Thousands of years were to pass before Christopher Kinnison could develop the

ability to visualize, from the contemplation of one fact or artifact, the entire Universe to

which it belonged. He could not even plan in detail his one-man invasion of Eddore until

he could integrate all available data concerning the planet Kalonia into his visualization

of the Boskonian Empire. One unknown, Floor, blurred his picture badly enough; two

such completely unknown factors made visualization, even in broad, impossible.

Anyway, he decided, he had one more job to do before he tackled the key planet of the

enemy; and now, while he was waiting for the dope on Kalonia, would be the best time

to do it. Wherefore he sent out a thought to his mother. "Hi, First Lady of the Universe!

'Tis thy first-born who wouldst fain converse with thee. Art pressly engaged in matters of

moment or import?" "Art not, Kit." Clarrissa's characteristic chuckle was as infectious, as

full of the joy of life, as ever. "Not that it would make any difference—but methinks I

detect an undertone of seriosity beneath thy persiflage. Spill it." "Let's make it a

rendezvous, instead," he suggested. "We're fairly close, I think—closer than we've been

for a long time. Where are you, exactly?" "Oh! Can we? Wonderful!" She marked her

location and velocity in his mind. She made no effort to conceal her joy at the idea of a

personal meeting. She never had tried and she never would try to make him put first

matters other than first. She had not expected to see him again, physically, until this war

was over. But if she could . . . ! "QX. Hold your course and speed; I'll be seeing you in

eighty-three minutes. In the meantime, it'll be just as well if we don't communicate, even

by Lens . . ." "Why, son?" "Nothing definite—just a hunch, is all. 'Bye, gorgeous!" The

two speedsters approached each other—incited— matched intrinsics—went

free—flashed into contact—sped away together upon Clarrissa's original course. "Hi,

mums!" Kit spoke into a visiphone. "I should of course come to you, but it might be

better if you come in here— I've got some special rigs set up here that I don't want to

leave. QX?" He snapped on one of the special rigs as he spoke—a device which he

himself had built and installed; the generator of the most efficient thought-screen then

known. "Why, of course!" She came, and was swept off her feet in the exuberance of

her tall son's embrace; a greeting which she returned with equal fervor. "It's nice,

mother, seeing you again." Words, or thoughts even, were so inadequate! Kit's voice

was a trifle rough; his eyes were not completely dry. "Uh-huh. It is nice," she agreed,

snuggling her spectacular head even more firmly into the curve of his shoulder. "Mental

contact is better than nothing, of course, but this is perfect!"

     "Just as much a menace to navigation as ever, aren't you?" He held her at arm's

length and shook his head in mock disapproval. "Do you think it's quite right for one

woman to have so much of everything when all the others have so little of anything?"

     "Honestly, I don't." She and Kit had always been exceptionally close; now her

love for and her pride in this splendid creature, her son and her first-born, simply would

not be denied. "You're joking, I know, but that strikes too deep for comfort. I wake up in

the night to wonder why, of all the women in existence, I should be so lucky, especially

in my husband and children . . . QX, skip it." Kit was shying away—she should have

known better than to try in words even to skirt the profound depths of sentiment which

both she and he knew so well were there.

     "Get back onto the beam, gorgeous, you know what I meant. Look at yourself in

the mirror some day—or do you, perchance?"

     "Once in a while—maybe twice." She giggled unaffectedly. "You don't think all

this charm and glamor conies without effort, do you? But maybe you'd better get back

onto the beam yourself—you didn't come all these parsecs out of your way to say pretty

things to your mother—even though I admit they've built up my ego no end."

     "On target, dead center." Kit had been grinning, but he sobered quickly. "I wanted

to talk to you about Lyrane and the job you're figuring on doing out there."

     "Why?" she demanded. "Do you know anything about "Unfortunately, I don't."

Kit's black frown of concentration reminded her forcibly of his father's characteristic

scowl. "Guesses—suspicions—theories—not even good hunches. But I thought . . . I

wondered . . ." He paused, embarrassed as a schoolboy, then went on with a rush:

"Would you mind it too much if I went into something pretty personal?"

     "You know I wouldn't, son." In contrast to Kit's usual clarity and precision of

thought, the question was highly ambiguous, but Clarrissa covered both angles. "I can

conceive of no subject, event, action, or thing, in either my life or yours, too intimate or

too personal to discuss with you in full. Can you?"

     "No, I can't—but this is different. As a woman, you're tops—the finest and best

that ever lived." This statement, made with all the matter-of-factness of stating that a

triangle had three corners, thrilled Clarrissa through and through. "As a Gray Lensman

you're over the rest of them like a cirrus cloud. But you should rate full Second Stage,

and . . . well, you may run up against something too hot to handle, some day, and I. . .

that is, you . . ."

     "You mean that I don't measure up?" she asked, quietly. "I know very well I don't,

and admitting an evident fact should not hurt my feelings a bit. Don't interrupt, please,"

as Kit began to protest. "In fact, it is sheerest effrontery— it has always bothered me

terribly, Kit—to be classed as a Lensman at all, considering what splendid men they all

are and what each one of them had to go through to earn his Lens, to say nothing of a

Release. You know as well as I do that I've never done a single thing to earn or to

deserve it. It was handed to me on a silver platter. I'm not worthy of it, Kit, and all the

real Lensmen know I'm not. They must know it, Kit—they must feel that way!"

     "Did you ever express yourself in exactly that way before, to anybody? You

didn't, I know." Kit stopped sweating; this was going to be easier than he had feared.

     "I couldn't, Kit, it was too deep; but as I said, I can talk anything over with you."

     "QX. We can settle that fast enough if you'll answer just one question. Do you

honestly believe that you would have been given the Lens if you were not absolutely

worthy of it? Perfectly—in every minute particular?"

     "Why, I never thought of it that way . . . probably not . . . no, certainly pot."

Clarrissa's somber mien lightened markedly. "But I still don't see how or why . . ."

     "Clear enough," Kit interrupted. "You were born with what the rest of them had to

work so hard for—with stuff that no other woman, anywhere, ever had."

     "Except the girls, of course," Clarrissa corrected, half absently.

     "Except the kids," he concurred. It could do no harm to agree with his mother's

statement of a self-evident fact. "You can take it from me, as one who knows that the

other Lensmen know you've got plenty of jets. They know very well that the Arisians

wouldn't make a Lens for anybody who hasn't got what it takes. And so, very neatly,

we've stripped ship for the action I came over here to see you about. It isn't a case of

you not measuring up, because you do, in every respect. It's simply that you're short a

few jets that you ought by rights to have. You really are a Second-Stage Lensman—you

know that, mums—but you never went to Arisia for your L2 work. I hate to see you blast

off without full equipment into what may prove to be a big-time job; especially when

you're so eminently able to take it. Mentor could give you the works in a few hours. Why

don't you flit for Arisia right now, or let me take you there?"

     "No—NO!" Clarrissa backed away, shaking her head emphatically. "Never! I

couldn't, Kit, ever—not possibly!" "Why not?" Kit was amazed. "Why, mother, you're

actually shaking!"

     "I know I am—I can't help it. That's why. He's the only thing in the entire Universe

that I'm really afraid of. I can talk about him without quite getting goose-bumps all over

me, but the mere thought of actually being with him simply scares me into shivering,

quivering fits—no less."

     "I see . . . it might very well work that way, at that Does dad know it?"

     "Yes—or, that is, he knows I'm afraid of him, but he doesn't know it the way you

do—it simply doesn't register in true color. Kim can't conceive of me being either a

coward or a cry-baby. And I don't want him to, either, Kit, so please don't tell him, ever."

     "I won't—he'd fry me to a cinder in my own grease if I did. Frankly, I can't see any

part of your self-portrait, either. As a matter of cold fact, you are so obviously neither a

coward nor a cry-baby . . , well, that's about the silliest crack you ever made. What

you've really got, mums, is a fixation, and if it can't be removed . . ."

     "It can't," she declared flatly. "I've tried that, now and then, ever since before you

were born. Whatever it is, it's a permanent installation and it's really deep. I've known all

along that Kim didn't give me the whole business—he couldn't—and I've tried again and

again to make myself go to Arisia, or at least to call Mentor about it, but I can't do it,

Kit—I simply can't!"

     "I understand." Kit nodded. He did understand, now. What she felt was not, in

essence and at bottom, fear at all. It was worse than fear, and deeper. It was true

revulsion; the basic, fundamental, sub-conscious, sex-based reaction of an intensely

vital human female against a mental monstrosity who had not had a sexual thought for

countless thousands of her years. She could neither analyze nor understand her feeling;

but it was as immutable, as ineradicable, and as old as the surging tide of life itself.

     "But there's another way, just as good—probably better, as far as you're

concerned. You aren't afraid of me, are you?"

     "What a question! Of course I'm not . . . why, do you mean you . . ." Her

expressive eyes widened. "You children —especially you—are far beyond us . . . as of

course you should be . . . but can you, Kit? Really?"

     Kit keyed a part of his mind to an ultra-high level. "I know the techniques, Mentor,

but the first question is, should I do it?"

     "You should, youth. The time has come when it is necessary."

     "Second—I've never done anything like this before, and she's my own mother. If I

make one slip I'll never forgive myself. Will you stand by and see that I don't slip? And

stand guard?"

     "I will stand by and stand guard."

     "I really can, mums." Kit answered her question with no perceptible pause. "That

is, if you're willing to put everything you've got into it. Just letting me into your mind isn't

enough. You'll have to sweat blood—you'll think you've been run through a hammer-mill

and spread out on a Delgonian torture screen to dry."

     "Don't worry about that, Kit." All the passionate intensity of Clarrissa's being was

in her vibrant voice. "If you just knew how utterly I've been longing for it—I'll work; and

whatever you give me I can take."

     "I'm sure of that. And, not to work under false pretenses, I'd better tell you how I

know. Mentor showed me what to do and told me to do it."

     "Mentor!"

     "Mentor," Kit agreed. "He knew that it was a psychological impossibility for you to

work with him, and that you could and would work with me. So he appointed me a

committee of one." Clarrissa was reacting to this news as it was inevitable that she

should react; and to give her time to steady down he went on:

     "Mentor also knew, and so do you and I, that even though you are afraid of him,

you know what he is and what he means to Civilization. I had to tell you this so you'd

know, without any tinge of doubt, that I'm not a half-baked kid setting out to do a man's

job of work."

     "Jet back, Kit! I may have thought a lot of different things about you at times, but

'half-baked' was never one of them. That's your own thinking, not mine."

     "I wouldn't wonder." Kit grinned wryly. "My ego could stand some stiffening right

now. This isn't going to be funny. You're too fine a woman, and I think too much of you,

to enjoy the prospect of mauling you around so unmercifully."

     "Why, Kit!" Her mood was changing fast. Her old-time, impish smile came back in

force. "You aren't weakening, surely? Shall I hold your hand?"

     "Uh-huh—cold feet," he admitted. "It might be a smart idea, at that, holding

hands. Physical linkage. Well, I'm as ready as I ever will be, I guess—whenever you

are, say so. And you'd better sit down before you fall down."

     "QX, Kit—come in."

     Kit came; and at the first terrific surge of his mind within hers the Red Lensman

caught her breath, stiffened in every muscle, and all but screamed in agony. Kit's fingers

needed their strength as her hands clutched his and closed in a veritable spasm. She

had thought that she knew what to expect; but the reality was different—much different.

She had suffered before. On Lyrane II, although she had never told anyone of it, she

had been burned and wounded and beaten. She had borne five children. This was as

though every poignant experience of her past had been rolled into one, raised to the nth

power, and stabbed relentlessly into the deepest, tenderest, most sensitive centers of

her being.

     And Kit, boring in and in and in, knew exactly what to do; and, now that he had

started, he proceeded unflinchingly and with exact precision to do what had to be done.

He opened up her mind as she had never dreamed it possible for a mind to open. He

separated the tiny, jammed compartments, each completely from every other. He

showed her how to make room for this tremendous expansion and watched her do it,

against the shrieking protests of every cell and fiber of her body and of her brain. He

drilled new channels everywhere, establishing an inconceivably complex system of

communication lines of infinite conductivity. He knew just what he was doing to her,

since the same thing had been done to him so recently, but he kept on relentlessly until

the job was done. Completely done.

     Then, working together, they sorted and labeled and classified and catalogued.

They checked and double checked. Finally she knew, and Kit knew that she knew,

every hitherto unplumbed recess of her mind and every individual cell of her brain.

Every iota of every quality and characteristic, every scrap of knowledge she had ever

acquired or ever would acquire, would be at her command instantaneously and

effortlessly. Then, and only then, did Kit withdraw his mind from hers.

     "Did you say that I was short just a few jets, Kit?" She got up groggily and

mopped her face; upon which her few freckles stood out surprisingly dark upon a

background of white. "I'm a wreck—I'd better go and . . ."

     "As you were for just a sec—I'll break out a bottle of fayalin. This rates a

celebration of sorts, don't you think?"

     "Very much so." As she sipped the pungently aromatic red liquid her color began

to come back. "No wonder I felt as though I were missing something all these years.

Thanks, Kit. I really appreciate it. You're a . . ."

     "Seal it, mums." He picked her up and squeezed her, hard. He scarcely noticed

her sweat-streaked face and disheveled hair, but she did.

     "Good Heavens, Kit, I'm a perfect hag!" she exclaimed. "I've got to go and put on

a new face!"

     "QX. I don't feel quite so fresh, myself. What I need, though, is a good, thick

steak. Join me?"

     "Uh-uh. How can you even think of eating, at a time like this?"

     "Same way you can think of war-paint and feathers, I suppose. Different people,

different reactions. QX, I'll be in there and see you in fifteen or twenty minutes. Flit!"

     She left, and Kit heaved an almost explosive sigh of relief. Mighty good thing she

hadn't asked too many questions— if she had become really curious, he would have

had a horrible time keeping her away from the fact that that kind of work never had been

done and never would be done outside of solid Arisian screen. He ate, cleaned up, ran

a comb through his hair, and, when his mother was ready, crossed over into her

speedster.

     "Whee—whee-yu!" Kit whistled descriptively. "What a seven-sector call-out! Just

who do you think you're going to knock out of the ether on Lyrane Two?"

     "Nobody at all." Clarrissa laughed. "This is all for you, son—and maybe a little bit

for me, too."

     "I'm stunned. You're a blinding flash and a deafening report. But I've got to do a

flit, gorgeous. So clear . . ."

     "Wait a minute—you can't go yet! I've got questions to ask you about these new

networks and things. How do I handle them?"

     "Sorry—you've got to develop your own techniques. You know that already."

     "In a way. I thought maybe, though, I could wheedle you into helping me a little. I

should have known better—but tell me, all Lensmen don't have minds like this, do

they?"

     "I'll say they don't. They're all like yours was before, but not as good. Except the

other L2's, of course—dad, Worsel, Tregonsee, and Nadreck. Theirs are more or less

like yours is now; but you've got a lot of stuff they haven't."

     "Huh?" she demanded. "Such as?"

     "'Way down—there." He showed her. "You worked all that stuff yourself. I only

showed you how, without getting in too close."

     "Why? Oh, I see—you would. Life force. I would have lots of that, of course." She

did not blush, but Kit did.

     "Life force" was a pitifully inadequate term indeed for that which Civilization's only

Lensman-mother had in such measure, but they both knew what it was. Kit ducked.

     "You can always tell all about a Lensman by looking at his Lens; it's the wiring

diagram of his total mind. You've studied dad's of course."

     "Yes. Three times as big as the ordinary, ones—or mine —and much finer and

brighter. But mine isn't, Kit?"

     "It wasn't, you mean. Look at it now."

     She opened a drawer, reached in, and stared; her eyes and mouth becoming

three round O's of astonishment. She had never seen that Lens before, or anything like

it. It was three times as big as hers, seven times as fine and as intricate, and ten times

as bright.

     "Why, this isn't mine!" she gasped. "But it must be . . ."

     "Sneeze, beautiful," Kit advised. "Cobwebs. You aren't thinking a lick. Your mind

changed, so your Lens had to. See?"

     "Of course—I wasn't thinking; that's a fact. Let me look at your Lens, Kit—you

never seem to wear it—I haven't seen it since you graduated."

     "Sure. Why not?" He reached into a pocket. "I take after you, that way; neither of

us gets any kick out of throwing his weight around."

     His Lens flamed upon his wrist. It was larger in diameter than Clarrissa's, and

thicker. Its texture was finer; its colors were brighter, harsher, and seemed, somehow,

solider. Both studied both Lenses for a moment, then Kit seized his mother's hand,

brought their wrists together, and stared.

     "That's it," he breathed. "That's it . . . That's IT, just as sure as Klono has got

teeth and claws."

     "What's it? What do you seer she demanded.

     "I see how and why I got the way I am—and if the kids had Lenses theirs would

be the same. Remember dad's? Look at your dominants—notice that every one of them

is duplicated in mine. Blank them out of mine, and see what you've got left—pure

Kimball Kinnison, with just enough extras thrown in to make me an individual instead of

a carbon copy. Hm . . . hm . . . credits to millos this is what comes of having Lensmen

on both sides of the family. No wonder we're freaks! Don't know whether I'm in favor of it

or not—I don't think they should produce any more Lady Lensmen, do you? Maybe

that's why they never did."

     "Don't try to be funny," she reproved; but her dimples were again in evidence. "If

it would result in more people like you and your sisters, I'd be very much in favor of it;

but, some way or other,-! doubt it. I know you're squirming to go, so I won't hold you any

longer. What you just found out about Lenses is fascinating. For the rest of it . . . well . .

. thanks, son, and clear ether."

     "Clear ether, mother. This is the worst part of being together, leaving so quick. I'll

see you again, though, soon and often. It you get stuck, yell, and one of the kids or I

—or all of us—will be with you in a split second."

     He gave her a quick, hard hug; kissed her enthusiastically, and left. He did not

tell her, and she never did find out, that his "discovery" of one of the secrets of the Lens

was made to keep her from asking questions which he could not answer.

     The Red Lensman was afraid that she would not have time to put her new mind

in order before reaching Lyrane II; but, being naturally a good housekeeper, she did.

More, so rapidly and easily did her mind now work, she had time to review and to

analyze every phase of her previous activities upon that planet and to lay out in broad

her first lines of action. She wouldn't put on the screws at first, she decided. She would

let them think that she didn't have any more jets than before. Helen was nice, but a

good many of the others, especially that airport manager, were simply quadruply-

distilled vixens. She'd take it easy at first, but she'd be very sure that she didn't get into

any such jams as last time.

     She coasted down through Lyrane's stratosphere and poised high above the city

she remembered so well.

     "Helen of Lyrane!" she sent out a sharp, clear thought. "That is not your name, I

know, but we did not learn any other . . ."

     She broke off, every nerve taut. Was that, or was it not, Helen's thought; cut off,

wiped out by a guardian block before it could take shape?

     "Who are you stranger, and what do you want?" the thought came, almost

instantly, from a person seated at the desk which had been Helen's.

     Clarrissa glanced at the sender and thought that she recognized the face. Her

new channels functioned instantaneously; she remembered every detail.

     "Lensman Clarrissa, formerly of Sol III. Unattached. I remember you, Ladora,

although you were only a child when I was here. Do you remember me?

     "Yes, I repeat, what do you want?" The memory did not decrease Ladora's

hostility.

     "I would like to speak to the former Elder Person, if I may."

     "You may not. It is no longer with us. Leave at once, or we will shoot you down."

     'Think again, Ladora." Clarrissa held -her tone even and calm. "Surely your

memory is not so short that you have forgotten the-Dauntless and its capabilities."

     "I remember. You may take up with me whatever it is that you wish to discuss

with my predecessor."

     "You are familiar with the Boskonian invasion of years ago. It is suspected that

they are planning new and galaxy-wide outrages, and that this planet is in some way

involved. I have come here to investigate the situation."

     "We will conduct our own investigations," Ladora declared, curtly. "We insist that

you and all other foreigners stay away from this planet."

     "You investigate a galactic condition?" In spite of herself, Clarrissa almost let the

connotations of that question become perceptible. "If you give me permission I will land

alone. If you do not, I shall call the Dauntless and we will land in force. Take your

choice."

     "Land alone, then, if you must land." Ladora yielded seemingly. "Land at City

Airport"

     "Under those guns? No, thanks; I am neither invulnerable nor immortal. I land

where I please."

     She landed. During her previous visit she had had a hard enough time getting

any help from these pig-headed matriarchs, but this time she encountered a non-

cooperation so utterly fanatical that it put her completely at a loss. None of them tried to

harm her in any way; but not one of them would have anything to do with her. Every

thought, even the friendliest, was stopped by a full-coverage block; no acknowledgment,

even, was ever made.

     "I can crack those blocks easily enough, if I want to," she declared, one bad

evening, to her mirror, "and if they keep this up very much longer, by Klono's emerald-