will be put
solidly behind you in your own endeavors. I have already summoned a
space ship. In less than twelve days we will be back in Velantia and at
work upon your projects. In the meantime----"

"Twelve _days_! Holy jumping rockets!" VanBuskirk exploded.

Kinnison said, "Sure--you forget that they knew nothing of our free
drive. We'd better hop over and get our lifeboat, I think. It's not so
good, either way, but in our own boat we'll be open to detection less
than two hours, as against twelve days in the Velantians'. And the
pirates may be here any minute. It's as good as certain that their ship
will be stopped and searched long before it gets back to Velantia, and
if we were aboard it would be just too bad."

"And, since the crew knows about us, the pirates soon will, and it'll
be just too bad, anyway," VanBuskirk reasoned.

"Not at all," interposed Worsel. "The few of my people who know of you
have been instructed to seal that knowledge. I must admit, however,
that I am greatly disturbed by your conceptions of these pirates of
space. You see, until I met you I knew nothing more of the pirates than
I did of your patrol."

"What a world!" VanBuskirk exclaimed. "No patrol and no pirates! But at
that, life might be simpler without both of them and without the free
space drive--more like it used to be in the good old airplane days that
the novelists rave about."

"Of course, I could not judge as to that." The Velantian was very
serious. "This in which we live seems to be an out-of-the-way section
of the galaxy; or it may be that we have nothing that the pirates want."

"More likely it's simply that, like the patrol, they haven't got
organized into this district yet," suggested Kinnison. "There are so
many millions of solar systems in the galaxy that it will probably be
thousands of years yet before the patrol gets into them all."

"But about these pirates," Worsel went back to his point. "If they have
such minds as those of the Overlords, they will be able to break the
seals of our minds. However, I gather from your thoughts that their
minds are not of that strength?"

"Not so far as I know," Kinnison replied. "You folks have the most
powerful brains I ever heard of, short of the Arisians. And speaking of
mental power, you can hear thoughts a lot farther than I can, even with
my Lens or with this pirate receiver I've got. See if you can find out
whether there are any pirates in space around here, will you?"

       *       *       *       *       *

While the Velantian was concentrating, VanBuskirk asked: "Why, if his
mind is so strong, could the Overlords put him under so much easier
than they could us 'weak-minded' humans?"

"You are confusing 'mind' with 'will,' I think. Ages of submission
to the Overlords made the Velantians' will power zero, as far as
the bosses were concerned. On the other hand, you and I could raise
stubbornness to sell to most people. In fact, if the Overlords had
succeeded in really breaking us down, back there, I believe that we
would have been insane for the rest of our lives."

"Probably you're right. We break, but don't bend, huh?"

Then the Velantian was ready to report. "I have scanned space to the
nearer stars--some eleven of your light years--and have encountered no
intruding entities," he announced.

"Eleven light years--what a range!" Kinnison exclaimed. "However,
that's only a shade over two minutes for a pirate ship at full blast.
But we've got to take a chance sometime, and the quicker we get started
the sooner we'll get back. We'll pick you up here, Worsel. No use in
you going back to your tent--we'll be back here long before you could
reach it. You'll be safe enough, I think, especially with our spare
DeLameters. Let's get going, Bus!"

Again they shot into the air; again they traversed the airless depths
of interplanetary space. To locate the temporary tomb of their
lifeboat required only a few minutes, to disinter her only a few more.
Then again they braved detection in the void; Kinnison tense at his
controls, VanBuskirk in strained attention listening to and staring at
his unscramblers and detectors. But the ether was still blank as they
materialized in an inertialess landing beside the waiting Velantian.

"All right, Worsel, snap it up!" Kinnison called, and went on to
VanBuskirk, "Now, you big, flat-footed Valerian space hound, I hope
that that spaceman's god of yours will see to it that our luck holds
good for just seven minutes more. We've had more luck already than
we had any right to expect, but we can put a little more to most
gosh-awful good use!"

"Noshabkeming _does_ bring spacemen luck," insisted the giant,
grimacing a peculiar salute toward a small, golden image set inside
his helmet, "and the fact that you warty, runty little space fleas of
Tellus haven't got sense enough to know it, doesn't change matters at
all."

"That's tellin' 'em, Bus!" Kinnison applauded. "But if it helps charge
your batteries, go to it. Ready to blast! Lift!"

The Velantian had come aboard; the tiny air lock was again tight, and
the little vessel shot away from Delgon toward far Velantia. And still
the ether remained empty as far as the detectors could reach. Nor was
this fact surprising, in spite of the Lensman's fears to the contrary;
for the patrolmen had given the pirates such an extremely long line
to cover that many days must yet elapse before the minions of Boskone
would get around to visit that unimportant, unexplored, and almost
unknown solar system.

       *       *       *       *       *

En route to his home planet Worsel got in touch with the crew of the
Velantian vessel already in space, ordering them to return to port
posthaste and instructing them in detail what to think and how to act
should they be stopped and searched by one of Boskone's raiders. By the
time these instructions had been given, Velantia loomed large beneath
the flying midget. Then, with Worsel as guide, Kinnison drove over a
mighty ocean upon whose opposite shore lay the great city in which
Worsel lived.

"But I would like to have them welcome you as befits what you have
done, and have you go to the dome!" mourned the Velantian. "Think of
it! You have done a thing which for ages the massed power of the planet
has been trying vainly to accomplish, and yet you insist that I alone
take full and complete credit for it!"

"I don't insist on any such thing," argued Kinnison, "even though
it's practically all yours, anyway. I insist only on your keeping us
and the patrol out of it, and you know as well as I do why you've got
to do that. Tell them anything else you want to. Say that a couple
of pink-haired Chickladorians helped you and then beat it back home.
_That_ planet's far enough away so that if the pirates chase them
they'll get a real run for their money. After this blows over you can
tell the truth--but _not until then_.

"And as for us going to the dome for a grand hocus-pocus, that is
completely and definitely _out_. We're not going anywhere except to the
biggest space yard you've got. You're not going to give us anything
except a lot of material and a lot of highly trained help that can keep
their thoughts sealed.

"We've got to build a lot of heavy stuff fast; and we've got to get
started on it just as quickly as the gods of space will let us!"




                                 VIII.


Worsel knew his council of scientists, as well he might, since it
developed that he himself ranked high in that select circle. True to
his promises, the largest space port of the planet was immediately
emptied of its customary personnel, which was replaced the following
morning by an entirely new group of workmen.

Nor were these replacements ordinary laborers. They were young, keen,
and highly trained, taken, to a man, from behind the thought-screens of
the scientists. It is true that they had no inkling of what they were
to do, since none of them had ever dreamed of the possibility of such
engines as they were to be called upon to construct.

But, upon the other hand, they were well versed in the fundamental
theories and operations of mathematics, and from pure mathematics to
applied mechanics is but a step. Furthermore, they had _brains_--knew
how to think logically, coherently, and effectively, and needed neither
driving nor supervision--only instruction. And best of all, practically
every one of the required mechanisms already existed, in miniature,
within the _Brittania's_ lifeboat, ready at hand for their dissection,
analysis, and enlargement. It was not lack of understanding which
was to slow up the work; it was simply that the planet did not boast
machine tools and equipment large enough or strong enough to handle the
necessarily huge and heavy parts and members required.

While the construction of this heavy machinery was being rushed
through, Kinnison and VanBuskirk devoted their efforts to the
fabrication of an ultra-sensitive receiver, tunable to the pirates'
scrambled wave bands. With their exactly detailed knowledge, and with
the cleverest technicians and the choicest equipment of Velantia at
their disposal, the set was soon completed.

Kinnison was giving its exceedingly delicate coils their final
alignment when Worsel wriggled blithely into the radio laboratory.

"Hi, Kimball Kinnison of the Lens!" he called gayly. Throwing some
twenty feet of his serpent's body in lightning loops about a convenient
pillar, he made a horizontal bar of the rest of himself and dropped
one wing tip to the floor. Then, nonchalantly upside down, he thrust
out three or four eyes and curled their stalks over the Lensman's
shoulder, the better to inspect the results of the mechanics' efforts.
Gone was the morose, pessimistic, death-haunted Worsel who had wrought
and fought beside the armored pair upon fantastically inimical Delgon.
This was a new Worsel entirely; gay, happy, carefree, and actually
frolicsome--if you can imagine a thirty-foot-long, crocodile-headed,
leather-winged python as being frolicsome!

"Hi, your royal snakeship!" Kinnison retorted in kind. "Still here,
huh? Thought you'd be back on Delgon by this time, cleaning up the rest
of that mess."

"The equipment is not ready, but there's no hurry about that." The
playful reptile unwrapped ten or twelve feet of tail from the pillar
and waved it airily about. "Their power is broken; their race is done.
You are about to try out the new receiver?"

"Yes--going out after them right now." Kinnison began deftly to
manipulate the micrometric verniers of his dials.

       *       *       *       *       *

Eyes fixed upon meters and gauges, he listened--listened--increased
his power and listened again. More and more power he applied to his
apparatus, listening continually. Suddenly he stiffened, his hands
becoming rock-still. He listened, if possible even more intently than
before; and as he listened his face grew grim and granite-hard. Then
the micrometers began again, crawlingly, to move, as though he were
tracing a beam.

"Bus! Hook on the focusing beam antenna!" he snapped. "It's going to
take every milliwatt of power we've got in this hook-up to tap his
beam, but I think that I've got Helmuth direct, instead of through a
pirate-ship relay!"

Again and again he checked the readings of his dials and of the
directors of his antenna; each time noting the exact time of the
Velantian day.

"There! As soon as we get some time, Worsel, I'd like to work out these
figures with some of your astronomers. They'll give me a right line
through to Helmuth's headquarters--I hope. Some day, if I'm spared,
I'll get another!"

"What kind of news did you get?" asked VanBuskirk.

"Good and bad both," replied the Lensman. "Good in that Helmuth
doesn't believe that we stayed with his ship as long as we did. He's a
suspicious devil, you know, and is pretty well convinced that we tried
to run the same kind of a blazer on him that we did the other time.
Since he hasn't got enough ships on the job to work the whole line,
he's concentrating on the other end. That means that we've got plenty
of days left. The bad part of it is that they've got four of our boats
already and are bound to get more. Lord, how I wish I could call the
rest of them! Some of them could certainly make it here before they got
caught."

"Might I then offer a suggestion?" asked Worsel, suddenly diffident.

"Surely!" the Lensman replied in surprise. "Your ideas have never been
any kind of poppycock. Why so bashful all at once?"

"Because this one is so--ah--so peculiarly personal, since you men
regard so highly the privacy of your minds. Our two sciences, as you
have already observed, are vastly different. You are far beyond us in
mechanics, physics, chemistry, and the other applied sciences. We, on
the other hand, have delved much deeper than have you into psychology
and the other introspective studies. For that reason I know positively
that the Lens you wear is capable of enormously greater things than
you are at present able to perform. Of course, I cannot use your Lens
directly, since it is attuned to your own ego. However, if the idea
appeals to you, I could, with your consent, occupy your mind and
use your Lens to put you _en rapport_ with your fellows. I have not
volunteered the suggestion before because I know how averse your mind
is to any foreign control."

"Not necessarily to foreign control," Kinnison corrected him. "Only to
_enemy_ control. The idea of friendly control never occurred to me.
That would be an entirely different breed of cats. Go to it!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Kinnison relaxed his mind completely, and that of the Velantian came
welling in, wave upon friendly, surging wave of benevolent power. And
not only--or not precisely--power. It was more than power; it was a
calm, cool, placid _certainty_, a depth and clarity of perception that
Kinnison in his most cogent moments had never dreamed a possibility.
The possessor of that mind knew things, cameo-clear in microscopic
detail, which the keenest minds of Earth could perceive only as
chaotically indistinct masses of mental light and shade, of no
recognizable pattern whatever!

"Give me the thought pattern of him with whom you wish first to
converse," came Worsel's thought, this time from deep within the
Lensman's own brain.

Kinnison felt a subtle thrill of uneasiness at that new and
ultra-strange dual personality, but thought back steadily, "Sorry--I
can't."

"Excuse me, I should have known that you cannot think in our patterns.
Think, then, of him as a person--an individual. That will give me, I
believe, sufficient data."

Into the Earthman's mind there leaped a picture of Henderson, sharp and
clear. He felt his Lens actually tingle and throb as a concentration of
vital force such as he had never known poured through his whole being
and into that almost-living creation of the Arisians, and immediately
thereafter he was in full mental communication with the chief pilot of
the ill-fated _Brittania_! And there, seated across the tiny mess table
of their lifeboat, was Thorndyke, the master technician.

Henderson came to his feet with a yell as the telepathic message
bombarded into his brain, and it required several seconds to convince
him that he was not the victim of space insanity or suffering from any
other form of hallucination. Once convinced, however, he acted. His
lifeboat shot toward far Velantia at maximum blast.

Then: "Nelson! Allerdyce! Thompson! Jenkins! Uhlenhuth! Smith!
Chatway----" Kinnison called the roll of the survivors.

Nelson, the _Brittania's_ communications officer, answered his
captain's call. So did Allerdyce, the juggling quartermaster. So did
Uhlenhuth, a technician. So did those in three other boats. Two of
these three were apparently well within the danger zone, and might get
nipped in their dash, but their crews elected without hesitation to
take the chance. Four boats, it was already known, had been captured by
the pirates. The remaining eight were either so distant as to be out of
range of even the Worsel-driven Lens, or they had been taken by pirates
who had not yet reported to Helmuth.

"Eight out of twenty," Kinnison mused. "Not so good, but it could have
been a lot worse. They might very well have taken us all by this time."

Then he turned to the Velantian, who had withdrawn his mind as soon as
its task was done. "Thanks, Worsel," he said simply. "Some of those
lads coming in have got plenty of just what it takes, and _how_ we can
use them!"

       *       *       *       *       *

One by one the lifeboats of the _Brittania_ came into port, where their
crews were welcomed briefly, but feelingly, before they were put to
work. Nelson, the communications officer, among the last to arrive, was
to the Lensman particularly welcome.

"Nels, we need you badly," Kinnison informed him as soon as greetings
had been exchanged. "The pirates have a beam, carrying a peculiarly
scrambled wave that they can receive and decode through any kind of
ordinary blanketing interference, and you're the best man of us all to
study their system. Some of these Velantian scientists can probably
help you a lot on that--any race that can develop a screen against
thought figures to know more than somewhat about vibration in general.
We've got working models of the pirates' instruments, so that you can
figure out their patterns and formulas. That ought to be simple.

"When you've done that, I want you and your Velantians to design
something that will scramble all the pirates' communicator beams in
space, from here to the near rim of the galaxy. If you can fix things
so that they can't talk, any more than we can, it'll help a lot,
believe me!"

"QX, chief, we'll give it the works." And the radio man called for
tools, apparatus and electricians.

Then throughout the great space port the many Velantians and the
handful of patrolmen labored mightily, side by side, and to very
good effect indeed. Slowly, the port became ringed about by, and
studded everywhere with, monstrous mechanisms. Everywhere there were
projectors: refractory-throated demons ready to vomit forth every force
known to the expert technicians of the patrol. There were absorbers,
too, backed by their bleeder resistors, air gaps, ground rods, and
racks for discharged accumulators. There, too, were receptors and
converters for the cosmic energy which was to empower many of the
devices. There were, of course, atomic motor generators by the score,
and battery upon battery of gigantic accumulators. And Nelson's
high-powered scrambler was ready to go to work.

These machines appeared crude, rough, unfinished; for neither time
nor labor had been wasted upon nonessentials. But inside each one the
moving parts fitted with micrometric accuracy and with hair-spring
balance. All, without exception, functioned perfectly.

At Worsel's call, Kinnison climbed up out of a great beamproof pit, the
top of whose wall was practically composed of tractor-beam projectors.
Pausing only to make sure that a sticking switch on one of the
screen-dome generators had been replaced, he hurried to the heavily
armored control room, where his little force of fellow patrolmen
awaited him.

"They're coming, boys," he announced. "You all know what to do. There
are a lot more things that we could have done if we'd had more time,
but as it is we'll just go to work on them with what we've got." And
Kinnison, again all brisk captain, bent over his instruments.

In the ordinary course of events the pirate would have flashed up
to the planet with spy rays out and issuing a peremptory demand for
the planet to show a clean bill of health or to surrender instantly
such fugitives as might lately have landed upon it. But Kinnison did
not--could not--wait for that. The spy rays, he knew, would reveal the
presence of his armament; and such armament most certainly did not
belong to this planet. Therefore, the instant that the pirate ship
came within range of his detectors he acted; and forthwith everything
happened at once, with furious swiftness.

A tracer lashed out, the pilot ray of the rim battery of
extraordinarily powerful tractors. Under the urge of those beams the
inertialess ship flashed toward their center of action, which was the
geometrical center of the space port's deep rayproof pit. At the same
moment Nelson's scrambler burst into activity, a dome-screen against
cosmic-energy intake, and a full circle of super-powered attacking rays.

       *       *       *       *       *

All these things occurred in the twinkling of an eye, and the vessel
was being slowed down by the atmosphere of Velantia before her startled
commander could even realize that he was being attacked. Only the
presence of automatically reacting defensive screens saved that ship
from instant destruction; but they did so save it and in seconds the
pirates' every weapon was furiously ablaze.

In vain. The defenses of that pit could take it. They were driven by
mechanisms easily able to absorb the output of any equipment mountable
upon a mobile base, and to his consternation the pirate found that his
cosmic-energy intake was at, and remained at, zero. He sent out call
after call for help, but could not make contact with any other pirate
station. Ether and subether alike were closed to him; his signals were
blanketed completely. Nor could his drivers, even though operating
at ruinous overload, move him from the geometrical center of that
incandescently flaming pit, so inconceivably rigid were the tractors'
clamps upon him.

And soon his power began to fail. His vessel, designed to operate
upon cosmic-energy intake, carried only enough accumulators for
stabilization of power flow, an amount ridiculously inadequate for a
combat as profligate of energy as this. But, strangely enough, as his
defense weakened, so lessened the power of the attack. It was no part
of the Lensman's plan to destroy this superdreadnaught of the void.

"That was one good thing about the old _Brittania_," he gritted as he
cut down, step by step, the power of his beams, "nobody could block her
off from what power she had!"

Soon the stored-up energy of the battleship was exhausted and she lay
there, quiescent. Then giant pressers went into action and she was
lifted over the wall of the pit, to settle down in an open space beside
it--open, but still under the domes of force.

Kinnison had no needle rays as yet, the time at his disposal having
been sufficient only for the construction of the absolutely essential
items of equipment. Now, while he was debating with his fellows as
to what part of the vessel to destroy in order to wipe out its crew,
the pirates themselves ended the debate. Ports yawned in the vessel's
armored side and they came out fighting.

For they were not a breed to die like rats in a trap, and they knew
that to remain inside their vessel was to die whenever and however
their captors willed. They knew also that die they must if they could
not conquer. Their surrender, even if it should be accepted, would mean
only a somewhat later death in the lethal chambers of the law. In the
open, they could at least take some of their foes with them.

Furthermore, not being men as we know men, they had nothing in common
with either human beings or Velantians. Both of them were vermin,
as they themselves were to the beings manning this surprisingly
impregnable fortress here in this waste corner of the galaxy.
Therefore, space-hardened veterans all, they fought, with the insane
ferocity and desperation of the ultimately last stand; but they did not
conquer. Instead, and to the last man, they died.

       *       *       *       *       *

As soon as the battle was over, before the interference blanketing the
pirates' communicators was cut off, Kinnison went through the captured
vessel, destroying the headquarters visiplates and every automatic
sender which could transmit any kind of a message to any pirate base.

Then the interference was stopped; the domes were released; the ship
was removed from the field of operations. Then, while Thorndyke
and his reptilian aides--themselves now radio experts of no mean
attainments--busied themselves at installing a high-powered scrambler
aboard her, Kinnison and Worsel scanned space in search of more prey.
Soon they found it, more distant than the first one had been--two solar
systems away--and in an entirely different direction. Tracers and
tractors and interference and domes of force again became the order of
the day. Projectors again raved out in their incandescent might, and
soon another immense cruiser of the void lay beside her sister ship.
Another and another; then, for a long time, space was blank.

The Lensman then energized his ultra-receiver, pointing his antenna
carefully into the galactic line to Helmuth's base, as laid down
for him by the Velantian astronomers. Again, so tight and hard was
Helmuth's beam, he had to drive his apparatus so unmercifully that the
tube noise almost drowned out the signals, but again he was rewarded by
hearing faintly the voice of the pirate director of operations.

"--four vessels, all within or near one of those five solar systems,
have ceased communicating; each cessation being accompanied by a period
of blanketing interference of a pattern never before registered.
You two vessels who are receiving these orders are instructed to
investigate that region with the utmost care. Go with screens out and
everything on the trips, and with automatic recorders set on me here.

"It is not believed that the patrol has anything to do with this, as
ability has been shown transcending anything it has been known to
possess. As a working hypothesis it is assumed that one of those solar
systems, hitherto practically unexplored and unknown, is, in reality,
the seat of a highly advanced race, which perhaps has taken offense at
the attitude or conduct of our first ship to visit them. Therefore,
proceed with extreme caution, with a thorough spy-ray search at extreme
range before approaching at all. If you land, use tact and diplomacy
instead of the customary tactics. Find out whether our ships and crews
have been destroyed, or are only being held. And remember, automatic
reporters on at all times. Helmuth, speaking for Boskone--off!"

For minutes Kinnison manipulated his micrometer in vain. He could not
get another sound.

"What are you trying to get, Kim?" asked Thorndyke. "Wasn't that
enough?" The message had been re-broadcast to the minds of the others
by Worsel, as fast as it had entered the Lensman's ears.

"No, that's only half of it," Kinnison returned. "Helmuth's nobody's
fool. He's certainly trying to plot the boundaries of our interference,
and I want to see how he's coming out with it. But no dice. He's so far
away and his beam's so hard that I can't work him unless he happens to
be talking almost directly toward us. Well, it won't be long now until
we'll give him some real interference to plot. Now we'll see what we
can do about those two other ships that are heading this way. On your
toes, everybody."

       *       *       *       *       *

Carefully as those two ships investigated, and sedulously, as they
sought to obey Helmuth's instructions, all their precautions amounted
to exactly nothing. As ordered, they began a spy-ray survey at extreme
range; but even at that range Kinnison's tracers were effective and
those two ships also ceased communicating in a blaze of interference.
Then recent history repeated itself. The details were changed somewhat,
since there were two vessels instead of one; but the pit was of ample
size to accommodate two ships, and the tractors could hold two as well
and as rigidly as one. The conflict was a little longer, the beaming
a little hotter and more coruscant, but the ending was the same.
Scramblers were quickly installed and Kinnison addressed his men,
already in the ships.

"Well, we're about ready to shove off again. Running away has worked
twice so far, with very good results--once in the old _Brittania_, and
once in the pirate's own ships. It should work again, if we can ring in
enough variations on the theme to keep Helmuth guessing a while longer.
Maybe, if the supply of pirate ships keeps up, we'll be able to make
Helmuth furnish us transportation all the way back to base!

"Here's the idea. We've got six ships, and there's enough of us to
drive them. Some of the younger Velantians have joined us, in spite of
the fact that I've told them the chances are against them ever getting
back. Enough of them, in fact, to make up almost full crews of us all.
But six ships isn't enough of a squadron to fight through the fleets
that Helmuth will have organized if we go in a body. So we'll spread
out radially, covering thousands of parsecs before we get halfway to
base, and broadcasting every watt of interference we can put out all
along the way, in as many different shapes and powers as our apparatus
will permit. We can't talk to each other, of course, but nothing
else can talk anywhere in the same sector of the galaxy, either,
and that will give us the edge. Each ship will be on its own, as we
were before in the boats; the big difference being that we'll be in
superdreadnaughts instead of lifeboats.

"Now, Worsel, if the pirates check up and follow the disturbance we
are going to make sure they won't bother you folks at all. In fact, if
they ever succeed in finding the center of that interference there will
be nothing there except empty space. But if they don't follow us--and
Helmuth is apt to insist upon a thorough study of this region before he
does anything else--you folks are due for an inspection; and the next
inspection will mean a real battle instead of a slaughter. The first
spy ray will reveal this stuff here. But I don't suppose you want to
hide it or destroy it?"

"We do not," the Velantian replied, positively. "Let them come, in
whatever force they care to bring. The more that attack here, the
less there will be to halt your progress. This armament represents
the best of that possessed by both your patrol and the pirates, with
improvements developed by your scientists and ours in full coöperation.
We understand thoroughly its construction, operation, and maintenance.
You may rest assured that the pirates will never levy tribute upon
us, and that any pirate visiting this system will remain in it,
permanently!"

"'At-a-snake, Worsel--long may you wiggle!" Kinnison exclaimed. Then,
more seriously, "Maybe, after this is all over, I'll see you again
sometime. If not, good-by. Good-by, all Velantia! All set, boys? Clear
ether and light landings to you all! Blast off!"

Six ships, once pirate craft, now vessels of the Galactic Patrol,
hurled themselves into and through Velantian air, into and through
interplanetary space, out into the larger, wider, more unobstructed
emptiness of the interstellar void. Six, each broadcasting with
prodigious power and volume an all-inclusive interference through which
no pirate communicator or visiray beam could possibly be driven!




                                  IX.


Kimball Kinnison sat at his controls, smoking a rare, festive cigarette
and smiling, at peace with the entire universe. For this new picture
was in every element a different one from the old. Instead of being in
a pitifully weak and defenseless lifeboat, skulking and hiding, he was
in one of the most powerful battleships afloat, driving boldly at full
blast almost directly toward home. Instead of only two, the patrolmen
were now three in number, and LaVerne Thorndyke, master technician, was
a telling addition to their force. Also, they had under them almost a
normal crew of alert and highly trained Velantians.

Best of all, the enemy, instead of being a close-knit group, keeping
Helmuth informed moment by moment of the situation and instantly
responsive to his orders, were now entirely out of communication with
each other and with their headquarters, groping helplessly. Literally,
as well as figuratively, the pirates were in the dark--the absolute
blackness of interstellar space. Then Thorndyke entered the room,
frowning slightly.

"You look like the fabled Cheshire Cat, Kim," he remarked. "I hate to
spoil such perfect bliss, but I'm here to tell you that we ain't out of
the woods yet, by seven thousand rows of trees."

"Maybe not," the Lensman returned, blithely, "but compared to the jam
we were in a while ago we're not only sitting on top of the world;
we're perched right on the exact apex of the universe. They can't
send or receive reports or orders, and they can't communicate. Even
their detectors are mighty lame. You know how far they can get on
electromagnetic detectors and visual apparatus. Furthermore, there
isn't an identification number, symbol, or name on the outside of this
buzz buggy. If it ever had one the friction and attrition have worn it
off, clear down to the armor. What can happen that we can't cope with?"

"These engines can happen," the technician responded, bluntly. "The
Bergenholm is developing a meter jump that I don't like a little bit."

"Does she knock? Or even tick?" demanded Kinnison.

"Not yet," Thorndyke confessed, reluctantly.

"How big a jump?"

"Pretty near two thousandths maximum. Average a thousandth and a half."

"That's hardly a wiggle on the recorder line. Drivers run for months
with bigger jumps than that."

"Yeah--drivers. But of all the troubles anybody ever had with
Bergenholms, a meter kick was never one of them, and that's what's got
me guessing as to the whichness of the why. I'm not trying to scare
you--yet. I'm just telling you."

The machine referred to was the neutralizer of inertia, the _sine qua
non_ of interstellar speed, and it was not to be wondered at that the
slightest irregularity in its performance was to the technician a
matter of grave concern. Day after day passed, however, and the huge
converter continued to function, taking in and sending out its wonted
torrents of power. It developed not even a tick, and the meter jump
did not grow worse. And during those days they put an inconceivable
distance behind them.

During all this time their visual instruments remained blank; to all
optical apparatus space was empty save for the normal tenancy of
celestial bodies. From time to time something invisible or beyond the
range of vision registered upon one of the electromagnetic detectors,
but so slow were these instruments that nothing came of their signals.
In fact, by the time the warnings were recorded, the objects causing
the disturbances were probably far astern.

       *       *       *       *       *

One day, however, the Bergenholm quit--cold. There was no laboring, no
knocking, no heating up, no warning at all. One instant the ship was
speeding along in free flight; the next she was lying inert in space.
She was practically motionless, for any possible velocity built up by
inert acceleration is scarcely a crawl, as free space speeds go!

Then the whole crew labored like mad. As soon as they had the massive
covers off, Thorndyke scanned the interior of the machine and turned to
Kinnison.

"I think we can patch her up, but it'll take quite a while. Maybe you'd
be of more use in the control room--this ain't quite as safe as a
church, is it, lying here inert?"

"Most of the stuff is on automatic trip, but maybe I'd better keep an
eye on things, at that. Let me know occasionally how you're getting
along." And the Lensman went back to his controls--none too soon.

For one pirate ship was already beaming him viciously. Only the fact
that his defensive armament was upon its automatic trips had saved the
stolen battleship from practically instantaneous destruction.

As Kinnison had already remarked more than once, Helmuth was far
from being a fool, and that new and amazingly effective blanketing
of his every means of communication was a problem whose solution was
of paramount importance. Almost every available ship had been, for
days, upon the fringe of that interference, observing and reporting
continuously. So rapidly was it moving, however, so peculiar was its
apparent shape, and so contradictory were the directional readings
obtained, that Helmuth's computers had been baffled.

Then Kinnison's Bergenholm failed and his ship went inert. In a space
of minutes the location of one center of interference was known. Its
coördinates were determined and half a dozen warships were ordered
to rush that spot. The raider first to arrive had signaled, visually
and audibly; then, obtaining no response, had anchored with a tractor
and had loosed his bolts. Nor would the result have been different
had every one aboard, instead of no one, been in the control room at
the time of the signaling. Kinnison could have read the messages, but
neither he nor any one else then aboard the erstwhile pirate craft
could have answered them in kind.

Soon the two space ships attacking the turncoat became three, then
four, and still the Lensman sat unworried at his board. His meters
showed no overload; his noble craft was easily taking everything her
sister ships could send.

Then Thorndyke stepped into the room, no longer a natty officer
of space. Instead, he was stripped to sweat-soaked undershirt and
overalls. He was covered with grease and grime, and what of his thickly
smeared face was visible was almost haggard with fatigue. He opened his
mouth to say something, then snapped it shut, as his eye was caught by
a flaring visiplate.

"Holy jumping rockets!" he exclaimed. "At us already? Why didn't you
yell?"

"How much good would that have done?" Kinnison wanted to know. "Of
course, if I had known that you were loafing on the job and could have
snapped it up a little, I would have. But there's no particular hurry
about this. It'll take more than four of them to break us down, and I
was hoping that before they can overload us you'd have us traveling.
What was on your mind?"

"I came up here--one, to tell you that we're ready to blast; two, to
suggest that you hit her easy at first; and three, to ask if you know
where there's any grease soap. But you can cancel two and three. We
don't want to play around with these boys much longer--they play too
rough--and I ain't going to wash up until I see whether she holds
together or not. Blast away--and won't those guys be surprised!"

"I'll say so. We were, too, when the Velantians showed us how to
compute a screen that would cut a tractor like so much cheese. Here she
goes!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The Lensman twirled a couple of knobs, then punched down hard upon
three buttons. As he did so the flaring plates became dark; they were
again alone in space. To the dumfounded pirates, inert as they were and
with their supposedly unbreakable tractors locked in full grip, it was
as though their prey had slipped off into the fourth dimension. Their
tractors gripped nothing whatever, their ravening beams bored unimpeded
through the space occupied an instant before by resisting screens.
They did not know what had happened, or how; and, being deep in the
field of interference, they could neither report to nor be guided by
the master mind of Boskone.

For minutes Thorndyke, VanBuskirk, and Kinnison waited tensely for
they knew not what would happen; but nothing happened and the tension
gradually relaxed.

"What was the matter with it?" Kinnison asked, finally.

"Overloaded," was Thorndyke's terse reply.

"Overloaded--hooey!" snapped the Lensman. "How _could_ they overload
a Bergenholm? And, even if they could, why in all the nine hells of
Valeria would they want to?"

"They _could_ do it easily enough, in just the way they _did_ do it--by
banking accumulators onto it in series parallel. As to why, I'll let
you do the guessing. With no load on the Bergenholm you've got full
inertia, with full load you've got zero inertia--you can't go any
farther. It looks just plain dumb to me. But then, I think all pirates
are short a few jets somewhere. If they weren't they wouldn't be
pirates."

"I don't know whether you're right or not. Hope so, but afraid not.
Personally, I don't believe these folks are pirates at all, in the
ordinary sense of the word."

"Huh? What are they, then?"

"Piracy implies similarity of culture, I would think," the Lensman
said, thoughtfully. "Ordinary pirates are usually renegades, deficient
somehow, as you suggested, rebelling against a constituted authority
which they themselves have at one time acknowledged and of which they
are still afraid. That pattern doesn't fit into this matrix at all,
anywhere."

"So what? Now I say 'hooey' right back at you. Anyway, why worry about
it?"

"Not worrying about it exactly, but somebody has got to do some
thinking about it, or else----"

"I don't like to think; it makes my head ache," interrupted VanBuskirk.
"Besides, we're getting away from the Bergenholm."

"You'll get a real headache there"--Kinnison laughed--"because I'll
bet a good Tellurian beefsteak that the pirates were trying to set up
a negative inertia when they overloaded the Bergenholm; and thinking
about that state of matter is enough to make _anybody's_ head ache!"

"I knew that some of the dippier Ph.D.'s in higher mechanics have been
speculating about it," Thorndyke offered, "but it can't be done that
way, can it?"

"Nor any other way that anybody has tried yet, and if such a thing is
possible the results may prove really startling. But you two had better
shove off; you're dead from the neck up. The Berg's spinning like a
top--as smooth as that much green velvet. You'll find a can of soap in
my locker, I think."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Maybe she'll hold together long enough for us to get some sleep."
The technician eyed a meter dubiously, although its needle was not
wavering a hair's breadth from the green line. "But I'll tell the
cockeyed universe that that was a jury rigging we gave it, if there
ever was one. You can't depend on it for an hour until after it's been
pulled and gone over; and that, you know as well as I do, takes a real
shop, with plenty of equipment. If you take my advice you'll sit down
somewhere while you can and as soon as you can. That Bergenholm is in
bad shape, believe me. We can hold her together for a while by main
strength and awkwardness, but before very long she's going out for
keeps--and when she goes out you don't want to find yourself fifty
years from a machine shop instead of fifty minutes."

"I'll say not," the Lensman agreed. "But on the other hand, we don't
want those birds jumping us the minute we land, either. Let's see,
where are we? And where are the bases? Um--um--sector bases are white
rings, you know, sub-sector bases red stars----" Three heads bent over
charts.

"The nearest red-star marker seems to be in System 240-16-37," Kinnison
finally announced. "Don't know the name of the planet--never been there
and----"

"Too far," interrupted Thorndyke. "We'll never make it. Might as well
try direct for Prime Base on Tellus. If you can't find a red closer
than that, look for an orange or a yellow."

"Bases of any kind seem to be scarce out here," the Lensman commented.
"Wish they had scattered them around a little thicker. Here's a violet
star, but that wouldn't help us--just an outpost."

"Guess that purple one there's our best bet," concluded Thorndyke.
"It's probably several breakdowns away, but maybe we can make it if
we have to. Purples are pretty low-grade space ports, but they've got
tools, anyway. What's the name of it, Kim--or is it only a number?"

"It's that very famous planet, Trenco," the Lensman announced, after
looking up the reference numbers in the atlas.

"_Trenco!_" exclaimed Thorndyke in disgust. "The nuttiest, dopiest,
wooziest planet in the galaxy! We _would_ draw something like that
to sit down on for repairs, wouldn't we? Well, I'm on minus time for
sleep. Call me if we go inert before I wake up, will you?"

"I sure will; and I'll try to figure out a way of getting down to
ground without bringing all the pirates in space along with us."

Then Thorndyke and VanBuskirk slept; Kinnison planned, and the mighty
Bergenholm continued to hold the vessel inertialess. In fact, all
three men were thoroughly rested and refreshed before the expected
breakdown came. And when it did come they were more or less prepared
for it. The delay was not sufficiently long to enable the pirates to
find them again.

       *       *       *       *       *

The sweating, grunting, swearing engineers made one seemingly
impossible repair after another, by dint of what dodge, improvisation,
and makeshift only the fertile brain of LaVerne Thorndyke ever did
know. The master technician, one of the keenest and most highly trained
engineers of the whole solarian system, was not used to working with
his hands. Although young in years, he was wont to use only his head,
in directing the labors and the energies of others.

Nevertheless, he was now working like a stevedore. He was permanently
grimy and greasy--their one can of mechanics' soap had been used up
long since. His finger nails were black and broken; his hands and face
were burned, blistered and cracked. His muscles ached and shrieked at
the unaccustomed effort, until now they were on the build. But through
it all he had stuck uncomplainingly, even buoyantly, to his task. One
day, during an interlude of free flight, he strode into the control
room and glanced at the course-plotting goniometer, then stared into
the "tank."

"Still on the original course, I see. Have you get anything doped out
yet?"

"Nothing very good. That's why I'm staying on this course until we
reach the point closest to Trenco. I've figured until my alleged brain
back-fired on me, and here's all I can get:

"I've been shrinking and expanding our interference zone, changing its
shape as much as I could with reflectors, and cutting it off entirely
now and then, to cross up their surveyors as much as I could. When we
come to the jumping-off place we'll simply cut off everything that is
sending out traceable vibrations. The Berg will have to run, of course,
but it doesn't radiate much and we can ground out practically all of
that. The drive is the bad feature. It looks as though we'll have to
cut down to where we can ground out the radiation."

"How about the flare?" Thorndyke took the inevitable slide rule from a
pocket of his overalls and began to work it.

"I've already had the Velantians build us some baffles--we've got lots
of spare tantalum, tungsten, carballoy, and refractory, you know--just
in case we should want to use them."

"Radiation--detection--decrement--cosine squared theta--um--call
it Point 0038," the engineer mumbled, operating his calculator.
"We'll have to cut down to about ten or twelve lights. Mighty slow,
but we would get there sometime--maybe. Now about the baffles."
And he went into another bout with his slide rule, during which
could be distinguished a few such words as "temperature--inert
corpuscles--velocity--fusion point--Weinberger's Constant----"

Then he said, "It figures that at about fourteen lights your baffles go
out. Pretty close check with the radiation limit. QX, I guess--but I
shudder to think of what we may have to do to that Bergenholm to hold
it together that long."

"It's not so hot. I don't think much of the scheme myself," admitted
Kinnison frankly. "Probably you can think up something better
before----"

"Who, me? What with?" Thorndyke interrupted, with a laugh. "Looks to me
like our best bet. Anyway, ain't you the master mind of this outfit?
Blast off!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Thus it came about that, long later, the Lensman cut off his
interference, cut off his driving power, cut off every mechanism whose
operation generated vibrations which would reveal to enemy detectors
the location of his cruiser. Space-suited mechanics emerged from the
stern lock and fitted over the still white-hot vents of the driving
projectors the baffles they had previously built.

It is, of course, well known that all ships of space are propelled by
the inert projection, by means of high-potential static fields, of
nascent fourth-order particles or "corpuscles," which are formed inert,
inside the inertialess projector, by the conversion of some form of
energy into matter. This conversion liberates some heat, and a vast
amount of light. This light, or "flare," shining as it does directly
upon and through the highly tenuous gas formed by the projected
corpuscles, makes of a speeding space ship one of the most gorgeous
spectacles known to man; and it was this very spectacular effect that
Kinnison and his crew must do away with if their bold scheme was to
have any chance at all of success.

The baffles were in place. Now, instead of shooting out in telltale
luminescence, the light was shut in--but so, alas, was approximately
three per cent of the heat. And the generation of heat _must_ be cut
down to a point at which the radiation-equilibrium temperature of the
baffles would be below the point of fusion of the refractories of which
they were composed. This would cut down their speed tremendously; but,
on the other hand, they were practically safe from detection and would
reach Trenco eventually--if the Bergenholm held out.

Of course, there was still the chance of visual or electromagnetic
detection, but that chance was vanishingly small. The proverbial task
of finding a needle in a haystack would be an easy one indeed, compared
to that of seeing in a telescope or upon visiplate or magne-plate a
dead-black, lightless ship in the infinity of space. No, the Bergenholm
was their great, their only concern; and the engineers lavished upon
that monstrous fabrication of metal a devotion to which could be
likened only that of a corps of nurses attending the ailing baby of a
multimillionaire.

This concentration of attention did get results. The engineers still
found it necessary to sweat and to grunt and to swear, but they did
somehow keep the thing running--most of the time. Nor were they
detected--then.

For the attention of the pirate high command was very much taken up
with that fast-moving, that ever-expanding, that peculiarly-fluctuating
volume of interference--utterly enigmatic as it was, and impenetrable
to their very instrument of communication. Its center was moving toward
the solarian system. In that system was the Prime Base of the Galactic
Patrol. Therefore, it _was_ the Lensman's work--undoubtedly the same
Lensman who had conquered one of their superships and, after having
learned its every secret, had escaped in a _lifeboat_ through the
fine-meshed net set to catch him! And, piling Ossa upon Pelion, this
same Lensman had--_must_ have--captured ship after unconquerable ship
of their best and was even now sailing calmly home with them!

Therefore, using as tools every pirate ship in that sector of space,
Helmuth and his computers and navigators were slowly but grimly solving
the equations of motion of that volume of interference. Smaller and
smaller became the uncertainties. Then ship after ship bored into the
subethereal murk, to match course and velocity with, and ultimately to
come to grips with, each focus of disturbance as it was determined.

Thus in a sense, and although Kinnison and his friends did not then
know it, it was only the failure of the Bergenholm that was to save
their lives, and with those lives our present civilization.

       *       *       *       *       *

Slowly, haltingly, and, for reasons already given, undetected,
Kinnison made pitiful progress toward Trenco--impatiently cursing his
ship, the crippled generator, its designer and its previous operators
as he went. But at long last Trenco loomed large beneath them and the
Lensman used his Lens.

"Lensman of Trenco space port, or any other Lensman within call!" he
sent out clearly. "Kinnison of Tellus--Sol III--calling. My Bergenholm
is almost out and I must sit down at Trenco space port for repairs. I
have avoided the pirates so far, but they may be either behind me or
ahead of me, or both. What is the situation there?"

"I fear that I can be of no help," came back a weak thought, without
the customary identification. "I am out of control. However, Tregonsee
is in the----"

Kinnison felt a poignant, unbearably agonizing mental impact that
jarred him to the very core: a shock that, while of sledge-hammer
force, was still of such a keenly, penetrant timbre that it almost
exploded every cell of his brain.

Communication ceased, and the Lensman knew, with a sick, shuddering
certainty, that while in the very act of talking to him a Lensman had
died.




                                  X.


Judged by any Earthly standards, the planet Trenco was--and is--a
peculiar one indeed. Its atmosphere, which is not air, and its liquid,
which is not water, are its two outstanding peculiarities and the
sources of most of its others. Almost half of that atmosphere and by
far the greater part of the liquid phase of the planet is a substance
of extremely low latent heat of vaporization, with a boiling point such
that during the daytime it is a vapor and at night a liquid. To make
matters worse, the other constituents of Trenco's gaseous envelope
are of very feeble blanketing power, low specific heat, and of high
permeability, so that its days are intensely hot and its nights are
bitterly cold.

At night, therefore, it rains. Words are entirely inadequate to
describe to any one who has never been there just how it does rain
during Trenco's nights. Upon Earth one inch of rainfall in an hour is
a terrific downpour. Upon Trenco that amount of precipitation would
scarcely be considered a mist; for along the equatorial belt, in less
than thirteen Tellurian hours, it rains exactly forty-seven feet and
five inches every night--no more and no less, each and every night of
every year.

Also there is lightning. Not in Terra's occasional flashes, but in one
continuous, blinding glare which makes night as we know it unknown
there--in nerve-wracking, battering, sense-destroying discharges
which make ether and subether alike impenetrable to any ray or signal
short of a full-driven power beam. The days are practically as bad.
The lightning is not so violent then, but the bombardment of Trenco's
monstrous sun, through that outlandishly peculiar atmosphere, produces
almost the same effect.

Because of the difference in pressure set up by the enormous
precipitation, always and everywhere upon Trenco there is wind--and
what a wind! Except at the very poles, where it is too cold for even
Trenconian life to exist, there is hardly a spot in which or a time at
which an Earthy gale would not be considered a dead calm; and along the
equator, at every sunrise and at every sunset, the wind blows from the
day side to the night side at the rate of a trifle over eight hundred
miles an hour!

Through countless thousands of years wind and wave have planed and
scoured the planet Trenco to a geometrically perfect oblate spheroid.
It has no elevations and no depressions. Nothing fixed in an Earthly
sense grows or exists upon its surface; no structure has ever been
built there able to stay in one place through one whole day of the
cataclysmic meteorological phenomena which constitute the natural
Trenconian environment.

       *       *       *       *       *

There live upon Trenco two types of vegetation, each type having
innumerable subdivisions. One type sprouts in the mud of the morning;
flourishes flatly, by dint of deeply sent and powerful roots, during
the wind and the heat of the day; comes to full fruit in late
afternoon; and at sunset dies and is swept away by the flood. The other
type is free-floating. Some of its genera are remotely like footballs;
others resemble tumbleweeds; still others thistledown; hundreds of
others have not their remotest counterparts upon Earth. Essentially,
however, they are alike in habits of life. They can sink in the "water"
of Trenco; they can burrow in its mud, from which they derive part
of their sustenance; they can emerge therefrom into the sunlight;
they can, undamaged, float in or roll along before the ever-present
Trenconian wind; and they can enwrap, entangle, or otherwise seize and
hold anything with which they come in contact which by any chance may
prove edible.

Animal life, too, while abundant and diverse, is characterized by
three qualities. From lower to very highest it is amphibious; it is
streamlined; and it is omnivorous. Life upon Trenco is hard, and any
form of life to evolve there must of stern necessity be willing, yes,
even anxious, to eat literally _anything_ available. And for that
reason all surviving forms of life, vegetable and animal, have a
voracity and a fecundity almost unknown anywhere else in the galaxy.

Thionite, the noxious drug referred to earlier in this narrative, is
the sole reason for Trenco's galactic importance. As chlorophyll is to
Earthly vegetation, so is thionite to that of Trenco. Trenco is the
only planet thus far known upon which this substance occurs, nor have
our scientists even yet been able either to analyze or to synthesize
it. Thionite is capable of affecting only those races who breathe
oxygen and possess warm blood, red with haemoglobin.

However, the planets peopled by such races are legion, and very shortly
after the drug's discovery hordes of addicts, smugglers, peddlers, and
out-and-out pirates were rushing toward the new bonanza. Thousands of
these adventurers died, either from each other's ray guns or under an
avalanche of hungry Trenconian life; but, thionite being what it is,
thousands more kept coming. Also came the patrol, to curb the evil
traffic at its source by beaming down ruthlessly any being attempting
to gather any Trenconian vegetation.

Thus between the patrol and the drug syndicate there rages a bitterly
continuous battle to the death. Arrayed against both factions is the
massed life of the noisome planet, omnivorous as it is, eternally
ravenous, and of an individual power and ferocity and a collective
aggregate of numbers none of which is to be despised. And eternally
raging against all these contending parties are the wind, the
lightning, the rain, the flood, and the hellish vibratory output of
Trenco's enormous, malignant, blue-white sun.

       *       *       *       *       *

This, then, was the planet upon which Kinnison had to land in order to
repair his crippled Bergenholm--and in the end how well it was to be
that such was the case!

"Kinnison of Tellus, greetings. Tregonsee of Rigel IV calling from
Trenco space port. Have you ever landed on this planet before?"

"No, but what----"

"Skip that for a time; it is most important that you land here quickly
and safely. Where are you in relation to this planet?"

"Your apparent diameter is a shade under six degrees. We are near the
plane of your ecliptic and almost in the plane of your terminator, on
the morning side."

"That is well; you have ample time. Place your ship between Trenco
and the sun. Enter the atmosphere exactly fifteen G-P minutes
from ... check ... at twenty degrees after meridian, as nearly as
possible on the ecliptic, which is also our equator. Go inert as you
enter atmosphere; for a free landing upon this planet is impossible.
Synchronize with our rotation, which is twenty-six point two G-P hours.
Descend vertically until the atmospheric pressure is seven hundred
millimeters of mercury, which will be at an altitude of approximately
one thousand meters. Since you rely largely upon that sense called
sight, allow me to caution you now not to trust it. When your external
pressure is seven hundred millimeters of mercury your altitude will
be one thousand meters, whether you believe it or not. Stop at that
pressure and inform me of the fact, meanwhile holding yourself as
nearly stationary as you can. Check so far?"

"QX. But do you mean to tell me that we can't locate each other at a
_thousand meters_?" Kinnison's amazed thought escaped him. "What kind
of----"

"I can locate you, but you cannot locate me," came the dry reply.
"Every one knows that Trenco is peculiar, but no one who has never
been here can realize even dimly how peculiar it really is. Detectors
and spy rays are useless, electromagnetics are practically paralyzed,
and optical apparatus is distinctly unreliable. You cannot trust your
vision here. Do not believe all that you see. It used to require days
to land a ship at this port. But with our Lenses and my "sense of
perception," as you call it, it will be a matter of minutes."

Kinnison had flashed his ship to the designated position.

"Cut the Berg, Thorndyke, we're all done with it. I've got to build up
an inert velocity to match the rotation, and land inert."

"Thanks be to all the gods of space for that." The engineer heaved a
sigh of relief. "I've been expecting it to blow its top for the last
hour, and I don't know whether we'd ever have got it meshed in again or
not."

"QX on location and orbit," Kinnison reported to the as yet invisible
space port a few minutes later. "Now, what about that Lensman? What
happened?"

"The usual thing," came the emotionless response. "It happens to
altogether too many Lensmen who can see, in spite of everything we
can tell them. He insisted upon going out after his zwilniks in a
ground car, and, of course, we had to let him go. He became confused,
lost control, let something--possibly a zwilnik's bomb--get under
his leading edge, and the wind and the Trencos did the rest. He was
Lageston of Mercator V--a good man, too. What is the pressure now?"

"Five hundred millimeters."

"Slow down. Now, if you cannot conquer the tendency to believe your
eyes, you had better shut off your visiplates and watch only the
pressure gauge."

"Being warned, I can disbelieve my eyes, I think." For a minute or so
communication ceased.

       *       *       *       *       *

At a startled oath from VanBuskirk, Kinnison glanced into the plate.
It needed all his self-control to keep from wrenching savagely at
the controls. For the whole planet was tipping, lurching, spinning,
gyrating madly in a frenzy of impossible motions.

"Sheer off, Kim!" yelled the Valerian.

"Hold it, Bus," cautioned the Lensman, "That's what we've got to
expect, you know. I passed all the stuff along as I got it. Everything,
that is, except that a zwilnik is anything or anybody that comes after
thionite, and that a Trenco is anything, animal or vegetable, that
lives on the planet. QX, Tregonsee--seven hundred, and I'm holding
steady--I hope!"

"Steady enough, but you are too far away for our landing bars. Direct
a thought, rotating the prime axis of your Lens while inclining it
somewhat downward.... Stop! Mark that line on your circles. Now think
of the alignment of your ship in relation to that line. Swing your
prow away from that line, clear around, to approach it from the other
side ... slow ... hold it! Apply normal acceleration...."

In a few minutes the crew felt a gentle, snubbing shock, and Kinnison
again translated to his companions the stranger's thoughts: "We have
grasped you with our landing bars. Cut off all your power and set all
controls in neutral. Do nothing more until I instruct you to come out."

Kinnison obeyed; and, released from all duty, the three visitors stared
in fascinated incredulity into the visiplate. For that at which they
stared was and must forever remain impossible of duplication upon
Earth, and only in imagination can it be even faintly pictured. Imagine
all the fantastic and monstrous creatures of a delirium-tremens vision
incarnate and actual. Imagine them being hurled through the air, borne
by a dust-laden gale more severe than any the great American "dust
bowl" or Africa's Sahara Desert ever endured. Imagine this scene as
being viewed, not in an ordinary, solid, distorting mirror, but in one
whose falsely reflecting contours were changing constantly, with no
logical or intelligible rhythm, into new and ever more grotesque warps.
If imagination has been equal to the task, the resultant is what the
three patrolmen tried to see.

At first they could make nothing whatever of it. Upon nearer approach,
however, the ghastly distortion grew less and the flatly level expanse
of sun-baked mud took on a semblance of rigidity. Directly beneath them
they made out something that looked like an immense, flat blister upon
the otherwise featureless terrain. Their ship was drawn toward this
blister.

       *       *       *       *       *

A port opened, dwarfed in apparent size to a mere window by the
immensity of the structure. Through this port the vast bulk of the
space ship was wafted upon the landing bars, and behind it the mighty
bronze-and-steel gates clanged shut. The lock was pumped to a vacuum;
there was a hiss of entering air; a spray of vaporous liquid bathed
every inch of the vessel's surface, and Kinnison felt again the calm
voice of Tregonsee, the Rigellian Lensman.

"You may now open your air lock and emerge. If I have read aright, our
atmosphere is sufficiently like your own in oxygen content so that you
will suffer no ill effects from it. It may be well, however, to wear
your armor until you have become accustomed to its considerably greater
density."

"That'll be a relief!" growled VanBuskirk's deep base, when his chief
had transmitted the thought. "I've been breathing this thin stuff so
long I'm getting light-headed."

"That's gratitude!" Thorndyke retorted. "We've been running our air so
heavy that all the rest of us are thick-headed now. If the air in this
space port is any heavier than what we've been having, I'm going to
wear armor as long as we stay here!"

Kinnison had opened the air lock, found the atmosphere of the space
port satisfactory, and now stepped out, to be greeted cordially by
Tregonsee, the Lensman.

This--this apparition was at least erect, which was something. His body
was the size and shape of an oil drum. Beneath this massive cylinder of
a body were four short, blocky legs upon which he waddled about with
surprising speed. Midway up the body, above each leg, there sprouted
out a ten-foot-long, writhing, boneless, tentacular arm, which toward
the extremity branched out into dozens of lesser tentacles, ranging in
size from hairlike tendrils up to mighty fingers two inches or more in
diameter. Tregonsee's head was merely a neckless, immobile, bulging
dome in the center of the flat, upper surface of his body--a dome
bearing neither eyes nor ears, but only four equally spaced toothless
mouths and four single, flaring nostrils.

But Kinnison felt no qualm of repugnance at Tregonsee's monstrous
appearance, for embedded in the leathery flesh of one arm was the Lens.
Here, the Lensman knew, was in every essential a _man_--and probably a
superman.

[Illustration: _Here--the Lensman knew--was in every essential a
man--and probably a superman._]

"Welcome to Trenco, Kinnison of Tellus," Tregonsee was saying. "While
we are near neighbors in space, I have never happened to visit your
planet. I have encountered Tellurians here, of course, but they were
not of a type to be received as guests."

"No, a zwilnik is not a high type of Tellurian," Kinnison agreed. "I
have often wished that I could have your sense of perception, if only
for a day. It must be wonderful indeed to be able to perceive a thing
as a whole, inside and out, instead of having vision stopped at its
surface, as is ours. And to be independent of light or darkness, never
to be lost or in need of instruments, to know definitely where you are
in relation to every other object or thing around you--that, I think,
is the most marvelous sense in the universe."

"Just as I have wished for sight and hearing, those two remarkable and
to us entirely unexplainable senses. I have dreamed; I have studied
volumes, on color and sound: color in art and in nature; sound in
music and in the voices of loved ones. But they remain meaningless
symbols upon a printed page. However, such thoughts are vain. In all
probability neither of us would enjoy the other's equipment if he had
it, and this interchange is of no material assistance to you."

       *       *       *       *       *

In flashing thoughts Kinnison then communicated to the other Lensman
everything that had transpired since he left Prime Base.

"I perceive that your Bergenholm is of Standard 14 Rating," Tregonsee
said, as the Tellurian finished his story. "We have several spares
here; and, while they all have regulation patrol mountings, it would
take much less time to change mounts than to overhaul your machine."

"That's so, too. I never thought of the possibility of your having
spare machines--and we've lost a lot of time already. How long will it
take?"

"One night of labor to change mounts--at least eight to rebuild yours
enough to be sure that it will get you home."

"We'll change mounts, then, by all means. I'll call the boys----"

"There is no need of that. We are amply equipped, and neither of you
humans nor the Velantians could handle our tools." Tregonsee made no
visible motion nor could Kinnison perceive a break in his thought, but
while he was conversing with the Tellurian half a dozen of his blocky
Rigellians had dropped whatever they had been doing and were scuttling
toward the visiting ship. "Now I must leave you for a time, as I have
one more trip to make this afternoon."

"Is there anything I can do to help you?" asked Kinnison.

"No," came the definite negative. "I will return in three hours, as
well before sunset the wind makes it impossible to get even a ground
car into the port. I will then show you why you can be of little
assistance to us."

Kinnison spent those three hours watching the Rigellians work upon the
Bergenholm; there was no need for direction or advice. They knew what
to do and they did it. Those tiny, hairlike fingers, literally hundreds
of them at once, performed delicate tasks with surpassing nicety and
dispatch; when it came to heavy tasks the larger digits or even whole
arms wrapped themselves around the work and, with the solid bracing of
the four blocklike legs, exerted forces that even VanBuskirk's giant
frame could not have approached.

As the end of the third hour neared, Kinnison watched with a spy
ray--there were no windows in the Trenco space port--the leeward
groundway of the structure. In spite of the weird antics of Trenco's
sun--gyrating, jumping, appearing and disappearing--he knew that it was
going down. Soon he saw the ground car coming in, scuttling crab-wise,
nose into the wind but actually moving backward and sidewise. Although
the "seeing" was very poor, at this close range the distortion was
minimized and he could see that, like its parent craft, the ground car
was in the shape of a blister. Its edges actually touched the ground
all around, sloping upward and over the top in such a smooth reverse
curve that the harder the wind blew the more firmly was the vehicle
pressed downward.

The ground flap came up just enough to clear the car's top and the
tiny craft crept up. But before the landing bars could seize her the
ground car struck an eddy from the flap--an eddy in a medium which,
although gaseous, was at that velocity practically solid. Earth blasted
away in torrents from the leading edge; the car leaped bodily into the
air and was flung away, end over end. But Tregonsee, with consummate
craftsmanship, forced her flat again, and again she crawled up toward
the flap. This time the landing bars took hold and, although the little
vessel fluttered like a leaf in a gale, she was drawn inside the port
and the flap went down behind her. She was then sprayed, and Tregonsee
came out.

[Illustration: _Although the "seeing" was very poor at this close
range, the distortion was minimized--and the spy ray revealed the
ground car just as it struck an eddy from the flap----_]

"Why the spray?" thought Kinnison, as the Rigellian entered his control
room.

"Trencos. Much of the life of this planet starts from almost
imperceptible spores. It develops rapidly, attains considerable size,
and consumes anything organic it touches. This port was depopulated
time after time before the lethal spray was developed. Now turn your
spy ray again to the lee of the port."

       *       *       *       *       *

During the few minutes that had elapsed the wind had increased in
fury to such an extent that the very ground was boiling away from the
trailing edge in the tumultuous eddy formed there, ultra-streamlined
though the space port was. And that eddy, far surpassing in violence
any storm known to Earth, was to the denizens of Trenco a miraculously
appearing quiet spot in which they could stop and rest, eat and be
eaten.

A globular monstrosity had thrust pseudopodia deep into the boiling
dirt. Other limbs now shot out, grasping a tumbleweedlike growth. The
latter fought back viciously, but could make no impression upon the
rubbery integument of the former. Then a smaller creature, slipping
down the polished curve of the shield, was enmeshed by the tumbleweed.
There ensued the amazing spectacle of one half of the tumbleweed
devouring the newcomer, even while its other half was being devoured by
the globe!

"Now look out farther--still farther," directed Tregonsee.

"I can't. Things take on impossible motions and become so distorted as
to be unrecognizable."

"Exactly. If you saw a zwilnik out there, where would you shoot?"

"At him, I suppose. Why?"

"Because if you shot at where you think you see him, not only would
you miss him, but the ray might very well swing around and enter your
own back. Many men have been killed by their own weapons in precisely
that fashion. Since we know, not only what the object is, but exactly
where it is, we can correct our beams for the then existing values of
distortion. This is, of course, the reason why we Rigellians and other
races possessing the sense of perception are the only ones who can
efficiently police this planet."

"Reason enough, I'd say, from what I've seen."

Silence fell. For minutes the two Lensmen watched, while creatures of
a hundred kinds streamed into the lee of the space port and killed and
ate each other. Finally, something came crawling upwind, against that
unimaginable gale--a flatly streamlined creature somewhat resembling a
turtle, but shaped as was the ground car.

Thrusting down long, hooked flippers into the dirt it inched along,
paying no attention to the scores of lesser creatures who hurled
themselves upon its armored back, until it was close beside the largest
football-shaped creature in the eddy. Then, lightninglike, it drove a
needle-sharp organ at least eight inches into the leathery mass of its
victim. Struggling convulsively, the stricken thing lifted the turtle a
fraction of an inch--and both were hurled instantly out of sight; the
living ball still eating a luscious bit of soil.

"Good Lord, what was that?" exclaimed Kinnison.

"The flat? That was a representative of Trenco's highest life form. It
may develop a civilization in time. It is quite intelligent now."

"But the difficulties!" protested the Tellurian. "Building cities, even
homes and----"

"Neither cities nor homes are necessary, nor even desirable, here.
Why build? Nothing is or can be fixed on this planet, and since one
place is exactly like every other place, why wish to remain in any one
particular spot? They do very well, in their own mobile way. Here, you
will notice, comes the rain."

The rain came--forty-four inches per hour of rain--and the lightning.
Such rain and such lightning must be seen to be even dimly appreciated;
there is no use in attempting to describe the indescribable. The dirt
first became mud, then muddy water being driven in fiercely flying
gouts and masses.

The water grew deeper and deeper, its upper surface now whipped into
frantic sheets of spray. The structure was now afloat, and Kinnison saw
with astonishment that, small as was the exposed surface and flatly
curved, yet it was pulling through the water at frightful speed the
wide-spreading steel sea anchors which were holding its head to the
gale.

"With no reference points how do you know where you're going?" he
demanded.

"We know not, nor care," responded Tregonsee, with a mental shrug. "We
are like the natives in that. Since one spot is like every other spot,
why choose between them?"

"What a world--_what_ a world! However, I am beginning to understand
why thionite is so expensive." And, overwhelmed by the ever-increasing
fury raging outside, Kinnison sought his bunk.

       *       *       *       *       *

Morning came, a reversal of the previous evening. The liquid
evaporated; the mud dried; the flat-growing vegetation sprang up with
shocking speed; the animals emerged and again ate and were eaten.

And eventually came Tregonsee's announcement that it was noon; and that
now, for an hour or so, it would be calm enough for the space ship to
leave the port.

"You are sure that I would be of no help to you?" asked the Rigellian,
half pleadingly.

"Sorry, Tregonsee, but you would fit into my matrix just as I would
into yours here. But here's the spool I told you about. If you will
take it to your base on your next relief you will do civilization and
the patrol more good than you could by coming with us. Thanks for
the Bergenholm, which is covered by credits, and thanks a lot for
your help and courtesy, which can't be covered. Good-by." The now
entirely spaceworthy craft shot out through the port, through Trenco's
noxiously peculiar atmosphere, into the vacuum of space.




                                  XI.


    _"Shapley holds that these (star) clusters, under the gravitative
    control of the larger system, vibrate back and forth through the
    galaxy." Fath, "Elements of Astronomy," p. 297._

At some distance from the galaxy, yet shackled to it by the flexible
yet powerful bonds of gravitation, the small but comfortable planet
upon which was Helmuth's base circled about its parent sun. This planet
had been chosen with the utmost care, and its location was a secret
guarded jealously indeed. Scarcely one in a million of Boskone's
teeming millions knew even that such a planet existed; and of the
chosen few who had ever been asked to visit it, fewer still by far had
been allowed to leave it.

Grand Base covered hundreds of square miles of that planet's surface.
It was equipped with all the arms and armament known to the military
genius of the age; and in the exact center of that immense citadel
there arose a glittering metallic dome.

[Illustration: _It was equipped with all the arms and
armament--visiplates and communicators--known to the military genius of
the age._]

The inside surface of that dome was lined with visiplates and
communicators, hundreds of thousands of them. Miles of catwalks clung
precariously to the inward-curving wall. Control panels and instrument
boards covered the floor in banks and tiers, with only narrow runways
between them. And what a personnel! There were Solarians, Crevenians,
Sirians. There were Antareans, Vandemarians, Arcturians. There were
representatives of scores, yes, hundreds of other solar systems of the
galaxy.

But whatever their external form they were all breathers of oxygen and
they were all nourished by warm, red blood. Also, they were all alike
mentally. Each had won his present high place by trampling down those
beneath him and by pulling down those above him in the branch to which
he had first belonged of the "pirate" organization.

Kinnison had been eminently correct in his belief that Boskone's was
not a "pirate outfit" in any ordinary sense of the word, but even his
ideas of its true nature fell far short indeed of the truth.

It was a tyranny, an absolute monarchy, a despotism not even remotely
approximated by the dictatorships of earlier ages. It had only one
creed: "The end justifies the means." Anything--literally _anything at
all_--that produced the desired result was commendable; to fail was the
only crime.

Therefore, no weaklings dwelt within that fortress; and of all its
cold, hard, ruthless crew far and away the coldest, hardest, and most
ruthless was Helmuth, the "speaker for Boskone," who sat at the great
desk in the dome's geometrical center. This individual was almost
human in form and build, springing as he did from a planet closely
approximating Earth in mass, atmosphere, and climate. Indeed, only his
general, all-pervasive aura of blueness bore witness to the fact that
he was not a native of Tellus.

His eyes were blue; his hair was blue; and even his skin was faintly
blue beneath its coat of ultra-violet tan. His intensely dynamic
personality fairly radiated blueness--not the gentle blue of an Earthly
sky, not the sweetly innocuous blue of an Earthly flower; but the
keenly merciless blue of a delta ray, the cold and bitter blue of a
Polar iceberg, the unyielding, inflexible blue of chilled and tempered
steel.

       *       *       *       *       *

Now a frown sat heavily upon his arrogantly patrician face, as his eyes
bored into the plate before him, from the base of which were issuing
the words being spoken by the assistant pictured in its deep surface:

"--the fifth dived into the deepest ocean of Corvina II, in the depths
of which all rays are useless. The ships which followed have not as yet
reconnected. No trace of the sixth has been found, and it is therefore
assumed that she was destroyed upon Velantia----"

"Who assumes so?" demanded Helmuth, coldly. "There is no justification
whatever for such an assumption. Go on!"

"The Lensman, if there is one, must therefore be in the fifth ship,
since he was not in any of the four which we have retaken."

"Your report is neither complete nor conclusive. I do not at all
approve of your intimation that the Lensman is simply a figment of
my imagination. That there is a Lensman is the only possible logical
conclusion. None other of the patrol forces could have done what has
been done. Postulating his reality, it seems to me that instead of
being a rare possibility, it is highly probable that he has again
escaped us, and again in one of our own vessels--this time in the one
you have so conveniently 'assumed' to have been destroyed. Have you
searched the line of flight?"

"Yes, sir. Everything in space and every planet within reach of that
line has been examined with care; except, of course, Velantia and
Trenco."

"Velantia is, for the time being, unimportant. It will be reduced
later. Why Trenco?" and Helmuth pressed a series of buttons. "Ah, I
see. To recapitulate, one ship, the one which in all probability is
now carrying the Lensman, is still unaccounted for. _Where is it?_ We
assume that it left Velantia. We know that it has not landed upon or
near any solarian planet. Incidentally, we must see to it that it does
not so land. Now, I think, it has become necessary to have that planet
Trenco combed, inch by inch."

"But sir, how----" began the anxious-eyed underling.

"When did it become necessary to draw diagrams and make blue prints for
you?" demanded Helmuth, harshly. "We have ships manned by Rigellians
and other races having the sense of perception. Find out where they are
and get them there at full blast!" He flipped over two double-throw
switches, thus replacing the image upon his plate by another.

"It has now become of paramount importance that we complete our
knowledge of the Lens of the patrol," he began, without salutation or
preamble. "Have you traced its origin yet?"

"I believe so, but I do not certainly know. It has proved to be a task
of such difficulty----"

"If it had been an easy one I would not have made a special assignment
of it to you. Go on!"

"Everything seems to point to a planet named Arisia, but of that planet
I can learn nothing definite whatever except that----"

"Just a moment!" Helmuth punched more buttons and listened.
"Unexplored--unknown--shunned by all spacemen----"

"Superstition, eh?" he snapped. "Another of those haunted planets?"

"Something more than ordinary spacemen's superstition, sir, but just
what I have not been able to discover. By combing my department I
managed to make up a crew of those who either were not afraid of it or
have never heard of it. That crew is now _en route_ there."

"Whom have we in that sector of space? I find it desirable to check
your findings."

The department head reeled off a list of names and numbers, which
Helmuth considered at length.

"Gildersleeve, the Valerian," he announced finally. "He is a good man,
coming along fast. Aside from a firm belief in his own peculiar gods,
he has shown no signs of weakness. You considered him?"

"Certainly." The henchman, as cold as his icy chief, knew that
explanations would not satisfy Helmuth, therefore he offered none. "He
is raiding at the moment, but I will put you on him if you like."

"Do so." And upon Helmuth's plate there appeared a deep-space scene of
rapine and pillage.

       *       *       *       *       *

The convoying patrol ships, two of them, had already been blasted out
of existence; only a few idly drifting masses of débris remaining to
show that they had ever been. Needle rays were at work, and soon the
merchantman hung inert and helpless. The pirates, scorning to use the
emergency inlet port, simply blasted away the entire entrance panel.
Then they boarded, an armored swarm, flaming DeLameters spreading death
and destruction before them.

The sailors, outnumbered as they were and overarmed, fought
heroically--but uselessly. In groups and singly they fell; those
who were not already dead being callously tossed out into space
in slitted space suits and with smashed motors. Only the younger
women--the stewardesses, the nurses, the one or two such among the few
passengers--were taken as booty; all others shared the fate of the crew.

Then the ship plundered from nose to after jets and every article
or thing of value trans-shipped, the raider drew off, bathed in the
blue-white glare of the atomic bombs that were destroying every trace
of the merchant ship's existence. Then and only then did Helmuth reveal
himself to Gildersleeve.

"A good, clean job of work, captain," he commended. "Now, how would you
like to visit Arisia for me--for _me_, direct?"

A pallor overspread the normally ruddy face of the Valerian and an
uncontrollable tremor shook his giant frame. But as he considered the
implications resident in Helmuth's concluding phrase he licked his lips
and spoke.

"I hate to say no, sir, if you order me to and if there was any
way of making my crew do it. But we were near there once, sir, and
we--I--they--it----Well, sir, I _saw_ things, sir, and I was--was
_warned_, sir!"

"Saw what? And was warned of what?"

"I can't describe what I saw, sir. I can't even think of it in thoughts
that mean anything. As for the warning, though, it was very definite,
sir. I was told very plainly that if I ever go near that planet again
I will die a worse death than any I have dealt out to any other living
being."

"But you will go there again?"

"I tell you, sir, that the crew will not do it," Gildersleeve replied,
doggedly. "Even if I were anxious to go, every man aboard will mutiny
if I tried it."

"Call them in right now and tell them that you have been ordered to
Arisia!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The captain did so. But he had scarcely started to talk when he was
stopped in no uncertain fashion by his first officer--also, of course,
a Valerian--who pulled his DeLameter and spoke savagely: "Cut it,
chief! We are not going to Arisia, nor anywhere near there. I was with
you before, you know. Point course within a quadrant of that accursed
planet and I flash you where you sit!"

"Helmuth, speaking for Boskone!" ripped from the headquarters' speaker.
"This is rankest mutiny. You know the penalty, do you not?"

"Certainly I do. What of it?" the first officer snapped back.

"Suppose that I _tell_ you to go to Arisia?" Helmuth's voice was now
soft and silky, but instinct with deadly menace.

"In that case _I_ tell _you_ to go to hell--or to Arisia, a million
times worse!" snapped the officer.

"What? You dare speak thus to _me_?" demanded the archpirate, sheer
amazement at the fellow's audacity blanketing his rising anger.

"I so dare," declared the rebel, brazen defiance and unalterable
resolve in every line of his hard body and in every lineament of his
hard face. "All you can do is kill us. You can order out enough ships
to blast us out of the ether, but that's all you _can_ do. That would
be a clean, quick death and we would have the fun of taking a lot
of the boys along with us. If we go to Arisia, though, it would be
different--very, very different, believe me. No, Helmuth, and I say
this to your face: If I ever go near Arisia again it will be in a ship
in which you, Helmuth, in person, are sitting at the controls. If you
think this is an empty dare and don't like it, you don't have to take
it. Send on your dogs!"

"That will do! Report yourselves to Base D under----" Then Helmuth's
flare of anger passed and his cold reason took charge. Here was
something utterly unprecedented: an entire crew of the hardest-bitten
marauders in space offering open and barefaced mutiny--no, not mutiny,
but actual rebellion--to him, Helmuth, in his very teeth. And not a
typical, skulking, carefully planned uprising, but the immovably brazen
desperation of men making an ultimately last-ditch stand.

Truly, it must be a powerful superstition, indeed, to make that crew
of hard-boiled hellions choose certain death rather than face again
the imaginary--they _must_ be imaginary--perils of a planet unknown to
and unexplored by Boskone's planetographers. But they were, after all,
ordinary spacemen, of little mental force and of small real ability.
Even so, it was clearly indicated that in this case precipitate action
was to be avoided. Therefore, he went on calmly and almost without a
break. "Cancel all this that has been spoken and that has taken place.
Continue with your original orders pending further investigation."
Helmuth switched his plate back to the department head.

"I have checked your conclusions and have found them correct," he
announced, as though nothing at all out of the way had transpired. "You
did well in sending a ship to investigate. No matter where I am or what
I am doing, notify me instantly at the first sign of irregularity in
the behavior of any member of that ship's personnel."

       *       *       *       *       *

Nor was that call long in coming. The carefully selected crew--selected
for complete lack of knowledge of the dread planet which was their
objective--sailed along in blissful ignorance, both of the real meaning
of their mission and of what was to be its ghastly end. Soon after
Helmuth's unsatisfactory interview with Gildersleeve and his mate, the
luckless exploring vessel reached the barrier which the Arisians had
set around their system and through which no uninvited stranger was
allowed to pass.

The free-flying ship struck that frail barrier and stopped. In the
instant of contact a wave of mental force flooded the mind of the
captain, who, gibbering with sheer, stark, panic terror, flashed his
vessel away from that horror-impregnated barrier and hurled call after
frantic call along his beam, back to headquarters. His first call, in
the instant of reception, was relayed to Helmuth at his central desk.

"Steady, man; report intelligently!" that worthy snapped, and his
eyes, large now upon the cowering captain's plate, bored steadily,
hypnotically into those of the expedition's leader. "Pull yourself
together and tell me exactly what happened. Everything!"

"Well, sir, when we struck something--a screen of some sort--and
stopped, something came aboard. It was----Oh--ay-ay-e-e!" his voice
rose to a shriek. But under Helmuth's dominating glare he subsided
quickly and went on. "A monster, sir, if there ever was one. A
fire-breathing demon, sir, with teeth and claws and cruelly barbed
tail. He spoke to me in my own Crevenian language. He said----"

"Never mind what he said. I did not hear it, but I can guess what it
was. He threatened you with death in some horrible fashion, did he not?"

The coldly ironical tones did more to restore the shaking man's
equilibrium than reams of remonstrance could have done. "Well, yes,
that was about the size of it, sir," he admitted.

"And does that sound reasonable to you, the commander of a first-class
battleship of Boskone's fleet?" sneered Helmuth.

"Well, sir, put in that way, it does seem a bit far-fetched," the
captain replied, sheepishly.

"It _is_ far-fetched." The director, in the safety of his dome, could
afford to be positive. "We do not know exactly what caused that
hallucination, apparition, or whatever it was. You were the only one
who could see it, apparently; it certainly was not visible on our
master plates here at base. It was probably some form of suggestion or
hypnotism; and you know as well as we do that any suggestion can be
thrown off by a definitely opposed will. But you did not oppose it, did
you?"

"No, sir, I didn't have time."

"Nor did you have your screens out, nor automatic recorders on the
trip. Not much of anything, in fact. I think that you had better report
back here, at full blast."

"Oh, no, sir--please!" He knew what rewards were granted to failures,
and Helmuth's carefully chosen words had already produced the effect
desired by their speaker. "They took me by surprise then, but I'll go
through this next time."

"Very well. We will give you one more chance. When you get close to
the barrier, or whatever it is, go inert and put out all your screens.
Man your plates and weapons, for whatever can hypnotize can be killed.
Go ahead at full blast, with all the acceleration you can get. Crash
through anything that opposes you, and beam anything that you can
detect or see. Can you think of anything else?"

"That should be sufficient, sir." The captain's equanimity was
completely restored, now that the warlike preparations were making more
and more nebulous the sudden, but single, thought wave of the Arisian.

"Proceed!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The plan was carried out to the letter. This time the pirate craft
struck the frail barrier inert, and its slight force offered no
tangible bar to the prodigious mass of metal. But this time, since
the barrier was actually passed, there was no mental warning and no
possibility of retreat.

Many men have skeletons in their closets. Many have phobias, things
of which they are consciously afraid. Many others have them, not
consciously, but buried deep in the subconscious, specters which seldom
or never rise above the threshold of perception. Every sentient being
has, if not such specters as these, at least a few active or latent
dislikes, dreads, or outright fears. This is true, no matter how quiet
and peaceful a life the being has led.

These particular pirates, however, were the scum of space. They were
beings of hard and criminal lives and of violent and lawless passions.
Their hates and conscience-searing deeds had been legion, their count
of crimes long, black, and hideous. Therefore, slight indeed was the
effort required to locate in their conscious minds--to say nothing of
the noxious depths of their subconscious ones--visions of horror fit to
blast stronger intellects than theirs.

And that is exactly what the Arisian guardsman did. From each pirate's
total mind, a veritable charnel pit, he extracted the foulest, most
unspeakable dregs, the deeply hidden things of which the subject was
in the greatest fear. Of these things he formed a whole of horror
incomprehensible and incredible, and this ghastly whole he made
incarnate and visible to the pirate who was its unwilling parent; as
visible as though it were composed of flesh and blood, of copper and
steel. Is it any wonder that each member of that outlaw crew, seeing
such an abhorrent materialization, went instantly mad?

It is of no use to go into the horribly monstrous shapes of the things,
even were it possible; for each of them was visible to only one man,
and none of them was visible to those who looked on from the safety
of the distant base. To them the entire crew simply abandoned their
posts and attacked each other, senselessly and in insane frenzy, with
whatever weapons came first to hand. Indeed, many of them fought
barehanded, weapons hanging unused in their belts, gouging, beating,
clawing, biting until life had been rived horribly away. In other parts
of the ship DeLameters flamed briefly; bars crashed crunchingly; knives
and axes sheared and trenchantly bit. And soon it was over--almost. The
pilot was still alive, unmoving and rigid at his controls.

Then he, too, moved, slowly, haltingly, as though in a trance. Without
touching the controls of the Bergenholm, he nursed his driving
projectors up to maximum, spun his ship and steadied her on course;
and when Helmuth read that course even his iron nerves failed him
momentarily. For the ship, still inert, was pointed, not for its own
home port, but directly toward Grand Base, the jealously secret planet
whose spatial coördinates neither that pilot nor any other creature of
the pirates' rank and file had ever known!

       *       *       *       *       *

Helmuth snapped out orders, to which the pilot gave no heed. His
voice--for the first time in his career--rose almost to a howl. But the
pilot still paid no attention. Instead, eyes bulging with horror and
fingers curved tensely into veritable talons, he reared upright upon
his bench and leaped as though to clutch and to rend some unutterably
appalling foe. He leaped over his board into thin and empty air. He
came down a-sprawl in a maze of naked, high-potential busbars. His body
vanished in a flash of searing flame and a cloud of thick and greasy
smoke.

The busbars cleared themselves of their gruesome "short" and the great
ship, manned now entirely by corpses, bored on.

"--stinking klebots, the lily-livered cowards!" the department head,
who had also been yelling orders, was still pounding his desk and
cursing. "If they're _that_ afraid--go mad and kill each other without
being touched--I'll have to go myself----"

"No, Sansteed," Helmuth interrupted, curtly. "You will not have to go.
There is, after all, I think, something there--something that you may
not be able to handle. You see, you missed the one essential key fact."
He referred to the course, the setting of which had shaken him to the
very core.

"Let be," he silenced the other's flood of question and protest. "It
would serve no purpose to detail it to you now. Have the ship taken
back to port."

Helmuth knew now that it was not superstition that made spacemen shun
Arisia. He knew that, from his standpoint at least, there was something
very seriously amiss.




                                 XII.


Helmuth sat at his desk, thinking--thinking with all the coldly
analytical precision of which he was capable.

This Lensman was, in truth, a foeman worthy of his steel. The
cosmic-energy drive, developed by the science of a world which
the patrol did not know existed, was Boskone's one great item of
superiority. If the patrol could be kept in ignorance of that drive
the struggle would be over in a year; the culture of the iron hand
would be unchallenged throughout the galaxy. If, however, the patrol
did manage to learn the secret of power, to all intents and purposes
unlimited, the war between the two cultures might well be prolonged
indefinitely. This Lensman knew that secret and was still at large, of
that he was all too certain. Therefore, the Lensman must be destroyed.
And that brought up the Lens.

What was it? A peculiar bauble indeed, simple of ultimate quantitative
analysis, but actually impossible of duplication because of some
subtlety of intra-atomic arrangement. Also, it was of peculiar and
dire potentiality. Not a man of his force could even wear one; he had
watched several of them die horribly in attempting to do so. It must
account in some way for the outstanding ability of the Lensmen, and it
must tie in, somehow, both with Arisia and with the thought-screens.
This Lens was the one thing possessed by the patrol which his own
forces did not have. He must and would have it, for it was undoubtedly
a powerful arm. Not to be compared, of course, with their own monopoly
of cosmic energy--but that monopoly was now threatened, and seriously.
That Lensman _must be destroyed_.

But how? It was easy to say "Comb Trenco, inch by inch," but doing it
would prove a Herculean task. Suppose that the Lensman should again
escape, in that volume of so fantastically distorted media? He had
already escaped twice, in much clearer ether than Trenco's. However, if
this information should never get back to Prime Base, little harm would
be done. Ships could and would be thrown around the solarian system in
such numbers that not even a grain-of-dust meteorite could pass that
screen without detection. Nothing--nothing whatever--would be allowed
to enter that system until this whole affair had been settled. There
were other patrol bases, of course, but with the Prime Base isolated,
nothing really serious could happen. So much for the Lensman. Now about
getting the secret of the Lens.

Again, how? There was something upon Arisia, and that something was
connected in some way with the Lens and with thought--possibly also
with the new thought-screens. Whatever it was, it had mental power, of
that there was no doubt. Out of the full sphere of space, what was the
mathematical probability that the pilot of that death ship would have
set, by accident, his course so exactly upon this planet? Vanishingly
small. Treachery would not explain the facts. The pilot had been
insane when he had laid the course. As an explanation, mental force
alone seemed fantastic, but none other as yet presented itself as a
possibility. Also, it was supported by the unbelievable, the absolutely
definite refusal of Gildersleeve's normally fearless crew even to
approach the planet. It would take an unheard-of mental force so to
affect such crime-hardened veterans.

Helmuth was not one to underestimate an enemy. Was there a man beneath
that dome, save himself, of sufficient mental caliber to undertake the
now necessary mission to Arisia? There was not. He himself had the
finest mind on the planet; else that other had deposed him long since
and had sat at the control desk himself. He was sublimely confident
that no outside thought could break down _his_ definitely opposed
will--and besides, there were the thought-screens, his own personal
property as yet. Of no other will could he say the same; no other would
he trust with those screens. Of all his force, he was the only one whom
he could be _sure_ of. Therefore, he would go himself.

It has already been made clear that Helmuth was not a fool. No more
was he a coward. If he himself could best of all his force do a thing,
that thing he did, with the coldly ruthless efficiency that marked
alike his every action and his every thought.

       *       *       *       *       *

How should he go? Should he accept that challenge, and take
Gildersleeve's rebellious crew of cutthroats to Arisia? No. In the
event of an outcome short of complete success, it would not do to lose
face before that band of ruffians. Moreover, the idea of such a crew
going insane behind him was not one to be relished. He would go alone.

"Wolmark, come to the center," he ordered. When that worthy appeared,
he went on, "Be seated, as this is a serious conference. I have watched
with admiration and appreciation, as well as some mild amusement, the
development of your lines of information, particularly those covering
affairs which are most distinctly not in your department. They are,
however, efficient. You already know exactly what has happened." A
definite statement this, is no wise a question.

"Yes, sir," Wolmark said quietly. He was somewhat taken aback, but not
at all abashed.

"That is the reason you are here now. I thoroughly approve of you. I am
leaving the planet for approximately twenty days, and you are the best
man in the organization to take charge in my absence."

"I suspected that you would be leaving, sir."

"I know you did. But I am now informing you, merely to make sure that
you develop no peculiar ideas in my absence, that there are at least a
few things which you do not suspect at all. That safe, for instance,"
Helmuth said, nodding toward a peculiarly shimmering globe of force
anchoring itself in air. "Even your highly efficient spy system has
not been able to learn a thing about that."

"No, sir, we have not--yet," he could not forbear adding.

"Nor will you, with any skill or force known to man. But keep on
trying; it amuses me. I know, you see, of all your attempts. But to
get on. I now say, and for your own good I advise you to believe,
that failure upon my part to return to this desk will prove highly
unfortunate for you."

"I believe that, sir. Any man of intelligence would make some such
arrangement, if he could. But sir, suppose that the Arisians----"

"If your 'if he could' implies a doubt, act upon it and learn wisdom,"
Helmuth advised him coldly. "You should know by this time that I
neither gamble nor bluff. I have made arrangements to protect myself,
both from enemies, such as the Arisians and the patrol, and from
friends, such as ambitious youngsters who are making arrangements to
supplant me. If I were not entirely confident of getting back here
safely, my dear Wolmark, I would not go."

"You misunderstood me, sir. Really, I have no idea of supplanting you."

"Not until you get a good opportunity, you mean. I understand you
thoroughly; and, as I have said before, I approve of you. Go ahead with
all your plans. I have kept at least one lap ahead of you so far, and
if the time should ever come when I can no longer do so, I shall no
longer be fit to speak for Boskone. You understand, of course, that the
most important matter now in work is the search for the Lensman, of
which the combing of Trenco and the screening of the solarian system
are only two phases."

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. I can, I think, leave matters in your hands. If anything
really serious comes up, such as a development in the Lensman case, let
me know at once. Otherwise do not call me. Take the desk." Helmuth
strode away.

He was whisked to the space port, where his special speedster awaited
him.

       *       *       *       *       *

For him the trip to Arisia was neither long nor tedious. The little
racer was fully automatic, and as it tore through space he worked as
coolly and efficiently as he was wont to do at his desk. Indeed, more
so, for here he could concentrate without interruption. Many were the
matters he planned and the decisions he made, the while his portfolio
of notes grew thicker and thicker.

As he neared his destination he put away his work, actuated his special
mechanisms, and waited. When the speedster struck the barrier and
stopped, Helmuth wore a faint, hard smile; but that smile disappeared
with a snap as a thought crashed into his supposedly shielded brain.

"You are surprised that your thought-screens are not effective?" The
thought was coldly contemptuous. "Wherever, think you, originated those
screens? We did not foresee your theft of them from Velantia, but think
you that we would allow to remain at large a thing which we could not
neutralize?

"Know, fool, once and for all, that Arisia does not want and will not
tolerate uninvited visitors. Your presence is particularly distasteful,
representing as you do a despotic, degrading, and antisocial culture.
Evil and good are, of course, purely relative, so it cannot be said
in absolute terms that your culture is evil. It is, however, based
upon greed, hatred, corruption, violence, and fear. Justice it does
not recognize, nor mercy, nor truth except as a scientific utility. It
is basically opposed to liberty. Now liberty--of person, of thought,
of action--is the basis and the goal of civilization to which you are
opposed, and with which any really philosophical mind must find itself
in accord.

"Inflated overweeningly by your warped and perverted ideas, by your
momentary success in dominating your handful of minions, tied to you by
bonds of greed, of passion, and of crime, you come here to wrest from
us the secret of the Lens--from us, who were already an ancient race
when the remotest ancestors of your own were still wriggling in their
planet's primordial slime.

"You consider yourself cold, hard, ruthless. Comparatively you are
weak, soft, tender as a child unborn. That you may learn and appreciate
that fact is one reason why you are living at this present moment. Your
lesson will now begin."

Then Helmuth, starkly rigid, unable to move a muscle, felt delicate
probes enter his brain. One at a time they pierced his innermost being,
each to a definitely selected center. It seemed that each thrust
carried with it the ultimate measure of exquisitely poignant anguish
possible of endurance, but each successive needle carried with it an
even more keenly unbearable thrill of agony.

Helmuth was not calm and cold now. He would have screamed in wild
abandon; but even that relief was denied him. He could not even scream;
all he could do was sit there and suffer.

Then he began to see things. There, actually materializing in the
empty air of the speedster, he saw, in endless procession, things he
had done, either in person or by proxy, both during his ascent in
his present high place in the pirates' organization and since the
attainment of that place. Long was the list, and black. As it unfolded
his torment grew more and ever more intense; until finally, after an
interval that might have been a fraction of a second or might have been
untold hours, he could stand no more. He fainted, sinking beyond the
reach of pain into a sea of black consciousness.

       *       *       *       *       *

He awakened white and shaking, wringing wet with perspiration and so
weak that he could scarcely sit erect, but with a supremely blissful
realization that, for the time being at least, his punishment was over.

"This, you will observe, has been a very mild treatment," the cold
Arisian accents went on inside his brain. "Not only do you still live,
you are even still sane. We now come to the second reason why you have
not been destroyed. Your destruction by us would not be good for that
struggling young civilization which you oppose.

"We have given that civilization an instrument by virtue of which it
should become able to destroy you and everything for which you stand.
If it cannot do so, it is not yet ready to become a civilization and
your obnoxious culture shall be allowed to conquer and to flourish for
a time.

"Now go back to your dome. Do not return. We well know that you will
not have the temerity to do so in person. Do not attempt to do so by
any form whatever of proxy."

There were no threats, no warnings, no mention of consequences; but the
level and incisive tone of the Arisian put a fear into Helmuth's cold
heart the like of which he had never before known.

He whirled his speedster about and hurled her at full blast toward his
home planet. It was only after many hours that he was able to regain
even a semblance of his customary poise, and days elapsed before he
could think coherently enough to consider, as a whole, the shocking,
the unbelievable thing that had happened to him.

He wanted to believe that the creature, whatever it was, had been
bluffing--that it could not kill him, that it had done its worst. In a
similar case he would have killed without mercy, and that course seemed
to him the only logical one to pursue. His cold reason, however, would
not allow him to entertain that comforting belief. Deep down he _knew_
that the Arisian could have killed him as easily as it had slain the
lowest member of his band, and the thought chilled him to the marrow.

What could he do? What _could_ he do? Endlessly, as the miles and light
years reeled off behind his hurtling racer, this question reiterated
itself; and when his home planet loomed close it was still unanswered.

       *       *       *       *       *

Since Wolmark believed implicitly Helmuth's statement that it would be
poor technique to oppose his return, the planet's screens went down at
Helmuth's signal. His first act was to call all the department heads to
the center, for an extremely important council of war.

There he told them everything that had happened, calmly and concisely,
concluding: "They are aloof, disinterested, unpartisan to a degree
I find it impossible to understand. They disapprove of us on purely
philosophical grounds, but they will take no active part against us
as long as we stay away from their solar system. Therefore, we cannot
obtain knowledge of the Lens by direct action, but there are other
methods which shall be worked out in due course.

"The Arisians do approve of the patrol, and have helped them to the
extent of giving them the Lens. There, however, they stop. If the
Lensmen do not know how to use their Lenses efficiently--and I gather
that they do not--we 'shall be allowed to conquer and to flourish for
a time.' We _will_ conquer, and we will see to it that the time of our
flourishing will be a long one indeed.

"The whole situation, then, boils down to this: our cosmic energy
against the Lens of the patrol. Ours is the much more powerful arm,
but our only hope of immediate success lies in keeping the patrol in
ignorance of our cosmic-energy receptors and converters. One Lensman
already has that knowledge. Therefore, gentlemen, it is very clear
that the death of that Lensman has now become absolutely imperative.
We _must_ find him, if it means the abandonment of our every other
enterprise throughout the galaxy. Give me a full report upon the
screening of the solarian system."

"It is done, sir," came the quick reply. "That system is completely
blockaded. Ships are spaced so closely that even the electromagnetic
detectors have a five-hundred-per-cent overlap. Visual detectors have
at least two-hundred-fifty-per-cent overlap. Nothing as large as one
centimeter in any dimension can get through without detection and
observation."

"And how about the search of Trenco?"

"Results are still negative. One of our ships, a Rigellian, with papers
all in order, visited Trenco space port openly. No one was there except
the regular force of Rigellians. Our captain was in no position to be
too inquisitive, but the missing ship was certainly not in the port
and he gathered that he was the first visitor they had had in a month.
We learned on Rigel IV that Tregonsee, the Lensman actually there, has
been there for a month and will not be relieved for another month. He
was the only Lensman there. We are, of course, carrying on the search
for the rest of the planet. About half the personnel of each vessel to
land has been lost. But they started with double crews and replacements
are being sent."

"The Lensman Tregonsee's story may or may not be true," Helmuth mused.
"It makes little difference. It would be impossible to hide that ship
in the Trenco space port from even a casual inspection, and if the ship
is not there the Lensman is not. He may be hiding somewhere else on the
planet, but I doubt it. Continue to search, nevertheless. There are
many things he may have done. I will have to consider them, one by one."

But Helmuth had very little time to consider what Kinnison might have
done, for the Lensman had left Trenco long since. Because of the
flare baffles upon his driving projectors his pace was slow; but to
compensate for this condition the distance to be covered was short.
Therefore, even as Helmuth was cogitating upon what next to do, the
Lensman and his able crew were approaching the far-flung screen of
Boskonian war vessels investing the entire solar system.

To approach that screen undetected was a physical impossibility, and
before Kinnison realized that he was in a danger zone six tractors had
flicked out, had seized his ship, and had jerked it up to combat range.
But the Lensman was ready for anything, and again everything happened
at once.

       *       *       *       *       *

Warnings screamed into the distant pirate base and Helmuth, tense at
his desk, took personal charge of his mighty fleet. On the field of
action Kinnison's screens flamed out in stubborn defense; tracers and
tractors snapped under his slashing shears; the baffles disappeared
in an incandescent flare as he shot maximum blast into his drive; and
space again became suffused with the output of his now ultra-powered
multiplex scrambler.

And through that murk the Lensman directed a thought toward Earth, with
the full power of mind and Lens.

"Port Admiral Haynes--Prime Base! Port Admiral Haynes--Prime Base!
Urgent! Kinnison calling from the direction of Sirius--urgent!" he sent
out the fiercely-driven message.

It so happened that at Prime Base it was deep night, and Port Admiral
Haynes was sound asleep. But his ever-vigilant Lens received the
message, and like the trigger-nerved old space cat that he was, the
admiral came instantly awake. Scarcely had an eye flicked open than his
answer had been hurled back: "Haynes acknowledging. Send it, Kinnison!"

"Coming in, in a pirate ship--VanBuskirk, Thorndyke, and I, and a crew
of Velantians. All the pirates in space are on our necks. But we're
coming in, in spite of hell and high water! Don't send up any ships to
help us down. They could blast you out of space in a second, but they
can't stop us. Get ready. It won't be long now!"

Then, after the port admiral had sounded the emergency alarm, Kinnison
went on: "Our ship carries no markings, but there's only one of us and
you'll know which one it is. We'll be doing the dodging. They'd be
crazy to follow us down to base, with all the stuff you've got, but
they act crazy enough to do almost anything. If they do follow us down,
get ready to give 'em everything you've got. Here we are!"

Pursued and pursuers had touched the outermost fringe of the
stratosphere; and, slowed down to optical visibility by even that
highly rarefied atmosphere, the battle raged in incandescent splendor.
One ship was spinning, twisting, looping, gyrating, jumping and darting
hither and thither--performing every weird maneuver that the fertile
and agile mind of the Lensman could improvise--to shake off the horde
of attackers.

The pirates, on the other hand, were desperately determined that,
whatever the cost, that Lensman should not land. Tractors would not
hold and the inertialess ship could not be rammed. Therefore, their
strategy was that which had worked so successfully four times before in
similar case--to englobe the ship completely and thus beam her down.
And while attempting this englobement they so massed their forces as
to drive the Lensman's vessel as far as possible away from the grim
and tremendously powerful fortifications of the patrol's Prime Base,
almost directly below them.

       *       *       *       *       *

But those four other patrol-manned pirate ships which the pirates had
recaptured had not been driven by Lensmen; and in this ship Kinnison,
the Lensman, was now calling upon his every resource of instantaneous
nervous reaction, of brilliant brain and of lightning hand, to avoid
that fatal trap. And avoid it he did, by series after series of
fantastic maneuvers never set down in any manual of space combat.

Powerful as were the weapons of Prime Base, in that thick atmosphere
their effective range was less than fifty miles. Therefore the gunners,
idle at their controls, and the officers of the superdreadnaughts,
chained by definite orders to the ground, fumed and swore as, powerless
to help their battling fellows, they stood by and watched in their
plates the furious engagement so high overhead.

But slowly, _so_ slowly, Kinnison won his way downward, keeping as
close over base as he could without being englobed. Finally he managed
to get within range of the gigantic projectors of the patrol. Only
the heaviest of the fixed-mount guns could reach that mad whirlpool
of ships, but each one of them raved out against the same spot at
precisely the same instant. In the inferno which that spot instantly
became, not even a full-driven wall shield could endure, and a vast
hole yawned where pirate ships had been. The beams flicked off, and,
timed by his Lens, Kinnison shot his ship through that hole before it
could be closed, and arrowed downward toward base at maximum blast.

Ship after ship of the pirate horde followed him down in madly suicidal
last attempts to blast him out, down toward the terrific armament
of the base. Prime Base itself, the most dreaded, the most heavily
armed, the most impregnable fortress of the Galactic Patrol! Nothing
afloat could even threaten that citadel. The overbold attackers simply
disappeared in brief flashes of coruscant vapor.

Kinnison flashed to ground in a free landing and called his commander.

"Did any of the other boys beat us in, sir?" he asked.

"No, sir," came the curt response. Congratulations, felicitations, and
celebration would come later; he was now the port admiral receiving an
official report.

"Then, sir, I have the honor to report that the expedition has
succeeded." And he could not help adding informally, youthfully
exultant at the success of his first real mission, "We've brought home
the bacon!"




                                 XIII.


A powerful fleet had been sent to rescue those of the _Brittania's_
crew who might have managed to stay out of the clutches of the pirates.
The wildly enthusiastic celebration inside Prime Base was over. Outside
the force walls of the reservation, however, it was just beginning.
Thorndyke, VanBuskirk, and the Velantians were in the thick of it. No
one on Earth, except a few planetographers, had ever heard of Velantia,
and those highly intelligent reptilian beings knew even less of Tellus.
Nevertheless, simply because they had aided the patrolmen, the visitors
were practically given the keys to the planet, and they were enjoying
the experience tremendously.

"We want Kinnison! We want Kinnison!" the festive crowd, led by
Universal Telenews men, had been yelling; and finally the Lensman
came out. But after one pose before a lens and a few words into a
microphone, he pleaded, "There's my call, now--urgent!" and fled back
inside Reservation. Then the milling tide of celebrants rolled back
toward the city, taking with it every patrolman who could get leave.

Engineers and designers were swarming through and over the pirate
ship Kinnison had driven home, each armed with a sheaf of blue prints
already prepared from the long-cherished data spool, each directing a
corps of mechanics in dismantling some mechanism of the great space
rover. It was to this hive of bustling activity that Kinnison had been
called. He stood there, answering as best he could the multitude of
questions being fired at him from all sides, until he was rescued by no
less a personage than Port Admiral Haynes.

"You gentlemen can get your information from the data sheets better
than you can from Kinnison," he remarked with a smile, "and I want to
take his report without any more delay."

Hand under arm, the old Lensman led the young one away. But once inside
his private office he summoned neither secretary nor recorder. Instead,
he pushed the buttons which set up a complete-coverage shield and spoke.

"Now, son, open up. Out with it--everything that you have been holding
back ever since you landed. I got your signal."

"Well, yes, I have been holding back," Kinnison admitted. "I haven't
got enough jets to be sticking my neck out in fast company, even if it
were something to be discussed in public, which it is not. I'm glad you
could give me this time so soon. I want to go over an idea with you,
and with _no one else_. It may be as cockeyed as Trenco's ether--you
are to be the sole judge as to that--but you will know, no matter how
goofy it is, that I mean well."

"That certainly is not an overstatement," Haynes replied, dryly. "Go
ahead."

"The great peculiarity of space combat is that we fly free, but fight
inert," Kinnison began, apparently irrelevantly, but choosing his
phraseology with care. "To force an engagement one ship locks to the
other first with tracers, then with tractors, and goes inert. Thus,
relative speed determines the ability to force or to avoid engagement;
but it is relative power that determines the outcome. Heretofore, the
pirates----

       *       *       *       *       *

"And by the way, we are belittling our opponents and building up a
disastrous overconfidence in ourselves by calling them pirates. It
has been thought before that they were not pirates, and now we know
definitely that they are not. It is more than a race or a system. It is
actually a galaxy-wide culture. It is an absolute despotism, holding
its authority by means of a rigid system of rewards and punishments. In
our eyes it is fundamentally wrong, but it works. _How_ it works! It is
organized just as we are, and is apparently as strong in bases, vessels
and personnel. In my own mind I have been calling the whole culture
'Boskonia,' since no one seems to know who or what Boskone really is.
Perhaps Boskone really _is_ the name of the entire organization?

"But to get on with the thought. Boskonia has had all the best of it,
both in speed--except for the _Brittania's_ momentary advantage--and
in power. That advantage is now lost to them. We will have, then, two
immense powers, each galactic in scope, each tremendously powerful in
arms, equipment, and personnel; each having exactly the same weapons
and defenses, and each determined to wipe out the other. A stalemate
is inevitable; an absolute deadlock; a sheerly destructive war of
attrition which will go on for centuries and which must end in the
annihilation of both Boskonia and civilization."

"But our new shears and screens!" protested the older man. "They give
us an overwhelming advantage. We can force or avoid engagement, as we
please. You know the plan to crush them. You helped to develop it."

"Yes, I know the plan. I also know that we will not crush them. So do
you. We both know that our advantage will be only temporary." The
young Lensman, unimpressed, was in deadly earnest.

       *       *       *       *       *

The admiral did not reply for a time. Deep down, he himself had
felt the doubt; but neither he nor any other of his school had
ever mentioned the thing that Kinnison had now so boldly put into
words. He knew that whatever one side had, of weapon or armor or of
equipment, would sooner or later become the property of the other--as
was witnessed by the desperate venture which Kinnison himself had
so recently and so successfully concluded. He knew that the devices
installed in the vessels captured upon Velantia had been destroyed
before falling into the hands of the enemy, but he also knew that
with entire fleets so equipped the new arms could not be kept secret
indefinitely.

Therefore, he finally replied: "That may be true." He paused, then went
on like the indomitable veteran that he was, "But we have the advantage
now and we'll drive it while we've got it. After all, we _may_ be able
to hold it long enough."

"I've just thought of one more thing that would help: communication."
Kinnison did not argue the previous point, but went ahead. "It seems
to be impossible to drive any kind of a communicator beam through the
double interference----"

"_Seems_ to be!" barked Haynes. "It _is_ impossible! Nothing but a
thought----"

"That's it exactly--_thought_!" interrupted Kinnison in turn. "The
Velantians can do things with a Lens that nobody would believe
possible. Why not examine some of them for Lensmen? I'm sure
that Worsel could pass, and probably many others. They can drive
thoughts through anything except their own thought-screens--and what
communicators they would make!"

"That idea has distinct possibilities and will be followed up. However,
it is not what you wanted to discuss. G.A.!"

"QX," Kinnison went into Lens-to-Lens communication. "I want some kind
of a shield or screen that will neutralize or nullify a detector. I
asked Hotchkiss, the communications expert, about it--under seal. He
said that it had never been investigated, even as an academic problem
in research, but that it was theoretically possible."

"This room is shielded, you know." Haynes was surprised at the use of
the Lenses. "Is it _that_ important?"

"I don't know. As I said before, I may be cockeyed; but if my idea
is any good at all that nullifier is the most important thing in the
universe, and if word of it gets out it will be absolutely useless. You
see, sir, over the long route, the only really permanent advantage that
we have over Boskonia, the one thing that they cannot get, is the Lens.
There must be some way to use it. If that nullifier is possible, and
if we can keep it a secret, I believe that I have found it. At least,
I want to try something. It may not work--probably it won't; it's a
mighty slim chance--but if it does, we may be able to wipe out Boskonia
in a few months, instead of carrying on forever a war of attrition.
First, I want to go to----"

"Hold on!" Haynes snapped. "I've been thinking, too. I can't see any
possible relation between such a device and any real military weapon,
or the Lens, either. If I can't, not many others can, and that's a
point in your favor. If there is anything at all in your idea, it is
too big to share with any one, even me. Keep it yourself."

"But it's a peculiar hook-up, and may not be any good at all,"
protested Kinnison. "You might want to cancel it."

"No danger of that," came the positive statement. "You know more about
the pirates--pardon me, about Boskonia--than any other patrolman.
You believe that your idea has some slight chance of success. Very
well--that fact is enough to put every resource of the patrol back of
you. Put your idea on a tape and seal the spool in your private box in
the vault, so that it will not be lost in case of your death. Then go
ahead. If it is possible to develop that nullifier, you shall have it.
Hotchkiss will take charge of it, and have any other Lensmen he wants.
No one except Lensmen will work on it or know anything about it. Only
one will be made and no records will be kept. It will not even exist
until you yourself release it to us."

"Thanks, sir." And Kinnison left the room.

       *       *       *       *       *

Then for weeks Prime Base was the scene of an activity furious indeed.
New apparatus was designed and tested; shears for tracers and tractors,
generators of screens against cosmic-energy intake, scramblers for
the communicators of the enemy, and many other things. Each item was
designed and tested, redesigned and retested, until even the most
skeptical of the patrol's engineers could no longer find in it anything
to criticize. Then, throughout the galaxy, the ships of the patrol were
called into their sector bases to be rebuilt.

There were to be two great classes of vessels. Those of the first were
to have speed and defense--nothing else. They were to be the fastest
things in space, and able to defend themselves against attack. That
was all. Vessels of the second class had to be built from the keel
upward, since nothing even remotely like them had theretofore been
conceived. They were to be huge, ungainly, slow--simply storehouses of
incomprehensibly vast powers of offense. They carried projectors of
a size and power never before set upon movable foundations, nor were
they dependent upon cosmic energy. They carried their own, in bank upon
stupendous bank of Gargantuan accumulators. In fact, each of these
monstrous floating fortresses was to be able to generate screens of
such design and power that no vessel anywhere near them could receive
cosmic energy!

This, then, was the bolt which civilization was preparing to hurl
against Boskonia. In theory the thing was simplicity itself. The
ultra-fast cruisers would catch the enemy, lock on with tractors,
and go inert, thus anchoring in space. Then, while absorbing and
dissipating everything that the opposition could send, they would put
out a peculiarly patterned interference, the center of which could
easily be located. The mobile fortresses would then come up, cut off
the Boskonians' power intake, and finish up the job.

Not soon was that bolt forged; but in time civilization was ready
to launch its stupendous and, it was generally hoped and believed,
conclusive attack upon Boskonia. Every sector base and sub-base was
ready; the zero hour had been set.

At Prime Base Kimball Kinnison, the youngest Tellurian ever to wear the
four silver stripes of captain, sat at the conning plate of the cruiser
_Brittania II_, so named at his own request. He thrilled inwardly as
he thought of her speed. Such was her force of drive that, streamlined
to the ultimate degree although she was, she had special wall shields,
and special dissipators to radiate into space the heat of friction of
the medium through which she tore so madly. Otherwise she would have
destroyed herself in an hour of full blast, even in the hard vacuum of
interstellar space!

And in his office Port Admiral Haynes watched a chronometer. Minutes to
go--then seconds.

"Clear ether and light landings." His deep voice was gruff with
unexpressed emotion. "Five seconds.... QX.... Lift!" And the fleet shot
into the air.

       *       *       *       *       *

The first objective of this solarian fleet was twofold, and this first
hop was to be a short one indeed. For the Boskonians had established
bases upon both Pluto and Neptune, right here in the solarian system.
So close to Prime Base were these bases that only intensive screening
and constant vigilance had kept their spy rays out; so powerful were
they that the ordinary battleships of the patrol had been impotent
against them. Now they were to be removed. Therefore the fleet,
cruisers and "maulers" alike, divided into two parts; one part flashing
toward Neptune, the other toward slightly more distant Pluto.

Short as was the time necessary to traverse any interplanetary
distance, the solarians were detected and were met in force by the
ships of Boskone. But scarcely had battle been joined when the enemy
began to realize that this was to be a battle the like of which they
had never before seen; and when they began to understand it, it was too
late. They could not run, and all space was so full of interference
that they could not even report to Helmuth what was going on. These
first, peculiarly teardrop-shaped vessels of the patrol did not fight
at all. They simply held on like bulldogs, taking without response
everything that the white-hot projectors could hurl into them.

Their defensive screens radiated fiercely, high into the violet, under
the appalling punishment being dealt out to them by the batteries
of ship and shore, but they did not go down. Nor did the grip of
a single tractor loosen from its anchorage. And in minutes the
squat and monstrous maulers came up. Out went their cosmic-energy
blocking screens, out shot their tractor beams, and out from the
refractory throats of their stupendous projectors there raved the most
terrifically destructive forces generable by man.

Boskonian outer screens scarcely even flickered as they went down
before the immeasurable, the incredible violence of that thrust. The
second course offered a briefly brilliant burst of violet radiance
as it gave way. The inner screen resisted stubbornly as it ran the
spectrum in a wildly coruscant display of pyrotechnic splendor; but it,
too, went through the ultra-violet and into the black.

Now the wall shield itself--that inconceivably rigid fabrication of
pure force, which only the instantaneous detonation of twenty metric
tons of "duodec" had ever been known to rupture--was all that barred
from the base metal of Boskonian walls the utterly indescribable fury
of the maulers' beams. Now force was streaming from that shield in
veritable torrents.

So terrible were the conflicting energies there at grips that their
neutralization was actually visible and tangible. In sheets and masses,
in terrific, ether-racking vortices, and in miles-long, pillaring
streamers and flashes, those energies were being hurled away--hurled to
all the points of the sphere's full compass, filling and suffusing all
near-by space.

The Boskonian commanders stared at their instruments, first in
bewildered amazement and then in sheer, stark, unbelieving horror as
their power intake dropped to zero and their wall shields began to
fail--and still the attack continued in never-lessening power. Surely
that beaming _must_ slacken down soon. No conceivable mobile plant
could throw such a load for long!

But those mobile plants could--and did. The attack kept up, at the
extremely high level upon which it had begun. No ordinary storage cells
fed those mighty projectors; along no ordinary busbars were their
Titanic amperages borne. Those maulers were designed to do just one
thing--to _maul_--and that one thing they did well, relentlessly and
thoroughly.

       *       *       *       *       *

Higher and higher into the spectrum the defending wall shields began to
radiate. At the first blast they had leaped almost through the visible
spectrum, in one unbearably fierce succession of red, orange, yellow,
green, blue, and indigo, up to a sultry, coruscating, blindingly
hard violet. Now the doomed shields began leaping erratically into
the ultra-violet. To the eye they were already invisible; upon the
recorders they were showing momentary flashes of black.

Soon they went down; and in the instant of each failure one vessel
of Boskonia was no more. For, that last defense gone, nothing
save unresisting metal was left to withstand the ardor of those
ultra-powerful, ravening beams. As has already been said, no substance,
however refractory or resistant or inert, can endure even momentarily
in such a field of force. Therefore, every atom, alike of vessel and
of contents, went to make up the searing, seething burst of brilliant,
incandescently luminous vapor which suffused all circumambient space.

Thus passed out of the scheme of things the vessels of the solarian
detachment of Boskonia. Not a single vessel escaped; the cruisers saw
to that. And then the attack thundered on to the bases themselves. Here
the cruisers were useless; they merely formed an observant fringe, the
while continuing to so blanket all channels of communication that the
doomed bases could send out no word of what was happening to them. The
maulers moved up and grimly, doggedly, methodically went to work.

Since a base is always much more powerfully armored than is a
battleship, the reduction of these fortresses took longer than had the
destruction of the fleet. But the bases could no longer draw power from
the Sun or from any other heavenly body, and their other sources of
power were comparatively weak. Therefore, their defenses also failed
under that never-ceasing assault. Course after course their screens
went down, and with the last one went the base. The maulers' beams went
through metal and masonry as effortlessly as steel-jacketed bullets go
through butter, and bored on, deep into the planet's bedrock, before
their frightful force was spent.

Then around and around they spiraled, until nothing whatever was left
of the Boskonian works; until only a seething, white-hot lake of molten
lava in the midst of the planet's frigid waste was all that remained to
show that anything had ever been built there.

Surrender had not been thought of. Quarter or clemency had not been
asked, nor offered. Victory, of itself, was not enough. This was, and
of stern necessity had to be, a war of utter, complete, and merciless
extinction.




                                 XIV.


The enemy strongholds so insultingly close to Prime Base having been
obliterated, the solarian fleet sailed on into space. For a few weeks
game was plentiful enough. Hundreds of raiding vessels were overtaken
and held by the patrol cruisers, then blasted to vapor by the maulers.

Many Boskonian bases were also reduced. The locations of most of these
had long been known to the intelligence service; others were detected
or discovered by the fast-flying cruisers themselves. Marauding vessels
revealed the sites of others by succeeding in reaching them before
being overtaken by the cruisers. Others were found by the tracers and
loops of the signal corps.

Very few of these bases were hidden or in any way difficult of access,
and most of them fell before the blasts of a single mauler. But if one
mauler was not enough, others were summoned until it did fall. One
fortress, a hitherto unknown and surprisingly strong Sector Base,
required the concentration of every mauler of the solarian fleet; but
they were brought up and the fortress fell. As has been said, this was
a war of extinction and every pirate base that was found was reduced.

But one day a cruiser found a base which had not even a spy-ray
shield up, and a cursory inspection showed it to be completely empty.
Machinery, equipment, stores, and personnel had all been evacuated.
Suspicious, the patrol vessels stood off and beamed it from afar, but
there were no untoward occurrences. The structures simply slumped down
into lava, and that was all.

Every base discovered thereafter was in the same condition, and at the
same time the ships of Boskone, formerly so plentiful, disappeared
utterly from space. Day after day the cruisers sped hither and
thither throughout the vast reaches of the void, at the peak of their
unimaginably high pace, without finding a trace of any Boskonian
vessel. More remarkable still, and for the first time in years, the
ether was absolutely free from Boskonian interference.

Following an impulse, Kinnison asked and received permission to take
his ship on scouting duty. At maximum blast, he drove toward the
Velantian system, to the point at which he had picked up Helmuth's
communication line. Along that line he drove for twenty-two solid
days, halting only when a considerable distance outside the galaxy.
Ahead of him there was nothing whatever except one or two distant and
nebulous star clusters. Behind him there extended the immensity of the
galactic lens in all its splendor. But Captain Kinnison had no eye for
astronomical beauty that day.

       *       *       *       *       *

He held the _Brittania II_ there for an hour, while he mulled over
in his mind what the apparent facts could mean. He knew that he had
covered the line, from the point of determination out beyond the
galaxy's edge. He knew that his detectors, operating as they had been
in clear and undistorted ether, could not possibly have missed a thing
as large as Helmuth's base must be, if it had been anywhere near that
line; that their effective range was immensely greater than the largest
possible error in the determination or the following of the line. There
were, he concluded, three possible explanations, and only three.

First, Helmuth's base might also have been evacuated. This was almost
unthinkable. From what he himself knew of Helmuth that base would be as
nearly impregnable as anything could be made, and it was no more apt to
be vacated than was the Prime Base of the patrol. Second, Helmuth might
already have the device he himself wanted so badly, and upon which
Hotchkiss and the other experts had been at work so long--a detector
nullifier. This was possible, distinctly so. Possible enough, at least,
to warrant filing the idea for future consideration. Third, that base
might not be in the galaxy at all, but in that star cluster out there
straight ahead of the _Brittania II_, or possibly in one even farther
away. That idea seemed the best of the three. It would necessitate
ultra-powerful communicators, of course, but Helmuth could very well
have them. It squared up in other ways. Its pattern fitted into the
matrix very nicely.

But if that base were out there--it could stay there--for a while.
The _Brittania II_ just wasn't enough ship for that job. Too much
opposition out there, and not--enough--ship. Or too much ship? But he
wasn't ready, yet, anyway. He needed, and would get, another line on
Helmuth's base. Therefore, shrugging his shoulders, he whirled his
vessel about and set out to rejoin the fleet.

While a full day short of junction, Kinnison was called to his plate,
to see upon its lambent surface the visage of Port Admiral Haynes.

"Did you find out anything on your trip?" he asked.

"Nothing definite, sir. Just a couple of things to think about, is all.
But I can say that I don't like this at all. I don't like anything
about it or any part of it."

"No more do I," agreed the admiral. "It looks very much as though your
forecast of a stalemate might be about to eventuate. Where are you
headed for now?"

"Back to the fleet."

"Don't do it. Stay on scouting duty for a while longer. And, unless
something more interesting turns up, report back here to base. We have
something that may interest you. The boys have been----"

The admiral's picture was broken up into flashes of blinding light
and his words became a meaningless, jumbled roar of noise. A distress
call had begun to come in, only to be blotted out by a flood of the
Boskonian static interference, of which the ether had for so long been
clear.

"Got its center located?" Kinnison barked at his communications
officer. "They're close--right in our laps!"

"Yes, sir!" And the radio man snapped out numbers.

"Blast!" the captain commanded, unnecessarily; for the alert pilot had
already set the course and his levers were even then flashing across
their arcs. "I don't know what we can do, since we haven't got a thing
to do anything with, if that baby is what I think it is. But believe
me, we'll try!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Toward the center of disturbance shot _Brittania II_, herself emitting
now a scream of peculiarly patterned interference which was not only a
scrambler of all possible communication throughout that whole sector
of the galaxy, but also an imperative call for any mauler within
that sector. So close had the _Brittania II_ been to the scene of
depredation that for her to reach it required only minutes.

There lay the merchantman and her Boskonian assailant. Emboldened by
the cessation of piratical activities, some shipping concern had sent
out a freighter, loaded probably with highly "urgent" cargo; and this
was the result. The marauder, inert, had gripped her with his tractors
and was beaming her into submission. She was resisting, but feebly now;
it was apparent that her screens were failing. Her crew must soon open
ports in token of surrender, or roast to a man; and they would probably
prefer to roast.

Thus the situation in one instant. The next instant it was changed;
the Boskonian discovering suddenly that his beams, instead of boring
through the weak defenses of the freighter, were not even exciting to a
glow the mighty protective envelopes of a cruiser of the patrol.

He switched from the diffused heat beam he had been using upon
the merchantman to the hardest, hottest, most penetrating beam of
annihilation he mounted--with but little more to show for it and with
no better results. For the _Brittania II's_ screens had been designed
to stand up almost indefinitely against the most potent beams of any
space ship, and they stood up. Increase power as he would, to whatever
ruinous overload, the pirate could not break down Kinnison's screens;
nor, dodge as he would, could he again get in position to attack his
former prey. And eventually the mauler arrived; fortunately it, too,
had been fairly close by. Out reached its mighty tractors. Out raved
one of its tremendous beams, striking the Boskonian's defenses squarely
amidships.

That beam struck and the pirate ship disappeared--but not in a hazily
incandescent flare of volatilized metal. The raider disappeared
bodily, and still all in one piece. He had put out shears of his own,
snapping even the mauler's tractors like threads; and the velocity
of his departure was due almost as much to the pressor effect of the
patrol beam as it was to the thrust of his own powerful drivers.

It was the beginning of the stalemate Kinnison had foreseen.

"I was afraid of that," the young captain muttered; and, paying no
attention whatever to the merchantman, he called the commander of the
mauler. At this close range, of course, no possible ether scrambler
could interfere with visual apparatus, and there on his plate he saw
the face of Clifford Maitland, the man who graduated No. 2 in his own
class.

"Hi, Kim, you old space flea!" Maitland exclaimed in delight. "Oh,
pardon me, sir," he went on in mock deference, with an exaggerated
salute. "To a guy with four jets, I should say----"

"Seal that, Cliff, or I'll climb up you like a squirrel, first chance I
get!" Kinnison retorted. "So they've got you skippering one of the big
battle wagons, huh? Lucky stiff! Think of a mere infant like you being
let play with so much high power. But what'll we do about this heap
here?"

"Damn if I know. It isn't covered, so you'll have to tell me, captain."

"Who am I to be passing out orders? As you say, it isn't covered in the
book. It's against G I regs for them to be cutting our tractors. But
he's all yours, not mine. I've got to flit. You might find out what
he's carrying, from where, to where, and why. Then, if you want to,
you can escort him either back where he came from or on to where he's
going, whichever you think best. If this interference dies out, you'd
better report to Prime Base and get some real orders. If it doesn't,
use your own judgment, if any. Clear ether, Cliff, I've got to buzz
along."

"Free landings, space hound!"

"Now, Vic"--Kinnison turned to his pilot--"we've got urgent business
at base. And when I say 'urgent' I don't mean perchance. Let's see you
burn a hole in the ether." And that worthy snapped his levers over to
maximum blast.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Brittania II_ made the run to Prime Base in a few days, and
scarcely had she touched ground when Kinnison was summoned to the
office of the port admiral. As soon as he was announced, Haynes
brusquely cleared his office and sealed it against any possible form
of intrusion or eavesdropping before he spoke. He had aged noticeably
since these two had had that memorable conference in this same room.
His face was lined and careworn; his eyes and his entire mien bore
witness to days and nights of sleeplessly continuous work.

"You were right, Kinnison," he began, abruptly. "A stalemate it is, a
hopeless deadlock. I called you in to tell you that Hotchkiss has your
nullifier done, and that it works perfectly against all long-range
stuff. It works fairly well on vision, except at close range. Against
electromagnetics, however, it is not very effective. About all that can
be done, it seems, is to shorten the range; it has not been possible,
as yet, to develop a screen against magnetism. Perhaps we expected too
much."

"I can get by with that, I think. I will be out of electromagnetic
range most of the time, and nobody watches their electros very close,
anyway. Thanks a lot. It's ready to install?"

"Doesn't need installation. It's such a little thing you can put it in
your pocket. It's self-contained and will work anywhere."

"Better and better. In that case I'll need two of them--and a ship. I
would like to have one of those new automatic speedsters.[4] Lots of
legs, cruising range, and screens. Only one beam, but I probably won't
use even that one so----"

[Footnote 4: Unlike the larger war vessels of the patrol, speedsters
are very narrow in proportion to their length, and in their design
nothing is considered save speed and maneuverability. Very definitely
they are not built for comfort. Thus, although their gravity plates
are set for horizontal flight, they have braking jets, under jets,
side jets, and top jets, as well as driving jets; so that in inert
maneuvering any direction whatever may seem "down," and that direction
may change with bewildering rapidity.

Nothing can be loose in a speedster. Everything, even to the food
supplies in the refrigerators, must be clamped into place. Sleeping is
done in hammocks, not in beds. All seats and resting places have heavy
safety straps, and there are no loose items of furniture or equipment
anywhere on board.

Because they are designed for the utmost possible speed in the free
condition, speedsters are extremely cranky and tricky in inert flight,
unless they are being handled upon their under jets, which are designed
and placed specifically and only for inert flight.

Some of the ultra-fast vessels of the pirates, as will be brought out
later, were also of this shape and design.]

"Going _alone_?" interrupted Haynes. "Better take a battle cruiser, at
least. I don't like the idea of your going out there alone."

"I don't particularly relish the prospect, either. But it's got to be
that way. The whole fleet, maulers and all, isn't enough to do by force
what's got to be done, and even two men are too many to do it in the
only way it can be done. You see, sir----"

"No explanations, please. It's on the spool, where we can get it if we
need it. Are you informed as to the latest developments?"

"No, sir. I heard a little coming in, but not much."

"We are almost back where we were before you took off in the _Brittania
II_. Commerce is almost at a standstill, all over the galaxy. All
shipping firms are practically idle. But that is neither all of it
nor the worst of it. You may not realize how important interstellar
trade is; but as a result of its stoppage general business has slowed
down tremendously. As is only to be expected, perhaps, complaints are
coming in by the thousand because we have not already blasted the
pirates out of space, and demands that we do so at once. They do not
understand the true situation, nor realize that we are doing all that
we can do. We cannot send a mauler with every freighter and liner,
and mauler-escorted vessels are the only ones to arrive at their
destinations."

"But why? With tractor shears on all ships, how can they hold them?"
asked Kinnison.

"Magnets!" snorted Haynes. "Plain, old-fashioned electromagnets. No
pull to speak of, at a distance, of course, but with the raider running
free, a millionth of a dyne is enough. Close up--lock on--board and
storm--all done!"

"Hm-m-m. That changes things. I've got to find a pirate ship. I was
planning on following a freighter or liner out toward Alsakan. But if
there aren't any to follow--I'll have to hunt around some----"

"That is easily arranged. Lots of them want to go. We will let one go,
with a mauler accompanying her, but well outside detector range."

"That covers everything, then, except the assignment. I can't very
well ask for leave, but maybe I could be put on special assignment,
reporting direct to you?"

       *       *       *       *       *

"Something better than that." And Haynes smiled broadly, in genuine
pleasure. "Everything is fixed. Your release has been entered in the
books. Your commission as captain has been canceled, so leave your
uniform in your former quarters. Here is your credit book and here is
the rest of your kit. You are now an unattached Lensman."

The release! The goal toward which all Lensmen strive, but which so
comparatively few attain, even after years of work! He was now a free
agent, responsible to no one and to nothing save his own conscience. He
was no longer of Earth, nor of the solarian system, but of the galaxy
as a whole. He was no longer a tiny cog in the immense machine of the
Galactic Patrol; wherever he might go, throughout the immensity of the
entire island universe, he _would be_ the Galactic Patrol!

"Yes, it's real." The older man was enjoying the youngster's
stupefaction at his release, reminding him as it did of the time, long
years ago, when he had won his own. "You go anywhere you please and do
anything you please, for as long as you please. You take anything you
want, whenever you want it, with or without giving reasons--although
you will usually give a thumb-printed credit slip in return. You
report if, as, when, where, how, and to whom you please--or not, as
you please. You don't even get a salary any more. You help yourself to
that, too, wherever you may be--as much as you want, whenever you want
it."

"But, sir--I--you----I mean--that is----" Kinnison gulped three times
before he could speak coherently. "I'm not ready, sir. Why, I'm nothing
but a kid. I haven't got enough jets to swing it. Just the bare thought
of it scares me into hysterics!"

"It would. It always does." The admiral was very much in earnest
now, but it was a glad, proud earnestness. "You are to be as
nearly absolutely free an agent as it is possible for a living,
flesh-and-blood creature to be. To the man on the street that would
seem to spell a condition of perfect bliss. Only a gray Lensman knows
what a frightful load it really is; but it is a load that such a
Lensman is glad and proud to carry."

"Yes, sir, he would be, of course, if he----"

"That thought will bother you for a time--if it did not, you would not
be here--but do not worry about it any more than you can help. All I
can say is that in the opinion of those who should know, not only have
you proved yourself ready for release, but also you have earned it."

"How do they figure that out?" Kinnison demanded, hotly. "All that
saved my bacon on that trip was luck--a burned-out Bergenholm--and at
the time I thought that it was bad luck, at that. And VanBuskirk and
Worsel and the other boys and Heaven knows who else pulled me out of
jam after jam. I'd like awfully well to believe that I'm ready, sir,
but I'm not. I can't take credit for pure dumb luck and for other men's
abilities."

"Well, coöperation is to be expected, and we like to make gray Lensmen
out of the lucky ones." Haynes laughed deeply. "It may make you feel
better, though, if I tell you two more things: first, that so far you
have made the best showing of any man yet graduated from Wentworth
Hall; second, that we of the court believe you would have succeeded
in that almost impossible mission without VanBuskirk, without Worsel,
and without the lucky failure of the Bergenholm. In a different, and
now, of course, unguessable fashion, but succeeded, nevertheless. Nor
is this to be taken as in any sense a belittlement of the very real
abilities of those others, nor a denial that luck, or chance, does
exist. It is merely our recognition of the fact that you have what it
takes to be an unattached Lensman.

"Seal it now, and buzz off!" he commanded, as Kinnison tried to say
something; and, clapping him on the shoulder, he turned him around and
gave him a gentle shove toward the door. "Clear ether, lad!"

"Same to you, sir--all of it there is. I still think that you and all
the rest of the court are cockeyed; but I'll try not to let you down."
And the newly unattached Lensman blundered out. He stumbled over the
threshold, bumped against a stenographer who was hurrying along the
corridor, and almost barged into the jamb of the entrance door instead
of going through the opening. Outside he regained his physical poise
and walked on air toward his quarters; but he never could remember
afterward what he did or whom he met on that long, fast hike. Over and
over the one thought pounded in his brain: unattached! _Unattached!!_
UNATTACHED!!

       *       *       *       *       *

And behind him, in the port admiral's office, that high official sat
and mused, smiling faintly with lips and eyes, staring unseeingly at
the still-open doorway through which Kinnison had staggered. The boy
had measured up in every particular. He would be a good man. He would
marry. He did not think so now, of course--in his own mind his life
was consecrate--but he would. If necessary, the patrol itself would
see to it that he did. There were ways, and such stock was altogether
too good not to be propagated. And, fifteen years or so from now--if
he lived--when he was no longer fit for the grinding, grueling life to
which he now looked forward so eagerly, he would select the Earthbound
job for which he was best fitted and would become a good executive.
For such were the executives of the patrol. But this daydreaming was
getting him nowhere, fast; he shook himself and plunged again into his
work.

Kinnison reached his quarters at last, realizing with a thrill that
they were no longer his. He now had no quarters, no residence, no
address. Wherever he might be, throughout the whole of illimitable
space, there was his home. But, instead of being dismayed by the
thought of the life he faced, he was filled by a fierce eagerness to be
actually living it.

There was a tap at his door and an orderly entered, carrying a bulky
package.

"Your grays, sir," he announced, with a crisp salute.

"Thanks." Kinnison returned the salute as smartly; and, almost before
the door had closed, he was stripping off the space black-and-silver
gorgeousness of the captain's uniform he wore, and was donning gray.

The gray--the unadorned, neutral-colored leather that was the proud
garb of that branch of the patrol to which he was thenceforth to
belong. It had been tailored to his measurements, and he could not help
studying with approval his reflection in the mirror: the round, almost
visorless cap, heavily and softly quilted in protection against the
helmet of his armor; the heavy goggles, opaque to all radiation harmful
to the eyes; the short jacket, emphasizing broad shoulders and narrow
waist; the trim breeches and high-laced boots, incasing powerful,
tapering legs.

"What an outfit--_what_ an outfit!" he breathed. "And maybe I ain't
such a bad-looking ape, at that, in these grays!" He did not then, and
never did realize that he was wearing the plainest, drabbest, most
strictly utilitarian uniform in the known universe; for to him, as to
all others who knew it, the sheer, stark simplicity of the unattached
Lensman's plain gray leather transcended by far the gaudy trappings of
the other branches of the service. He admired himself boyishly, as men
do, feeling a trifle ashamed in so doing; but he did not then and never
did appreciate what a striking figure of a man he really was as he
strode out of quarters and down the wide avenue toward the _Brittania
II's_ dock.

       *       *       *       *       *

He was glad indeed that there had been no ceremony or public show
connected with this, his real and only important graduation. For as
his fellows--not only his own crew, but also his friends from all over
the Reservation--thronged about him, mauling and pummeling him in
congratulation and acclaim, he knew that he couldn't stand much more.
If there were to be much more of it, he discovered suddenly, he would
either pass out cold or cry like a baby. He didn't quite know which.

That whole howling, chanting mob clustered about him; and, considering
it an honor to carry the least of his personal belongings, formed a
yelling, cap-tossing escort. Traffic meant nothing whatever to that
pleasantly mad crew, nor, temporarily, did regulations. Let traffic
detour; let pedestrians, no matter how august, cool their heels;
let cars, trucks, yes, even trains, wait until they got past; let
everything wait, or turn around and go back, or go some other way.
Here comes Kinnison! Kinnison, gray Lensman! Make way! And way was
made--from the _Brittania II's_ dock clear across base to the slip in
which the Lensman's new speedster lay.

And what a ship this little speedster was! Trim, trig, streamlined to
the ultimate she lay there, quiescent but surcharged with power. Almost
sentient she was, this power-packed, ultra-racy little fabrication of
space-toughened alloy, instantly ready at his touch to liberate those
tremendous energies which were to hurl him through the infinite reaches
of the cosmic void.

None of the mob came aboard, of course. They backed off, still
frantically waving and throwing whatever came closest to hand; and as
Kinnison touched a button and shot into the air he swallowed several
times in a vain attempt to dispose of an amazing lump which had somehow
appeared in his throat.




                                  XV.


It so happened that for many long weeks there had been lying in New
York space port an urgent shipment for Alsakan. And not only was that
urgency a one-way affair. For, with the possible exception of a few
packets, whose owners had locked them in vaults and would not part with
them at any price, there was not a single Alsakanite cigarette left on
Earth!

Luxuries, then as now, soared feverishly in price with scarcity.
Only the rich smoked Alsakanite cigarettes, and to those rich the
price of anything they really wanted was a matter of almost complete
indifference. And plenty of them wanted, and wanted badly, their
Alsakanite cigarettes. There was no doubt of that.

The current market report upon them was: "Bid, one thousand credits per
packet of ten. Offered, none at any price."

With that ever-climbing figure in mind, a merchant prince named
Matthews had been trying to get an Alsakanbound ship into the ether.
He knew that one cargo of Alsakanite cigarettes safely landed in any
Tellurian space port would yield more profit than could be made by his
entire fleet in ten years of normal trading. Therefore, he had for
weeks been pulling every wire, and even every string, that he could
reach--political, financial, even at times verging altogether too close
for comfort upon the criminal--but without results.

For, even if he could find a crew willing to take the risk, to launch
the ship without an escort would be out of the question. There would be
no profit in a ship that did not return to Earth. The ship was his, to
do with as he pleased, but the escorting maulers were assigned solely
by the Galactic Patrol, and that patrol would not give his ship an
escort.

In answer to his first request, he had been informed that only cargoes
classed as necessary were being escorted at all regularly; that
seminecessary loads were escorted occasionally, when of a particularly
useful or desirable commodity and if opportunity offered; that luxury
loads, such as his, were not being escorted at all; that he would be
notified if, as, and when the _Prometheus_ could be given escort. Then
the merchant prince began his siege.

       *       *       *       *       *

Politicians of high rank, local and national, sent in "requests" of
varying degrees of diplomacy. Financiers first offered inducements,
then threatened to "bear down," then put on all the various kinds
of pressure known to their pressure-loving ilk. Pleas, demands,
threats, and pressures were alike, however, futile. The patrol could
not be coaxed or bullied, cajoled, bribed, or cowed; and all further
communications upon the subject, from whatever source originating,
were ignored.

Having exhausted his every resource of diplomacy, politics, guile, and
finance, the merchant prince resigned himself to the inevitable and
stopped trying to get his ship off the ground.

Then, like the proverbial bolt from the blue, New York sub-base
received from Prime Base an open message, not even coded, which read:

    Authorize space ship _Prometheus_ to clear for Alsakan at will,
    escorted by patrol ship B 42 TC 838, whose present orders are
    hereby canceled. Signed, Haynes.

A demolition bomb dropped into that sub-base would not have caused
greater excitement than did that message. Neither the base commander,
the captain of the mauler, the captain of the _Prometheus_, nor the
highly pleased but equally surprised Matthews could explain it; but
all of them did whatever they could to expedite the departure of the
freighter. She was, and had been for a long time, practically ready to
sail.

As the base commander and Matthews sat in the office, shortly before
the scheduled time of departure, Kinnison arrived--or, more correctly,
let them know that he was there. He invited them both into the control
room of his speedster; and invitations from gray Lensmen were accepted
without question or demur.

"I suppose that you are wondering what this is all about," he began.
"I'll make it as short as I can. I asked you in here because this is
the only convenient place in which I _know_ that what we say will not
be overheard. There are lots of spy rays around here, whether you know
it or not. The _Prometheus_ is to be allowed to go to Alsakan, because
that is where pirates seem to be most numerous, and we do not want to
waste time hunting all over space to find one.

"Your vessel was selected, Mr. Matthews, for three reasons, and
in spite of the attempts you have been making to obtain special
privileges, not because of them: first, because there is no necessary
or seminecessary freight waiting for clearance into that region;
second, because we do not want your firm to fail. We do not know of any
other large shipping line in such a shaky position as yours, nor of any
firm anywhere to which one single cargo would make such an immense
financial difference."

"You are certainly right there, Lensman!" Matthews agreed,
whole-heartedly. "It means bankruptcy on the one hand and a fortune on
the other."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Here's what is to happen. The ship and the mauler blast off on
schedule, fourteen minutes from now. They get about to Valeria, when
they are both recalled--urgent orders for the mauler to go on rescue
work. The mauler comes back, but your captain will, in all probability,
keep on going, saying that he started out for Alsakan and that's where
he's going----"

"But he wouldn't. He wouldn't _dare_!" gasped the ship owner.

"Sure he would," Kinnison insisted, cheerfully enough. "That is the
third good reason your vessel is being allowed to set out: because it
certainly will be attacked. You didn't know it until now, but your
captain and over half of your crew are pirates themselves, and----"

"What? Pirates!" Matthews bellowed. "I'll go down there and----"

"You'll do nothing whatever, Mr. Matthews, except watch things, and you
will do that from here. The situation is entirely under control."

"But my ship! My cargo!" the shipper wailed. "We'll be ruined if----"

"Let me finish, please," the Lensman interrupted. "As soon as the
mauler turns back it is practically certain that your captain will
send out a message, letting the pirates know that he is easy prey.
Within a minute after sending that message, he dies. So does every
other pirate aboard. Your ship lands on Valeria and takes on a crew
of space-fighting wildcats, headed by Peter VanBuskirk. Then it
goes on toward Alsakan. When the pirates board that ship, after its
prearranged, half-hearted resistance and easy surrender, they are going
to think that all hell's out for noon. Especially since the mauler,
back from her 'rescue work,' will be tagging along, not too far away."

"Then my ship will really go to Alsakan, and back, safely?" Matthews
was almost dazed. Matters were entirely out of his hands, and things
had moved so rapidly that he hardly knew what to think. "But if my own
crews are pirates, some of them may----But I can, of course, get police
protection if necessary."

"Unless something entirely unforseen happens, the _Prometheus_ will
make the round trip in safety, cargoes and all--under mauler escort all
the way. You will, of course, have to take the other matter up with
your local police."

"When is the attack to take place, sir?" asked the base commander.

"That's what the mauler skipper wanted to know when I told him what was
ahead of him." Kinnison grinned. "He wanted to sneak up a little closer
about that time. I'd like to know, myself, but unfortunately that will
have to be decided by the pirates after they get the signal. It will be
on the way out, though, because the cargo she has aboard now is a lot
more valuable to Boskone than a load of Alsakanite cigarettes would be."

"But do you think you can take the pirate ship that way?" asked the
commander, dubiously.

"No. But he will cut down his personnel to such an extent that he will
have to head back for base."

"And that's what you want--the base. I see."

He did not see--quite--but the Lensman did not enlighten him further.

       *       *       *       *       *

There was a brilliant double flare as freighter and mauler lifted into
the air. Kinnison showed the ship owner out.

"Hadn't I better be going, too?" asked the commander. "Those orders,
you know."

"A couple of minutes yet. I have another message for you--official.
Matthews won't need a police escort long--if any. When that ship is
attacked it is to be the signal for cleaning out every pirate in
Greater New York--the worst pirate hotbed on Tellus. Neither you nor
your force will be in on it directly, but you might pass the word
around, so that our own men will be informed ahead of the Telenews
outfits."

"Good! That has needed doing for a long time."

"Yes. But you know it takes a long time to line up every man in such
a big organization. They want to get them all, without getting any
innocent by-standers."

"Who's doing it? Prime Base?"

"Yes. Enough men will be thrown in here to do the whole job in an hour."

"That _is_ good news. Clear ether, Lensman!" And the base commander
went back to his post.

As the air-lock toggles rammed home, sealing the exit behind the
departing visitor, Kinnison eased his speedster into the air and headed
for Valeria. Since the two vessels ahead of him had left atmosphere
inertialess, as would he, and since several hundred seconds had elapsed
since their take-off, he was, of course, some ten thousand miles off
their line as well as being uncounted millions of miles behind them.
But the larger distance meant no more than the smaller, and neither of
them meant anything at all to the patrol's finest speedster. Kinnison,
on easy touring blast, caught up with them in minutes. Closing up to
less than one light year, he slowed his pace to match theirs and held
his distance.

Any ordinary ship would have been detected instantly--long since, in
fact--but Kinnison rode no ordinary ship. His speedster was immune to
all detection save electromagnetic or visual, and, therefore, even at
that close range--the travel of half a minute for even a slow space
ship in open space--he was safe. For electromagnetics are useless at
that distance; and visual apparatus, even with subether converters, is
reliable only up to a few mere thousands of miles, unless the observer
knows exactly what to look for and where to look for it.

       *       *       *       *       *

Kinnison, then, closed up and followed the _Prometheus_ and her mauler
escort; and as they approached the Valerian solar system, sure enough,
the recall messages came booming in. Also, as had been expected, the
renegade captain of the freighter sent back, first his defiant answer,
and then his message to the pirate high command. The mauler turned
back; the merchantman kept on. Suddenly, however, she stopped, inert,
and from her ports were ejected discrete bits of matter--probably the
bodies of the Boskonian members of her crew. Then the _Prometheus_,
again inertialess, flashed directly toward the planet Valeria.

An inertialess landing is, of course, highly irregular, and is made
only when the ship is to take off again immediately. It saves all
the time ordinarily lost in spiraling and deceleration, and saves
the computation of a landing orbit, which is no task for an amateur
computer. It is, however, dangerous.

It takes power, plenty of it, to maintain the force which neutralizes
the inertia of mass, and if that force fails, even for an instant,
while a ship is upon a planet's surface, the consequences are usually
highly disastrous. For in the neutralization of inertia there is no
magic, no getting of something for nothing, no violation of Nature's
law of the conservation of matter and energy. The instant that force
becomes inoperative the ship possesses exactly the same velocity,
momentum, and inertia that it possessed at the instant the force took
effect.

Thus, if a space ship takes off from Earth, with its orbital velocity
of about eighteen and one half miles per second relative to the
Sun, goes free, dashes to Mars, lands free, and then goes inert,
its original velocity, both in speed and in direction, is instantly
restored, with consequences better imagined than described. Such a
velocity, of course, _might_ take the ship harmlessly into the air; but
it probably would not.

But the _Prometheus_ landed free, and so did Kinnison. He stepped out,
fully armored against Valeria's extremely heavy atmosphere and laboring
a trifle under its terrific gravitation, to be greeted cordially by
_Lieutenant_ VanBuskirk, whose fighting men were already streaming
aboard the freighter.

"Hi, chief!" the Dutchman called, gayly. "Everything went off like
clockwork. Won't hold you up long--be blasting off in ten minutes."

"Ho, Lefty!" the Lensman acknowledged, as cordially, but saluting the
newly commissioned officer with an exaggerated formality. "Say, Bus,
I've been doing some thinking. Why wouldn't it be a good idea to----"

"Uh-uh, it would _not_," denied the fighter, positively. "I know what
you're going to say--that you want in on this party--but don't say it."

"But I----" Kinnison began to argue.

"Nix," the Valerian declared flatly. "You've got to stay with your
speedster. No room for her inside, as she's full to the last meter with
cargo and with my men. You can't clamp on outside, as that would give
the whole thing away. And besides, for the first and last time in my
life I've got a chance to give a gray Lensman orders. Those orders are
to stay out of and away from this ship--and I'll see to it that you do,
too, you little Tellurian wart! Boy, what a kick I get out of that!"

"You would, you big, dumb Valerian ape. You always were a small-souled
type!" Kinnison retorted. "Piggy-piggy----Haynes, huh?"

"Uh-huh." VanBuskirk nodded. "How else could I talk so rough to _you_
and get away with it? However, don't feel too bad. You aren't missing
a thing, really. This thing is in the cans already, and your fun is
up ahead somewhere. And by the way, Kim, congratulations. You had it
coming. We're all behind you, from here to the next universe and back."

"Thanks. And the same to you, Bus, and many of 'em. Well, if you won't
let me stow away, I'll tag along behind, I guess. Clear ether--or
rather, I hope it's full of pirates by to-morrow morning. Won't be,
though, probably; don't imagine they'll move until we're almost there."

       *       *       *       *       *

And tag along Kinnison did, through thousands and thousands of parsecs
of uneventful voyage.

Part of the time he spent in the speedster, dashing hither and yon.
Most of it, however, he spent in the vastly more comfortable mauler;
to the armored side of which his tiny vessel clung with its magnetic
clamps while he slept and ate, gossiped and read, exercised and played
with the mauler's officers and crew, in deep-space comradery. It so
happened, however, that when the long-waited attack developed he was
out in his speedster, and thus saw and heard everything from the
beginning.

Space was filled with the old, familiar interference. The raider
flashed up, locked on with magnets, and began to beam. Not
heavily--scarcely enough to warm up the defensive screens--and Kinnison
probed into the pirate with his spy ray.

"Terrestrials--and Americans!" he exclaimed, half aloud, startled for
an instant. "But naturally they would be, since this is a put-up job
and over half the crew were New York gangsters."

"The blighter's got his spy-ray screens up," the pilot was grumbling
to his captain. The fact that he spoke in English was immaterial to
the Lensman; he would have understood equally well any other possible
form of communication or of thought exchange. "That wasn't part of the
plan, was it?"

If Helmuth, or one of the able minds at his base, had been directing
that attack it would have stopped right there. The pilot had shown a
flash of feeling that, with a little encouragement, might have grown
into a suspicion.

But the captain was not an imaginative man. Therefore: "Nothing was
said about it, either way," he replied. "Probably the mate's on duty.
He is not one of us, you know. All the better if he is. The captain
will open up. If he doesn't do it pretty quick, I'll open her up
myself. There, the port's opening. Slide a little forward.... Hold it!
Go get 'em, men!"

Then men, hundreds of them, armed and armored, swarmed through the
freighter's locks. But as the last man of the boarding party passed the
portal something happened that was most decidedly not on the program:
the outer port slammed shut and its toggles drove home!

"Blast those screens! Knock them down! Get in there with a spy ray!"
barked the pirate captain. He was not one of those hardy and valiant
souls who, like Gildersleeve, led, in person, the attacks of his
cutthroats. He emulated, instead, the higher Boskonian officials
and directed his raids from the safety of his control room; but, as
has been intimated, he was unlike those officials in that he lacked
directorial ability. Thus it was only after it was too late that he
became suspicious. "I wonder if somebody could have double-crossed us?
Hi-jackers?"

"We'll soon know," the pilot growled, and even as he spoke the spy ray
got through, revealing a very shambles.

For VanBuskirk and his Valerians had not been caught napping, nor
were they a crew--unarmored, partially armed, and rendered even more
impotent by internal mutiny, strife, and slaughter--such as the
pirates had expected to find.

       *       *       *       *       *

Instead of such a crew the boarders met a force that was overwhelmingly
superior to their own--not only in point of numbers, but even more
markedly in the strength and agility of its units. Also, the defenders
were more capably armed than were the attackers, since, in addition
to the efficient armor of the patrol and its ultra-deadly portable
weapons, at least one of those terrific semiportable projectors
commanded every corridor of the freighter. In the blasts of those
projectors most of the pirates died instantly, not knowing what struck
them, not even knowing that they died.

They were the fortunate ones. The others knew what was coming and saw
it as it came, for the Valerians did not even draw their DeLameters.
They knew that the pirates' armor could withstand for many minutes
any hand weapon's beams, and they disdained to remount the heavy
semiportables. They came in with their space axes, and at the sight
the pirates broke and ran screaming in panic fear. But they could not
escape. The toggles of the exit port were not only in their sockets,
but they were also locked in them.

Therefore, the storming party died to the last man; and, as VanBuskirk
had foretold, it was scarcely even a struggle. For any ordinary space
armor is just so much tin against a Valerian swinging a space ax.

The spy ray of the pirate captain got through just in time to see the
ghastly finale of the massacre, and his face turned first purple, then
white.

"The patrol!" he gasped. "Valerians--a whole company of them! I'll say
we've been double-crossed!"

"Right-o--we've jolly well been," the pilot agreed. "You don't know the
half of it yet, either. Somebody's coming, and it isn't a boy scout. If
a mauler should suck us in, we'd be very much a spent force, what?"

"Cut out the conversation!" snapped the captain. "Is it a mauler, or
not?"

"A bit too far away yet to say, but it probably is. They wouldn't have
sent those jaspers out without cover, old bean. They knew that we can
burn that freighter's screens down in an hour. Better cut the beams and
get ready to run, what?"

The commander did so, wild thoughts racing through his mind. If a
mauler got close enough to him to use magnets, he was done. Cutting
arcs would burn through his armor like cheese, and he had no fighting
men left. And even if he had--even a full crew of the most savage
fighters known would have to be inescapably cornered before they would
mix it with what that mauler had aboard. He would have to go back to
base, anyway----

"Tally ho, old fruit!" The pilot slammed his levers over to maximum
blast. "It's a mauler and we've been bloody well jobbed. Back to base?"

"Yes." And the discomfited captain energized his communicator, to
report to his immediate superior the humiliating outcome of the
supposedly carefully planned coup.




                                 XVI.


As the pirate fled into space Kinnison followed, matching his quarry
in course and speed. He then cut in the automatic controller on his
drive, the automatic recorder on his plate, and began to tune in his
beam tracer; only to be brought up short by the realization that the
spy ray's point would not stay in the pirate's control room without
constant attention and manual adjustment. He had known that, too. Even
the most precise of automatic controllers, driven by the most carefully
stabilized electronic currents, are prone to slip twenty feet or so at
even such close range as ten million miles, especially in the bumpy
ether near solar systems, and there was nothing to correct the slip.
He had not thought of that before; the pilot always made those minor
corrections as a matter of course.

But now he was torn between two desires. He wanted to listen to the
conversation that would ensue as soon as the pirate captain got into
communication with his superior officers; and, especially should
Helmuth put in his beam, he very much wanted to trace it and thus
secure another line on the headquarters he was so anxious to locate.
He now feared that he could not do both--a fear that soon was to prove
well-grounded--and wished fervently that for a few minutes he could be
two men--or at least a Velantian; they had eyes and hands and separate
brain compartments enough so that they could do half a dozen things
at once and do each one well. He could not; but he could try. Maybe
he should have brought one of the boys along, at that. No, that would
wreck everything, later on; he would have to do the best he could.

Communication was established and the pirate captain began to make
his report. By using one hand on the ray and the other on the tracer,
Kinnison managed to get a partial line and to record scraps of the
conversation. He missed, however, the essential part of the entire
episode, that part in which the base commander turned the unsuccessful
captain over to Helmuth himself. Therefore, Kinnison was surprised
indeed at the disappearance of the beam he was so laboriously tracing,
and to hear Helmuth conclude his castigation of the unlucky captain
with:

"--not entirely your fault. We will not punish you at all severely this
time. Report to our base on Aldebaran I. Turn your vessel over to base
commander there and do anything he tells you to do for thirty of the
days of that planet."

Frantically, Kinnison drew back his tracer and searched for Helmuth's
beam; but before he could synchronize with it the message of the
pirates' high chief was finished and his beam was gone. The Lensman sat
back in thought.

Aldebaran! Practically next door to his own solarian system, from which
he had come so far. How had they possibly managed to keep concealed,
or to re-establish, a base so close to Sol, through all the intensive
searching that had been done? But they _had_. That was the important
thing. Anyway, he knew where he was going, and that helped.

One other thing he hadn't thought of--and one that might have spoiled
everything--was the fact that he couldn't stay awake indefinitely to
follow that ship! He had to sleep sometime, and while he was asleep
his quarry was bound to escape. He, of course, had a CRX tracer, which
would hold a ship without attention as long as it was anywhere within
even extreme range; and it would have been a simple enough matter to
have had a photo-cell relay put in between the plate of the CRX and
the automatic controls of the spacer and driver--but he had not asked
for it. Well, luckily, he now knew where he was going, and the trip to
Aldebaran would be long enough for him to build a dozen such controls.
He had all the necessary parts and plenty of tools. It would give him
something to do to break the monotony of the voyage.

       *       *       *       *       *

Therefore, following the pirate ship easily as it tore through space,
Kinnison built his automatic "chaser," as he called it. During each of
the first four or five "nights" he lost the vessel he was pursuing,
but found it without any great difficulty upon awakening. Thereafter
he held it continuously, improving day by day the performance of his
apparatus until it could do almost anything except talk.

After that he devoted his time to an intensive study of the general
problem before him. His results were highly unsatisfactory; for in
order to solve any problem one must have enough data to set it up,
either in actual equations or in logical sequences, and Kinnison found
that he did not have enough data. He had altogether too many unknowns
and not enough knowns.

The first specific problem was that of getting into the pirate base.
Since the searchers of the patrol had not found it, that base must be
very well hidden indeed. And hiding anything as large as a base on
Aldebaran I, as he remembered it, would be quite a feat in itself. He
had been in that system only once, but----

Alone in his ship, and in deep space although he was, he blushed
painfully as he remembered what had happened to him during that visit.
He had chased a couple of dope runners to Aldebaran II, and there
he had encountered the most vividly, the most flawlessly, the most
remarkably and intriguingly beautiful girl he had ever seen. He had
seen beautiful girls and women, of course, before and in plenty. He had
seen beauties amateur and professional--social butterflies, dancers,
actresses, models, and posturers, both in the flesh and in Telenews
plates--but he had never supposed that such an utterly ravishing
creature as she was could exist outside of a thionite dream. As a
timidly innocent damsel in distress she had been perfect, and if she
had held that pose a little longer Kinnison shuddered to think of what
might have happened.

But, having known too many dope runners and too few patrolmen, she
misjudged entirely, not only the cadet's sentiments, but also his
reactions. For, even as she came amorously into his arms, he had known
that there was something screwy. Women like that did not play that kind
of game for nothing. She must be mixed up with the two he had been
chasing. He got away from her, with only a couple of scratches, just
in time to capture her confederates as they were making their escape.
He had been afraid of beautiful women ever since. He'd like to see that
Aldebaranian hell-cat again--just once. He'd been just a kid then, but
now----

       *       *       *       *       *

But that line of thought was getting him nowhere, fast. It was
Aldebaran I that he had better be thinking of: barren, lifeless,
desolate, airless, waterless; bare as his hand, covered with extinct
volcanoes, cratered, jagged, and torn. To hide a base on that
planet would take plenty of doing, and, conversely, it would be
correspondingly difficult of approach. If on the surface at all, which
he doubted very strongly, it would be covered.

In any event, all its approaches would be thoroughly screened and
equipped with lookouts on the ultra-violet and on the infra-red, as
well as on the visible. His detector nullifier wouldn't help him much
there. Those screens and lookouts were bad--very, very bad. Question:
could _anything_ get into that base without setting off an alarm?

His speedster could not even get close; that was certain. Could he,
alone? He would have to wear armor, of course, to hold his air, and it
would radiate. Not necessarily--he could land out of range and walk,
without power; but there were still the screens and the lookouts. If
the pirates were on their toes it simply wasn't in the cards; and he
had to assume that they would be alert.

What, then, could pass those barriers? Prolonged consideration of every
facet of the situation gave definite answer and marked out clearly the
course he must take. Something admitted by the pirates themselves was
the only thing that could get in. The vessel ahead of his was going in.
Therefore, he must and would enter that base within the pirate vessel
itself. With that point decided there remained only the working out of
a method, which proved to be almost ridiculously simple.

Once inside the base, what should he--or rather, what _could_ he--do?
For days he made and discarded plans, but finally he tossed them all
out of his mind. So much depended upon the location of the base, its
personnel, its arrangement, and its routine, that he could develop
not even the rough draft of a working plan. He knew what he wanted to
do, but he had not even the remotest idea as to how he could go about
doing it. Of the opening that appeared, he would have to choose the
most feasible and fit his actions to whatever situation then and there
obtained.

So deciding, he shot his spy ray toward the planet and studied it with
care. It was, indeed, as he had remembered it--or worse. Bleakly,
hotly arid, it had no soil whatever, its entire surface being composed
of igneous rock, lava, and pumice. Stupendous ranges of mountains
crisscrossed and intersected each other at random, each range a
succession of dead volcanic peaks and blown-off craters. Mountainside
and rocky plain, crater wall and valley floor, alike and innumerably
were pock-marked with subcraters and with immensely yawning shell
holes, as though the whole planet had been, throughout geologic ages,
the target of an incessant cosmic bombardment.

       *       *       *       *       *

Over its surface and through and through its volume he drove his spy
ray, finding nothing. He bored into its substance with his detectors
and his tracers, with results completely negative. Of course, closer
up, his electromagnetics would report iron--plenty of it--but that
information would also be meaningless. Practically all planets had iron
cores.

As far as his instruments could tell--and he had given Aldebaran
I a more thorough going over, by far, than any ordinary surveying
ship would have given it--there was no base of any kind upon or
within the planet. Yet he _knew_ that a base was there. So what?
So--maybe--Helmuth's base might be inside the galaxy after all,
protected from detection in the same way, probably by solid miles
of iron or of iron ore. A second line upon that base had now become
imperative. But they were approaching the system fast; he had better
get ready.

He belted on his personal equipment, including a nullifier, then
inspected his armor, checking its supplies and apparatus carefully
before he hooked it ready to his hand. Glancing into the plate, he
noted with approval that his chaser was functioning perfectly. Pursued
and pursuer were now both well inside the solar system of Aldebaran;
and, as slowed the pirate, so slowed the speedster.

Finally, the leader went inert in preparation for his spiral. But
Kinnison was no longer following. Before he went inert he flashed down
to within fifty thousand miles of the planet's forbidding surface. He
then cut his Bergenholm, threw the speedster into an almost circular
orbit, well away from the landing orbit selected by the pirate, cut off
all his power, and drifted. He stayed in the speedster, observing and
computing, until he had so exactly defined its path that he could find
it unerringly at any future instant. Then he went into the air lock,
stepped out into space, and, waiting only to be sure that the portal
had snapped shut behind him, set his course toward the pirate's spiral.

Inert now, his progress was so slow as to seem imperceptible, but he
had plenty of time. And it was only relatively that his speed was low.
He was actually hurtling through space at the rate of well over two
thousand miles an hour, and his powerful little driver was increasing
that speed constantly by an acceleration of two Earth gravities.

Soon the vessel crept up, beneath him now, and Kinnison, increasing his
drive to five gravities, shot toward it in a long, slanting dive. This
was the most ticklish minute of the trip, but the Lensman had assumed
correctly that the officers of the badly undermanned ship would be
looking ahead of them and down, not backward and up. They were, and he
made his approach unseen. The approach itself, the boarding of an inert
space ship at its frightful landing-spiral velocity, was elementary to
any competent space man--simplicity itself. There was not even a flare
to bother him or to reveal him to sight, as the braking jets were now
doing all the work. Matching course and velocity ever more closely,
he crept up--flung his magnet--pulled up, hand over hand--opened the
emergency inlet lock--and there he was.

[Illustration: _Matching course and velocity, he crept up--flung his
magnet, pulled up, hand over hand_----]

       *       *       *       *       *

Unconcernedly, he made his way along the sternway and into the now
deserted quarters of the fighters. There he lay down in a hammock,
snapped the acceleration straps, and shot his spy ray into the control
room. And there, in the pirate captain's own visiplate, he observed the
rugged and torn topography of the terrain below, as the pilot fought
his ship down, mile by mile.

Tough going, this, Kinnison reflected, and the bird was doing a nice
job, even if he was taking it the hard way, bringing her down straight
on her nose instead of taking one more spiral around the planet and
then sliding in on her under jets, which were designed and placed
specifically for such work. But taking it the hard way he was, and his
vessel was bucking, kicking, bouncing, and spinning on the terrific
blast from her braking jets. Down she came, fast; and it was only after
she was actually inside one of those stupendous craters, well below the
level of its rim, that the pilot flattened her out and assumed normal
landing position.

They were still going too fast, Kinnison thought. But the pirate pilot
knew what he was doing. Five miles the vessel dropped, straight down
that Titanic shaft, before the bottom was reached. The shaft's wall was
studded with windows; in front of the craft loomed the outer gate of
a gigantic air lock. It opened; the ship was trundled inside, landing
cradle and all, and the massive gate closed behind it. This was the
pirates' base, and Kinnison was inside it!

"Men, attention!" The pirate commander snapped then. "This air is
deadly poison, so put on your armor and be sure your tanks are full.
They have rooms for us, having good air, but don't open your suits a
crack until I tell you to. Assemble! All of you that are not here in
this control room in five minutes will stay on board and take your own
chances!"

Kinnison decided instantly to assemble with the crew. He could do
nothing in the ship, and it would be inspected, of course. He had
plenty of air, but space armor all looked alike, and his Lens would
warn him in time of any unfriendly or suspicious thought. He had better
go. If they called a roll----But he would cross that bridge when he
came to it.

No roll was called; in fact, the captain paid no attention at all
to his men. They could come along or not, just as they pleased. But
since to stay in the ship meant death, every man was prompt. At the
expiration of the five minutes the captain strode away, followed by
the crowd. Through a doorway, left turn, and the captain was met by a
creature whose shape Kinnison could not make out. A pause, a straggling
forward, then a right turn.

Kinnison decided that he would not take that turn. He would stay
here, close to the shaft--where he could blast his way out if
necessary--until he had studied the whole base thoroughly enough to map
out a plan of campaign. He soon found an empty and apparently unused
room, and assured himself that through its heavy, crystal-clear window
he could indeed look out into the vastly cylindrical emptiness of the
volcanic shaft.

       *       *       *       *       *

Then, with his spy ray, he watched the pirates as they were escorted to
the quarters prepared for them. Those might have been rooms of state,
but it looked to Kinnison very much as though his former shipmates were
being jailed ignominiously, and he was glad that he had taken leave
of them. Shooting his ray here and there throughout the structure, he
finally found what he was looking for: the communicator room. That room
was fairly well lighted, and at what he saw there his jaw dropped in
sheerest amazement.

He had expected to see men, since Aldebaran II, the only inhabited
planet in the system, had been colonized from Tellus and its people
were as truly human and Caucasian as those of Chicago or of Paris. But
these--these _things_----He had been around quite a bit, but he had
never seen nor heard of their like. They were wheels, really. When they
went anywhere they rolled. Heads where hubs ought to be--eyes--arms,
dozens of them, and very capable-looking hands----

"Vogenar!" a crisp thought flashed from one of the peculiar entities
to another, impinging also upon Kinnison's Lens. "Some one--some
outsider--is looking at me. Relieve me while I abate this intolerable
nuisance."

"One of those creatures from Tellus? We will teach them very shortly
that such intrusion is not to be borne for an instant."

"No, it is not one of them. The touch is similar, but the tone is
entirely different. Nor could it be one of them, for not one of them
is equipped with the instrument which is such a clumsy substitute for
the sense of perception with which all really intelligent races are
endowed in their minds. There, I will now begin to----"

Kinnison snapped on his thought-screen, but the damage had already been
done.

In the violated communications room the angry observer went on:
"--attune myself and trace the origin of that prying look. It has
disappeared now, but its sender cannot be distant, since our walls
are shielded and screened. Ah, there is a blank space which I cannot
penetrate, in the seventh room of the fourth corridor. In all
probability it is one of our guests, hiding now behind a thought
screen." Then his orders boomed out to a corps of guards. "Take him and
put him with the others!"

Kinnison had not heard the order, but he was ready for anything, and
those who came to take him found that it was easier far to issue such
orders than to carry them out.

"Halt!" snapped the Lensman, his Lens carrying the crackling command
deep into the wheelmen's minds. "I do not wish to harm you, but come no
closer!"

"You? Harm us?" came a cold, clear thought, and the creatures vanished.
But not for long. They, or others like them, were back in moments, this
time armed and armored for strife.

Again Kinnison found that rays were useless. The armor of the
foe-mounted generators as capable as his own; and, although the air in
the room soon became one intolerably glaring field of force, in which
the very walls themselves began to crumble and to vaporize, neither he
nor his attackers were harmed. Again, then, the Lensman had recourse
to his medieval weapon, sheathing his DeLameter and wading in with his
ax. Although not a VanBuskirk, he was, for an Earthman, of unusual
strength, skill, and speed; and to those opposing him he was a very
Hercules.

       *       *       *       *       *

Therefore, as he struck and struck and struck again, the cell became
a gorily reeking slaughter pen, its every corner high-piled with the
shattered corpses of the wheelmen and its floor running with blood and
slime. The last few of the attackers, unwilling to face longer that
irresistible steel, wheeled away, and Kinnison thought flashingly of
what he should do next.

This trip was a bust so far. He couldn't do himself a bit of good here
now, and he'd better buzz off while he was still in one piece. How? The
door? No. Couldn't make it. He'd run out of time quick that way. Better
take out the wall. That would give those Wheelmen something else to
think about, too, while he was doing his flit.

Only a fraction of a second was taken up by these thoughts; then
Kinnison was at the wall. He set his DeLameter to minimum aperture and
at maximum blast, to throw a cutting pencil against which no material
substance could stand. Through the wall that pencil pierced--up, over,
and around.

But, fast as the Lensman had acted, he was still too late. There came
trundling into the room behind him, upon four low wheels, a truck,
bearing a squat and monstrous mechanism. Kinnison whirled to face it.
As he turned the section of the wall upon which he had been at work
blew outward with a deafening crash. The ensuing rush of escaping
atmosphere picked the Lensman up as though he had been a straw and
hurled him out through the opening and into the shaft. In the meantime
the mechanism upon the truck had begun a staccato, grinding roar, and
as it roared Kinnison felt slugs ripping through his armor and tearing
through his flesh, each as crushing, crunching, paralyzing a blow as
though it had been inflicted by VanBuskirk's space ax.

[Illustration: _The rush of escaping atmosphere picked the Lensman
up as though he had been a straw--hurled him out----_]

This was the first time that Kinnison had ever been really badly
wounded, and it made him sick. But, sick and numb, senses reeling at
the shock to his slug-torn body, his right hand flashed to the external
controller of his neutralizer. For he was falling inert. It was only
ten or fifteen meters to the bottom, as he remembered it. He had mighty
little time to waste if he were not to land inert. He snapped the
controller. Nothing happened. Something had been shot away. His driver,
too, was dead. Snapping the sleeve of his armor into its clamps he
began to withdraw his arm in order to operate the internal controls,
but he ran out of time. He crashed, on the top of a subsiding pile of
masonry which had preceded him, but which had not yet attained a state
of equilibrium, underneath a shower of similar material which rebounded
from his armor in a boiler-shop clangor of noise.

Well it was that that heap of masonry had not yet had time to settle
into form, for in some slight measure it acted as a cushion to break
the Lensman's fall. But an inert fall of forty feet, even cushioned
by rocks, is in no sense a light one. Kinnison crashed. It seemed as
though a thousand pile drivers struck him at once. Surges of almost
unbearable agony swept over him, as bones snapped and bruised flesh
gave way. He knew dimly that a merciful tide of oblivion was reaching
up to engulf his shrieking, suffering mind.

But, foggily at first in the stunned confusion of his entire being,
something stirred, that unknown and unknowable something, that
indefinable ultimate quality that had made him worthy of the Lens he
wore. He lived, and while a Lensman lived he did not quit. To quit was
to die then and there, since he was losing air fast. He had plastic
in his kit, of course, and the holes were small. He _must_ plug those
leaks, and plug them quick.

His left arm, he found, he could not move at all. It must be smashed
pretty badly. Every shallow breath was a searing pain. That meant a
rib or two gone out. Luckily, however, he was not breathing blood;
therefore, his lungs must still be intact. He could move his right arm,
although it seemed like a lump of clay or a limb belonging to some one
else.

But, mustering all his power of will, he made it move. He dragged it
out of the armor's clamped sleeve, forced the leaden hand to slide
through the welter of blood that seemed almost to fill the bulge of
his armor. He found his kit box, and, after an eternity of pain-racked
time, he compelled his sluggish hand to open it and to take out the
plastic.

       *       *       *       *       *

Then, in a continuously crescendo throbbing of agony, he forced his
maimed, crushed, and broken body to writhe and to wriggle about, so
that his one sound hand could find and stop the holes through which his
precious air was whistling out and away. Find them he did, and quickly,
and sealed them tight; but when he had plugged the last one he slumped
down, spent and exhausted. He did not hurt so much, now; his suffering
had mounted to such terrific heights of intolerable keenness that the
nerves themselves, in outraged protest at carrying such a load, had
blocked it off.

There was much more to do, but he simply could not do it without a
rest. Even his iron will could not drive his tortured muscles to any
further effort until after they had been allowed to recuperate a little
from what they had gone through.

How much air did he have left, if any, he wondered, foggily and with
an entirely detached and disinterested impersonalness. Maybe his tanks
were empty. Of course, it couldn't have taken him as long to plug those
leaks as it had seemed to, or he wouldn't have had any air left at all,
in tanks or suit. He couldn't, however, have much left. He would look
at his gauges and see.

But now he found that he could not move even his eyeballs, so deep
was the coma that was enveloping him. Away off somewhere there was
a billowing expanse of blackness, utterly heavenly in its deep,
softly-cushioned comfort; and from that sea of peace and surcease there
came reaching to embrace him huge, soft, tender arms. Why suffer,
something crooned at him. It was _so_ much easier to let go!




                                 XVII.


Kinnison did not lose consciousness--quite. There was too much to do,
too much that _had_ to be done. He had to get out of here. He had to
get back to his speedster. He had, by hook or by crook, to get back
to Prime Base! Therefore, grimly, doggedly, teeth tight-locked in the
enhancing agony of every movement, he drew again upon those hidden,
those deeply buried resources which even he had no idea he possessed.
His code was simple: the code of the Lens. While a Lensman lived he did
not quit. Kinnison was a Lensman. Kinnison lived. Kinnison did not
quit.

He fought back that engulfing tide of blackness, wave by wave as it
came. He beat down by sheer force of will those tenderly beckoning,
those sweetly seducing arms of oblivion. He forced the mass of
protesting putty that was his body to do what _had_ to be done. He
thrust styptic gauze into the most copiously bleeding of his wounds. He
was burned, too, he discovered then--they must have had a high-powered
needle ray on that truck, as well as the rifle--but he could do nothing
about burns. There simply wasn't time.

He found the power lead that had been severed by a bullet. Stripping
the insulation was an almost impossible job, but it was finally
accomplished, after a fashion. Bridging the gap proved to be even a
worse one. Since there was no slack, the ends could not be twisted
together, but had to be joined by a short piece of spare wire, which,
in turn, had to be stripped and then twisted with each end of the
severed lead. That task, too, he finally finished, although he was
working purely by feel and half conscious withal in a wracking haze of
pain.

Soldering those joints was, of course, out of the question. He was
afraid even to try to insulate them with tape, lest the loosely
twined strands should fall apart in the attempt. He did have some
dry handkerchiefs, however, if he could reach them. He could, and
did, and wrapped one carefully about the wires' bare joints. Then,
apprehensively, he tried his neutralizer. Wonder of wonders, it worked!
So did his driver!

In moments then he was rocketing up the shaft, and as he passed the
opening out of which he had been blown, he realized with amazement
that what had seemed to him like hours must have been minutes only,
and few even of them. For the frantic Wheelmen were just then lifting
into place the temporary shield which was to stem the mighty outrush of
their atmosphere. Wonderingly, Kinnison looked at his air gauges. He
had enough--if he hurried.

And hurry he did. He _could_ hurry, since there was practically no
atmosphere to impede his flight. Up the five-mile-deep shaft he shot
and out into space. His chronometer, built to withstand even severer
shocks than that of his fall, told him where his speedster was to be
found, and in a matter of minutes he found her. Against her side he
flashed in inertialess collision. He forced his rebellious right arm
into the sleeve of his armor and fumbled at the lock. It yielded. The
port swung open. He was inside his own ship.

Again the encroaching universe of blackness threatened, but again he
fought it off. He _could not_ pass out--yet! Dragging himself to the
board, he laid his course upon distant Tellus, too distant by far to
permit of the selection of such a tiny objective as Prime Base. He
connected the automatic controls.

He was weakening fast, and knew it. But from somewhere and in some
fashion he _must_ get strength to do what _must_ be done--and somehow
he did it. He shoved his levers out to maximum blast. Hang on, Kim!
Hang on for just a second more! He disconnected the spacer. He killed
the detector nullifiers. Then, with the utterly last remnant of his
strength he thought into his Lens.

"Haynes." The thought went out blurred, distorted, weak. "Kinnison. I'm
coming--com----"

He was done--out cold, utterly spent. He had already done too
much--far, far too much. He had driven that pitifully mangled body of
his to its ultimately last possible movement; his wracked and tortured
mind to its ultimately last possible thought. The last iota of even his
tremendous reserve of vitality was consumed and he plunged, parsecs
deep, into the black depths of oblivion which had so long and so
unsuccessfully been trying to engulf him.

       *       *       *       *       *

But Kimball Kinnison, gray Lensman, had done everything that had _had_
to be done before he blacked out. His final thought, feeble though it
was, and incomplete, did its work.

Port Admiral Haynes was seated at his desk, discussing matters of
import with an officeful of executives, when that thought arrived.
Hardened old space hound that he was, and survivor of many encounters
and hospitalizations, he knew instantly what that thought connoted and
from the depths of what dire need it had been sent.

Therefore, to the amazement of the officers in the room, he suddenly
leaped to his feet, seized his microphone and snapped out orders.
Orders, and still more orders. Every vessel in seven sectors, of
whatever class or tonnage, was to shove its detectors out to the limit.
Kinnison's speedster is out there somewhere. Find her--get her--kill
her drive and drag her in here, to No. 10 landing field. Get a pilot
here, fast--no, two pilots, in armor. Get them off the top of the
board, too--Watson and Schermerhorn if they're anywhere within range.
He then called Base Hospital.

"Lacy!" he barked at the dignified chief surgeon. "I've got a boy out
that's badly hurt. He's coming in free. You know what that means. Send
over a good doctor. And have you got a nurse who knows how to use a
personal neutralizer and who isn't afraid to go into the net?"

"Coming myself. Yes." The doctor's voice was as crisp as the admiral's.
"When do you want us?"

"As soon as they get their tractors on that speedster. You'll know when
that happens."

Then, neglecting all other business, the port admiral directed in
person the far-flung screen of ships searching for Kinnison's flying
midget.

Eventually she was found; and Haynes, cutting off his plates, leaped
to a closet in which was hanging his own armor. Unused for years,
nevertheless it was kept in readiness for instant service; and now, at
long last, the old space flea had a good excuse to use it again.

Armored, he strode out into the landing field across the paved way.
There awaiting him were two armored figures, the two top-ranking
pilots. There were the doctor and the nurse. He barely saw--or,
rather, he saw without noticing--a saucy white cap atop a riot of
red-bronze-auburn curls, a symmetrical young body in its spotless
white. He did not notice the face at all. What he saw was that there
was a neutralizer strapped snugly into the curve of her back, that it
was fitted properly, and that it was not yet functioning.

       *       *       *       *       *

For this that faced them was no ordinary job. The speedster would land
free. Worse, the admiral feared--and rightly--that Kinnison would also
be free, but independently, with a latent velocity different from that
of his ship. They must enter the speedster, take her out into space and
inert her. Kinnison must be taken out of the speedster, inerted, his
velocity matched to that of the flier, and brought back aboard. Then
and only then could doctor and nurse begin to work on him. Then they
would have to land as fast as a landing could be made. The boy should
have been in the hospital long ago.

And during all these evolutions and until their return to ground
the rescuers themselves would remain inertialess. Ordinarily such
visitors left the ship, inerted themselves, and came back to it inert,
under their own power. But now there was no time for that. They had
to get Kinnison to the hospital; and besides, the doctor and the
nurse--particularly the nurse--could not be expected to be space-suit
navigators. They would all take it in the net, and that was another
reason for haste. For while they were gone their latent velocity
would remain unchanged, while the actual velocity of their present
surroundings would be changing constantly. The longer they were gone
the greater would become the discrepancy. Hence the net.

The net--a leather-and-canvas sack, lined with softly padded
inner-spring mattresses, anchored to ceiling and to walls and to floor
through every shock-absorbing artifice of steel spring and of rubber
cable that the mind of man had been able to devise. It takes something
to absorb and to dissipate the kinetic energy which may reside within a
human body when its latent velocity does not match exactly the actual
velocity of its surroundings--that is, if that body is not to be mashed
to a pulp. It takes something, also, to enable any human being to face
without flinching the prospect of going into that net, especially in
ignorance of exactly how much kinetic energy will have to be dissipated.

Haynes cogitated, studying the erect, supple young back, then spoke,
"Maybe we'd better cancel the nurse, Lacy, or get her a suit----"

"Time is too important," the girl herself put in, crisply. "Don't worry
about me, admiral; I've been in the net before."

She turned toward Haynes as she spoke, and for the first time he really
saw her face. Why, she was a raving beauty--a knock-out--a seven-sector
call-out----

"Here she is!" In the grip of a tractor the speedster had flashed to
ground in front of the waiting five, and they hurried aboard.

They hurried, but there was no flurry, no confusion. Each knew exactly
what to do, and each did it.

Out into space shot the little vessel, jerking savagely downward and
sidewise as one of the pilots cut the Bergenholm. Out of the air
lock flew the port admiral and the helpless, unconscious Kinnison,
inertialess both and now chained together. Off they darted, in a
new direction and with tremendous speed, as Haynes cut Kinnison's
neutralizer. There was a mighty double flare as the drivers of both
space suits struggled against that which had been the young Lensman's
latent velocity.

As soon as it was safe to do so, out darted an armored figure with a
space line, whose grappling end clinked into a socket of the old man's
armor as the pilot rammed it home. Then, as an angler plays a fish, two
husky pilots, feet wide-braced against the steel portal of the air lock
and bodies sweating with effort, heaving when they could and giving
line only when they must, helped the laboring drivers to overcome the
difference in velocity.

[Illustration: _Then two husky pilots played the armored figures
on the steel cables as an angler plays a fish, aiding the struggling
drivers to overcome the velocity._]

       *       *       *       *       *

Soon the Lensmen, young and old, were inside. Doctor and nurse went
instantly to work, with the calmness and precision so characteristic of
their highly skilled crafts. In a trice they had him out of his armor,
out of his leather, and into a hammock, perceiving at once that except
for a few pads of gauze they could do nothing for their patient until
they had him upon an operating table. Meanwhile the pilots, having
swung the hammocks, had been observing, computing, and conferring.

"She's got a lot of speed, admiral--most of it straight down," Watson
reported. "On her landing jets it'll take two G's on a full revolution
to bring her in. With both of us at the controls we can balance her
down, but it'll have to be on her tail and it'll mean over five G's all
the way. Which do you want?"

"Which is more important, Lacy, time or pressure?" Haynes transferred
decision to the surgeon.

"Time." Lacy decided instantly. "Fight her down!" His patient had been
through so much already of force and pressure that a little more would
not do additional hurt, and time was most decidedly of the essence.

Starkly incandescent flares ripped and raved from driving jets and
side jets. The speedster spun around viciously, only to be curbed,
skillfully if savagely, at the precisely right instant. Without
an orbit, without even a corkscrew or other spiral, she was going
down--straight down. And not upon her under jets was this descent
to be, nor upon her more powerful braking jets. Those two master
pilots, Prime Base's best, were going to kill the awful inertia of the
speedster by "balancing her down on her tail." Or, to translate from
the jargon of space, they were going to hold the tricky, cranky little
vessel upright upon the terrific blasts of her driving projectors,
against the Earth's gravitation and against all other perturbing
forces, while her driving force counteracted, overcame, and dissipated
the full frightful measure of the kinetic energy of her mass and speed!

And balance her down they did. Haynes was afraid for a while that that
intrepid pair were actually going to _land_ the speedster on her tail.
They didn't--quite--but they had only a scant hundred feet to spare
when they nosed her over and eased her to ground on her under jets.

The crash-wagon and its crew were waiting, and as Kinnison was rushed
to the hospital the others hurried to the net room. Doctor Lacy first,
of course, then the nurse; and, to Haynes' approving surprise, she
took it like a veteran. Hardly had the surgeon let himself out of the
"cocoon" than she was in it; and hardly had the terrific surges and
recoils of her own not inconsiderable one hundred and forty-five pounds
of mass abated than she herself was out and sprinting across the sward
toward the hospital.

       *       *       *       *       *

Haynes went back to his office and tried to work, but he could not
concentrate. He made his way back to the hospital. There he waited, and
as Lacy came out of the operating room he buttonholed him.

"How about it, Lacy, will he live?" he demanded.

"Live? Of course he'll live," the surgeon replied, gruffly. "Can't tell
you details yet--won't know, ourselves, for a couple of hours yet. Buzz
off, Haynes. Come back at six o'clock--not a second before--and I'll
tell you all about it."

Since there was no help for it the port admiral did "buzz off," but he
was back promptly on the tick of the designated hour.

"How is he?" he began, without preamble. "Will he really live, or were
you just giving me a shot in the arm?"

"Better than that, much better," the surgeon assured him. "Definitely
so; yes. He is in much better shape than we dared hope. Must have
been a very light crash indeed--nothing seriously the matter with him
at all. We won't even have to amputate, from what we can see now.
He should make a one-hundred-per-cent recovery, not only without
artificial members, but with scarcely a scar. He couldn't have been in
a space crack-up at all, or he would not have come out with so little
injury."

"Fine, doc--wonderful! Now the details."

"Here's the picture." And the doctor unrolled a full-length X-ray
print, showing every anatomical detail of the Lensman's interior
structure. "First, just notice that skeleton. It is really remarkable.
Slightly out of true here and there right now, of course, but I believe
that it is going to turn out to be the second absolutely perfect male
skeleton I have ever seen. That young man will go far, Haynes."

"Sure he will. Why else do you suppose we put him in gray? But I didn't
come over here to be told that. Show me the damage."

"Look at the picture--see for yourself. Multiple and compound
fractures, you notice, of legs and arm, and a few ribs. Scapula, of
course--there. Oh, yes, there's a skull fracture, too, but it doesn't
amount to much. That's all. The spine, you see, isn't injured at all."

"What d'you mean, 'that's all'? How about his wounds? I saw some of
them myself, and they were not pin pricks."

"Nothing of the least importance. A few punctured wounds and a couple
of incised ones, but nothing even close to a vital part. He won't need
even a transfusion, since he stopped the major hemorrhages himself,
shortly after he was wounded. There are a few burns, of course, but
they are mostly superficial--none that will not yield quite readily to
treatment."

"Mighty glad of that. He'll be here six weeks then?"

"Better call it twelve, I think--ten at least. You see, some of the
fractures, especially those in the left leg, and a couple of the burns,
are rather severe, as such things go. Then, too, the length of time
elapsing between injury and treatment didn't do anything a bit of good."

"In two weeks he'll be wanting to get up and go places and do things;
and in six he'll be tearing down your hospital, stone by stone."

"Yes." The surgeon smiled. "He is not the type to make an ideal
patient; but, as I have told you before, I like to have patients that
we do not like."

       *       *       *       *       *

"And another thing. I want the files on his nurses, particularly the
red-headed one."

"I suspected that you would, so I had them sent down. Here you are.
Glad you noticed MacDougall--she's by way of being my favorite.
Clarrissa MacDougall--Scotch, of course, with that name--twenty years
old. Height, one hundred sixty-eight centimeters; weight, sixty-six
kilos. Here are her pictures. Never mind the conventional photo; this
X-ray is the one that counts. Man, look at that skeleton! Beautiful!
The only really perfect skeleton I ever saw in a woman----"

"It isn't the skeleton I'm interested in," grunted Haynes. "It's what
is outside the skeleton that my Lensman will be looking at."

"You needn't worry about MacDougall," declared the surgeon. "One good
look at that picture will tell you that. She classifies. With that
skeleton she _has_ to. She couldn't leave the beam a millimeter, even
if she wanted to. Good, bad, or indifferent; male or female; physical,
mental, moral, and psychological; the skeleton tells the whole story."

"Maybe it does to you, but not to me." And Haynes took up the
"conventional" photograph--a stereoscope in full and absolutely true
color, an almost living duplicate of the girl in question. Her thick,
heavy hair was not red, but was a vividly intense and indescribable
auburn, a gorgeous mass of coppery bronze, flashed with red and gold.
Her eyes--bronze was all that he could think of, with flecks of topaz
and of tawny gold. Her skin, too, was faintly bronze, glowing with even
more than healthy youth's normal measure of sparkling vitality. Not
only was she beautiful, the port admiral decided; in the words of the
surgeon, she "classified."

"Hm-m-m. Worse even than I thought," he muttered. "She's a
menace to civilization." And he went on to read the documents.
"Family--hm-m-m. History.... Experiences.... Reactions and
characteristics ... behavior ... psychology ... mentality----"

"She'll do, Lacy," he advised the surgeon finally. "Keep her on with
him."

"But see here, Haynes, you suspicious old granny!" snorted the doctor.
"He won't be falling for anybody yet. Why, he's just been unattached.
He'll be bulletproof for quite a while. You ought to know that young
Lensmen--especially young gray Lensmen--can't see anything but their
jobs, for a couple of years, anyway."

"His skeleton tells you that, too, huh?" Haynes grunted, skeptically.
"Ordinarily, yes! but you never can tell, especially in hospitals."

"More of your layman's misinformation!" Lacy snapped. "Contrary to
popular belief, romance does not thrive in hospitals; except, of
course, among the staff. Patients oftentimes think that they fall in
love with nurses, but it takes two people to make one romance. Nurses
do not fall in love with patients, because a man is never at his best
under hospitalization. In fact, the better a man is, the poorer a
showing he is apt to make."

"And, as I forget who said, a long time ago, 'no generalization is ever
true, not even this one,'" retorted the port admiral. "When it does
hit him it will hit hard, and we'll take no chances. How about the
black-haired one?"

"Well, I just told you that MacDougall has the only perfect skeleton I
ever saw in a woman. Brownlee is very good, too, of course, but----"

"But not good enough to rate Lensman's mate, eh?" Haynes completed the
thought. "Then take her out. Pick the best skeletons you've got for
this job, and see that no others come anywhere near him. Transfer them
to some other hospital--to some other floor of this one, at least. Any
woman that he ever falls for will fall for him, in spite of your ideas
as to the one-wayness of hospital romance; and I don't want him to have
such a good chance of making a dive at something that doesn't rate up.
Am I right or wrong, you old sawbones, and for how much?"

"Well, I haven't had time yet to really study his skeleton, but----"

"Better take a week off and study it. I've studied a lot of people in
the last sixty-five years, and I'll match my experience against your
knowledge of bones, any time. Not saying that he _will_ fall this trip,
you understand--just playing safe. Good-by, Lacy!"




                                XVIII.


Kinnison was dragged out of unconsciousness by the knowledge that he
had landed his speedster inertialess. He came to--or, rather, to say
that he came half to would be a more accurate statement--with a yell
directed at the blurrily seen figure in white which he knew must be a
nurse.

"Nurse!" Then, as a searing stab of pain shot through him at the
effort, he went on, thinking at the figure in white through his Lens:
"My speedster! I landed her free! Get the space port----"

"There, there, Lensman," a low, rich voice crooned, and a red head bent
over him. "The speedster has been taken care of. Everything is on the
needles; go to sleep and rest."

"But my ship----"

"Never mind your ship," the unctuous voice went on. "It was landed and
put away----"

"Listen, dumb-bell!" snapped the patient, speaking aloud now, in spite
of the pain, the better to drive home his meaning. "Don't try to soothe
me! What do you think I am, delirious? Get this and get it straight. I
said that I landed that speedster _free_. If you don't know what that
means, tell somebody that does. Get the space port--get Haynes--get----"

"We got them, Lensman, long ago." Although her voice was still
creamily, sweetly soft, an angry color burned into the nurse's face. "I
said everything is on zero. Your speedster was inerted; how else could
you be here, inert? I helped do it myself, so I _know_ that she is
inert."

"QX." The patient relapsed instantly into unconsciousness and the nurse
turned to an interne standing by. (Wherever _that_ nurse was, at least
one doctor could almost always be found.)

"Dumb-bell!" she flared. "What a sweet mess _he's_ going to be to
take care of! He's not even conscious yet, and he's calling names and
picking fights already!"

In a few days Kinnison was fully and alertly conscious. In a week
most of the pain had left him, and he was beginning to chafe under
restraint. In ten days he was "fit to be tied," and his acquaintance
with his head nurse, so inauspiciously begun, developed even more
inauspiciously as time went on. For, as Haynes and Lacy had each more
than anticipated, the Lensman was by no means an ideal patient. In
fact, he was most decidedly the opposite.

Nothing that could be done would satisfy him. All doctors were
fatheads, even Lacy, the man who had put him together. All nurses were
dumb-bells, even--or specially?--Mac, who with almost superhuman skill,
tact and patience had been holding him together. Why, even fatheads and
dumb-bells, even high-grade morons, ought to know that a man needed
food!

Accustomed to eating everything that he could reach, three or four or
five times a day, he did not realize--nor did his stomach--that his now
quiescent body could no longer use the five thousand or more calories
that it had been wont to burn up, each twenty-four hours, in intense
effort. He was always hungry, and he was forever demanding food.

And food, to him, did not mean orange juice or grape juice or tomato
juice or milk. Nor did it mean weak tea and hard, dry toast and an
occasional soft-boiled egg. If he ate eggs at all he wanted them
fried--three or four of them, accompanied by two or three thick slices
of ham.

He wanted--and demanded in no uncertain terms, argumentatively and
persistently--a big, thick, rare beefsteak. He wanted baked beans, with
plenty of fat pork. He wanted bread in thick slices, piled high with
butter, and not this quadruply-and-unmentionably-qualified toast. He
wanted roast beef, rare, in great chunks. He wanted potatoes and thick
brown gravy. He wanted corned beef and cabbage. He wanted pie--any kind
of pie--in large, thick quarters. He wanted peas and corn and asparagus
and cucumbers, and also various other worldly staples of diet which he
often and insistently mentioned by name.

But above all, he wanted beefsteak. He thought about it days and
dreamed about it nights. One night in particular he dreamed about
it--an especially luscious porterhouse, fried in butter and smothered
in mushrooms--only to wake up, mouth watering, literally starved, to
face again the weak tea, dry toast, and, horror of horrors, this time a
flabby, pallid, flaccid _poached_ egg! It was the last straw.

"Take it away," he said, weakly; then, when the nurse did not obey,
he reached out and pushed the breakfast, tray and all, off the table.
As it crashed to the floor, he turned away, and, in spite of all his
efforts, two hot tears forced themselves between his eyelids.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a particularly trying ordeal, and one requiring all of even
Mac's skill, diplomacy, and forbearance, to make the recalcitrant
patient eat the breakfast prescribed for him. She was finally
successful, however, and as she stepped out into the corridor she met
the ubiquitous interne.

"How's your Lensman?" he asked, in the privacy of the diet kitchen.

"Don't call him _my_ Lensman!" she stormed. She was about to explode
with the pent-up feelings which she, of course, could not vent upon
such a pitiful, helpless thing as her star patient. "Beefsteak! I
almost wish they _would_ give him a beefsteak, and that he'd choke
on it--which, of course, he would. He's worse than a baby. I never
saw such a--such a _brat_ in my life. I'd like to spank him! He needs
it. I'd like to know how _he_ ever got to be a Lensman, the big,
cantankerous clunker! I'm _going_ to spank him, too, one of these days;
see if I don't!"

"Don't take it so hard, Mac," the interne urged. He was, however, very
much relieved that relations between the handsome young Lensman and the
gorgeous redhead were not upon a more cordial basis. "He won't be here
very long. But I never saw a patient clog _your_ jets before."

"You probably never saw a patient like _him_ before, either. I
certainly hope he never gets cracked up again."

"Huh?"

"Do I have to draw you a chart?" she asked, sweetly. "Or, if he does
get cracked up again, I hope they send him to some other hospital." And
she flounced out.

Nurse MacDougall thought that when the Lensman could eat the meat he
craved, her troubles would be over; but she was mistaken, Kinnison was
nervous, moody, brooding, by turns irritable, sullen, and pugnacious.
Nor is it to be wondered at. He was chained to that bed, and in his
mind was the gnawing consciousness that he had failed. And not only
failed--he had made a complete fool of himself. He had underestimated
an enemy, and as a result of his own stupidity the whole patrol had
taken a setback. He was anguished and tormented.

Therefore: "Listen, Mac," he pleaded one day. "Bring me some clothes
and let me take a walk. I need the exercise."

"Not yet, Kim," she denied him gently, but with her entrancing smile
in full evidence. "But pretty quick, when that leg looks a little less
like a Chinese puzzle, you and nursie go bye-bye."

"Beautiful, but dumb!" the Lensman growled. "Can't you and those
cockeyed croakers realize that I'll _never_ get any strength back if
you keep me in bed all the rest of my life? And don't talk baby talk
at me, either. I'm well enough at least so that you can wipe that
professional smile off your pan and cut that soothing bedside manner of
yours."

"Very well--I think so, too!" she snapped, patience at long last gone.
"Somebody should tell you the truth. I always supposed that Lensmen
had to have _brains_, but you've acted like a spoiled brat ever since
you've been here. First you wanted to eat yourself sick, and now you
want to get up, with bones half knit and burns half healed, and undo
everything that has been done for you. Why don't you snap out of it and
act your age for a change?"

"I never did think nurses had much sense, and now I know they haven't."
Kinnison eyed her with intense disfavor, not at all convinced. "I'm not
talking about going back to work. I mean a little gentle exercise, and
I know what I need."

"You'd be surprised at what you don't know." And the nurse walked out,
chin in air. In five minutes, however, she was back, her radiant smile
again flashing.

"Sorry, Kim, I shouldn't have blasted off that way, I know that you're
bound to back-fire and to have brain storms. I would, too, if I
were----"

"Cancel it, Mac," he began, awkwardly. "I don't know why I have to be
such a mutt as to be crabbing at you all the time."

"QX, Lensman," she replied, entirely serene now. "I do. You are not the
type to stay in bed without it griping you; but when a man has been
ground up into such hamburger as you are, he has to stay in bed whether
he likes it or not, and no matter how much he pops off about it. Roll
over here, now, and I'll give you an alcohol rub. But it won't be long
now, really--pretty soon we'll have you out in a wheel chair----"

Thus it went for weeks. Kinnison knew his behavior was atrocious,
abominable; but he simply could not help it. Every so often the
accumulated pressure of his bitterness and anxiety _would_ blow off;
and, like a jungle tiger with a toothache, he would bite and claw
anything or anybody within reach.

       *       *       *       *       *

Finally, however, the last picture was studied, the last bandage was
removed, and he was discharged as fit. And he was not discharged,
bitterly although he resented his "captivity," as he called it, until
he really _was_ fit. Haynes saw to that. And Haynes had allowed only
the most sketchy interviews during that long convalescence. Discharged,
however, Kinnison sought him out.

"Let me talk first," Haynes instructed him at sight. "No
self-reproaches, no destructive criticism. Everything constructive.
Now, Kimball, I'm mighty glad to hear that you made a perfect recovery.
You were in bad shape. Go ahead."

"You have just about shut my mouth by your first order." Kinnison
smiled sourly as he spoke. "Two words--flat failure. No, let me add two
more--as yet."

"That's the spirit!" Haynes exclaimed. "Nor do we agree with you that
it was a failure. It was merely not a success--so far--which is an
altogether different thing. Also, I may add that we had very fine
reports indeed on you from the hospital."

"Huh?" Kinnison was amazed to the point of being inarticulate.

"You just about tore it down, of course, but that was only to be
expected."

"But, sir, I made such a----"

"Exactly. As Lacy tells me quite frequently, he likes to have patients
over there that they don't like. Mull that one over for a bit. You may
understand it better as you get older. The thought, however, may take
some of the load off your mind."

"Well, sir, I am feeling a trifle low, but if you and the rest of them
still think----"

"We do so think. Cheer up and get on with the story."

"I've been doing a lot of thinking, and before I go around sticking out
my neck again I'm going to----"

"You don't need to tell me, you know."

"No, sir, but I think I'd better. I'm going to Arisia to see if I can
get me a few treatments for swelled head and lame brain. I still think
that I know how to use the Lens to good advantage, but I simply haven't
got enough jets to do it. You see, I----" He stopped. He would not
offer anything that might sound like an alibi; but his thoughts were
plain as print to the old Lensman.

"Go ahead, son. We know you wouldn't."

"If I thought at all, I assumed that I was tackling men, since those
on the ship were men, and men were the only known inhabitants of the
Aldebaranian system. But when those Wheelmen took me so easily and so
completely, it became very evident that I didn't have enough stuff. I
ran like a scared pup, and I was lucky to get home at all. It wouldn't
have happened if----" He paused.

"If what? Reason it out, son," Haynes advised, pointedly. "You are
wrong, dead wrong. You made no mistake, either in judgment or in
execution. You have been blaming yourself for assuming that they were
men. Let us suppose that you had assumed that they were the Arisians
themselves. Then what? After close scrutiny, even in the light of
after-knowledge, we do not see how you could have changed the outcome."
It did not occur, even to the sagacious old admiral, that Kinnison need
not have gone in. Lensmen always went in.

"Well, anyway, they licked me, and that hurts," Kinnison admitted,
frankly. "So I'm going back to Arisia for more training, if they'll
give it to me. I may be gone quite a while, as it may take even them a
long time to increase the permeability of my skull enough so that an
idea can filter through it in something under a century."

"Um-m-m." Haynes pondered. "It has never been done. They are a peculiar
race, incomprehensible--but not vindictive. They may refuse you,
but nothing worse--that is, if you do not cross the barrier without
invitation. It's a splendid idea, I think; but be very careful to
strike that barrier free and at almost zero power--or else don't strike
it at all."

       *       *       *       *       *

They shook hands, and in a space of minutes the speedster was again
tearing through space. Kinnison now knew exactly what he wanted to
get, and he utilized every waking hour of that long trip in physical
and mental exercise to prepare himself to take it. Thus the time did
not seem long. He crept up to the barrier at a snail's pace, stopping
instantly as he touched it, and through that barrier he sent a thought.

"Is it permitted that I approach your planet?" he asked, neither
brazenly nor obsequiously. He was matter-of-factly asking a simple
question and expecting a simple reply. He knew that to these beings,
whatever they really were, salutations and identifications were alike
superfluous. Nor was he met as Helmuth had been met.

"Ah, 'tis Kimball Kinnison, of Earth," a slow, deep, measured voice
resounded in his brain. "Neutralize your controls. You will be landed."

He did so, and the inert speedster shot forward, to come to ground in a
perfect landing at a regulation space port. He strode into the office,
to confront the same grotesque, dragonlike entity who had measured him
for his Lens not so long ago. Now, however, he stared straight into
that entity's unblinking eyes, in silence.

"Ah, you have progressed. You realize now that vision is not always
reliable. At our previous interview you took it for granted that what
you saw must really exist, and did not wonder as to what our true
shapes might be."

"I am wondering now, seriously," Kinnison replied. "And if it is
permitted, I intend to stay here until I can see your true shapes."

"This?" And the figure changed instantly into that of an old,
white-bearded, scholarly gentleman.

"No. There is a vast difference between seeing something myself and
having you show it to me. I realize only too well that you can make me
see you as anything you choose. You could appear to me as a perfect
copy of myself, or as any other thing, person or object conceivable to
my mind."

"Ah, you have indeed progressed. While you were expected to return,
you are ahead of time by several of your years. When you approached
the barrier it was supposed that you came to ask for some particular
information, but now that I search your mind I perceive that what you
seek is not mere information, but is indeed knowledge."

"You say that you expected me. How could you know that I was coming? I
didn't decide definitely myself until only a couple of weeks ago."

"It was inevitable. When we fitted your Lens we knew that you would
return if you lived. As we recently informed that one known as
Helmuth----"

"_Helmuth!_ You know, then, where----" Kinnison choked himself off. He
would not ask for help in that. He would fight his own battles and bury
his own dead. If they volunteered the information, well and good; but
he would not ask it. Nor did the Arisian furnish it.

"You are right," the sage remarked, imperturbably. "For strong
development it is essential that you secure that information for
yourself."

Then he continued his previous thought: "As we told Helmuth recently,
we have given your civilization an instrumentality--the Lens--by virtue
of which it should be able to make itself secure throughout the galaxy.
Having given it, we could do nothing more of real or permanent benefit
until you Lensmen yourselves began to realize what it was that we had
given you. That realization has been inevitable; from the first it
has been certain that in time your minds would become strong enough
to discover the theretofore unknown depths of power of your Lenses.
As soon as any mind made that discovery it would, of course, return
to Arisia, the source of the Lens, for additional instruction; which,
equally of course, that mind could not have borne previously.

"Decade by decade your minds have become stronger. Finally you came to
be fitted with a Lens. Your mind, while pitifully undeveloped, had a
latent capacity and a power that made your return here certain. Since
your enlensment there has been one other who will return. Indeed, it
has become a topic of discussion among us as to whether you or that
other would be the first advanced student."

"Who is that other, if I may ask?"

"Your friend, Worsel, the Velantian."

"He's got a real mind--'way, 'way ahead of mine," the Lensman stated,
as a matter of self-evident fact.

"In some ways, yes. In other and highly important characteristics, no."

"Huh?" Kinnison exclaimed. "In what possible way have I got it over
him?"

"I am not certain that I can explain it exactly in thoughts which you
can understand. Broadly speaking, his mind is the better trained, the
more fully developed. It is of more grasp and reach, and of vastly
greater present power. It is more controllable, more responsive, more
adaptable than is yours--now. But your mind, while undeveloped, is of
considerably greater capacity than his, and of greater and more varied
latent capabilities. Above all, you have a driving force, a will to do,
an undefeatable mental urge that no one of his race will be able to
develop for many cycles of time to come. Since I selected you as the
first to return, I am naturally gratified that you have developed so
rapidly."

"Well, I have been more or less under pressure, and I got quite a few
lucky breaks. But at that, it seemed to me that I was progressing
backward instead of forward."

"It is ever thus with the really competent. Prepare yourself!"

He launched a mental bolt, at the impact of which Kinnison's mind
literally turned inside out in a wildly gyrating spiral vortex of
dizzyingly confused images.

"Resist!" came the harsh command.

"Resist! How?" demanded the writhing, sweating Lensman. "You might as
well tell a fly to resist an inert space ship!"

"Use your will--your force--your adaptability. Shift your mind to
meet mine at every point. Apart from these fundamentals neither I nor
any one else can tell you how; each mind must find its own medium and
develop its own technique. But this is a very mild treatment indeed,
one conditioned to your present strength. I will increase it gradually
in severity, but rest assured that I will at no time raise it to the
point of permanent damage. Constructive exercises will come later; the
first step must be to build up your resistance. Therefore, resist!"

The force, which had not slackened for an instant, waxed slowly to the
very verge of intolerability; and grimly, doggedly, the Lensman fought
it. Teeth locked, muscles straining, fingers digging savagely into the
hard leather upholstery of his chair he fought it; mustering his every
ultimate resource to the task----

Suddenly, the torture ceased and the Lensman slumped down, a mental and
physical wreck. He was white, trembling, sweating, shaken to the very
core of his being. He was ashamed of his weakness. He was humiliated
and bitterly disappointed at the showing he had made; but from the
Arisian there came a calm, encouraging thought.

"You need not feel ashamed; you should instead feel proud, for you have
made a start which is really surprising, even to me, your sponsor. This
may seem to you like needless punishment, but it is not. This is the
only possible way in which that which you seek may be found."

"In that case, go to it," the Lensman declared. "I can take it."

       *       *       *       *       *

Day after day and week after week the "advanced instruction" went on,
with the pupil becoming ever stronger, until he was taking without
damage thrusts that would have slain him instantly a few weeks since.
The bouts became shorter and shorter, requiring as they did such
terrific outpourings of mental force that not even the master could
stand the awful strain for more than half an hour at a time.

And now these savage conflicts of wills and minds were interspersed
with real instruction, with lessons neither painful nor unpleasant.
In these the aged scientist probed gently into the youngster's mind,
opening it and exposing to its owner's gaze vast caverns whose very
presence he had never even suspected. Some of these storehouses were
already partially or completely filled, needing only arrangement and
connection. Others were nearly empty. These were catalogued and made
accessible. And in all, permeating everything, was the Lens.

"Just like clearing out a clogged-up water system; with the Lens the
pump that wouldn't work!" exclaimed Kinnison one day.

"More like that than you at present realize," assented the Arisian.
"You have observed, of course, that I have not given you any detailed
instructions nor pointed out any specific abilities of the Lens which
you have not known how to use. You will have to operate the pump
yourself; and you have many surprises awaiting you as to what your Lens
will pump, and how. Our sole task is to prepare your mind to work with
the Lens, and that task is not yet done. Let us on with it."

Eventually the time came when Kinnison could block out entirely the
suggestions of his mentor, but he did not reveal that fact; nor,
now blocked out, could the Arisian discern it. The Lensman gathered
all his force together, concentrated it, and hurled it back at his
teacher; and there ensued a struggle none the less Titanic because of
its essential friendliness. The very ether seethed and boiled with the
fury of the mental forces there at grips, but finally the Lensman beat
down the other's screens. Then, boring deep into his eyes, he willed
with all his force to see that Arisian as he really was. And instantly
the scholarly old man subsided into a--a _brain_! There were a few
appendages, of course, and other appurtenances and incidentials to
nourishment, locomotion, and the like, but to all intents and purposes
the Arisian was simply and solely a brain.

[Illustration: _He willed with all his force to see him as he really
was. And instantly--the scholarly old man subsided into a brain._]

Tension ended; conflict ceased; and Kinnison apologized.

"Think nothing of it." And the brain actually smiled into Kinnison's
mind. "Any mind of power sufficient to block mine is, of course, able
to hurl no feeble bolts of its own. See to it, however, that you thrust
no such force at any lesser mind, or it dies instantly."

Kinnison started to stammer a reply, but the Arisian went on: "No,
son, I knew and know that the warning is superfluous. If you were not
worthy of this power and were you not able to control it properly you
would not have it. You have obtained that which you sought. Go, then,
with power."

"But this is only one phase, barely a beginning!" protested Kinnison.

"Ah, you realize even that? Truly, youth, you have come far and fast.
But you are not yet ready for more, and it is a truism that the
reception of forces for which a mind is not prepared will destroy that
mind. Thus, when you came to me you knew exactly what you wanted. Do
you know with equal certainty what more you want from us?"

"No."

"Nor will you for years, if ever. Indeed, it may well be that only your
descendants will be ready for that for which you now so dimly grope.
Again I say, young man, go with power."

Kinnison went.




                                 XIX.


It had taken the Lensman a long time to work out in his mind exactly
what it was that he had wanted from the Arisians, and from no
single source had the basic idea come. Part of it had come from his
own knowledge of ordinary hypnosis; part from the ability of the
Overlords of Delgon to control from a distance the minds of others;
part from Worsel, who, working through Kinnison's own mind, had done
such surprising things with a Lens; and a great part indeed from the
Arisians themselves, who had the astounding ability literally and
completely to superimpose their own mentalities upon those of others,
wherever situate. Part by part and bit by bit the Tellurian Lensman had
built up his plan, but he had not had the sheer power of intellect to
make it work. Now he had that, and was ready to go.

Where? His first impulse was to return to Aldebaran I and to
invade again the stronghold of the Wheelmen, who had routed him so
ignominiously in his one encounter with them. Ordinary prudence,
however, counseled against that course.

"You'd better lay off them a while, Kim old boy," he told himself quite
frankly. "They've got a lot of jets and you don't know how to use this
new stuff of yours yet. Better pick out something easier to take!"

Ever since leaving Arisia he had been subconsciously aware of a
difference in his eyesight. He was seeing things much more clearly than
he had ever seen them before, more sharply and in greater detail. Now
this awareness crept into his consciousness and he glanced toward his
tube lights. They were out--except for the tiny lamps and bull's-eyes
of his instrument board the vessel must be in complete darkness. He
remembered then, with a shock, that when he entered the speedster he
had not turned on his lights. He could see, and had not thought of them
at all!

This, then, was the first of the surprises the Arisian had promised
him. He now had the sense of perception of the Rigellians. Or was it
that of the Wheelmen? Or both? Or were they the same sense? Intently
aware now, he focused his attention upon a meter before him. First upon
its dial, noting that the needle was exactly upon the green hair line
of normal operation. Then deeper. Instantly, the face of the instrument
disappeared--moved behind his point of sight, or so it seemed--so that
he could see its coils, pivots, and other interior parts. He could
look into and study the grain and particle size of the dense, hard
condensite of the board itself. His vision was limited, apparently,
only by his will to see!

"Well--ain't--that--something!" he demanded of the universe at large;
then, as a thought struck him: "I wonder if they blinded me in the
process?"

He switched on his lamps, discovering that his vision was unimpaired
and normal in every respect; and a rigid investigation proved to him
conclusively that in addition to ordinary vision he now had an extra
sense--or perhaps two of them--and that he could change from one to the
other, or use them simultaneously, at will! But the very fact of this
discovery made Kinnison pause.

He hadn't better go anywhere, or do anything, until he had found out
something about his new equipment. The fact was that he didn't even
know what he had, to say nothing of knowing how to use it. If he
had the sense of a hoot owl he would go somewhere where he could do
a little experimenting without getting his jets burned off in case
something slipped at a critical moment. Where was the nearest patrol
base--a big one, fully defended? Let's see--Radelix would be about the
closest Sector Base, he guessed. He'd find out if he could raid that
outfit without getting caught at it.

Off he shot, and in due course a fair, green, Earthlike planet lay
beneath his vessel's keel. Since it was Earthlike in climate, age,
atmosphere, and mass, its people were, of course, more or less similar
to humanity in general characteristics, both of body and of mind. If
anything, they were even more intelligent than Earthlings, and their
patrol base was a very strong one indeed. His spy ray would be useless,
since all patrol bases were screened thoroughly and continuously.
He would see what a sense of perception would do. From Tregonsee's
explanation, it ought to work at this range.

       *       *       *       *       *

It did. When Kinnison concentrated his attention upon the base he
saw it. He advanced toward it at the speed of thought and entered
it; passing through screens and metal walls without hindrance and
without giving alarm. He saw men at their accustomed tasks and heard,
or rather sensed, their conversation: the everyday chat of their
professions. A thrill shot through him at a dazzling possibility thus
revealed.

If he could make one of those fellows down there do something without
his knowing that he was doing it, the problem was solved. That
computer, say; make him uncover that calculator and set up a certain
integral on it. It would be easy enough to get into touch with him and
have him do it, but this was something altogether different.

Kinnison got into the computer's mind easily enough, and willed
intensely what he was to do; but the officer did not do it. He got up;
then, staring about him in bewilderment, sat down again.

"What's the matter?" asked one of his fellows. "Forget something?"

"Not exactly." The computer still stared. "I was going to set up an
integral. I didn't want it, either. I could swear that somebody _told_
me to set it up."

"Nobody did," grunted the other, "and you'd better start staying home
nights. Then maybe you wouldn't get funny ideas."

This wasn't so good, Kinnison reflected. The guy should have done it
and shouldn't have remembered a thing about it. Well, he hadn't really
thought he could put it across at that distance, anyway. He didn't have
the brain of an Arisian. He'd have to follow his original plan, of
close-up work.

Waiting until the base was well into the night side of the planet
and making sure that his flare baffles were in place, he allowed the
speedster to drop downward, landing at some little distance from the
fortress. There he left the ship and made his way toward his objective
in a rapid series of long, inertialess hops. Lower and shorter became
the hops. Then he cut off his power entirely and walked until he saw
before him, rising from the ground and stretching interminably upward,
an almost invisibly shimmering web of force. This, the prowler knew,
was the curtain which marked the border of the reservation, the trigger
upon which a touch, either of solid object or of beam, would liberate a
veritable inferno of the most destructive agencies generable.

To the eye that base was not impressive, being merely a few square
miles of level ground, outlined with low, broad pill boxes and studded
here and there with harmless-looking, bulging domes. There were a few
clusters of buildings. That was all--to the eye--but Kinnison was not
deceived. He knew that the base itself was a thousand feet underground;
that the pill boxes housed lookouts and detectors; and that those domes
were simply weather shields which, rolled back, would expose projectors
second in power not even to those of Prime Base itself.

Far to the right, between two tall pylons of metal, was the gate, the
only opening in the web. Kinnison had avoided it purposely; it was
no part of his plan to subject himself yet to the scrutiny of the
all-inclusive photo cells of that entrance. Instead, with his new
sense of perception, he sought out the conduits leading to those cells
and traced them down, through concrete and steel and masonry, to the
control room far below.

He then superimposed his mind upon that of the man at the board
and flew boldly toward the entrance. He now actually had a dual
personality; since one part of his mind was in his body, darting
through the air toward the portal, while the other part was deep in the
base below, watching him come and acknowledging his signals!

       *       *       *       *       *

A trap lifted, revealing a sloping, tunneled ramp, down which the
Lensman shot. He soon found a convenient storeroom. Slipping within
it, he withdrew his control carefully from the mind of the observer,
wiping out all traces of that control as he did so. He then watched
apprehensively for a possible reaction. He was almost sure that he
had performed the operation correctly, but he had to be absolutely
certain; more than his life depended upon the outcome of this test. The
observer, however, remained calm and placid at his post; and a close
reading of his thoughts showed that he had not the faintest suspicion
that anything untoward had occurred.

One more test and he was through. He must find out how many minds he
could control simultaneously, but he'd better do that openly. No use
making a man feel like a fool needlessly. He'd done that once already,
and once was too many times.

Therefore, reversing the procedure by which he had come, he went back
to his speedster, took her out into the ether, and slept. Then, when
the light of morning flooded the base, he cut his detector nullifier
and approached it boldly.

"Radelix base! Lensman Kinnison of Tellus asking permission to land. I
wish to confer with your Lensman. My screens are down."

A spy ray swept through the speedster, the web disappeared, and
Kinnison landed, to be greeted by four fellow Lensmen with a quiet and
cordial respect--cordiality for his Lens and respect for his gray. The
base commander knew that his visitor was not there purely for pleasure.
Gray Lensmen did not take pleasure jaunts. Therefore, he led the way
into his private office and shielded it.

"My announcement was not at all informative," Kinnison admitted then,
"but my errand is nothing to be advertised. I've got to try out
something, and I want to ask you four Lensmen to coöperate with me for
a few minutes."

"You need not ask----" began the commander.

"No, this is not an order at all, simply a request. You see, I've been
working a long time on a mind controller, and I want to see if it
works. I'll put four books on this table, one in front of each of you.
Now I would like to try to make two or three of you--all four of you if
I can--each bend over, pick up his book, and hold it. Your part of the
game will be for each of you to try not to pick it up, and to put it
back as soon as you possibly can if I do make you obey. Will you?"

"Sure!" the three of them chorused.

"There will be no mental damage, of course?" asked the commander.

"None whatever, and no after effects. I've had it worked on myself, a
lot."

"Do you want any apparatus?"

"No, I have everything necessary. Remember, I want top resistance."

"Let her come! You'll get plenty of resistance. If you can make any
one of us pick up a book, after all this warning, I'll say you've got
something."

       *       *       *       *       *

Lensman after Lensman, in spite of strainingly resisting mind and body,
lifted his book from the table, only to drop it again as Kinnison's
control relaxed for an instant. He could control two of them--_any_ two
of them--but he could not quite handle three. Satisfied, he ceased his
efforts.

As the base commander poured long, cold drinks for the sweating five,
one of his fellows asked: "What did you do, anyway, Kinnison? Oh,
pardon me, I shouldn't have asked."

"Sorry," the Tellurian replied uncomfortably, "but it isn't ready yet.
You'll all know about it as soon as possible, but not just now."

"Sure," the Radeligian replied. "I knew I shouldn't have blasted off as
soon as I spoke."

"Well, thanks a lot, fellows." Kinnison set his empty glass down with
a click. "I can make a nice progress report on this dojig now. And
one more thing. I did a little long-range experimenting on one of your
computers last night."

"Desk 12? The one who thought he wanted to integrate something?"

"That's the one. Tell him I was using him for a mind-ray subject, will
you, and give him this fifty-credit bill? Don't want the boys needling
him _too_ much."

"Yes, and thanks. And--I wonder----" The base commander evidently had
something on his mind. "Say, can you make a man tell the truth with
that? And if you can, will you?"

"I think so. Certainly I will, if I can. Why?" Kinnison knew that he
could do so, but he did not wish to seem cock-sure.

"There's been a murder." The other three glanced at each other in
understanding and sighed with profound relief. "A particularly fiendish
murder of a woman--girl, rather. Two men have been accused. Each has
a perfect alibi, supported by honest witnesses; but you know how much
an alibi means now. Both men tell perfectly straight stories under the
Lens and all other lie detectors. Either one of those men is lying with
a polish I would never have believed possible, or both are innocent.
And one of them _must_ be guilty; these are the only suspects. If we
try them now we make fools of ourselves; and we can't put off the trial
very much longer without losing face. If you can help us out you'll be
doing a lot for the patrol throughout this whole sector."

"I can help you," Kinnison declared. "For this, though, better have
some props. Make me a box--double Burbank controls, with five baby
spots on it--orange, blue, green, purple and red. I want the biggest
set of head phones you've got, and a thick, black blindfold. How soon
can you try 'em?"

"The sooner the better. It can be arranged for this afternoon."

       *       *       *       *       *

The trial was announced, and long before the appointed hour the great
courtroom of that world's largest city was thronged. The hour struck.
Quiet reigned. Kinnison, the Lensman, in somber gray, strode to the
judge's desk and sat down behind the peculiar box upon it. In dead
silence two other Lensmen approached. The first invested him reverently
with the head phones; the second so enwrapped his head in black cloth
that it was apparent to all observers that his vision was completely
obscured.

"Although from a world far distant in space, I have been asked to try
two suspects for the crime of murder," Kinnison intoned. "I do not know
the details of the crime nor the identity of the suspects. I do know
that they and their witnesses are within these railings. I shall now
select those who are about to be examined."

Piercing beams of intense, varicolored light played over the two
groups, and the deep, impressive voice went on: "I know now who the
suspects are. They are about to rise, to walk, and to seat themselves
as I shall direct."

They did so, it being plainly evident to all observers that they were
under some awful compulsion.

"The witnesses may be excused. Truth is the only thing of importance
here; and witnesses, being human and therefore frail, obstruct truth
more frequently than they further its progress. I shall now examine
these two accused."

Again the vivid, weirdly distorting glares of light lashed out, bathing
in intense monochrome and in various ghastly combinations first one
prisoner, then the other; the while Kinnison drove his mind into
theirs, plumbing their deepest depths. The silence, already profound,
became the utter stillness of outer space as the throng, holding its
very breath now, sat enthralled by that portentous examination.

"I have examined them fully. You are all aware that any Lensman of
the Galactic Patrol may, in case of need, serve as judge, jury, and
executioner. I am, however, none of these; nor is this proceeding
to be a trial as you may have understood the term. I have said that
witnesses are superfluous. I will now add that neither judge nor jury
is necessary. All that is required is to discover the truth, since
truth is all-powerful. For that reason, also, not even an executioner
is needed here--the discovered truth will in and of itself serve us in
that capacity.

"One of these men is guilty; the other is innocent. From the mind of
the guilty one I am about to construct a composite, not of this one
fiendish crime alone, but of all the crimes he has ever committed.
I shall project that composite into the air before him. No innocent
mind will be able to see any iota of it. The guilty man, however,
will perceive its every revolting detail; and, so perceiving, he will
forthwith cease to exist in this plane of life."

One of the men had nothing to fear--Kinnison had told him so, long
since. The other had been trembling for minutes in uncontrollable
paroxysms of terror. Now this one leaped from his seat, clawing
savagely at his eyes and screaming in mad abandon.

"I did it! Help! Mercy! Take her away! Oh-h-h----" he shrieked, and
died, horribly, even as he shrieked.

Nor was there noise in the courtroom after the thing was over. The
stunned spectators slunk away, scarcely daring even to breathe until
they were safely outside.

       *       *       *       *       *

Nor were the Radeligian Lensmen much more at ease. Not a word was
said until the five were back in the commander's office at base. Then
Kinnison, still white of face and set of jaw, spoke. The others knew
that he had found the guilty man, and that he had in some peculiarly
terrible fashion executed him. He knew that they knew that the man was
hideously guilty.

Nevertheless, the Tellurian said, "He was guilty--guilty as all the
devils in all the hells of the entire universe. I never had to do
that before, and it gripes me--but I couldn't shove the job off onto
you fellows. I wouldn't want anybody to see that picture who didn't
have to, and without it you could never begin to understand just how
atrociously and damnably guilty that hell hound really was."

"Thanks, Kinnison," the commander said, simply. "Kinnison. Kinnison
of Tellus. I'll remember that name, in case we ever need you as badly
again. But, after what you just did, it will be a long time--if ever.
You didn't know, did you, that all the inhabitants of four planets were
watching you?"

"Holy rockets, no! Were they?"

"They were. And if the way you scared _me_ is any criterion, it will
be a long, cold day before anything like that comes up again in this
system. And thanks again, gray Lensman. You have done something for our
whole patrol this day."

"Be sure to dismantle that box so thoroughly that nobody will recognize
any of its component parts." Kinnison managed a rather feeble grin.
"One more thing and I'll buzz along. Do you fellows happen to know
where there's a good, strong pirate base around here anywhere? And,
while I don't want to seem fussy, I would like it all the better if
they were warm-blooded oxygen breathers, so that I won't have to wear
armor all the time."

"What are you trying to do, give us the needle, or something?" This
is not precisely what the Radeligian said, but it conveys the thought
Kinnison received as the base commander stared at him in amazement.

"Don't tell me that there _is_ such a base around here!" exclaimed the
Tellurian in delight. "Is there, really?"

"There is. It is so strong that we have not been able to touch it, and
it is manned and staffed by natives of your own planet, Tellus of Sol.
We reported it to Prime Base some eighty-three days ago, just after we
discovered it. You're direct from there----" He fell silent. This was
no way to be talking to a gray Lensman.

"I was in the hospital then, fighting with my nurse because she
wouldn't give me anything to eat," Kinnison explained with a laugh.
"When I left Tellus I didn't check up on the late data--didn't think I
would need it quite so soon. If you've got it, though----"

"Hospital! You?" queried one of the younger Lensmen.

"Yeah--bit off more than I could chew." And the Tellurian briefly
described his misadventure with the Wheelmen of Aldebaran I. "This
other thing has come up since then, though, and I won't be sticking my
neck out that way again. If you've got such a made-to-order base as
that in this region, it'll save me a long trip. Where is it?"

They gave him its coördinates and what little information they had been
able to secure concerning it. They did not ask him why he wanted that
data. They may have wondered at his temerity in daring to scout alone a
fortress whose strength had kept at bay the massed patrol forces of the
sector; but if they did so they kept their thoughts well screened. For
this was a gray Lensman, and very evidently a super-powered individual,
even of that select group whose weakest members were powerful indeed.
If he felt like talking they would listen; but Kinnison did not talk.
He did the listening.

Then, when he had learned everything they knew of the Boskonian base,
he said, "Well, I'd better be buzzing. Clear ether, fellows!" And he
was gone.




                                  XX.


Out from Radelix and into deep space shot the speedster, bearing the
gray Lensman toward Boyssia II, where the Boskonian base was situated.
The patrol forces had not even yet been able to locate it definitely;
therefore, it must be cleverly hidden indeed. It was manned and staffed
by Tellurians--and this was fairly close to the line first taken by
the pilot of the pirate vessel whose crew had been so decimated by
VanBuskirk and his Valerians. There couldn't be so many Boskonian
bases with Tellurian personnel, Kinnison reflected. It was well within
the bounds of possibility, even of probability, that he might again
encounter here his former, but unsuspecting, shipmates.

Since the Boyssian system was less than a hundred parsecs from Radelix,
a couple of hours found the Lensman staring down upon another green and
Earthly world. Very Earthly indeed was this one. There were polar ice
caps, areas of intensely dazzling white. There was an atmosphere, deep
and sweetly blue, filled for the most part with sunlight, but flecked
here and there with clouds, some of which were slow-moving storms.
There were continents, bearing mountains and plains, lakes and rivers.
There were oceans, studded with islands great and small.

But Kinnison was no planetographer, nor had he been gone from Tellus
sufficiently long so that the sight of this beautiful and homelike
world aroused in him any qualm of nostalgia. He was looking for a
pirate base; and, dropping his speedster as low into the night side as
he dared, he began his search.

Of man or of the works of man he at first found little enough trace.
All human or pseudohuman life was apparently still in a savage state of
development; and, except for a few scattered races, or rather tribes,
of burrowers and of cliff or cave dwellers, it was still nomadic,
wandering here and there without permanent habitation or structure.
Animals of scores of genera and species were there in myriads, but
neither was Kinnison a biologist. He wanted pirates; and, it seemed,
that was the one form of life which he was _not_ going to find!

But finally, through sheer, grim, bulldog pertinacity, he was
successful. That base was there, somewhere. He would find it, no matter
how long it took. He would find it if he had to examine the entire
crust of the planet, land and water alike, kilometer by plotted cubic
kilometer! He set out to do just that; and it was thus that he found
the Boskonian stronghold.

It had been built directly beneath a towering range of mountains,
protected from detection by mile upon mile of native copper and of iron
ore.

Its entrances, invisible before, were even now not readily perceptible,
camouflaged as they were by outer layers of rock which matched exactly
in form, color, and texture the rocks of the cliffs in which they were
placed. Once those entrances were located, the rest was easy. Again he
set his speedster into a carefully observed orbit and came to ground in
his armor. Again he crept forward, furtively and skulkingly, until he
could perceive a shimmering web of force.

With minor variations, his method of entry into the Boskonian base was
similar to that he had used in making his way into the patrol base upon
Radelix. He was, however, working now with a surety and a precision
which had then been entirely lacking. His practice upon the patrolmen
and his terrific bout with the four Lensmen had given him knowledge
and technique. His sitting in judgment, during which he had touched
almost every mind in the vast assemblage, had taught him much. And,
above all, the grisly finale of that sitting, horribly distasteful and
soul-wracking as it had been, had given him training of inestimable
value; necessitating as it had the infliction of the ultimate penalty.

       *       *       *       *       *

He knew that he might have to stay inside that base for some time;
therefore he selected his hiding place with care. He could, of course,
blank out the knowledge of his presence in the mind of any one chancing
to discover him; but since such an interruption might come at a
critical instant, he preferred to take up his residence in a secluded
place. There were, of course, many vacant suites in the officers'
quarters--all bases must have accommodations for visitors--and the
Lensman decided to occupy one of them. It was a simple matter to obtain
a key, and, inside the bare but comfortable little room, he stripped
off his armor with a sigh of relief.

Leaning back in a deeply upholstered leather arm chair, he closed
his eyes and let his sense of perception roam throughout the great
establishment. With all his newly developed power he studied it, hour
after hour and day after day. When he was hungry the pirate cooks fed
him, not knowing that they did so. He had lived on iron rations long
enough. When he was tired he slept, with his eternally vigilant Lens on
guard.

Finally, he knew everything there was to be known about that
stronghold, and was ready to act. He did not take over the mind of the
base commander, but chose instead the chief communications officer as
the one most likely and most intimately to have dealings with Helmuth.
For Helmuth, he who spoke for Boskone, had for many long months been
the Lensman's definite objective.

But this game could not be hurried. Bases, no matter how important,
did not call Grand Base except upon matters of the most dire urgency,
and no such matter eventuated. Nor did Helmuth call that base, since
nothing out of the ordinary was happening--to any pirates' knowledge,
that is--and his attention was more necessary elsewhere.

One day, however, there came crackling in a triumphant report: a ship
working out of that base had taken noble booty indeed; no less a prize
than a fully supplied hospital ship of the patrol itself! As the report
progressed, Kinnison's heart went down into his boots and he swore
bitterly to himself. How in all the nine hells of Valeria had they
managed to take such a ship as that? Hadn't she been escorted?

Nevertheless, as chief communications officer, he took the report and
congratulated heartily, through the ship's radio man, its captain, its
officers, and its crew.

"Mighty fine work; Helmuth himself shall hear of this," he concluded
his words of praise. "How did you do it? With one of the new maulers?"

"Yes, sir," came the reply. "Our mauler, accompanying us just out of
range, came up and engaged theirs. That left us free to take this ship.
We locked on with magnets, cut our way in, and here we are."

There they were indeed. The hospital ship was red with blood; patients,
doctors, internes, officers and operating crew alike had been butchered
with the horribly ruthless savagery which was the customary technique
of all the agencies of Boskone. Of all that ship's personnel only the
nurses lived. They were not to be put to death--yet. In fact, and under
certain conditions, they need not die at all.

       *       *       *       *       *

They huddled together, a little knot of white-clad misery in that
corpse-littered room, and even now one of them was being dragged away.
She was fighting viciously, with fists and feet, with nails and teeth.
No one pirate could handle her; it took two of the huskies to subdue
that struggling fury. They hauled her upright and she threw back her
head, in panting defiance. There was a cascade of red-bronze hair and
Kinnison saw--Clarrissa MacDougall! He remembered that there _had_ been
some talk that they were going to put her back into space service! The
Lensman decided instantly what to do.

"Stop, you swine!" he roared through his pirate mouthpiece. "Where do
you think you're going with that nurse?"

"To the captain's cabin, sir." The huskies stopped short in amazement
as that roar filled the room, but answered the question concisely.

"Let her go!" Then, as the girl fled back to the huddled group in the
corner, he said, "Tell the captain to come out here and assemble every
officer and man of the crew. I want to talk to everybody at once."

He had a minute or two in which to think, and he thought furiously,
but accurately. He had to do something, but whatever he did must be
done strictly according to the pirates' own standards of ethics; if he
made one slip it might be Aldebaran I all over again. He knew how to
keep from making that slip, he thought. But also, and this was the hard
part, he must work in something that would let those nurses know that
there was still hope, that there were a few more acts of this drama
yet to come. Otherwise he knew with a stark, cold certainty what would
happen. He knew of what stuff the space nurses of the patrol were made,
knew that they could be driven just so far, and no further--alive.

There was a way out of that, too. In the childishness of his
hospitalization he had called Nurse MacDougall a dumb-bell. He had
thought of her, and had spoken to her quite frankly, in uncomplimentary
terms. But he knew that there was a real brain back of that beautiful
countenance, that a quick and keen intelligence resided under that
red-bronze thatch. Therefore, when the assembly was complete he was
ready, and in no uncertain or ambiguous language he opened up.

"Listen, you--all of you!" he barked, savagely. "This is the first
time in months that we have made such a haul as this, and you fellows
have the brazen gall to start helping yourselves to the choicest stuff
before anybody else gets a look at it. I tell you now to lay off, and
that goes exactly as it lays. I, personally, will kill any man that
touches one of those women before they arrive here at base. Now you,
captain, are the first and worst offender of the lot." And he stared
directly into the eyes of the officer whom he had last seen entering
the dungeon of the Wheelmen.

"I admit that you're a good picker." Kinnison's voice was now
venomously soft, his intonation distinct with thinly veiled sarcasm.
"Unfortunately, however, your taste agrees too well with mine. You
see, captain, I'm going to need a nurse myself. I think I'm coming
down with something. And, since I've got to have a nurse, I'll take
that red-headed one. I had a nurse once with hair just that color,
who insisted on feeding me tea and toast and a soft-boiled egg when I
wanted beefsteak; and I am going to take my grudge out on this one here
for all the red-headed nurses that ever lived. I trust that you will
pardon the length of this speech, but I want to give you my reasons in
full for cautioning you that that particular nurse is my own particular
personal property. Mark her for me, and see to it that she gets
here--exactly as she is now."

The captain had been afraid to interrupt his superior, but now he
erupted.

"But see here, Blakeslee!" he stormed. "She ought to be mine, by every
right. I captured her; I saw her first; I've got her here----"

"Enough of that back talk, captain!" Kinnison sneered elaborately. "You
know, of course, that you are violating every rule by taking booty for
yourself before division at base, and that you can be shot for doing
it."

"But everybody does it!" protested the captain.

"Except when a superior officer catches him at it. Superiors get first
pick, you know," the Lensman reminded him, suavely.

"But I protest, sir! I'll take it up with----"

"Shut up!" Kinnison snarled, with cold finality. "Take it up with whom
you please, but remember this, my last warning: Bring her in to me as
she is and you live. Touch her and you die! Now, you nurses, come over
here to the board!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Nurse Macdougall had been whispering furtively to the others, and
now she led the way, head high and eyes blazing defiance. She was an
actress, as well as a nurse.

"Take a good, long look at this button, right here, marked 'Relay 46,'"
came curt instructions. "If anybody aboard this ship touches any one of
you, or even looks at you as though he wants to, press this button and
I'll do the rest. Now, you big, red-headed dumb-bell, look at me. Don't
start begging--yet. I just want to be sure that you'll know me when you
see me."

"I'll know you, never fear, you--you _brat_!" she flared, thus
informing the Lensman that she had received his message. "I'll not only
know you--I'll scratch your eyes out on sight!"

"That'll be a good trick if you can do it," Kinnison sneered, and cut
off.

"What's it all about, Mac? What has got into you?" demanded one of the
nurses, as soon as the women were alone.

"I don't know," she whispered. "Watch out; they may have spy rays on
us. I don't know anything, really, and the whole thing is too wildly
impossible, too utterly fantastic to be even partially true. But pass
the word along to all the girls to ride this out, because my gray
Lensman is in on it, somewhere and somehow. I don't see how he can be,
possibly, but I just know that he is."

For, at the first mention of tea and toast, before she perceived even
an inkling of the true situation, her mind had flashed back instantly
to Kinnison, the most stubborn and rebellious patient she had ever
had--more, the only man she had ever known who had treated her
precisely as though she were a part of the hospital's very furniture.
As is the way of women--particularly of beautiful women--she had orated
of women's rights and of women's status in the scheme of things. She
had decried all special privileges, and had stated, often and with
heat, that she asked no odds of any man living or yet to be born.
Nevertheless, and also beautiful-woman-like, the thought had bitten
deep that here was a man who had never even realized that she _was_
a woman, to say nothing of realizing that she was an extraordinarily
beautiful one! And deep within her and sternly suppressed the thought
had still rankled.

At the mention of beefsteak she all but screamed, gripping her knees
with frantic hands to keep her emotion down. For she had had no real
hope; she was simply fighting with everything she had until the
hopeless end, which she had known could not long be delayed. Now she
gathered herself together and began to act.

When the word "dumb-bell" boomed from the speaker she knew, beyond
doubt or peradventure, that it was Kinnison, the gray Lensman, who was
really doing that talking. It was crazy; it didn't make any kind of
sense at all; but it was, it must be, true. And, again, woman-like, she
knew with a calm certainty that as long as that gray Lensman were alive
and conscious, he would be completely the master of any situation in
which he might find himself. Therefore, she passed along her illogical
but cheering thought, and the nurses, also being women, accepted it
without question as the actual and accomplished fact.

They carried on, and when the captured hospital ship had docked at
base, Kinnison was completely ready to force matters to a conclusion.
In addition to the chief communications officer, he now had under his
control a highly capable observer. To handle two such minds was child's
play to the intellect which had directed, against their full fighting
wills, the minds of two and three quarters alert, powerful, and fully
warned Lensmen!

"Good girl, Mac!" he put his mind _en rapport_ with hers and sent his
message. "Glad you got the idea. You did a good job of acting, and if
you can do some more as good we'll be all set. Can do?"

"I'll say I can!" she assented fervently. "I don't know what you are
doing, how you can possibly do it, or where you are, but that can wait.
Tell me what to do and I'll do it!"

"Make a pass at the base commander," he instructed her. "Hate me--the
ape I'm working through, you know--all over the place. Go into it
big. You maybe could love him, but if I get you you'll blow out your
brains--if any. You know the line--play up to him with everything you
can bring to bear, and hate me all to pieces. Help all you can to start
a fight between us. If he falls for you hard enough the blow-off comes
then and there. If not, he'll be able to do us all plenty of dirt. I
can kill a lot of them, but not enough of them quick enough."

"He'll fall," she promised him gleefully, "like ten thousand bricks
falling down a well. Just watch my jets!"

       *       *       *       *       *

And fall he did. He had not even seen a woman for months, and he
expected nothing except bitter resistance and suicide from any of
these women of the patrol. Therefore, he was rocked to the heels--set
back upon his very haunches--when the most beautiful woman he had ever
seen came of her own volition into his arms, seeking in them sanctuary
from his own chief communications officer.

"I hate him!" she sobbed, nestling against the huge bulk of the
base commander's body and turning upon him the full blast of the
high-powered projectors which were her eyes. "_You_ wouldn't be so mean
to me, I just know you wouldn't!" And her subtly perfumed head sank
upon his shoulder. The base commander was just so much soft wax.

"I'll say I wouldn't be mean to you!" his voice dropped to a gentle
bellow. "Why, you little sweetheart, I'll _marry_ you. I will, by all
the gods of space!"

It thus came about that nurse and base commander entered the control
room together, arms about each other.

"There he is!" she shrieked, pointing at the chief communications
officer. "He's the one! Now let's see you start something, you
rat-faced clunker! There's one real man around here, and he won't let
you touch me--ya-a-a!" She gave him a resounding Bronx cheer, and her
escort swelled visibly.

"Is--that--so----?" Kinnison sneered. "Get this, baby-face, and get it
straight. You were marked as mine as soon as I looked the ship over,
and mine you're going to be, whether you like it or not, and no matter
what anybody else says or does about it. And as for you, chief, you're
too late. I saw her first. And now, you red-headed hussy, come over
here where you belong!"

She snuggled closer into the commander's embrace and the big man turned
purple.

"What do you mean, too late?" he roared. "You took her away from the
ship's captain, didn't you? You said that superior officers get first
choice, and they do. I am the boss here and I am taking her away from
you. Get me? You'll stand for it, too--yes, and you'll like it. One
word out of you and I'll have you spread-eagled across the mouth of No.
6 Projector!"

"Superior officers do not _always_ get first choice," Kinnison replied,
with bitter, cold ferocity, but choosing his words with care. "It
depends entirely upon who the two men are."

Now was the time to strike. Kinnison knew that if the base commander
kept his head, the lives of those valiant women were forfeit, and
the Lensman's whole plan seriously endangered. He himself could get
away, of course--but he could not see himself doing it under these
conditions. No, he must goad the commander to a frenzy. Mac would help.
In fact, and without his suggestion, she was even then hard at work
fomenting trouble between the two men.

"You don't have to take that from anybody, big boy," she was
whispering, urgently. "Don't call in a crew to spread-eagle him,
either; beam him out yourself. You're a better man than he is, any
time. Blast him down. That'll show him who's who around this base!"

"When the inferior is such a man as I am, and the superior such a one
as you are," the biting, contemptuously sneering voice went on without
a break, "such a bloated swine, such a mangy, low-down cur, such a
pussy-gutted tub of lard, such a worthless, brainless spawn of the
lowest dregs of the sourest scum of space, such an utterly incompetent
and self-opinionated ass as you are----"

The outraged pirate chief, bellowing incoherently in wildly mounting
rage, was leaping toward a cabinet in which were kept the DeLameters.

"--then, in that case, the inferior keeps the red-headed wench himself.
Put that on a tape, chief, and eat it. Then, if you are too much
of a lily-livered coward to do anything about it yourself, have me
spread-eagled," the Lensman concluded, cuttingly.

"Blast him! Blast him down!" the nurse had been shrieking; and, as the
raging commander neared the cabinet, no one noticed that her latest and
loudest scream was "Kim! Blast him down! Don't wait any longer--beam
him down before he gets a gun!"

But the Lensman did not act--yet. Although almost every man of the
pirate crew stared spellbound, Kinnison's enslaved observer had for
many seconds been jamming the subether with Helmuth's personal and
urgent call. It was of almost vital importance to his plan that
Helmuth himself should see the climax of this scene. Therefore, the
communications officer stood immobile, while the profanely raving base
commander reached the cabinet, tore it open, seized a DeLameter, and
swung it savagely toward him!




                                 XXI.


But Blakeslee, the chief communications officer whose mind and body
Kinnison was using, was already armed. Kinnison had seen to that. And
as the base commander wrenched open the arms cabinet that happened for
which the Lensman had been waiting. Helmuth's private lookout set began
to draw current; that potentate himself was now looking on, and the
enslaved observer had already begun to trace his beam. Therefore, as
the raging commander of Boyssia's pirate base swung about with raised
DeLameter he faced one already ablaze; and in a matter of seconds there
was only a charred and smoking heap where the commander had stood.

Kinnison wondered that Helmuth's cold voice was not already snapping
from the speaker, but he was soon to discover the reason for that
silence. Unobserved by the Lensman, one of the observers had recovered
sufficiently from his shocked amazement to turn in a riot alarm to the
guard room. Five armed men answered that call on the double, stopped
and glanced around.

"Guards! Blast Blakeslee down!" Helmuth's unmistakable voice blared
from his speaker.

Obediently and manfully enough the five guards tried; and, had it
actually been Blakeslee confronting them so defiantly, they probably
would have succeeded. It was the body of the communications officer,
it is true. The mind operating the muscles of that body, however, was
the mind of Kimball Kinnison, gray Lensman, the fastest man with a ray
pistol old Tellus had ever produced; keyed up, expecting the move, and
with two DeLameters out and poised at hip! _This_ was the being whom
Helmuth was so nonchalantly ordering his minions to slay! Faster than
any watching eye could follow, five bolts of lightning flicked from
Blakeslee's DeLameters. The last guard went down, his head a shriveled
cinder, before a single pirate bolt could be loosed.

"You see, Helmuth," Kinnison spoke conversationally to the board, his
voice dripping vitriol, "playing it safe from a distance, and making
other men pull your chestnuts out of the fire, is a very fine trick
as long as it works. But when it fails to work, as now, it puts your
tail right into the wringer. I, for one, have been for a long time
completely fed up on taking orders from a mere voice; especially from
the voice of one whose entire method of operation proves him to be the
most pitifully arrant coward in the galaxy."

"Observer! You other at the board!" snarled Helmuth, paying no
attention to Kinnison's barbed shafts. "Sound the assembly--armed!"

"No use, Helmuth, he is stone deaf," Kinnison explained, voice sweetly
venomous. "I am the only man in this base that you can talk to, and
you won't be able to do even that very much longer."

"And you really think that you can get away with this mutiny--this
barefaced insubordination--this defiance of _my_ authority?"

"Sure I can. That's what I have been explaining to you. If you were
here in person, or ever had been; if any of the boys had ever seen you,
or had ever known you as anything except a disembodied voice, maybe I
couldn't. But, since nobody has ever seen even your face, that gives me
a chance----"

       *       *       *       *       *

In his distant base Helmuth's mind had flashed over every aspect of
this unheard-of situation. He decided to play for time; therefore, even
as his hands darted to buttons here and there, he spoke. "Do _you_
want to see my face?" he demanded. "If you do see it, no power in the
galaxy----"

"Skip it, chief," sneered Kinnison. "Don't try to kid me into believing
that you wouldn't kill me now, under any conditions, if you possibly
could. As for your face, it makes no difference whatever to me, now,
whether I ever see your ugly pan or not."

"Well, you shall!" And Helmuth's visage appeared, concentrating upon
the rebellious officer a glare of such fury and such power that any
ordinary man must have quailed. But not Blakeslee-Kinnison!

"Well! Not so bad, at that--the guy looks almost human!" Kinnison
exclaimed, in the tone most carefully designed to drive even more
frantic the helpless and inwardly raging pirate chieftain. "But I've
got things to do. You can guess at what goes on around here from now
on." And in the blaze of a DeLameter Helmuth's plate, set, and "eye"
disappeared. Kinnison had also been playing for time, and his enslaved
observer had checked and rechecked this second and highly important
line to Helmuth's ultra-secret base.

[Illustration: _An instant later Helmuth's view-plate vanished in
the DeLameter's blaze._]

Then, throughout the fortress, there blared out the urgent
assembly call, to which the Lensman added, verbally: "This is a
one-hundred-per-cent call-out, including crews of ships in dock as well
as regular base personnel. Bring also the patrol nurses. Come as you
are and come fast. The doors of the auditorium will be locked in five
minutes and any man outside those doors will be given ample reason to
wish that he had been on time."

       *       *       *       *       *

The auditorium was right off the control room, and was so arranged that
when a partition was rolled back the control room became its stage.
All Boskonian bases were arranged thus, in order that the supervising
officers at Grand Base could oversee, through their instruments upon
the main panel, just such assemblies as this one was supposed to be.
Every man hearing that call assumed that it came from Grand Base, and
every man hurried to obey it.

Kinnison rolled back the partition between the two rooms and watched
for ray pistols, as the men came streaming into the auditorium.
Ordinarily only the guards went armed--three of them were left--but
possibly a few of the ship's officers would be wearing their
DeLameters.... Four--five--six--the captain and the pilot of the
battleship that had captured the nurses, and a vice commander of
another, besides the three guards. Knives, billies, and such did not
count.

"Time's up. Lock the doors. Bring the keys and the nurses up here," he
ordered the six armed men, calling each by name. "You women take these
chairs over here; you men sit there."

Then, when all were seated, Kinnison touched a button and the steel
partition slid smoothly into place.

"What's coming off here?" demanded a guard. "Where's the commander? How
about Grand Base? Look at that board!"

"Sit tight," Kinnison directed. "Hands on knees. I'll burn any or all
of you that make a move. I have already burned the old man and five
guards, and have put Grand Base out of the picture. Now I want to find
out just how we seven stand." The Lensman already knew, but he was not
tipping his hand.

"Why we seven?"

"Because we are the only ones who happened to be wearing guns. Every
one else of the entire personnel is unarmed and is now locked in the
auditorium. You know how apt they are to get out until one of us lets
them out."

"But Helmuth--he'll have you blasted for this!"

"Hardly. My plans were not made yesterday. How many of you fellows are
with me?"

"What's your scheme?" demanded the vice commander.

"To take these nurses to some patrol base and surrender. I'm sick of
this whole game; and, since none of them have been hurt, I figure
they'll bring us a pardon and a fresh start--a light sentence at least."

"Oh, so _that's_ the reason----" growled the captain.

"Exactly. But I don't want any one with me whose only thought would be
to burn me down at the first opportunity."

"Count me in," declared the pilot. "I've got a strong stomach, but
enough of these jobbies is altogether too much. If you can wangle
anything short of a life sentence for me I'll go back, but I bloody
well won't help you against the----"

"Sure not. Not until after we're out in space. I don't need any help
here."

"Do you want my DeLameter?"

"No, keep it. You won't use it on me. Anybody else?"

One guard joined the pilot, standing aside; the other four wavered.

"Time's up!" Kinnison snapped. "Now, you four fellows, either go for
your guns or else turn your backs, and do it right now!"

They elected to turn their backs and Kinnison collected their weapons,
one by one. Having disarmed them, he again rolled back the partition
and ordered them to join the wondering throng in the auditorium. He
then addressed the assemblage, telling them what he had done and what
he had it in mind to do.

"A good many of you must be fed up on this lawless game of piracy and
anxious to resume association with decent men, if you can do so without
incurring too great a punishment," he concluded. "I feel quite certain
that those of us who man the hospital ship in order to return these
nurses to the patrol will get light sentences, at most. Miss MacDougall
is head nurse. We will ask her what she thinks."

"Better than that," Mac replied clearly. "I am not merely 'quite
certain,' either--I am absolutely sure that whatever men Mr. Blakeslee
selects for his crew will not be given any sentences at all. They will
be pardoned, and will be given chances at jobs in the merchant service."

"How do you know, miss?" asked one. "We're a black lot."

"I know you are," she replied serenely. "I won't say how I know, but
you can take my word for it that I _do_ know."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Those of you who want to take a chance with us line up over here,"
Kinnison directed, and walked rapidly down the line, reading the mind
of each man in turn. Many of them he waved back into the main group, as
he found thoughts of treachery or signs of inherent criminality. Those
he selected were those who were really sincere in their desire to quit
forever the ranks of Boskone, those who were in those ranks because of
some press of circumstance rather than because of a mental taint. As
each man passed inspection he armed himself from the cabinet and stood
at ease before the group of women.

Having selected his crew, the Lensman operated the controls that opened
the exit nearest the hospital ship, blasted away the panel, so that
that exit could not be closed, unlocked a door, and turned to the
pirates.

"Vice Commander Krimsky, as senior officer you are now in command of
this base," he remarked. "While I am in no sense giving you orders,
there are a few matters about which you should be informed. First, I
set no definite time as to when you may leave this room. I merely state
that you will find it decidedly unhealthy to follow us at all closely
as we go from here to the hospital ship. Second, you haven't a ship fit
to take the ether, as your blast levers have all been broken off at
the pivots. If your mechanics work at top speed, new ones can be put
on in exactly two hours. Third, there is going to be a very severe
earthquake in precisely two hours and thirty minutes, one which should
make this base merely a memory."

"An earthquake! Don't bluff, Blakeslee. You couldn't do _that_!"

"Well, perhaps not a regular earthquake, but something that will do
just as well. If you think I am bluffing, wait and find out. But common
sense should give you the answer to that. I know exactly what Helmuth
is doing now, whether you do or not. At first I intended to wipe you
all out without warning, but I changed my mind. I decided that I would
rather leave you alive, so that you could report to Helmuth exactly
what happened. I wish that I could be watching him when he finds out
how badly one man rooked him, and how far from foolproof his system is.
But we can't have everything. Let's go, folks!"

As the group hurried away, Mac loitered until she was near the form of
Blakeslee, who was bringing up the rear.

"Where are you, Kim?" she whispered urgently.

"I'll join up at the next corridor. Keep further ahead, and get ready
to run when we do!"

       *       *       *       *       *

As they passed that corridor a figure in gray leather, carrying an
extremely heavy object, stepped out of it. Kinnison himself set his
burden down, yanked a lever, and ran. And as he ran fountains of
intolerable heat erupted and cascaded from the mechanism he had left
upon the floor. Just ahead of him, but at some distance behind the
others, ran Blakeslee and Mac.

"Gosh, I'm glad to see you, Kim!" she panted, as the Lensman caught up
with them and all three slowed down. "What is that thing back there?"

"Nothing much--just a KJ4Z hot-shot. Won't do any real damage--just
melt this tunnel down so that they can't interfere with our get-away."

"Then you _were_ bluffing about the earthquake?" she asked, a shade of
disappointment in her tone.

"Hardly," he reproved her. "That isn't due for two hours and a half
yet, but it'll happen on schedule time."

"How?"

"You remember about the curious cat, don't you? However, no particular
secret about it, I guess--ten duodec bombs placed where they'll do the
most good, and timed for exactly simultaneous detonation. Here we are.
Don't tell anybody I'm here."

Aboard the vessel, Kinnison disappeared into a stateroom while
Blakeslee continued in charge. Men were divided into watches; duties
were assigned; inspections were made, and the ship shot into the air.
There was a brief halt to pick up Kinnison's speedster; then, again on
the way, Blakeslee turned the board over to Crandall, the pilot, and
went into Kinnison's room.

There the Lensman withdrew his control, leaving intact the memory of
everything that had happened. For minutes Blakeslee was almost in a
daze, but struggled through it and held out his hand.

"Mighty glad to meet you, Lensman. Thanks. All I can say is that after
I got sucked in I couldn't----"

"Sure, I know all about it. That was one of the reasons I picked you
out. Your subconsciousness didn't fight back a bit, at any time. You
are to be in charge, from here to Tellus. Please go and chase everybody
out of the control room except Crandall."

"Say, I just thought of something!" exclaimed Blakeslee, when Kinnison
joined the two officers at the board. "You must be that particular
Lensman who has been getting in Helmuth's hair so much lately!"

"Probably. That's my chief aim in life."

"I'd like to see Helmuth's face when he gets the report of this. I've
said that before, haven't I? But I mean it now, even more than I did
before."

"I'm thinking of Helmuth, too, but not that way." The pilot had been
scowling at his plate, and now turned to Blakeslee and the Lensman,
glancing curiously from one to the other. "Oh, I say----A Lensman,
what? A bit of good old light begins to dawn; but that can wait.
Helmuth is after us, foot, horse, and marines. Look at that plate!"

"Four of them already!" exclaimed Blakeslee. "And there's another! And
we haven't got a beam hot enough to light a cigarette, nor a screen
strong enough to stop a firecracker. We've got legs, but not as many as
Helmuth's fliers. You knew all about that, though, of course, before we
started; and from what you have pulled off so far you've got something
left on the hooks. What is it? What's the answer?"

"Indetectability," replied Kinnison. "We can detect them, but they
can't detect us. All you have to do is to stay out of range of their
electros and drill for Tellus."

"That's hard to believe, but it must be true. There are nine ships on
the plates now: all Boskonians and all certainly looking for us, but
not a one of them has paid any attention to us."

"Nor will they. And, by the way, who or what is Boskone?"

"Nobody knows. Helmuth speaks for Boskone, and nobody else ever does,
not even Boskone himself--if there is such a person. Nobody can prove
it, but everybody knows that Helmuth and Boskone are simply two names
for the same man. Helmuth, you know, is only a voice. Nobody ever saw
his face until to-day."

"I'm beginning to think so, myself." And Kinnison strode away, to call
at the office of Head Nurse MacDougall.

"Mac, here's a small, but highly important box," he told her, taking
the neutralizer from his pocket and handing it to her. "Put it in your
locker until you get to Tellus. Then take it, yourself, and give it to
Haynes, himself, in person, and to nobody else. Just tell him I sent
it. He'll know all about it."

"But why not keep it and give it to him yourself? You're coming with
us, aren't you?"

"Probably not all the way. I imagine I'll have to shove off before we
get back to Tellus."

"But I want to talk to you!" she exclaimed. "Why, I've got a million
questions to ask you!"

"That would take a long time"--he grinned at her--"and time is just
what we don't have right now, either of us." And he strode back to the
board.

       *       *       *       *       *

He labored for hours at a calculating machine and in the tank; finally
to squat down upon his heels, staring at two needlelike rays of light
in the tank and whistling softly between his teeth. For those two
lines, while exactly in the same plane, did not intersect in the tank
at all! Estimating as carefully as he could the point of intersection
of the lines, he punched the "cancel" key to wipe out all traces of his
work and went to the chart room. Chart after chart he hauled down, and
for many minutes he worked with calipers, compass, goniometer, and a
carefully set adjustable triangle. Finally he marked a point--exactly
upon a small, plain dot already upon the chart--and again whistled.

"Huh!" he grunted. He rechecked all his figures and retraversed the
chart, only to have his needle pierce again the same tiny, unmarked
dot. He stared at it for a full minute, studying the map all around his
marker.

"Star Cluster AC 257-4736," he ruminated. "The smallest, most
insignificant, least-known star cluster he could find, and my largest
possible error can't put it anywhere else. Kind of thought it might
be in a cluster, but I never would have looked _there_. No wonder it
took a lot of stuff to trace his beam. It would have to be four numbers
Brinnell harder than a diamond drill to work from there."

Again whistling tunelessly to himself, he rolled up the chart upon
which he had been at work, stuck it under his arm, replaced the others
in their compartments, and went back to the control room.

"How's tricks, fellows?" he asked.

"QX," replied Blakeslee. "We're through them and into clear ether. Not
a ship on the plate, and nobody gave us even a tumble."

"Fine! You won't have any trouble, then, from here in to Prime Base.
Glad of it, too. I've got to flit. That'll mean long watches for you
two, but it can't very well be helped."

"But I say, old bird, I don't mind the watches, but----"

"Don't worry about that, either. This crew can be trusted, to a man.
Not one of you joined the pirates of your own free will, and not one of
you has ever taken an active part----"

"What are you, a mind reader or something?" Crandall burst out.

"Something like that," Kinnison assented with a grin.

Blakeslee put in, "More than that, you mean. Something like hypnosis,
only more so. You think that I had something to do with this, but I
didn't. The Lensman did it all himself."

"Um-m-m." Crandall stared at Kinnison, new respect in his eyes. "I knew
that unattached Lensmen were good, but I had no idea they were _that_
good. No wonder Helmuth has been getting his wind up about you. I'll
string along with any one who can take a whole base, single-handed, and
make such a bally ass to boot out of such a keen old bird as Helmuth
is. But I'm in a bit of a dither, not to say a funk, about what is
going to happen when we pop into Prime Base without you. Every man jack
of us, you know, is slated for the lethal chamber without trial. Miss
MacDougall will do her bit, of course, but what I mean is, has she
enough jets to swing it?"

"I think that she has; but to avoid all argument I've fixed that up,
too. Here's a tape, telling all about what happened. It ends up with
my recommendation for a full pardon for each of you, and for a job at
whatever he is found best fitted for. It is signed with my thumb print.
Give it or send it to Port Admiral Haynes as soon as you land. I've got
enough jets, I think, so that it will go as it lays."

"Jets? You? Right-o! You've got jets enough to lift fourteen freighters
off the North Pole of Valeria. What next?"

"Stores and supplies for my speedster. I'm doing a long flit and this
ship has supplies to burn, so I'd like to have my little can loaded,
Plimsoll down."

       *       *       *       *       *

The speedster was stocked forthwith. Then, with nothing more than a
casually waved salute in the way of farewell, Kinnison boarded his tiny
space ship and shot away toward his distant goal. Crandall, the pilot,
sought his bunk; while Blakeslee started his long trick at the board.
In an hour or so the head nurse strolled in.

"Kim?" she queried, doubtfully.

"No, Miss MacDougall. It's Blakeslee. Sorry----"

"Oh, I'm glad of that. That means that everything is settled. Where's
the Lensman--in bed?"

"He has gone, miss."

"Gone! Without a word? Where?"

"He didn't say."

"He wouldn't, of course." The nurse turned away, exclaiming inaudibly,
"Gone! I'd like to cuff him for that, the lug! _Gone!_ Why, the great,
big, lobsterly clunker!"




                                 XXII.


But Kinnison was not heading for Helmuth's base--yet. He was splitting
the ether toward Aldebaran instead, as fast as his speedster could
go; and she was one of the fastest things in the galaxy. He had two
good reasons for going there before he attempted Boskone's Grand Base:
first, to try out his skill upon nonhuman intellects--if he could
handle the Wheelmen he was ready to take the far greater hazard;
second, he owed those Wheelmen something, and he did not like to call
in the whole patrol to help him pay his debts. He could, he thought,
handle that base himself.

Knowing exactly where it was, he had no difficulty in finding the
volcanic shaft which formed the entrance to that Aldebaranian base.
Down that shaft his sense of perception sped. He found the lookout
plates and followed their power leads. Gently, carefully, he insinuated
his mind into that of the Wheelman at the board, discovering, to his
great relief, that that monstrosity was no more difficult to handle
than had been the Radeligian observer. Mind or intellect, he found,
were not affected at all by the shape of the brains concerned; quality,
reach, and power were the essential factors.

Therefore, he let himself in and took position in the same room from
which he had been driven so violently. Kinnison examined with interest
the wall through which he had been blown, noting that it had been
repaired so perfectly that he could scarcely find the joints which had
been made.

These Wheelmen, the Lensman knew, had explosives; since the bullets
which had torn their way through his armor and through his flesh had
been propelled by that agency. Therefore, to the mind within his grasp
he suggested "the place where explosives are kept?" and the thought of
that mind flashed to the storeroom in question. Similarly, the thought
of the one who had access to that room pointed out to the Lensman the
particular Wheelman he wanted. It was as easy as that. And since he
took care not to look at any of the weird beings, he gave no alarm.

Kinnison withdrew his mind delicately, leaving no trace of its
occupancy, and went to investigate the arsenal. There he found a few
cases of machine-rifle cartridges, and that was all. Then he went into
the mind of the munitions officer, where he discovered that the heavy
bombs were kept in a distant crater, so that no damage would be done by
any possible explosion.

"Not quite as simple as I thought," Kinnison ruminated. "But there's a
way out of that, too."

There was. It took an hour or so of time; and he had to control two
Wheelmen instead of one, but he found that he could do that. When
the munitions master took out a bomb-scow after a load of H.E., the
crew had no idea that it was anything except a routine job. The only
Wheelman who would have known differently, the one at the lookout
board, was the other whom Kinnison had to keep under control. The scow
went out, got its load, and came back. Then, while the Lensman was
flying out into space, the scow dropped down the shaft. So quietly was
the whole thing done that not a creature in that whole establishment
knew that anything was wrong until it was too late to act--and then
none of them knew anything at all. Not even the crew of the scow
realized that they were dropping too fast.

Kinnison didn't know what would happen if a mind--to say nothing of two
of them--died while in his mental grasp, and he did not care to find
out. Therefore, a fraction of a second before the crash, he jerked free
and watched.

The explosion and its consequences did not look at all impressive from
the Lensman's coign of vantage. The mountain trembled a little, then
subsided noticeably. From its summit there erupted an unimportant
little flare of flame, some smoke, and an insignificant shower of rock
and débris.

However, when the scene had cleared there was no longer any shaft
leading downward from that crater; a floor of solid rock began almost
at its lip. Nevertheless, the Lensman explored thoroughly all the
region where the stronghold had been, making sure that the clean-up had
been one-hundred-per-cent effective.

Then, and only then, did he point the speedster's streamlined nose
toward Star Cluster AC 257-4736.

       *       *       *       *       *

In his hidden retreat so far from the galaxy's crowded suns and worlds,
Helmuth was in no enviable or easy frame of mind. Four times he had
declared that that accursed Lensman, whoever he might be, must be
destroyed, and had mustered his every available force to that end, only
to have his intended prey slip from his grasp as effortlessly as a
droplet of mercury eludes the clutching fingers of a child.

That Lensman, with nothing except a speedster and a bomb, had taken and
had studied one of Boskone's new battleships, thus obtaining for his
patrol the secret of cosmic energy. Abandoning his own vessel, then
crippled and doomed to capture or destruction, he had stolen one of the
ships searching for him and in it he had calmly sailed to Velantia,
right through Helmuth's screen of blockading vessels. He had in some
way so fortified Velantia as to capture six more Boskonian battleships.
In one of those ships he had won his way back to the Prime Base of the
patrol, with information of such immense importance that it had robbed
the Boskonian organization of its then overwhelming superiority.

More, he had found or had developed new items of equipment which,
save for Helmuth's own success in obtaining them, would have given the
patrol a definite and decisive superiority over Boskonia. Now both
sides were again equal, except for that Lensman and--the Lens.

Helmuth still quailed inwardly whenever he thought of what he had
undergone at the Arisian barrier, and he had given up all thought of
securing the secret of the Lens by force or from Arisia. But there must
be other ways of getting it----

And just then there came in the urgent call from Boyssia II, followed
by the stunningly successful revolt of the hitherto innocuous
Blakeslee, culminating as it did in the destruction of Helmuth's every
Boyssian device of vision or of communication. Blue-white with fury,
the Boskonian high chief flung his net abroad to take the renegade; but
as he settled back to await results a thought struck him like a blow
from a fist: Blakeslee _was_ innocuous. He never had had, did not now
and never would have, the cold nerve and the sheer, dominating power he
had just shown. Toward what conclusion did that fact point?

The furious anger disappeared from Helmuth's face as though it had
been wiped therefrom with a sponge, and he became again the coldly
calculating mechanism of flesh and blood that he ordinarily was. This
conception changed matters entirely. This was not an ordinary revolt of
an ordinary subordinate. The man had done something which he could not
possibly do. So what? The Lens again. Again that accursed Lensman, the
one who had somehow learned really to _use_ his Lens!

"Wolmark, call every vessel at Boyssia base," he directed, crisply.
"Keep on calling them until some one answers. Get whoever is in charge
there now and put him on me here."

A few minutes of silence followed, then Vice Commander Krimsky
reported in full everything that had happened and told of the
threatened destruction of the base.

"You have an automatic speedster there, have you not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Turn over command to the next in line, with orders to move to the
nearest base, taking with him as much equipment as is possible. Caution
him to leave on time, however, for I very strongly suspect that it is
now too late to do anything to prevent the destruction of the base.
You, alone, take the speedster and bring away the personal files of the
men who went with Blakeslee. A speedster will meet you at a point to be
designated later and relieve you of the records."

       *       *       *       *       *

An hour passed--two, then three.

"Wolmark! Blakeslee and the hospital ship have vanished, I presume?"

"They have." The underling, expecting a verbal flaying, was greatly
surprised at the mildness of his chief's tone and at the studious
serenity of his face.

"Come to the center." Then, when the lieutenant was seated, "I do not
suppose that you as yet realize what--or rather, who--it is that is
doing this?"

"Why, Blakeslee is doing it, of course."

"I thought so, too, at first. That was what the one who really did it
wanted us to think."

"It must have been Blakeslee. We saw him do it, sir. How could it have
been any one else?"

"I do not know. I do know, however, and so should you, that he could
not have done it. Blakeslee, of himself, is of no importance whatever."

"We'll catch him, sir, and make him talk. He can't get away."

"You will find that you will not catch him and that he can get away.
Blakeslee alone, of course, could not do so, any more than he could
have done the things he apparently did do. No, Wolmark, we are not
dealing with Blakeslee."

"Who then, sir?"

"Haven't you deduced that yet? The Lensman, fool--the same Lensman
who has been thumbing his nose at us ever since he took one of our
first-class battleships with a speed boat and a firecracker."

"But--great blinding rockets, how?"

"Again I admit that I do not know--yet. The connection, however,
is quite evident--thought. Blakeslee was thinking thoughts utterly
beyond him. The Lens comes from Arisia. The Arisians are masters of
thought--of mental forces and processes incomprehensible to any of us.
These are the elements which, when fitted together, will give us the
complete picture."

"Still I don't see how they fit."

"Neither do I--yet. However, it should be clear to you that we do not
want that Lensman thinking such thoughts as that into this base."

"We certainly do not. However, surely he can't trace----"

"Just a moment! The time has come when it is no longer safe to say what
that Lensman cannot do. Our communicator beams are hard and tight, yes.
But any beam can be tapped if enough power be applied to it, and any
beam that can be tapped can be traced. I expect him to visit us here,
and we shall be prepared for his visit. That is the reason for this
conference with you. Here is a device which generates a field through
which no thought can penetrate. I have had this device for some time,
but for obvious reasons have not released it. Here are the diagrams and
complete constructional data. Have a few hundred of them made with all
possible speed, and see to it that every being upon this planet wears
one continuously. Impress upon every one, and I will also, that it is
of the utmost importance that absolutely continuous protection be
maintained, even while changing batteries.

"Experts have been working for some time upon the problem of protecting
the entire planet with such a screen, and there is some little hope of
success in the near future; but individual protection will still be of
the utmost importance. We cannot impress it too forcibly upon every
one that every man's life is dependent upon each one maintaining his
thought-screen in full operation at all times. That is all."

       *       *       *       *       *

When the messenger brought in the personal files of Blakeslee and the
other deserters, Helmuth and his psychologists went over them with
minutely painstaking care. The more they studied them the clearer it
became that the chief's conclusion was the correct one. Some one had,
in some way, brought an extraordinary mental pressure to bear.

Reason and logic told Helmuth that the Lensman's only purpose in
attacking the Boyssian base was to get a line on Grand Base; that
Blakeslee's flight and the destruction of the base were merely
diversions to obscure the real purpose of the visit; that the Lensman
had staged that theatrical performance especially to hold him, Helmuth,
while his beam was being traced, and that was the only reason why
the visiset was not sooner put out of action; and, finally, that the
Lensman had scored another clean hit.

He, Helmuth himself, had been caught flat-footed. His face hardened
and his jaw set at the thought. But he had not been taken in. He was
forewarned and he would be ready, for he was coldly certain that Grand
Base and he himself were the real objectives of the Lensman. That
Lensman knew full well that any number of ordinary bases, ships, and
men could be destroyed without damaging, materially, the Boskonian
cause.

Steps must be taken to make Grand Base as impregnable to mental
forces as it already was to physical ones. Otherwise, it might well
be that even Helmuth's own life would presently be at stake, and that
life was a thing precious indeed. Therefore, council after council
was held; every contingency that could be thought of was brought up
and discussed; every possible precaution was taken. In short, every
resource of Grand Base was devoted to the warding off of any possible
mental threat which might be forthcoming.

       *       *       *       *       *

Kinnison approached that star cluster with care. Small though it was,
as cosmic groups go, it yet was composed of some hundreds of stars and
an unknown number of planets. Any one of those planets might be the
one he sought, and to approach it unknowingly might prove disastrous.
Therefore, he slowed down to a crawl and crept up, light year by light
year, with his ultra-powered detectors fanning out before him to the
limit of their unimaginable reach.

He had more than half expected that he would have to search that
cluster, world by world; but in that, at least, he was pleasantly
disappointed. One corner of one of his plates began to show a dim
glow of detection. A bell tinkled and Kinnison directed his most
powerful master plate into the region indicated. This plate, while of
very narrow field, had tremendous resolving power and magnification;
and in it he saw that there were eighteen small centers of radiation
surrounding one vastly larger one.

There was no doubt then as to the location of Helmuth's base, but there
arose the question of approach. The Lensman had not considered the
possibility of a screen of lookout ships. If they were close enough
together so that their electromagnetics had even a fifty-per-cent
overlap, he might as well go back home. What were those outposts,
and exactly how closely were they spaced? He observed, advanced, and
observed again; computing finally that, whatever they were, they were
so far apart that there could be no possibility of any electro overlap
at all. He could get between them easily enough. He wouldn't even have
to baffle his flares.

They could not be guards at all, Kinnison concluded, but must be simply
outposts, set far outside the solar system of the planet they guarded;
not to ward off one-man speedsters, but to warn Helmuth of the possible
approach of a force large enough to threaten the Grand Base of Boskonia.

Closer and closer Kinnison flashed, discovering that the central
object was indeed a base, startling in its immensity and completely
and intensively fortified; and that the outposts were huge, floating
fortresses, practically stationary in space relative to the sun of the
solar system they surrounded. The Lensman aimed at the center of the
imaginary square formed by four of the outposts and drove in as close
to the planet as he dared. Then, going inert, he set his speedster
into an orbit--he did not care particularly about its shape, provided
that it was not too narrow an ellipse--and cut off all his power. He
was now safe from detection. Leaning back in his seat and closing his
eyes, he hurled his sense of perception into and through the massed
fortifications of Grand Base.

For a long time he did not find a single living creature. He traversed
hundreds of miles, perceiving only automatic machinery, bank after
towering, mile-square bank of accumulators, and remote-controlled
projectors and other weapons and apparatus. Finally, however, he came
to Helmuth's dome; and in that dome he received another severe shock.
The personnel in that dome were to be numbered by the hundreds, but he
could not make mental contact with any one of them. He could not touch
their minds at all; he was stopped cold. Every member of Helmuth's band
was protected by a thought-screen as effective as the Lensman's own!

Around and around the planet the speedster circled, while Kinnison
struggled with this new and entirely unexpected setback. This looked
as though Helmuth knew what was coming. Helmuth was nobody's fool,
Kinnison knew; but how could he possibly have suspected that a mental
attack was in the book? Perhaps he was just playing safe. If so, the
Lensman's chance would come. Men would be careless; batteries weakened
and would have to be changed.

But this hope was also vain, as continued watching revealed that each
battery was listed, checked, and timed. Nor was any screen released,
even for an instant, when its battery was changed; the fresh power
source being slipped into service before the weakening one was
disconnected.

"Well, that proves that Helmuth _knows_," Kinnison cogitated, after
watching vainly several such changes. "He's a wise old bird. The guy
really has jets. I still don't see what I did that could have put him
wise to what was going on."

       *       *       *       *       *

Day after day the Lensman studied every detail of construction,
operation, and routine of that base, and finally an idea began to dawn.
He shot his attention toward a barracks he had inspected frequently of
late, but stopped, irresolute.

"Uh-uh, Kim, maybe better not," he advised himself. "Helmuth's mighty
quick on the trigger, to figure out that Boyssian thing so fast----"

His projected thought was sheared off without warning, thus settling
the question definitely. Helmuth's big apparatus was at work; the whole
planet was screened against thought.

"Oh, well, probably better, at that," Kinnison went on arguing with
himself. "If I'd tried it out maybe he'd have got onto it and laid me
a stymie next time, when I really need it."

Since he had accomplished everything that he could do for the time
being, he went free and hurled his speedster toward Earth, now distant
indeed. Several times during that long trip he was sorely tempted to
call Haynes through his Lens and get things started; but he always
thought better of it. This was altogether too important a thing to
be sent through so much subether, or even to be thought about except
inside an absolutely thought-tight room. And besides, every waking hour
of even that long trip could be spent very profitably in digesting and
correlating the information he had obtained and in mapping out the
salient features of the campaign that was to come. Therefore, before
time began to drag, Kinnison landed at Prime Base and was granted
instant audience with Port Admiral Haynes.

"Mighty glad to see you, son," Haynes greeted the young Lensman
cordially, as he sealed the room thought-tight. "Since you came in
under your own power, I assume that you are here to make a constructive
report?"

"Better than that, sir. I'm here to start something in a big way. I
know at last where their Grand Base is, and have detailed plans of it.
I think that I know who and where Boskone is. I know where Helmuth is,
and I have worked out a plan whereby, if it works, we can wipe out that
base, Boskone, Helmuth, and all the lesser master minds, at one wipe."

"Holy jumping rockets!" For the first time since Kinnison had known him
the old man lost his poise. He leaped to his feet and seized Kinnison
by the arm. "I knew you were good, but not _that_ good! The Arisians
gave you the treatments you wanted, then?"

"They sure did," and the younger man reported as briefly as possible
everything that had happened, then outlined the plan upon which he had
been working so long.

"I am just as sure that Helmuth is Boskone as I can be of anything
that can't be proved," Kinnison declared, bending over a huge chart
and sketching rapidly. "Helmuth speaks for Boskone, and nobody else
ever does, not even Boskone himself. None of the other big shots know
anything about Boskone or ever heard him speak; but they all jump
through their hoops when Helmuth, 'speaking for Boskone,' cracks the
whip. And I couldn't get a trace of Helmuth ever taking anything up
with any higher-ups. Therefore, I am dead certain that when we get
Helmuth we get Boskone.

       *       *       *       *       *

"But that's going to be a real job of work. I scouted his headquarters
from stem to gudgeon, as I told you; and Grand Base is absolutely
impregnable as it stands. I never imagined anything like it. It makes
Prime Base here look like a deserted cross roads after a hard winter.
They've got screens, pits, projectors, accumulators, all on a gigantic
scale. In fact, they've got everything. But you can get all that from
the tape. I have learned definitely that we cannot take them by any
possible direct frontal attack. Even if we attacked with every ship and
mauler we've got throughout the galaxy they could stand us off. And
they can match us, ship for ship. We'd never get near that base at all
if they knew that we were coming."

"Well, if it's such an impossible job, what----"

"I'm coming to that. It is impossible as it stands; but there's a good
chance that I'll be able to soften Grand Base up. You know, like a
worm--bore from within. Anyway, that's the only possible way to do it,
so I've got to try it. You'll have to put detector nullifiers on every
ship assigned to the job, but that'll be easy. I would suggest sending
all the maulers and first-class battleships we've got, but you will,
of course, work that out later."

"The important thing, as I gather it, is timing."

"Absolutely to the minute, since I won't be able to communicate, once I
get inside their thought-screens. How long will it take to concentrate
everything we've got and put it in that cluster?"

"Seven weeks--eight at the outside."

"Plus two for allowances. QX. At exactly Hour 20, ten weeks from
to-day, let every projector of every vessel that you can possibly get
there cut loose on that base with everything they can pour in. Where's
that other print? Here--twenty-six main objectives, you see. Blast
them all, simultaneously to the second. If they all go down, the rest
will be possible. If not, it will be just too bad. Then work along
these lines here, straight from those twenty-six stations to the dome,
blasting everything as you go. Make it last exactly fifteen minutes,
not a minute more or less. If, by fifteen minutes after twenty, the
main dome hasn't surrendered by cutting its screens, blast that, too,
if you can. It'll take a lot of blasting, I'm afraid. From then on you
and the fleet commander will have to do whatever is appropriate to the
occasion."

"Your plan doesn't cover that, apparently. Where will you be? How will
_you_ be fixed--if the main dome does not cut its screens?"

"I'll be dead, and you'll be just starting the damnedest war that this
galaxy ever saw."




                                XXIII.


While servicing and checking over the speedster required only a couple
of hours, Kinnison did not leave Earth for almost two days. He had
requisitioned much special equipment, the construction of one item
of which--a suit of armor such as had never been seen upon Earth
before--caused almost all of the delay. When it was ready the greatly
interested port admiral accompanied the young Lensman out to the
steel-lined, sand-filled concrete dugout, in which the suit had already
been mounted upon a remote-controlled dummy. Fifty feet from that dummy
there was a heavy, water-cooled machine rifle, with its armored crew
standing by. As the two approached the crew leaped to attention.

"As you were," Haynes instructed.

"You checked those cartridges against those I brought in from Aldebaran
I?" asked Kinnison of the officer in charge, as, accompanied by the
port admiral, he crouched down behind the shields of the control panel.

"Yes, sir. These are twenty-five per cent over, as you specified."

"QX--commence firing!" Then, as the weapon clamored out its stuttering,
barking roar, Kinnison made the dummy stoop, turn, bend, twist, and
dodge, so as to bring its every plate, joint, and member into the hail
of steel. The uproar stopped.

"One thousand rounds, sir," the officer reported.

"No holes--no dents--not a scratch or a scar," Kinnison reported, after
a minute examination, and got into the thing. "Now give me two thousand
rounds, unless I tell you to stop. Shoot!"

Again the machine rifle burst into its ear-shattering song of hate;
and, strong as Kinnison was and powerfully braced by the blast of his
drivers, he could not stand against the awful force of those bullets.
Over he went, backward, and the firing ceased.

"Keep it up!" he snapped. "Think they're going to quit shooting at me
because I fall down?"

"But you had had nineteen hundred!" protested the officer.

"Keep on pecking until you run out of ammunition or until I tell you to
stop," ordered Kinnison. "I've got to learn how to handle this thing
under fire." The storm of metal again began to crash against the
reverberating shell of steel.

It hurled the Lensman down, rolled him over and over, slammed him
against the backstop. Again and again he struggled upright, only to
be hurled again to ground as the riflemen, really playing the game
now, swung their leaden hail from part to part of the armor, and
varied their attack from steady fire to short, but savage, bursts. But
finally, in spite of everything the gun crew could do, Kinnison learned
his controls.

       *       *       *       *       *

Then, drivers flaring, he faced that howling, chattering muzzle and
strode straight into the stream of smoke- and flame-enshrouded steel.
Now the air was literally full of metal. Bullets and fragments of
bullets whined and shrieked in mad abandon as they ricocheted off
that armor in all directions. Sand and bits of concrete flew hither
and yon, filling the atmosphere of the dugout. The rifle yammered at
maximum, with its sweating crew laboring mightily to keep its voracious
maw full-fed. But, in spite of everything, Kinnison held his line and
advanced. He was a bare ten feet from that raving, steel-vomiting
muzzle when the firing again ceased.

"Twenty thousand, sir," the officer reported, crisply. "We'll have to
change barrels before we can give you any more."

"That's enough!" snapped Haynes. "Come out of there!"

Out Kinnison came. He removed heavy ear plugs, swallowed four times,
blinked and grimaced. Finally he spoke. "It works perfectly, sir,
except for the noise. It's a good thing I've got a Lens. Even though I
was wearing plugs, I won't be able to hear a sound for three days!"

"How about the springs and shock absorbers? Are you bruised anywhere?
You took some real bumps."

"Perfect--not a bruise. Let's look her over."

Every inch of that armor's surface was now marked by blurs, where the
metal of the bullets had rubbed on the shining alloy, but that surface
was neither scratched, scored, nor dented.

"QX, boys--thanks," Kinnison dismissed the riflemen. They probably
wondered how any man could see through a helmet built up of
inches-thick laminated alloys, with neither window nor port through
which to look; but if so, they made no mention of their curiosity.
They, too, were patrolmen.

"Is that thing an armor or a personal tank?" asked Haynes. "I aged ten
years while that was going on; but, at that, I'm glad you insisted on
testing it as you did. You can get away with anything now."

"I've found that it is much better technique to learn things among
friends here, than among enemies." Kinnison laughed. "It's heavy, of
course--over three hundred kilos, net. I won't be walking around in it
much, though; and even that little I'll be flying it instead of walking
it. Well, sir, since everything's all set, I think I'd better fly it
over to the speedster and start flitting, don't you? I don't know
exactly how much time I am going to need on Trenco."

"Might as well," the port admiral agreed, as casually, and Kinnison was
gone.

"What a man!" Haynes stared after the monstrous figure until it
vanished in the distance, then strolled slowly toward his office,
thinking as he went.

       *       *       *       *       *

Nurse MacDougall had been highly irked and incensed at Kinnison's
casual departure, without idle conversation or formal leave
takings. Not so Haynes. That seasoned campaigner knew that gray
Lensmen--particularly young gray Lensmen--were prone to get that way.
He knew, in a way she never would and never could know, that Kinnison
was no longer of Earth.

He was now only of the galaxy, not of any one tiny dust grain of it.
He was of the patrol. He _was_ the patrol, and he was taking his new
responsibilities very seriously indeed. In his fierce zeal to drive his
campaign through to a successful end he would use man or woman, singly
or in groups, ships, even Prime Base itself, exactly as he had used
them: as pawns, as mere tools, as means to an end. And, having used
them, he would leave them as unconcernedly and as unceremoniously as
he would drop pliers and spanner, and with no realization that he had
violated any of the nicer amenities of life as it is lived!

And as he strolled along and thought, the port admiral smiled quietly
to himself. He knew, as Kinnison would learn in time, that the
universe was vast, that time was long, and that the Scheme of Things,
comprising the whole of eternity and the cosmic all, was a something
incomprehensibly immense indeed. With which cryptic thought the
space-hardened veteran sat down at his desk and resumed his interrupted
labors.

But Kinnison had not yet attained Haynes' philosophic viewpoint,
any more than he had his age, and to him the trip to Trenco seemed
positively interminable. Eager as he was to put his plan of campaign
to the test, he found that mental urgings, or even audible invectives,
would not make the speedster go any faster than the already
incomprehensible top speed of her drivers' maximum blast. Nor did
pacing up and down the little control room seem to help very much.
Physical exercise he had to perform, but it did not satisfy him. Mental
exercise was impossible; he could think of nothing except Helmuth's
base.

       *       *       *       *       *

Eventually, however, he approached Trenco and located, without
difficulty, the patrol's space port. Fortunately, it was then at about
eleven o'clock, so that he did not have to wait long to land. He drove
downward inert, sending a thought ahead of him: "Lensman of Trenco
Space Port--Tregonsee or his relief? Lensman Kinnison of Sol III asking
permission to land."

"It is Tregonsee," came back the thought. "Welcome, Kinnison. You are
on the correct line. You have, then, perfected an apparatus to see
truly in this distorting medium?"

"I didn't perfect it--it was given to me."

The landing bars lashed out, seized the speedster, and eased her down
into the lock; and, as soon as she had been disinfected, Kinnison went
into consultation with Tregonsee. The Rigellian was a highly important
factor in the Tellurian's scheme; and, since he was also a Lensman, he
was to be trusted implicitly.

Therefore, Kinnison told him briefly what occurred and what he had it
in mind to do, concluding: "So you see, I need about fifty kilograms of
thionite. Not fifty milligrams, or even grams, but fifty _kilograms_;
and, since there probably isn't that much of the stuff loose in the
whole galaxy, I came over here to ask you to make it for me."

Just like that. Calmly asking a Lensman, whose sworn duty it was to
kill any being even attempting to gather a single Trenconian plant, to
make for him more of the prohibited drug than was ordinarily processed
throughout the galaxy during a solarian month! It would be just such
an errand were one to walk into the treasury department in Washington
and inform the chief of the narcotics bureau, quite nonchalantly, that
he had dropped in to pick up ten tons of heroin! But Tregonsee did not
flinch or question--he was not even surprised. This was a gray Lensman,
and his plan would work.

"That should not be too difficult," Tregonsee replied, after a moment's
study. "We have several thionite processing units, confiscated from
zwilnik ships and not yet picked up by headquarters; and all of us
are, of course, quite familiar with the technique of extracting and
purifying the drug."

He issued orders and shortly Trenco Space Port presented the astounding
spectacle of a full crew of the Galactic Patrol devoting its every
energy to the whole-hearted breaking of the one law it was supposed
most rigidly, and without fear or favor, to enforce!

       *       *       *       *       *

It was a little after noon, the calmest hour of Trenco's day. The wind
had died to "nothing"; which, on that planet, meant that a strong man
could stand against it; could even, if he were agile as well as strong,
walk about in it. Therefore, Kinnison donned his light armor and was
soon busily harvesting the purple-leaved plants, which, he had been
informed, were the richest sources of thionite.

He had been working for only a few minutes when one of the "natives"
came crawling up to him; and, after ascertaining that his hard steel
armor was not good to eat, drew off and observed him intently. Here was
another opportunity for practice, and in a flash the Lensman availed
himself of it. Having practiced for hours upon the minds of various
Earthly animals, he entered this mind easily enough, finding that the
Trenconian "flat" was considerably more intelligent than a dog. So much
so, in fact, that the race had already developed a fairly comprehensive
language.

Therefore, it did not take long for the Lensman to learn to use his
subject's peculiar limbs and other members, and soon the flat was
working like a Trojan. And, since he was ideally adapted for his wildly
raging Trenconian environment, he actually accomplished more than all
the rest of the force combined.

"It's a dirty trick I'm playing on you, fellow," Kinnison told his
helper after a while. "Come on into the receiving room and I'll see if
I can square it with you."

Since food was the only logical tender, Kinnison brought out from
his speedster a small can of salmon, a package of cheese, a bar of
chocolate, a few lumps of sugar, and a potato, offering them to the
Trenconian in order. The salmon and the cheese were both highly
acceptable fare. The morsel of chocolate was a delightfully surprising
delicacy. The lump of sugar, however, was what really rang the bell.
Kinnison's own mind felt the shock of pure ecstasy as that wonderful
substance dissolved in the trenco's mouth. He also ate the potato,
of course--any Trenconian animal will, at any time, eat anything
containing carbon, even limerock, gasoline, or truck grease--but it was
merely food, nothing to rave about.

Knowing now what to do, Kinnison led his assistant out into the
howling, shrieking gale and released him from control, throwing a lump
of sugar upwind as he did so. The trenco seized it in the air, ate it,
and went into a very hysteria of joy.

"More! More!" he insisted, attempting to climb up the Lensman's armored
leg.

"You must work for more of it, if you want it," Kinnison explained.
"Break off these plants here and carry them over into that empty thing
over there, and you get more."

This was an entirely new idea to the native, but after Kinnison had
taken hold of his mind and had shown him how to do consciously that
which he had been doing unconsciously for an hour, he worked willingly
enough. In fact, before it started to rain, thereby putting an end to
the labor of the day, there were a dozen of them toiling at the harvest
and the crop was coming in as fast as the entire crew of Rigellians
could process it. And even after the space port was sealed they crowded
up, paying no attention to the rain, bringing in their small loads of
leaves and plaintively asking admittance.

       *       *       *       *       *

It took some little time for Kinnison to make them understand that the
day's work was done, but that they were to come back to-morrow morning.
Finally, however, he succeeded in getting the idea across, and the
last disconsolate turtle-man went reluctantly away. But sure enough,
next morning, even before the mud had dried, the same twelve were back
on the job. The two Lensmen wondered simultaneously how those trencos
could have found the space port. Or had they stayed near it through the
storm and flood of the night?

"I don't know," Kinnison answered the unasked question, "but I can
find out." Again and more carefully he examined the minds of two or
three of them. "No, they didn't follow us," he reported then. "They're
not as dumb as I thought they were. They have a sense of perception,
Tregonsee, about the same thing, I judge, as yours--perhaps even more
so. I wonder--why couldn't they be trained into mighty efficient police
assistants on this planet?"

"The way _you_ handle them, yes. I can converse with them a little, of
course, but they have never before shown any willingness to coöperate
with us."

"You never fed them sugar." Kinnison laughed. "You have sugar, of
course--or do you? I was forgetting that many races do not use it at
all."

"We Rigellians are one of those races. Starch is so much tastier and
so much better adapted to our body chemistry that sugar is used only
as a chemical. We can, however, obtain it easily enough. But there is
something else. You can tell these trencos what to do and make them
really understand you. I cannot."

"I can fix that up with a simple mental treatment that I can give you
in five minutes. Also, I can let you have enough sugar to carry on
with until you can get in a supply of your own."

In the few minutes during which the Lensmen had been discussing their
potential allies, the mud had dried and the amazing coverage of dense,
succulent "grass" was springing visibly into being. So incredibly
rapid was its growth that in ten minutes more the plants were large
enough to be gathered. The leaves were lush and rank, in color a vivid,
crimsonish purple.

"These early-morning plants are the richest of any in thionite, but
the zwilniks can never get more than a handful of them because of
the wind," remarked the Rigellian. "Now, if you will give me that
treatment, I will see what I can do with the Flats."

Kinnison did so, and the trencos worked for Tregonsee as industriously
as they had for Kinnison--and ate his sugar as rapturously.

"That is enough," decided the Rigellian presently. "This will finish
your fifty kilograms and to spare."

He then "paid off" his now enthusiastic helpers, with instructions
to return when the sun was directly overhead, for more work and more
sugar. And this time they did not complain, nor did they loiter around
or bring in unwanted vegetation. They were learning fast.

Well before noon the last kilogram of impalpable, purplish-blue powder
was put into its impermeable sack. The machinery was cleaned; the
untouched leaves, the waste, and the contaminated air were blown out
of the space port; and the room and its occupants were sprayed with
anti-thionite. Then and only then did the crew remove their masks and
air filters. Trenco Space Port was again a patrol post, no longer a
zwilnik's paradise.

"Thanks, Tregonsee, and all you fellows----" Kinnison paused, then went
on, dubiously, "I don't suppose that you will----"

"We will not," declared Tregonsee. "Our time is yours, as you know,
without payment; and time is all that we gave you, really."

"Sure--that and about a thousand million credits' worth of thionite."

"That, of course, does not count, as you also know. You have helped us,
I think, even more than we have helped you."

"I hope that I have done you some good, anyway. Well, I've got to flit.
Thanks again. I'll see you sometime, maybe." And again the Tellurian
Lensman was on his way.




                                 XXIV.


Kinnison approached Star Cluster AC 257-4736 warily, as before; and as
before he insinuated his speedster through the loose outer cordon of
guardian fortresses. This time, however, he did not steer even remotely
near Helmuth's world. He would be there too long; there was altogether
too much risk of electromagnetic detection to set his ship into any
kind of an orbit around _that_ planet. Instead, he had computed a
long, narrow, elliptical orbit around its sun, well inside the zone
guarded by the maulers. He could compute it only approximately, of
course, since he did not know exactly either the masses involved or the
perturbing forces; but he thought that he could find his ship again
with an electro. If not, she would not be an irreplaceable loss. He set
the speedster, then, into the outward leg of that orbit and took off in
his new armor.

He knew that there was a thought-screen around Helmuth's planet,
and suspected that there might be other screens as well. Therefore,
shutting off every watt of power, he dropped straight down into the
night side, well clear of the citadel's edge. His flares were, of
course, heavily baffled; but even so he did not put on his brakes
until it was absolutely necessary. He landed heavily, then sprang
away in long, free hops, until he reached his previously selected
destination: a great cavern thickly shielded with iron ore and fully
five thousand miles from his point of descent. Deep within that cavern
he hid himself, then searched intently for any sign that his approach
had been observed. There was no such sign. So far, so good.

But during his search he had perceived with a slight shock that
Helmuth had tightened his defenses even more. Not only was every man
in the dome screened against thought, but also each was now wearing
full armor. Had he protected the dogs, too? Or killed them? No real
matter if he had--any kind of a pet animal would do; or, in a pinch,
even a wild rock-lizard! Nevertheless, he shot his perception into
the particular barracks he had noted so long before, and found with
some relief that the dogs were still there, and that they were still
unprotected. It had not occurred, even to Helmuth's cautious mind, that
a dog could be a source of mental danger.

With all due precaution against getting even a single grain of the
stuff into his own system, Kinnison transferred his thionite into the
special container in which it was to be used. Another day sufficed to
observe and to memorize the personnel of the gateway observers, their
positions, and the sequence in which they took the boards. Then the
Lensman, still almost a week ahead of schedule, settled down to await
the time when he should make his next move. Nor was this waiting unduly
irksome; now that everything was ready he could be as patient as a cat
on duty at a mouse hole.

       *       *       *       *       *

The time came to act. Kinnison took over the mind of the dog, which
at once moved over to the bunk in which one particular observer lay
asleep. There would be no chance whatever of gaining control of any
observer while he was actually on the board, but here in barracks it
was almost ridiculously easy. The dog crept along on soundless paws; a
long, slim nose reached out and up; sharp teeth closed delicately upon
a battery lead; out came the plug. The thought-screen went down, and
instantly Kinnison was in charge of the fellow's mind.

And when that observer went on duty his first act was to admit Kimball
Kinnison, gray Lensman, to the Grand Base of Boskone! Low and fast
Kinnison flew, while the observer so placed his body as to shield from
any chance passer-by the all-too-revealing surface of his visiplate. In
a few minutes the Lensman reached a portal of the dome itself. Those
doors also opened--and closed behind him. He released the mind of the
observer and watched briefly. Nothing happened. All was still well!

Then, in every barracks save one, using whatever came to hand in the
way of dog or other unshielded animal, Kinnison wrought briefly but
effectively. He did not slay by mental force--he did not have enough
of that to spare--but the mere turn of an inconspicuous valve would do
just as well. Some of those now idle men would probably live to answer
Helmuth's call to extra duty, but not too many--nor would those who
obeyed that summons live long thereafter.

Down stairway after stairway he dived, down to the compartment in which
was housed the great air purifier. Now let them come! Even if they had
a spy ray on him, now it would be too late to do them a bit of good.
And now, by all the gods of space, that fleet had better be out there,
getting ready to blast!

It was. From all over the galaxy that grand fleet had been assembled;
every patrol base had been stripped of almost everything mobile that
could throw a beam. Every vessel carried either a Lensman or some
other highly trusted officer; and each such officer had two detector
nullifiers--one upon his person, the other in his locker--either one of
which would protect his whole ship from detection.

In long lines, singly and at intervals, those untold thousands of ships
had crept between the vessels guarding Grand Base. Nor were the outpost
crews to blame. They had been on duty for months, and not even an
asteroid had relieved the monotony. Nothing had happened or would. They
watched their plates steadily enough--and, if they did nothing more,
why should they? And what could they have done? How could they suspect
that such a thing as a detector nullifier had been invented?

       *       *       *       *       *

The patrol's grand fleet, then, was already massing over its primary
objectives, each vessel in a rigidly assigned position. The pilots,
captains, and navigators were chatting among themselves jerkily and
in low tones, as though even to raise their voices might reveal
prematurely to the enemy the concentration of the patrol forces. The
firing officers were already at their boards, eyeing hungrily the small
switches which they could not throw for so many long minutes yet.

And far below, beside the pirates' air purifier, Kinnison released the
locking toggles of his armor and leaped out. To burn a hole in the
primary duct took only a second. To drop into that duct his container
of thionite, to drench that container with the reagent which would in
sixty seconds dissolve completely that container's substance without
affecting either its contents or the metal of the duct, to slap a
flexible adhesive patch over the hole in the duct, and to leap back
into his armor--all these things required only a trifle over one
minute. Eleven minutes to go--QX.

Then in the last barracks, even while the Lensman was arrowing up
the stairways, a dog again deprived a sleeping man of his thought
screen. That man, however, instead of going to work, took up a pair
of pliers and proceeded to cut the battery leads of every sleeper in
the barracks, severing them so close that no connection could be made
without removing the armor.

As those leads were severed, men woke up and dashed into the dome.
Along catwalk after catwalk they raced, and apparently that was all
that they were doing. But each runner, as he passed a man on duty,
flicked a battery plug out of its socket; and that observer, at
Kinnison's command, opened the face plate of his armor and breathed
deeply of the now drug-laden atmosphere.

Thionite, as has been intimated, is perhaps the worst of all known
habit-forming drugs. In almost infinitesimal doses it gives rise
to a state in which the victim seems actually to experience the
gratification of his every desire, whatever that desire may be. The
larger the dose, the more intense the sensation, until--and very
quickly--the dosage is reached at which he passes into such an ecstatic
stupor that not a single nerve can force a stimulus into his frenzied
brain. In this stage he dies.

Thus there was no alarm, no outcry, no warning. Each observer sat or
stood entranced, holding exactly the pose he had been in at the instant
of opening his face plate. But now, instead of paying attention to
his duty, he was plunging deeper and deeper into the paroxysmally
ecstatic profundity of a thionite debauch from which there was to be
no awakening. Therefore, half of that mighty dome was unmanned before
Helmuth even realized that anything at all out of order was going on.

As soon as he realized that something was amiss, however, he sounded
the "all-hands-on-duty" alarm and rapped out instructions to the
officers in the barracks. But the cloud of death had arrived there
first, and to his consternation not one quarter of those officers
responded. Quite a number of men did get into the dome, but every one
of them collapsed before reaching the catwalks. And three fourths of
his working force were _hors de combat_ before he located Kinnison's
speeding messengers.

"Blast them down!" Helmuth shrieked, pointing, gesticulating madly.

Blast whom down? The minions of the Lensman were themselves blasting
away now, right and left, shouting contradictory but supposedly
authoritative orders.

"Blast those men not on duty!" Helmuth's raging voice now filled the
dome. "You, at Board 479! Blast that man on Catwalk 28, at Board 495!"

With such detailed instructions, Kinnison's agents, one by one, ceased
to be. But as one was beamed down another took his place, and soon
every one of the few remaining living pirates in the dome was blasting
indiscriminately at every other one. And then, to cap the Saturnalian
climax, came the zero second.

       *       *       *       *       *

The grand fleet of the Galactic Patrol had assembled. Every cruiser,
every battleship, every mauler hung poised above its assigned target.
Every vessel was stripped for action. Every accumulator cell was full
to its ultimate watt; every generator and every arm was tuned and
peaked to its highest attainable efficiency. Every firing officer upon
every ship sat tensely at his board, his hand hovering near, but not
touching, his firing keys, his eyes fixed glaringly upon the second
hand of his synchronized electric timer, his ears scarcely hearing the
droning, soothing voice of Port Admiral Haynes.

For the old man had insisted upon giving the firing order himself, and
he now sat at the master timer, speaking into the master microphone.
Beside him sat von Hohendorff, the grand old commandant of cadets. Both
of these veterans had thought long since that they were done with space
war forever; but only an order of the full Galactic Council could have
kept either of them at home. They were grimly determined that they
were going to be in at the death, even though they were not at all
certain whose death it was to be. If it should turn out that it was
to be Helmuth's, all well and good--everything would be on the green.
If, on the other hand, young Kinnison had to go, they would, in all
probability, have to go, too--and so be it.

"Now remember, boys, keep your hands off those keys until I give you
the word." Haynes' soothing voice droned on, giving no hint of the
terrific strain he himself was under. "I'll give you lots of warning.
I am going to count the last five seconds for you. I know that you all
want to shoot the first bolt, but remember that I, personally, will
strangle any and every one of you who beats my signal by a thousandth
of a second. It won't be long now; the second hand is starting around
on its last lap. Keep your hands off those keys. Keep away from them, I
tell you, or I'll smack you down. Fifteen seconds yet. Stay away, boys;
let 'em alone. Going to start counting now." His voice dropped lower
and lower. "Five--four--three--two--one--_fire!_" he yelled.

Perhaps some of the boys did beat the gun a trifle; but not many, or
much. To all intents and purposes it was one simultaneous blast of
destruction that flashed down from a hundred thousand projectors,
each delivering the maximum blast of which it was capable. There was
no thought now of service life, of equipment or of holding anything
back for a later effort. They had to hold that blast for only fifteen
minutes; and if the task ahead of them could not be done in those
fifteen minutes it probably could not be done at all.

Therefore, it is entirely useless even to attempt to describe what
happened then, or to portray the spectacle that ensued when beam met
screen. Why try to describe high C to a man born deaf? Suffice it to
say that those patrol beams bored down, and that Helmuth's automatic
screens resisted to the limit of their ability. Nor was that resistance
small. It was of such power that, years later, astronomers observed and
recorded a peculiarly behaving Nova in Star Cluster AC 257-4736.

Had Helmuth's customary staff of keen-eyed, quick-witted lieutenants
been at their posts, to reënforce those primary screens with the
practically unlimited power which could have been put behind them, his
defenses would not have failed, even under the unimaginable force of
that Titanic thrust; but those lieutenants were not at their posts. The
screens of the twenty-six primary objectives failed, and the twenty-six
stupendous flotillas moved slowly, grandly, voraciously, each along its
designated line.

       *       *       *       *       *

Every alarm in Helmuth's dome had burst into frantic warning as the
massed might of the Galactic Patrol was first hurled against the
twenty-six vital points of Grand Base; but those alarms clamored in
vain. No hands were raised to the switches whose closing would unleash
the hellish energies of Boskone's irresistible projectors; no eyes were
upon the sighting devices which would align them against the attacking
ships of war.

Only Helmuth, in his inner-shielded control compartment, was left;
and Helmuth was the directing intelligence, the master mind, and not
a mere operator. And, now that he had no operators to direct, he was
utterly helpless. He could see the stupendous fleet of the patrol; he
could understand fully its dire menace; but he could neither stiffen
his screens nor energize a single beam. He could only sit, grinding
his teeth in helpless fury, and watch the destruction of the armament
which, if it could only have been in operation, would have blasted
those battleships and maulers from the skies as though they had been so
many fluffy bits of thistledown.

Time after time he leaped to his feet, as if about to dash across
to one of the control stations; but each time he sank back into his
seat at the desk. One firing station would be little, if any, better
than none at all. Besides, that accursed Lensman was back of this. He
was--must be--right here in the dome, somewhere. He _wanted_ him to
leave this desk; that was what he was waiting for! As long as he stayed
at the desk he himself was safe. For that matter, this whole dome
was safe. The projector had never been mounted that could break down
_those_ screens. No--no matter what happened, he would stay at the desk!

Kinnison, watching, marveled at his fortitude. He himself could not
have stayed there, he knew; and he also knew now that Helmuth was going
to stay. Time was flying; five of the fifteen minutes were gone. He had
hoped that Helmuth would leave that well-protected inner sanctum, with
its unknown potentialities; but if the pirate would not come out, the
Lensman would go in. The storming of that inner stronghold was what his
new armor had been designed for.

       *       *       *       *       *

In he went, but he did not catch Helmuth napping. Even before he
crashed the screens his own defensive zones burst into furiously
coruscant activity, and through that flame there came tearing the
metallic slugs of a high-caliber machine rifle.

Ha! There _was_ a rifle, even though he had not been able to find
it! Clever guy, that Helmuth! And what a break that he had taken
time to learn how to hold this suit up against the trickiest kind of
machine-rifle fire!

Kinnison's screens were almost those of a battleship; his armor
almost, relatively, as strong. And he could hold that armor upright.
Therefore, through the raging beam of the semiportable projector he
plowed, and straight up that torrent of raging steel he drove his way.
And now from his own mighty projector, against Helmuth's armor, there
raved out a beam scarcely less potent than that of a semiportable. The
Lensman's armor did not mount a water-cooled machine rifle--there was
a limit to what even that powerful structure could carry--but grimly,
with every faculty of his newly enlarged mind concentrated upon that
thought-screened, armored head behind the belching gun, Kinnison held
his line and forged ahead.

[Illustration: _But Helmuth could not now reach that ball of
force--and Kinnison's mighty armor forged undamaged through the hail of
metal._]

Well it was that the Lensman _was_ concentrating upon that screened
head; for when the screen weakened slightly and a thought began to seep
through it toward an enigmatically sparkling ball of force, Kinnison
was ready. He blanketed the thought savagely, before it could take
form, and attacked the screen so viciously that Helmuth had either to
restore full coverage instantly or die then and there. For the Lensman
had studied that ball long and earnestly. It was the one thing about
the whole base that he could not understand, the one thing, therefore,
of which he had been uneasily afraid.

But he was afraid of it no longer. It was operated, he now knew, by
thought; and, no matter how terrific its potentialities might be, it
now was and would remain perfectly harmless; for if the pirate chief
softened his screen enough to emit a thought, he would never think
again.

Therefore, Kinnison rushed. At full blast he hurdled the rifle and
crashed full against the armored figure behind it. Magnetic clamps
locked and held; and, driving projectors furiously ablaze, he whirled
around and forced the madly struggling Helmuth back, toward the line
along which the bellowing rifle was still spewing forth a continuous
storm of metal.

Helmuth's utmost efforts sufficed only to throw the Lensman out of
balance, and both figures crashed to the floor. Now the madly fighting
armored pair rolled over and over--straight into the line of fire.

First Kinnison--the bullets whining, shrieking off the armor of his
personal battleship and crashing through or smashing ringingly against
whatever happened to be in the ever-changing line of ricochet. Then
Helmuth--and the fierce-driven metal slugs tore, in their multitudes,
through his armor and through his body, riddling his every vital organ.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Transcriber's Note: Chapter V. heading missing in original text.]