Inch by inch, foot by foot, Kinnison fought his way back along the corpse-littered

corridor. Under the ravening force of the attackers' beams his defensive screens flared

into pyrotechnic splendor, but they did not go down. Fierce-driven metallic slugs

spanged and whanged against the unyielding dureum of his armor; but that, too, held.

Dureum is incredibly massive, unbelievably tough, unimaginably hard— against these

qualities and against the thousands of horsepower driving that veritable tank and

energizing its screens the zwilniks might just as well have been shining flashlights at

him and throwing confetti. His immediate opponents could not touch him, but the

Boskonians were bringing up reserves that he didn't like a little bit; mobile projectors

with whose energies even those screens could not cope.

     He had, however, one great advantage over his enemies. He had the sense of

perception; they did not. He could see them, but they could not see him. All he had to

do was to keep at least one opaque wall between them until he was securely behind the

mobile screens, powered by the stupendous generators of the Dauntless, which

vanBuskirk and his Valerians were so earnestly urging toward him. If a door was handy

in the moment of need, he used it. If not he went through a wall.

     The Valerians were fighting furiously and were coming fast. Those two words,

when applied to members of that race, mean something starkly incredible to anyone

who has never seen Valerians in action. They average something less than seven feet

in height;- something over four hundred pounds in weight; and are muscled, boned, and

sinewed against a normal gravitational force of almost three times that of Earth.

VanBuskirk's weakest warrior could do, in full armor, a standing high jump of fourteen

feet against one Tellurian gravity; he could handle himself and the thirty-pound

monstrosity which was his space-axe with a blinding speed and a devastating efficiency

literally appalling to contemplate. They are the deadliest hand-to-hand fighters ever

known; and, unbelievable as it may seem to any really highly advanced intelligence,

they did and still do fairly revel in that form of combat.

     The Valerian tide reached the battling Gray Lensman; closed around him.

     "Hi . . . you little . . . Tellurian . . . wart!" Major Peter vanBuskirk boomed this

friendly thought, a yell of pure joy, in cadence with the blows of his utterly irresistible

weapon. His rhythm broke—his frightful axe was stuck. Not even dureum-inlaid armor

could bar the inward course of those furiously-driven beaks; but sometimes it made it

fairly difficult to get them out. The giant pulled, twisted—put one red-splashed boot on a

battered breastplate—bent his mighty back—heaved viciously. The weapon came free

with a snap that would have broken any ordinary man's arms, but the Valerian's thought

rolled smoothly on: "Ain't we got fun?"

     "Ho, Bus, you big Valerian baboon!" Kinnison thought back in kind. "Thought

maybe we'd need you and your gang—thanks a million. But back now,, and fast!"

     Although the Valerians did not like to retreat, after even a successful operation,

they knew how to do it. Hence in a matter of minutes all the survivors—and the losses

had been surprisingly small—were back inside the Dauntless.

     "You picked up my speedster, Frank." It was a statement, not a question,

directed at the young Lensman sitting at the "big board."

     "Of course, sir. They're massing fast, but without any hostile demonstration, as

you said they would." He nodded unconcernedly at a plate, which showed the sky

dotted with warlike shapes.

     "No maulers?"

     "None detectable as yet, sir."

     "QX. Original orders stand. At detection of one mauler, execute Operation Able.

Tell everybody that while the announcement of Operation Able will put me out of control

instantly and automatically, until such announcement I will give instructions. What they'll

be like I haven't the foggiest notion. It depends on what his nibs upstairs decides to

do— it's his move next."

     As though the last phrase were a cue, a burst of noise rattled from the

speaker—of which only the words "Bradlow Thyron" were intelligible to the un-Lensed

members of the crew. That name, however, explained why they were not being

attacked—yet. Kalonia had heard much of that intransigent and obdurate pirate and of

the fabulous prowess of his ship; and Kinnison was pretty sure that they were much

more interested in his ship than in him.

     "I can't understand you!" The Gray Lensman barked, in the polyglot language he

had so lately learned. "Talk pidgin!"

     "Very well. I see that you are indeed Bradlow Thyron, as we were informed. What

do you mean by this outrageous attack? Surrender! Disarm your men, take off their

armor, and march them out of your vessel, or we will blast you as you lie there—Vice-

Admiral Mendonai speaking!"

     "I abase myself." Kinnison-Thyron did not sneer—exactly—and he did incline his

stubborn head perhaps the sixteenth part of an inch; but he made no move to comply

with the orders so summarily issued. Instead:

     "What the hell kind of planet is this, anyway?" he demanded, hotly. "I come here

to see this louse Harkleroy because a friend of mine tells me he's a big shot and

interested enough in my line so we can do a lot of business. I give the lug fair warning,

too—tell him plain I've been around plenty and if he tries to give me the works I'll rub

him out like a pencil mark. So what happens? In spite of what I just tell him he tries dirty

work and I knock hell out of him, which he certainly has got coming to him. Then you

and your flock of little tin boats come barging in like I'd busted a law or something. Who

do you think you are, anyway? What license you got to stick your beak into private

business?"

     "Ah, I had not heard that version." Vision came on; the face upon the plate was

typically Kalonian—blue, cold, cruel, and keen. "Harkleroy was warned, you say?

Definitely?"

     "Plenty definitely. Ask any of the zwilniks in that private office of his. They're

mostly alive and they all must of heard it."

     The plate fogged, the speaker again gave out gibberish. The Lensman knew,

however, that the commander of the forces above them was indeed questioning the

dead zwilnik's guards. They knew that Kinnison's story was being corroborated in full.

     "You interest me." The Boskonian's language again became intelligible to the

group at large. "We will forget Harkleroy—stupidity brings its own reward and the

property damage is of no present concern. From what I have been able to learn of you,

you have never belonged to that so-called Civilization. I know for a fact that you are not,

and never have been, one of us. How have you been able to survive? And why do you

work alone?"

     " 'How' is easy enough—by keeping one jump ahead of the other guy, like I did

with your pal here, and by being smart enough to have good engineers put into my ship

everything that any other one ever had and everything they could dream up besides. As

to 'why', that's simple, too. I don't trust nobody. If nobody knows what I'm going to do,

nobody's going to stick a knife into me when I ain't looking— see? So far, it's paid off

big. I'm • still around and still healthy. Them that trusted other guys ain't."

     "I see. Crude, but graphic. The more I study you, the more convinced I become

that you make a worth-while addition to our force . . ."

     "No deal, Mendonai," Kinnison interrupted, shaking his unkempt head positively.

"I never yet took no orders from no damn boss, and I ain't going to."

     "You misunderstand me, Thyron." The zwilnik was queerly patient and much too

forbearing. Kinnison's insulting omission of his title should have touched him off like a

rocket. "I was not thinking of you in any minor capacity, but as an ally. An entirely

independent ally, working with us in certain mutually advantageous undertakings."

     "Such as? Kinnison allowed himself to betray. his first sign of interest. "You may

be talking sense now, brother, but what's in it for me? Believe me, there's got to be

plenty."

     "There will be plenty. With the ability you have already shown, and with our vast

resources back of you, you will take more every week than you have been taking in a

year."

     "Yeah? People like you just love to do things like that for people like me. What do

you figure on getting out of it?" Kinnison wondered, and Lensed a sharp thought to his

junior at the board.

     "On your toes, Frank. He's stalling for something, and I'm betting it's maulers."

     "None detectable yet, sir."

     "We stand to gain, of course," the pirate admitted, smoothly. "For instance, there

are certain features of your vessel which might—just possibly, you will observe, and

speaking only to mention an example—be of interest to our naval designers. Also, we

have heard that you have an unusually hot battery of primary beams. You might tell me

about some of those things now; or at least re-focus your plate so that I can see

something besides your not unattractive face."

     "I might not, too. What I've got here is my own business, and stays mine."

     "Is that what we are to expect from you in the way of cooperation?" The

commander's voice was still low and level, but now bore a chill of deadly menace.

     "Cooperation, hell!" The cutthroat chief was unimpressed. "I'll maybe tell you a

thing or two—eat out of your dish— after I get good and sold on your proposition,

whatever it is, but not one damn second sooner!"

     The commander glared. "I weary of this. You probably are not worth the trouble,

after all. I might as well blast you out now as later. You know that I can, of course, as

well as I do."

     "Do I?" Kinnison did sneer, this time. "Act your age, pal. As I told that fool

Harkleroy, this ain't the first planet I ever sat down on, and it won't be the last. And don't

call no maulers," as the Boskonian officer's hand moved almost imperceptibly toward a

row of buttons. "If you do, I start blasting as soon as we spot one on our plates, and

they're full out right now."

     "You would start blasting?" The zwilnik's surprise was plain, but the hand

stopped its motion.

     "Yeah—me. Them heaps you got up there don't bother me a bit, but maulers I

can't handle, and I ain't afraid to tell you so because you probably know it already. I

can't stop you from calling 'em, if you want to, but bend both ears to this—I can out-run

'em and I'll guarantee that you personally won't be alive to see me run. Why? Because

your ship will be the first one I'll whiff on the way out. And if the rest of your junkers stick

around long enough to try to stop me I'll whiff twenty-five or thirty more before your

maulers get close enough so I'll have to do a flit. Now, if your brains are made out of the

same kind of thick, blue mud as Harkleroy's, start something!"

     This was an impasse. Kinnison knew what he wanted the other to do, but he

could not give him a suggestion, or even a hint, without tipping his hand. The officer,

quite evidently, was in a quandary. He did not want to open fire upon this tremendous,

this fabulous ship. Even if he could destroy it, such a course would be

unthinkable—unless, indeed, the very act of destruction would brand as false rumor the

tales of invincibility and invulnerability which had heralded its coming, and thus would

operate in his favor at the court-martial so sure to be called. He was very much afraid,

however, that those rumors were not false—a view which was supported very strongly

both by Thyron's undisguised contempt for the Boskonian warships threatening him and

by his equally frank declaration of his intention to avoid engagement with any craft of

really superior force. Finally, however, the Boskonian perceived one thing that did not

quite fit.

     "If you are as good as you claim to be, why aren't you blasting right now?" he

asked, skeptically.

     "Because I don't want to, that's why. Use your head, pal." This was better.

Mendonai had shifted the conversation into a line upon which the Lensman could do a

bit of steering. "I had to leave the First Galaxy because it got too hot for me, and I got

no connections at all, yet, here in the Second. You folks need certain kinds of stuff that

I've got and I need other kinds, that you've got. So we could do a nice business, if you

wanted to. Like I told you, that's why I come to see Harkleroy. I'd like to do business

with some of you people, but I just got bit pretty bad, and I've got to have some kind of

solid guarantee that you mean business, and no monkey business, before I take a

chance again. See?"

     "I see. The idea is good, but the execution may prove difficult. I could give you

my word, which I assure you has never been broken."

     "Don't make me laugh," Kinnison snorted. "Would you take mine?"

     "The case is different. I would not. Your point, however, is well taken. How about

the protection of a high court of law? I will bring you an unalterable writ from any court

you say."

     "Uh-uh," the Gray Lensman dissented. "There never was no court yet that didn't

take orders from the big shots who keep the fat cats fat,_and lawyers are the

crookedest 'damn crooks in the universe. You'll have to do better than that, pal."

     "Well, then, how about a Lensman? You know about Lensmen, don't you?"

     "A Lensman!" Kinnison gasped. He shook his head violently. "Are you completely

nuts, or do you think I am? I do know Lensmen, cully—a Lensman chased me from

Alaskan to Vandemar once, and if I hadn't had a dose of hell's own luck he'd of got me.

Lensmen chased me out of the First Galaxy—why the hell else do you think I'm here?

Use your brain, mister; use your brain!"

     "You're thinking of Civilization's Lensmen; particularly of Gray Lensmen."

Mendonai was enjoying Thyron's passion. "Ours are different—entirely different. They

have as much power, or more, but don't use it the same way. They work with us right

along. In fact, they've been bumping Gray Lensmen off right and left lately."

     "You mean he could open up, for instance, your mind and mine, so we could see

the other guy wasn't figuring on running in no stacked decks? And he'd sort of referee

this business we got on the fire? Do you know one yourself, personally?"

     "He could, and would, do all that. Yes, I know one personally. His name is

Melasnikov, and his office is on Three, just a short flit from here. He may not be there at

the moment, but he'll come in if I call. How about it—shall I call him now?"

     "Don't work up a sweat. Sounds like it might work, if we can figure the approach.

I don't suppose you and him would come out to me in space?"

     "Hardly. You wouldn't expect us to, would you?" "It wouldn't be very bright of you

to. And since I want to do business, I guess I got to meet you part way. How'd this be?

You pull your ships out of range. My ship takes station right over your Lensman's office.

I go down in my speedster, like I did here, and go inside to meet him and you. I wear my

armor—and when I say it's real armor I ain't just snapping my choppers, neither."

     "I can see only one slight flaw." The Boskonian was really trying to work out a

mutually satisfactory solution. "The Lensman will open our minds to you in proof,

however, that we will have no intention of bringing up our maulers or other heavy stuff

while we're in conference."

     "Right men you'll find out you hadn't better, too." Kinnison grinned wolfishly.

     "What do you mean?" Mendonai demanded. "I've got enough super-atomic

bombs aboard to blow this planet to hellangone and the boys'll drop 'em all the second

you make a queer move. I've got to take a little chance to start doing business, but it's a

damn small one, 'cause if I go you go too, pal. You and your Lensman and your fleet

and everything alive on your whole damn planet. And your bosses still won't get any

dope on what makes this ship of mine tick the way she does. So I'm betting you won't

make that kind of a swap."

     "I certainly would not." Hard as he was, Mendonai was shaken. "Your suggested

method of procedure is satisfactory."

     "QX. Are you ready to flit?"

     "We are ready."