Christopher Kinnison drove toward Arisia, seething.

     Why couldn't those damned sisters of his have sense to match their brains—or

why couldn't he have had some brothers? Especially—right now—Kay. If she had the

sense of a Zabriskan fontema she'd know that this job was important and would snap

into it, instead of wild-goose-chasing all over space. If he were Mentor he'd straighten

her out. He had decided to straighten her out once himself, and he grinned wryly to

himself at the memory of what had happened. What Mentor had done to him, before he

even got started, was really rugged. What he would like to do, next time he got within

reach of her, was to shake her until her teeth rattled.

     Or would he? Uh-uh. By no stretch of the imagination could he picture himself

hurting any one of them. They were swell kids—in fact, the finest people he had ever

known. He had rough-housed and wrestled with them plenty of times, of course—he

liked it, and so did they. He could handle any one of them—he surveyed without his

usual complacence his two-hundred-plus pounds of meat, bone, and gristle—he ought

to be able to, since he outweighed them by fifty or sixty pounds; but it wasn't easy.

Worse than Valerians —just like taking on a combination of boa constrictor and

cateagle—and when Kat and Con ganged up on him that time they mauled him to a

pulp in nothing flat.

     But jet back! Weight wasn't it, except maybe among themselves. He had never

met a Valerian yet whose shoulders he couldn't pin flat to the mat in a hundred seconds,

and the smallest of them outweighed him two to one. Conversely, although he had

never thought of it before, what his sisters had taken from him, without even a bruise,

would have broken any ordinary women up into masses of compound fractures. They

were—they must be—made of different stuff. His thoughts took a new tack. The kids

were special in another way, too, he had noticed lately, without paying it any particular

attention. It might tie in. They didn't feel like other girls. After dancing with one of them,

other girls felt like robots made out of putty. Their flesh was different. It was firmer, finer,

infinitely more responsive. Each individual cell seemed to be endowed with a flashing,

sparkling life; a life which, interlinking with that of one of his own cells, made their

bodies as intimately one as were their perfectly synchronized minds.

     But what did all this have to do with their lack of sense? QX, they were nice

people. QX, he couldn't beat their brains out, either physically or mentally. But damn it

all, there ought to be some way of driving some ordinary common sense through their

fine-grained, thick, hard, tough skulls!

     Thus it was that Kit approached Arisia in a decidedly mixed frame of mind. He

shot through the barrier without slowing down and without notification. Inciting his ship,

he fought her into an orbit around the planet. The shape of the orbit was immaterial, as

long as its every inch was inside Arisia's innermost screen. For young Kinnison knew

precisely what those screens were and exactly what they were for. He knew that

distance of itself meant nothing—Mentor could give anyone either basic or advanced

treatments just as well from a distance of a thousand million parsecs as at hand to

hand. The reason for the screens and for the personal visits was the existence of the

Eddorians, who had minds probably as capable as the Arisians' own. And throughout all

the infinite reaches of the macro-cosmic Universe, only within these highly special

screens was there certainty of privacy from the spying senses of the ultimate foe.

     "The time has come, Christopher, for the last treatment I am able to give you,"

Mentor announced without preamble, as soon as Kit had checked his orbit.

     "Oh—so soon? I thought you were pulling me in to pin my ears back for fighting

with Kay—the dim-wit!"

     "That, while a minor matter, is worthy of passing mention, since it is illustrative of

the difficulties inherent in the project of developing, without over-controlling, such minds

as yours. En route here, you made a masterly summation of the situation, with one

outstanding omission."

     "Huh? What omission? I covered it like a blanket!"

     "You assumed throughout, and still assume, as you always do in dealing with

your sisters, that you are unassailably right; that your conclusion is the only tenable one;

that they are always wrong."

     "But damn it, they are! That's why you sent Kay to Lyrane!"

     "In these conflicts with your sisters, you have been right in approximately half of

the cases," Mentor informed him.

     "But how about their fights with each other?"

     "Do you know of any such?"

     "Why . . . uh . . . can't say that I do." Kit's surprise was plain. "But since they fight

with me so much, they must. . ."

     "That does not follow, and for a very good reason. We may as well discuss that

reason now, as it is a necessary part of the education which you are about to receive.

You already know that your sisters are very different, each from the other. Know now,

youth, that each was specifically developed to be so completely different that there is no

possible " point which could be made an issue between any two of them."

     "Ungh . . . um . . ." It took some time for Kit to digest that news. "Then where do I

come in that they all fight with me at the drop of a hat?"

     "That, too, while regrettable, is inevitable. Each of your sisters, as you may have

suspected, is to play a tremendous part in that which is to come. The Lensmen, we of

Arisia, all will contribute, but upon you Children of the Lens— especially upon the

girls—will fall the greater share of the load. Your individual task will be that of

coordinating the whole; a duty which no Arisian is or ever can be qualified to perform.

You will have to direct the efforts of your sisters; re-enforcing every heavily-attacked

point with your own incomparable force and drive; keeping them smoothly in mesh and

in place. As a side issue, you will also Lave to coordinate the feebler efforts of us of

Arisia, the Lensmen, the Patrol, and whatever other minor forces we may be able to

employ."

     "Holy—Klono's—claws!" Kit was gasping like a fish. "Just where, Mentor, do, you

figure I'm going to pick up the jets to swing that load? And as to coordinating the kids—

that's out. I'd make just one suggestion to any one of them and she'd forget all about the

battle and tear into me—no, I'll take that back. The stickier the going, the closer they

rally 'round."

     "Right. It will always be so. Now, youth, that you have these facts, explain these

matters to me, as a sort of preliminary exercise."

     "I think I see." Kit thought intensely. "The kids don't fight with each other because

they don't overlap. They fight with me because my central field overlaps them all. They

have no occasion to fight with anybody else, nor have I, because with anybody else our

viewpoint is always right and the other fellow knows it—except for Palainians and such,

who think along different lines than we do. Thus, Kay never fights with Nadreck. When

he goes off the beam, she simply ignores him and goes on about her business. But with

them and me . . . we'll have to learn to arbitrate, or something, I suppose . . ." his

thought trailed off.

     "Manifestations of adolescence; with adulthood, now coming fast, they will pass.

Let us get on with the work."

     "But wait a minute!" Kit protested. "About this coordinator thing. I can't do it. I'm

too much of a kid—I won't be ready for a job like that for a thousand years!"

     "You must be ready," Mentor's thought was inexorable. "And, when the time

comes, you shall be. Now, youth, come fully into my mind."

     There is no use repeating in detail the progress of an Arisian super-education,

especially since the most accurate possible description of the most important of those

details would be intrinsically meaningless. When, finally, Kit was ready to leave Arisia,

he looked much older and more mature than before; he felt immensely older than he

looked. The concluding conversation of that visit, however, is worth recording.

     "You now know, Christopher," Mentor mused, "What you children are and how

you came to be. You are the accomplishment of long lifetimes of work. It is with

profound satisfaction that I now perceive clearly that those lifetimes have not been

spent in vain."

     "Yours, you mean." Kit was embarrassed, but one point still bothered him. "Dad

met and married mother, yes, but how about the others? Tregonsee, Worsel, and

Nadreck? They and the corresponding females—-don't take that literally for Nadreck, of

course—were also penultimates, of lines as long as ours. You Arisians decided that the

human stock was best, so none of the other Second-Stage Lensmen ever met their

complements. Not that it could make any difference to them, of course, but I should

think that three of your fellow students wouldn't feel so good."

     "Ah, youth, I am very glad indeed that you mention the point." The Arisian's

thought was positively gleeful. "You have at no time, then, detected anything peculiar

about this that you know as Mentor of Arisia?"

     "Why, of course not. How could I? Or, rather, why should I?"

     "Any lapse on our part, however slight, from practically perfect synchronization

would have revealed to such a mentality as yours that I whom you know as Mentor am

not an individual, but four. While we each worked as individuals upon all of the

experimental lines, whenever we dealt with any one of the penultimates or ultimates we

did so as a fusion. This was necessary, not only for your fullest possible development,

but also to be sure that each of us had complete data upon every minute facet of the

truth. While it was in no sense important to the work itself to keep you in ignorance of

Mentor's plurality, the fact that we could keep you ignorant of it, particularly now that you

have become adult, showed that our work was being done in a really workman-like

fashion."

     Kit whistled; a long, low whistle which was tribute enough to those who knew

what it meant. He knew what he meant, but there were not enough words or thoughts to

express it.

     "But you're going to keep on being Mentor, aren't you?" ,' he asked.

     "I am. The real task, as you know, lies ahead."

     "QX. You say I'm adult. I'm not. You imply that I'm more than several notches

above you in qualifications. I could laugh myself silly about that one, if it wasn't so

serious. Why, any one of you Arisians has forgotten more than I know, and could tie me

up into bow-knots!"

     "There are elements of truth in your thought. That you can now be called adult,

however, does not mean that you have attained your full power; only that you are able

to use effectively the powers you have and are able to acquire other and larger powers."

     "But what are those powers?" Kit demanded. "You've hinted on that same theme

a thousand times, and I don't know what you mean any better than I did before!"

     "You must develop your own powers." Mentor's thought was as final as Fate.

"Your mind is potentially far abler than mine. You will in time come to know my mind in

full; I never will be able to know yours. For the lesser, but full mind to attempt to instruct

in methodology the greater, although emptier one, is to set that greater mind in an

undersized mold and thus to do it irreparable harm. You have the abilities and the

powers. You will have to develop them yourself, by the perfection of techniques

concerning which I can give you no instructions whatever."

     "But surely you can give me some kind of a hint!" Kit pleaded. "I'm just a kid, I tell

you—I don't even know how or where to begin!"

     Under Kit's startled mental gaze, Mentor split suddenly into four parts, laced

together by a pattern of thoughts so intricate and so rapid as to be unrecognizable. The

parts fused and again Mentor spoke.

     "I can point the way in only the broadest, most general terms. It has been

decided, however, that I can give you one hint—or, more properly, one illustration. The

surest test of knowledge known to us is the visualization of the Cosmic All. All science

is, as you know, one. The true key to power lies in the knowledge of the underlying

reasons for the succession of events. If it is pure causation—that is, if any given state of

things follows as an inevitable consequence because of the state existing an

infinitesimal instant before— then the entire course of the macro-cosmic universe was

set for the duration of all eternity in the instant of its coming into being. This well-known

concept, the stumbling-block upon which many early thinkers came to grief, we now

know to be false. On the other hand, if pure randomness were to govern, natural laws

as we know them could not exist. Thus neither pure causation nor pure randomness

alone can govern the succession of events.

     "The truth, then, must lie somewhere in between. In the macro-cosmos,

causation prevails; in the micro-, randomness; both in accord with the mathematical

laws of probability. It is in the region between them—the intermediate zone, or the

interface, so to speak—that the greatest problems lie. The test of validity of any theory,

as you know, is the accuracy of the predictions which are made possible by its use, and

our greatest thinkers have shown that the completeness and fidelity of any visualization

of the Cosmic All are linear functions of the clarity of definition of the components of that

interface. . Full knowledge of that indeterminate zone would mean infinite power and a

statistically perfect visualization. None of these things, however, will ever be realized;

for the acquirement of that full knowledge would require infinite time.

     "That is all I can tell you. It will, properly studied, be enough. I have built within

you a solid foundation; yours alone is the task of erecting upon that foundation a

structure strong enough to withstand the forces which will be thrown against it.

     "It is perhaps natural, in view of what you have recently gone through, that you

should regard the problem of the Eddorians as one of insuperable difficulty. Actually,

however, it is not, as you will perceive when you have spent a few weeks in re-

integrating yourself. You must not, you shall not, and in my clear visualization you do

not, fail."

     Communication ceased. Kit made his way groggily to his control board, went

free, and lined out for Klovia. For a guy whose education was supposed to be complete,

he felt remarkably like a total loss with no insurance. He had asked for advice and had

got—what? A dissertation on philosophy, mathematics, and physics—good enough

stuff, probably, if he could see what Mentor was driving at, but not of much immediate

use. He did have a brainful of new stuff, though— didn't know yet what half of it

was—he'd better be getting it licked into shape. He'd "sleep" on it.

     He did so, and as he lay quiescent in his bunk the tiny pieces of an incredibly

complex jig-saw puzzle began to click into place. The ordinary zwilniks—all the small fry

fitted in well enough. The Overlords of Delgon. The Kalonians . . . hm . . . he'd better

check with dad on that angle. The Eich—under control. Kandron of Onlo, ditto. "X" was

in safe hands; Cam had already been alerted to watch her step. Some planet named

Floor—what in all the purple hells of Palain had Mentor meant by that crack? Anyway,

that piece didn't fit anywhere—yet. That left Eddore—and at the thought a series of cold

waves raced up and down the young Lensman's spine. Nevertheless, Eddore was his

oyster —his, and nobody else's. Mentor had made that plain enough. Everything the

Arisians had done for umpteen skillions of years had been aimed at the Eddorians.

They had picked him out to emcee the show—and how could a man coordinate an

attack against something he knew nothing about? And the only way to get acquainted

with Eddore and its denizens was to go there. Should he call in the kids? He should not.

Each of them had her hands full of her own job; that of developing her own full self. He

had his; and the more he studied the question, the clearer it became that the first

number on the program of his self-development was—would have to be—a single-

handed expedition against the key planet of Civilization's top-ranking foes.

     He sprang out of his bunk, changed his vessel's course, and lined out a thought

to his father.

     "Dad? Kit. Been flitting around out Arisia way, and picked up an idea I want to

pass along to you. It's about Kalonians. What do you know about them?"

     "They're blue . . ."

     "I don't mean that."

     "I know you don't. There were Helmuth, Jalte, Prellin, Crowninshield . . . all I can

think of at the moment. Big operators, son, and smart hombres, if I do say so myself as

shouldn't; but they're all ancient history . . . hold it! Maybe I know of a modern one,

too—Eddie's Lensman. The only part of that picture that was sharp was the Lens, since

Eddie was never analytically interested in any of the hundreds of types of people he

met, but there was something about that Lensman . . . I'll bring him back and focus him

as sharply as I can . . . there." Both men studied the blurred statue posed in the Gray

Lensman's mind. "Wouldn't you say he could be a Kalonian?"

     "Check. I wouldn't want to say much more than that. But about that Lens—did

you really examine it? It is sharp—under the circumstances, of course, it would be."

     "Certainly! Wrong in every respect—rhythm, chroma, context, and aura.

Definitely not Arisian; therefore Boskonian. That's the point—that's what I was afraid of,

you know."

     "Double check. And that point ties in tight with the one that made me call you just

now, that everybody, including you and me, seems to have missed. I've been searching

my memory for five hours—you know what my memory is like—and I have heard of

exactly two other Kalonians. They were big operators, too. I have never heard of the

planet itself. To me it is a startling fact that the sum total of my information on Kalonia,

reliable or otherwise, is that it produced seven big-shot zwilniks; six of them before I

was born. Period."

     Kit felt his father's jaw drop.

     "No, I don't remember of hearing anything about the planet, either," the older

man finally replied. "But I'll bet I can get you all the information you want in fifteen

minutes."

     "Credits to millos it'll be a lot nearer fifteen days. You can find it sometime,

though, if anybody can—that's why I'm taking it up with you. While I don't want to seem

to be giving a Gray Lensman orders"—that jocular introduction had come to be a sort of

ritual in the Kinnison family—"I would very diffidently suggest that there might be some

connection between that completely unnoticed planet and some of the things we don't

know about Boskonia."

     "Diffident! You?" The Gray Lensman laughed deeply. "Like a hydride bomb! I'll

start a search of Kalonia right away. As to your credits-to-millos-fifteen-days thing, I'd be

ashamed to take your money. You don't know our librarians or our system. Ten millos,

even money, that we get operational data in less than five G-P days from right now.

Want it?"

     "I'll say so. I'll wear that cento on my tunic as a medal of victory over the Gray

Lensman. I do know the size of these here two galaxies!"

     "QX—it's a bet. I'll Lens you when we get the dope. In the meantime, Kit,

remember that you're my favorite son."

     "Well, you're not so bad, yourself. Any time I want mother to divorce you so as to

change fathers for me I'll suggest it to her." What a terrific, what a tremendous meaning

was heterodyned upon that seemingly light exchange! "Clear ether, dad!"

     "Clear ether, son!"