Kathryn Kinnison, trim and taut in black glamorette, strolled into the breakfast

nook humming a lilting song. Pausing before a full-length mirror, she adjusted her cocky

little black toque at an even more piquant angle over her left eye. She made a couple of

passes at her riot of curls and gazed at her reflected self in high approval as, putting

both hands upon her smoothly rounded hips, she—"wriggled" is the only possible term

for it—in sheer joy of being alive.

     "Kathryn . . ." Clarrissa Kinnison chided gently. "Don't be exhibitionistic, dear."

Except in times of stress the Kinnison women used spoken language, "to keep in

practice," as they said.

     "Why not? It's fun." The tall girl bent over and kissed her mother upon the lobe of

an ear. "You're sweet, mums, you know that? You're the most precious thing—Ha!

Bacon and eggs? Goody!"

     The older woman watched half-enviously as her eldest daughter ate with the

carefree abandon of one completely unconcerned about either digestion or figure. She

had no more understood her children, ever, than a hen can understand the brood of

ducklings she has so. unwittingly hatched out, and that comparison was more strikingly

apt than Clarrissa Kinnison ever would know. She now knew, more than a little ruefully,

that she never would understand them.

     She had not protested openly at the rigor of the regime to which her son

Christopher had been subjected from birth. That, she knew, was necessary. It was

inconceivable that Kit should not be a Lensman, and for a man to become a Lensman

he had to be given everything he could possibly take. She was deeply glad, however,

that her four other babies had been girls. Her daughters were not going to be Lensmen.

She, who had known so long and so heavily the weight of Lensman's Load, would see

to that. Herself a womanly, feminine woman, she had fought with every resource at her

command to make her girl babies grow up into replicas of herself. She had failed.

     They simply would not play with dolls, nor play house with other little girls.

Instead, they insisted upon "intruding", as she considered it, upon Lensmen; preferably

upon Second-Stage Lensmen, if any one of the four chanced to be anywhere within

reach. Instead of with toys, they played with atomic engines and flitters; and, later, with

speedsters and space-ships. Instead of primers, they read galactic encyclopedias. One

of them might be at home, as now, or all of them; or none. She never did know what to

expect.

     But they were in no sense disloyal. They loved their mother with a depth of

affection which no other mother, anywhere, has ever known. They tried their best to

keep her from worrying about them. They kept in touch with her wherever they

went—which might be at whim to Tellus or to Thrale or to Alsakan or to any unplumbed

cranny of inter-galactic space—and they informed her, apparently without reservation,

as to everything they did. They loved their father and their brother and each other and

themselves with the same whole-hearted fervor they bestowed upon her. They behaved

always in exemplary fashion. None of them had ever shown or felt the slightest interest

in any one of numerous boys and men; and this trait, if the truth is to be told, Clarrissa

could understand least of all.

     No. The only thing basically wrong with them was the fact, made abundantly

clear since they first toddled, that they should not be and could not be subjected to any

jot or tittle of any form of control, however applied.

     Kathryn finished eating finally and gave her mother a bright, quick grin. "Sorry,

mums, you'll just have to give us up as hard cases, I guess." Her fine eyes, so like

Clarrissa's except in color, clouded as she went on: "I am sorry, mother, really, that we

can't be what you so want us to be. We've tried so hard, but we just can't. It's something

here, and here." She tapped one temple and prodded her midsection with a pink fore-

finger. "Call it fatalism or anything you please, but I think we're slated to do a job of

some kind, some day, even though none of us has any idea of what it's going to be."

     Clarrissa paled. "I've been thinking just that for years, dear . . . I've been afraid to

say it, or even to think it . . . You are Kim's children, and mine . . . If there ever was a

perfect, a predestined marriage, it is ours . . . And Mentor said that our marriage was

necessary . . ." She paused, and in that instant she almost perceived the truth. She was

closer to it than she had ever been before or ever would be again. But that truth was far

too vast for her mind to grasp. She went on: "But I'd do it over again, Kathryn, knowing

everything I know now. 'Vast rewards', you know . . ."

     "Of course you would," Kat interrupted. "Any girl would be a fool not to. The

minute I meet a man like dad I'm going to marry him, if I have to scratch Kay's eyes out

and snatch Cam and Con bald-headed to get him. But speaking of dad, just what do

you think of l'affaire Radelix?"

     Gone every trace of levity, both women stood up. Gold-flecked tawny eyes stared

deeply into gold-flecked eyes of dark and velvety green.

     "I don't know." Clarrissa spoke slowly, meaningfully. "Do you?"

     "No. I wish I did." Kathryn's was not the voice of a girl, but that of an avenging

angel. "As Kit says, I'd give four front teeth and my right leg to the knee joint to know

who or what is back of that, but I don't. I feel very much in the mood to do a flit out that

way."

     "Do you?" Clarrissa paused. "I'm glad. I'd go myself, in spite of everything he

says, except that I couldn't do anything . . . If that should be the job you were talking

about . . . Oh, do. anything you can, dear; anything to make sure he comes back to me!"

     "Of course, mums." Kathryn broke away almost by force from her mother's

emotion. "I don't think it is; at least, I haven't got any cosmic hunch to that effect. And

don't worry; it puts wrinkles in the girlish complexion. I'll do just a little look-see, stick

around long enough to find out what's what, and let you know all about it. "Bye."

     At high velocity Kathryn drove her indetectable speedster to Radelix, and around

and upon that planet she conducted invisible investigations. She learned a part of the

true state of affairs, she deduced more of it, but she could not see, even dimly, the

picture as a whole. This part, though, was clear enough.

     A third-level operator, she did not have to be at the one apparent mouth of a

hyper-spatial tube in order to enter it; she knew that while communication was

impossible either through such a tube from space to space or from the interior of the

tube to either space, the quality of the tube was not the barrier. The interface was.

Wherefore, knowing what to expect first and working diligently to solve the whole

problem, she waited.

     She watched Kinnison's abduction. There was nothing she could do about that.

She could not interfere then without setting up repercussions which might very well

shatter the entire structure of the Galactic Patrol. When the Boskonian ship had

disappeared, however, she tapped the tube and followed it. Almost nose to tail she

pressed it, tensely alert to do some helpful deed which could be ascribed to accident or

to luck. For she knew starkly that Kinnison's present captors would not slip and that his

every ability had been discounted in advance.

     Thus she was ready, when Kinnison's attention concentrated on the switch

controlling the Boskonian captain's thought-screen generator. There were no pets or

spiders or worms, or even gnats, but the captain could sit down. Around his screen,

then, she drove a solid beam of thought, on a channel which neither the pirate nor the

Lensman knew existed. She took over in a trice the fellow's entire mind. He sat down,

as Kinnison had so earnestly willed him to do, the merest fraction of an inch too close to

the chair's arm. The switch-handle flipped over and Kathryn snatched her mind away.

She was sure that her father would think that bit of luck purely fortuitous. She was

equally sure that the situation was safe, for a time at least, in Kinnison's highly capable

hands. She slowed down, allowed the distance between the two vessels to increase.

But she kept within range, for one or two more accidents might have to happen.

     In the instant of the flicking of the switch the captain's mind became Kinnison's.

He was going to issue orders, to take the ship over in an orderly way, but his first

contact with the subjugated mind made him change his plans. Instead of uttering orders,

the captain leaped out of the chair toward the beam-controllers.

     And not an instant too soon. Others had seen what had happened, had heard

that tell-tale click. All had been warned against that and many other contingencies. As

the captain leaped one of his fellows drew a bullet-projector and calmly shot him

through the head.

     The shock of that bullet, the death of the mind in his own mind's grasp, jarred the

Gray Lensman to the core. It was almost the same as though he himself had been

killed. Nevertheless, by sheer force of will he held on, by sheer power of will he made

that dead body take those last three steps and forced those dead hands to cut the

master circuit of the beams which were holding him helpless.

     Free, he leaped forward; but not alone. The others leaped, too, and for the same

controls. Kinnison got there first—just barely first—and as he came he swung his

armored fist.

     What a dureum-inlaid glove, driven by all the brawn of Kimball Kinnison's mighty

right arm and powerful torso backed by all the momentum of body- and armor-mass, will

do to a human head met in direct central impact is nothing to detail here. Simply, that

head splashed. Pivoting nimbly, considering his encumbering armor, he swung a terrific

leg. His steel boot sank calf-deep into the abdomen of the foe next in line. Two more

utterly irresistible blows disposed of two more of the Boskonians; the last two turned

and, frantically, ran. But the Lensman by that time had the juice back on; and when a

man has been smashed against a bulkhead by the full power of a D2P pressor, all that

remains to be done must be accomplished with a scraper and a sponge.

     Kinnison picked up his DeLameters, reconnected them, and took stock. So far,

so good. But there were other men aboard this heap—how many, he'd better find

out—and at least some of them wore dureum-inlaid armor as capable as his own.

     And in her speedster, concluding that this wasn't going to be so bad, after all,

Kathryn glowed with pride in her father's prowess. She was no shrinking violet, this

Third-Stage Lensman; she held no ruth whatever for Civilization's foes. She herself

would have driven that beam as mercilessly as had the Gray Lensman. She could have

told Kinnison what next to do; could even have inserted the knowledge stealthily into his

mind; but, heroically, she. refrained. She'd let him handle this in his own fashion as long

as he possibly could.

     The Gray Lensman sent his sense of perception abroad. Twenty more of

them—the ship wasn't very big. Ten aft, armored. Six forward, also armored. Four,

unarmored, in the control-room. That control-room was pure poison; he'd go aft first. He

searched around . . . surely they'd have dureum space-axes? Oh, yes, there they were.

He hefted them, selected one of the right weight and balance. He strode down the

companionway to the wardroom. He flung the door open and stepped inside.

     His first care was to blast the communicator panels with his DeLameters. That

would delay the. mustering of reinforcements. The control room couldn't guess, at least

for a time, that one man was setting out to capture their ship single-handed. His second,

ignoring the beams of hand-weapons splashing refulgently from his screens, was to

weld the steel door to the jamb. Then, sheathing his projectors, he swung up his axe

and went grimly to work. He thought fleetingly of how nice it would be to have

vanBuskirk, that dean of all axe-men, at his back; but he wasn't too old or too fat to

swing a pretty mean axe himself. And, fortunately, these Boskonians, here in their

quarters, didn't have axes. They were heavy, clumsy, and for emergency use only; they

were not a part of the regular uniform, as with Valerians.

     The first foe swung up his DeLameter involuntarily as Kinnison's axe swept

down. When the curved blade, driven as viciously as the Lensman's strength could drive

it, struck the ray-gun it did not even pause. Through it it sliced, the severed halves

falling to the floor.

     The dureum inlay of the glove held, and glove and axe smashed together against

the helmet. The Boskonian went down with a crash; but, beyond a broken arm or some

such trifle, he wasn't hurt much. And no armor that a man had to carry around could be

made of solid dureum. Hence, Kinnison reversed his weapon and swung again, aiming

carefully at a point between the inlay strips. The axe's wicked beak tore through steel

and skull and brain, stopping only with the sharply ringing impact of dureum shaft

against dureum stripping.

     They were coming at him now, not only with DeLameters, but with whatever of

steel bars and spanners and bludgeons they could find. QX—his armor could take

oodles of that. They might dent it, but they couldn't possibly get through. Planting one

boot solidly on his victim's helmet, he wrenched his axe out through flesh and bone and

metal—no fear of breakage; not even a Valerian's full savage strength could break the

helve of a space-axe—and struck again. And struck —and struck.

     He fought his way to the door—two of the survivors were trying to unseal it and

get away. They failed; and, in failing, died. A couple of the remaining enemies shrieked

and ran in blind panic, and tried to hide; the others battled desperately on. But whether

they ran or fought there was only one possible end, if the Patrolman were to survive. No

enemy must or could be left alive behind him, to bring to bear upon his back some semi-

portable weapon with whose energies his armor's screens could not cope.

     When the grisly business was over Kinnison, panting, rested briefly. This was the

first real brawl he had been in for twenty years; and for a veteran—a white-collar man, a

coordinator to boot—he hadn't done so bad, he thought. It was damned hard work and,

while he was maybe a hair short of wind, he hadn't weakened a particle. To here, QX.

     And lovely Kathryn, far enough back but not too far and reading imperceptibly his

every thought, agreed with him enthusiastically. She did not have a father complex, but

in common with her sisters she knew exactly what her father was. With equal exactitude

she knew what other men were. Knowing them, and knowing however imperfectly

herself, each of the Kinnison girls knew that it would be a physical and psychological

impossibility for her to become even mildly interested in any man not at least her

father's equal. They each had dreamed of a man who would be her own equal,

physically and mentally, but it had not yet occurred to any of them that one such man

already existed.

     Kinnison cut the door away and again sent out his sense of perception. With it

fanning out ahead of him he retraced his previous path. The apes in the control-room

had done something; he didn't know just what. Two of them were tinkering with a

communicator panel; probably the one to the ward-room. They probably thought the

trouble was at their end. Or did they? Why hadn't they reconnoitered? He dismissed that

problem as being of no pressing importance. The other two were doing something at

another panel. What? He couldn't make head or tail of it—damn those full-coverage

screens! And Nadreck's fancy drill, even if he had had one along, wouldn't work unless

the screen were absolutely steady. Well, it didn't make much, if any, difference. They

had called the men back from up forward, and here they came. He'd rather meet them

in the corridor than in an open room, anyway, he could handle them a lot easier . . .

     But tensely watching Kathryn gnawed her lip. Should she tell him, or control him,

or not? No. She wouldn't—she couldn't—yet. Dad could figure out that pilot-room trap

without her help . . . and she herself, with all her power of brain, could not visualize with

any degree of clarity the menace which was—which must be—at the tube's end or even

now rushing along it to meet that Boskonian ship . . .

     Kinnison met the oncoming six and vanquished them. By no means as easily as

he had conquered the others, since they had been warned and since they also now

bore space-axes, but just as finally. Kinnison did not consider it remarkable that he

escaped practically unscratched—his armor was battered and dinged up, cut and torn,

but he had only a couple of superficial wounds. He had met the enemy where they

could come at him only one at a time; he was still the master of any weapon known to

space warfare; it had been at no time evident that any outside influence was interfering

with the normally rapid functioning of the Boskonians' minds.

     He was full of confidence, full of fight, and far from spent when he faced about to

consider what he should do about that control-room. There was plenty of stuff in there . .

. tougher stuff than he had met up with so far . . .

     Kathryn in her speedster gritted her teeth and clenched her hands' into hard fists.

This was bad—very, very bad— and it was going to get worse. -Closing up fast, she

uttered a bitter and exceedingly unladylike expletive.

     Couldn't he see—couldn't the damn dumb darling sense —that he was apt to run

out of time almost any minute now?

     She fairly writhed in an agony of indecision; and indecision, in a Third-Stage

Lensman, is a rare phenomenon indeed. She wanted intensely to take over, but if she

did, was there any way this side of Palain's purple hells for her to cover up her tracks?