Karen Kinnison was worried. she, who had always been so sure of herself, had

for weeks been conscious of a gradually increasing—what was it, anyway? Not exactly

a loss of control . . . a change . . . a something that manifested itself in increasingly

numerous fits of senseless— sheerly idiotic—stubbornness. And always and only it was

directed at—of all the people in the universe!—her brother. She got along with her

sisters perfectly, their tiny tiffs barely rippled the surface of any of their minds. But any

time her path of action crossed Kit's, it seemed, the profoundest depths of her being

flared into opposition like exploding duodec. Worse than senseless and idiotic, it was

inexplicable, for the feeling which the Five had for each other was much deeper than

that felt by ordinary brothers and sisters.

     She didn't want to fight with Kit. She liked the guy! She liked to feel his mind en

rapport with hers, just as she liked to dance with him; their bodies as completely in

accord as were their minds. No change of step or motion, however suddenly conceived

and executed or however bizarre, had ever succeeded in taking the other by surprise or

in marring by a millimeter the effortless precision of their performance. She could do

things with Kit that would tie any other man into knots and break half his bones. All other

men were lumps. Kit was so far ahead of any other man in existence that there was

simply no comparison. If she were Kit she would give her a going-over that would . . . or

could even he. . .

     At the thought she turned cold inside. He could not. Even Kit, with all his

tremendous power, would hit that solid wall and bounce. Well, there was one—not a

man, but an entity—who could. He might kill her, but even that would be better than to

allow the continued growth within her mind of this monstrosity which she could neither

control nor understand. Where was she, and where was Lyrane, and where was Arisia?

Good—not too far off line. She would stop off at Arisia en route.

     She did so, and made her way to Mentor's office on the hospital grounds. She

told her story.

     "Fighting with Kit was bad enough," she concluded, "but when I start defying you,

Mentor, it's high time that something was done about it. Why didn't Kit ever knock me

into a logarithmic spiral? Why didn't you work me over? You called Kit in, with the

distinct implication that he needed more education—why didn't you pull me in here, too,

and pound some sense into me?"

     "Concerning you, Christopher had definite instructions, which he obeyed. I did

"not touch you for the same reason that I did not order you to come to me; neither

course would have been of any use. Your mind, daughter Karen, is unique. One of its

prime characteristics—the one, in fact, which is to make you an all-important player in

the drama which is to come—is a yieldlessness very nearly absolute. Your mind might,

just conceivably, he broken; but it cannot be coerced by any imaginable external force,

however applied. Thus it was inevitable from the first that nothing could be done about

the untoward manifestations of this characteristic until you yourself should recognize the

fact that your development was not complete. It would be idle for me to say that during

adolescence you have not been more than a trifle trying. I was not speaking idly when I

said that the development of you Five has been a tremendous task. It is with equal

seriousness, however, that I now tell you that the reward is commensurate with the

magnitude of the undertaking. It is impossible to express the satisfaction I feel—the

fulfillment, the completion, the justification—as you children come, one by one, each in

his proper time, for final instruction."

     "Oh—you mean, then, that there's nothing really the matter with me?" Hard as

she was, Karen trembled as her awful tension eased. "That I was supposed to act that

way? And I can tell Kit, right away?"

     "No need. Your brother has known that it was a passing phase; he shall know

very shortly that it has passed. It is not that you were 'supposed' to act as you acted.

You could not help it. Nor could your brother, nor I. From now on, however, you shall be

completely the mistress of your own mind. Come fully, daughter Karen, into mine."

     She did so, and in a matter of time her "formal education" was complete.

     "There is one thing that I don't quite understand . . ." she began, just before she

boarded her speedster.

     "Consider it, and I am sure that you will," Mentor assured her. "Explain it,

whatever it is, to me."

     "QX—I'll try. It's about Fossten and dad." Karen cogitated. "Fossten was, of

course, Gharlane—your making dad believe him to be an insane Arisian was a

masterpiece. I see, of course, how you did that—principally by making Fossten's 'real'

shape exactly like the one he saw of you on Arisia. But his physical actions as Fossten .

. ."

     "Go on, daughter. I am sure that your visualization will be sound."

     "While acting as Fossten he had to act as a Thralian would have acted," she

decided with a rush. "He was watched everywhere he went, and knew it. To display his

real power would have been disastrous. Just like you Arisians, they have to follow the

pattern to avoid setting up an inferiority complex that would ruin everything for them.

Gharlane's actions as Fossten, then, were constrained. Just as they were when he was

Gray Roger, so long ago—except that then he did make a point of unhuman longevity,

deliberately to put an insoluble problem up to First Lensman Samms and his men. Just

as you—you must have . . . you did coach Virgil Samms, Mentor, and some of you

Arisians were there, as men!"

     "We were. We lived and wrought as men and seemed to die as men."

     "But you weren't Virgil Samms, please!" Karen almost begged. "Not that it would

break me if you were, but I'd much rather you hadn't been."

     "No, none of us was Samms," Mentor assured her. "Nor Cleveland, nor

Rodebush, nor Costigan, nor even Clio Marsden. We worked with—'coached', as you

express it— those persons and others from time to time in certain small matters, but we

were at no time integral with any of them. One of us was, however, Nels Bergenholm.

The full inertialess space-drive became necessary at that time, and it would have been

poor technique to have had either Rodebush or Cleveland develop so suddenly the

ability to perfect the device as Bergenholm did perfect it."

     "QX. Bergenholm isn't important—he was just an inventor. To get back to the

subject of Fossten: when he was there on the flagship with dad, and in position to throw

his full weight around, it was too late—you Arisians were on the job. You'll have to take

it from there, though; I'm out beyond my depth."

     "Because you lack data. In those last minutes Gharlane knew that Kimball

Kinnison was neither alone nor unprotected. He called for help, but help did not come.

He was isolated; no one of his fellows received his call. Nor could he escape from the

form of flesh he was then energizing. I myself saw to that." Karen had never before felt

the Arisian display emotion, but his thought was grim and cold. "From that form, which

your father never did perceive, Gharlane of Eddore passed into the next plane of

existence."

     Karen shivered. "It served bun right . . . That clears everything up, I think. But are

you sure, Mentor"—wistfully—"that you can't, or rather shouldn't, teach me any more

than you have? It's . . . I feel . . . well, 'incompetent' is putting it very mildly indeed."

     'To a mind of such power and scope as yours, in its present state of

development, such a feeling is inevitable. Nor can anyone except yourself do anything

about it. Cold comfort, perhaps, but it is the stark truth that from now on your

development is your own task. Yours alone. As I have already told Christopher and

Kathryn, and will very shortly tell Camilla and Constance, you have had your last Arisian

treatment I will be on call to any of you at any instant of any day, to aid you or to guide

you or to re-enforce you at need; but of formal instruction there can be no more."

     Karen left Arisia and drove for Lyrane, her thoughts in a turmoil. The time was

too short by far; she deliberately cut her vessel's speed and took a long detour so that

the vast and chaotic library of her mind could be reduced to some semblance of order

before she landed.

     She reached Lyrane II, and there, again to all outward seeming a happy, carefree

girl, she hugged her mother rapturously.

     "You're the most wonderful thing, mums!" Karen exclaimed. "It's simply

marvelous, seeing you again in the flesh . . ."

     "Now why bring that up?" Clarrissa had—just barely— become accustomed to

working undraped, in the Lyranian fashion.

     "I didn't mean it that way at all, and you know I didn't," Kay snickered. "Shame on

you—fishing for compliments, and at your age, too!" Ignoring the older woman's attempt

at protest she went on: "All kidding aside, mums, you're a mighty smart-looking hunk of

woman. I approve of you exceedingly much. In fact, we're a keen pair and I like both of

us. I've got one advantage over you, of course, in that I never did care whether I had

any clothes on or not. How are you doing?"

     "Not so well—of course, though, I haven't been here very long." Forgetting her

undressedness, Clarrissa frowned. "I haven't found Helen, and I haven't found out yet

why she retired. I can't quite decide whether to put pressure on now, or wait a while

longer. Ladora, the new Elder Person, is . . . that is, I don't know . . . Oh, here she

comes now. I'm glad— I want you to meet her."

     If Ladora was glad to see Karen, however, she did not show it. Instead, for an

inappreciable instant of time which was nevertheless sufficient for the acquirement of

much information, each studied the other. Like Helen, the former queen, Ladora was

tall, beautifully proportioned, flawless of skin and feature, hard and fine. But so, and in

most respects even more so, to Ladora's astonishment and quickly-mounting wrath,

was this pink-tanned stranger. Practically instantaneously, therefore, the Lyranian

hurled a vicious mental bolt; only to get the surprise of her life.

     She hadn't found out yet what this strange near-person, Clarrissa of Sol III, had

in the way of equipment, but from the meek way she acted, it couldn't be much. So

Clarrissa's offspring, younger and less experienced, would be easy enough prey.

     But Ladora's bolt, the heaviest she could send, did not pierce even the outermost

fringes of her intended victim's defenses, and so vicious was the almost simultaneous

counter-thrust that it went through the Lyranian's hard-held block in nothing flat. Inside

her brain it wrought such hellishly poignant punishment that the matriarch, forgetting

everything, tried only and madly to scream. She could not. She could not move a

muscle of her face or of her body. She could not even fall. And the one brief glimpse

she had into the stranger's mind showed it to be such a blaze of incandescent fury that

she, who had never feared in the slightest any living creature, knew now in full measure

what fear was.

     "I'd like to give that alleged brain of yours a good going over, just for fun." Karen

forced her emotion to subside to a mere seething rage, and Ladora watched her do it.

"But since this whole stinking planet is my mother's dish, not mine, she'd blast me to a

cinder—she's done it before— if I dip in." She cooled still more—visibly. "At that, I don't

suppose you're too bad an egg, in your own poisonous way—you just don't know any

better. So maybe I'd better warn you, you poor fool, since you haven't got sense enough

to see it, that you're playing with an atomic vortex when you push her around like you've

been doing. Just a very little more of it and she'll get mad, like I did a second ago except

more so, and you'll wish to Klono you'd never been born. She won't make a sign until

she blows her top, but I'm telling you she's as much harder and tougher than I am as

she is older, and what she does to people she gets mad at I wouldn't want to watch

happen again, even to a snake. She'll pick you up, curl you into a circle, pull off your

arms, shove your feet down your throat, and roll you across that field there like a hoop.

After that I don't know what she'll do—depends on how much pressure she develops

before she goes off. One thing, though; she's always sorry afterwards. Why, she even

attends the funerals, sometimes, and insists on paying all the expenses!"

     With which outrageous thought she kissed Clarrissa an enthusiastic goodbye.

"Told you I couldn't stay a minute— got to do a flit—'see a man about a dog', you

know—came a million parsecs to squeeze you, mums, but it was worth it —clear ether!"

     She was gone, and it was a dewy-eyed and rapt mother, not a Lensman, who

turned to the still completely disorganized Lyranian. Clarrissa had perceived nothing

whatever of what had happened; Karen had very carefully seen to that.

     "My daughter," Clarrissa mused, as much to herself as to Ladora. "One of four.

The four dearest, finest, sweetest girls that ever lived. I often wonder how a woman of

my limitations, of my faults, could possibly have borne such children."

     And Ladora of Lyrane, humorless and literal as all Lyranians are, took those

thoughts at their face value and correlated their every connotation and implication with

what she herself had perceived in that "dear, sweet" daughter's mind; with what that

daughter had done and had said. The nature and quality of this hellish near-person's

"limitations" and "faults" became eminently clear; and as she perceived what she

thought was the truth, the Lyranian literally cringed.

     "As you know, I have been in doubt as to whether or not to support you actively,

as you wish," Ladora offered, as the two walked across the field, toward the line of

ground-cars. "On the one hand, the certainty that the safety, and perhaps the very

existence, of my race will be at hazard. On the other, the possibility that you are right in

saying that the situation will continue to deteriorate if we do nothing. The decision has

not been an easy one to make." Ladora was no longer aloof. She was just plain scared.

She had been talking against time, and hoping that the help for which she had long

since called would arrive in time. "I have touched only the outer surface of your mind.

Will you allow me, without offense, to test its inner quality before deciding definitely?" In

the instant of asking, Ladora sent out a full-driven probe.

     "I will not." Ladora's beam struck a barrier which seemed to her exactly like

Karen's. None of her race had developed anything like it. She had never seen . . . yes,

she had, too— years ago, when she was a child, that time in the assembly hall—that

utterly hated male, Kinnison of Tellus! Tellus— Sol III! Clarrissa of Sol III, then, wasn't a

near-person at all, but a female—Kinnison's kind of female—and a creature who was

physically a person, but mentally that inconceivable monstrosity, a female, might be

anything and might do anything! Ladora temporized.

     "Excuse me; I did not mean to intrude against your will," she apologized,

smoothly enough. "Since your attitude makes it extremely difficult for me to cooperate

with you, I can make no promises as yet. What is it that you wish to know first?"

     "I wish to interview your predecessor, the person we called Helen." Strangely

refreshed, in a sense galvanized by the brief personal visit with her dynamic daughter, it

was no longer Mrs. Kimball Kinnison who faced the Lyranian queen. Instead, it was the

Red Lensman; a full-powered Second-Stage Lensman who had finally decided that,

since appeals to reason, logic, and common sense had no perceptible effect upon this

stiff-necked near-woman, the time had come to bear down. "Furthermore, I intend to

interview her now, and not at some such indefinite future time as your whim may see fit

to allow."

     Ladora sent out a final desperate call for help and mustered her every force

against the interloper. Fast and strong as her mind was, however, the Red Lensman's

was faster and stronger. The Lyranian's defensive structure was wrecked in the instant

of its building, the frantically struggling mind was taken over in toto. Help

arrived—uselessly; since although Clarrissa's newly enlarged mind had not been put to

warlike use, it was brilliantly keen and ultimately sure. Nor, in time of stress, did the

softer side of her nature operate to stay mind or hand. While carrying Lensman's Load

she contained no more of ruth for Civilization's foes than did abysmally frigid Nadreck

himself.

     Head thrown back, taut and tense, gold-flecked tawny eyes flashing, she stood

there for a moment and took on her shield everything those belligerent persons could

send. More, she returned it in kind, plus; and under those withering blasts of force more

than one of her attackers died. Then, still holding her block, she and her unwilling

captive raced across the field toward the line of peculiar little fabric-and-wire machines

that were still the last word in Lyranian air-transport.

     Clarrissa knew that the Lyranians had no modern offensive or defensive

weapons. They did, however, have some fairly good artillery at the airport; and she

hoped fervently as she ran that she could put out jets enough to spoil aim and

fuzing—luckily, they hadn't developed proximity fuzes yet! —of whatever ack-ack they

could bring to bear on her crate during the few minutes she would have to use it.

Fortunately, there was no artillery at the small, unimportant airport on which her

speedster lay.

     "Here we are. We'll take this tripe—it's the fastest thing here!"

     Clarrissa could operate the triplane, of course—any knowledge or ability that

Ladora had ever had was now and permanently the Lensman's. She started the queer

engines; and as the powerful little plane screamed into the air, hanging from its props,

she devoted what of her mind she could spare to the problem of anti-aircraft fire. She

could not handle all the gun-crews; but she could and did control the most important

members of most of them. Thus, nearly all the shells either went wide or exploded too

soon. Since she knew every point of aim of the few guns with whose operations she

could not interfere, she avoided their missiles by not being at any one of those points at

the predetermined instant of functioning.

     Thus plane and passengers escaped unscratched; and in a matter of minutes

arrived at their destination. The Lyranians there had been alerted, of course; but they

were few in number and they had not been informed that it would take physical force,

not mental, to keep that red-headed pseudo-person from boarding her outlandish ship

of space.

     In a few more minutes, then, Clarrissa and her captive were high in the

stratosphere. Clarrissa sat Ladora down—hard—in a seat and fastened the safety

straps.

     "Stay in that seat and keep your thoughts to yourself," she directed, curtly. "If you

don't, you'll never again either move or think in this life." She opened a sliding door, put

on a couple of wisps of Manarkan glamorette, reached for a dress, and paused. Eyes

glowing, she gazed hungrily at a suit of plain gray leather; a costume which she had not

as yet so much as tried on. Should she wear it, or not?

     She could work efficiently—at service maximum, really—in ordinary clothes.

Ditto, although she didn't like to, unclothed. In Gray, though, she could hit absolute max

if she had to. Nor had there ever been any question of right involved; the only barrier

had been her own hyper-sensitivity.

     For over twenty years she herself had been the only one to deny her right. What

license, she. was wont to ask, did an imitation or synthetic or amateur or "Red"

Lensman have to wear the garb which meant so much to so many? Over those years,

however, it had become increasingly widely known that hers was one of the five finest

and most powerful minds in the entire Gray Legion; and when Coordinator Kinnison

recalled her to active duty in Unattached status, that Legion passed by unanimous vote

a resolution asking her to join them in Gray. Psychics all, they knew that nothing less

would suffice; that if there was any trace of resentment or of antagonism or of feelings

that she did not intrinsically belong, she would never don the uniform which every

adherent of Civilization so revered and for which, deep down, she had always so

intensely longed. The Legion had sent her these Grays. Kit had convinced her that she

did actually deserve them.

     She really should wear them. She would.

     She put them on, thrilling to the core as she did so, and made the quick little

gesture she had seen Kim make so many times. Gray Seal. No one, however

accustomed, has ever donned or ever will don unmoved the plain gray leather of the

Unattached Lensman of the Galactic Patrol.

     Hands on hips, she studied herself minutely and approvingly, both in the mirror

and by means of her vastly more efficient sense of perception. She wriggled a little, and

giggled inwardly as she remembered deploring as "exhibitionistic" this same conduct in

her oldest daughter.

     The Grays fitted her perfectly. A bit revealing, perhaps, but her figure was still

good—very good, as a matter of fact. Not a speck of dirt or tarnish. Her DeLameters

were fully charged. Her tremendous Lens flamed brilliantly upon her wrist. She

looked—and felt—ready. She could hit absolute max in a fraction of a micro-second. If

she had to get really tough, she would. She sent out a call.

     "Helen of Lyrane! I know they've got you around here somewhere, and if any of

your guards try to screen out this thought I'll burn their brains out. Clarrissa of Sol III

calling. Come in, Helen!"

     "Clarrissa!" This time there was no interference. A world of welcome was in every

nuance of the thought. "Where are you?"

     "High up, at . . ." Clarrissa gave her position. "I'm in my speedster, so can get to

anywhere on the planet in minutes. More important, where are you? And why?"

     "In jail, in my own apartment." Queens should have palaces, but Lyrane's ruler

did not. Everything was strictly utilitarian. "The tower on the corner, remember? On the

top floor? 'Why' is too long to go into now—I'd better tell you as much as possible of

what you should know, while there's still time."

     'Time? Are you in danger?"

     "Yes. Ladora would have killed me long ago if it had dared. My following grows

less daily, the Boskonians stronger. The guards have already summoned help. They are

coming now, to take me."

     'That's what they think!" Clarrissa had already reached the scene. She had

exactly the velocity she wanted. She slanted downward in a screaming dive. "Can you

tell whether they're limbering up any ack-ack around there?"

     "I don't believe so—I don't feel any such thoughts."

     "QX. Get away from the window." If they hadn't started already they never would;

the Red Lensman was deadly sure of that.

     She came within range—her range—of the guns. She was in time. Several

gunners were running toward their stations. None of them arrived. The speedster

leveled off and stuck its hard, sharp nose into and almost through the indicated room;

re-enforced concrete, steel bars, and glass showering abroad as it did so. The port

snapped open. As Helen leaped in, Clarrissa practically threw Ladora out.

     "Bring Ladora back!" Helen demanded. "I shall have its life!"

     "Nix!" Clarrissa snapped. "I know everything she does. We've other fish to fry, my

dear."

     The massive door clanged shut. The speedster darted forward, straight through

the solid concrete wall. Clarrissa's vessel, solidly built of beryllium alloys, had been

designed to take brutal punishment. She took it.

     Out in open space, Clarrissa went free, leaving the artificial gravity at normal.

Helen stood up, took Clarrissa's hand, and shook it gravely and strongly; a gesture at

which the Red Lensman almost choked.

     Helen of Lyrane had changed even less than had the Earth-woman. She was still

.six feet tall; erect, taut, springy, and poised. She didn't weigh a pound more than the

one-eighty she had scaled twenty-odd years ago. Her vivid auburn hair showed not one

strand of gray. Her eyes were as clear and as proud; her skin almost as fine and firm.

     "You are, then, alone?" In spite of her control, Helen's thought showed relief.

     "Yes. My bus . . . Kimball Kinnison is very busy elsewhere." Clarrissa understood

perfectly. Helen, after twenty years of thinking things over, really liked her; but she still

simply couldn't stand a male, not even Kim; any more than Clarrissa could ever adapt

herself to the Lyranian habit of using the neuter pronoun "it" when referring to one of

themselves. She couldn't. Anybody who ever got one glimpse of Helen would simply

have to think of her as she! But enough of this wool-gathering—which had taken

perhaps one millisecond of time.

     "There's nothing to keep us from working together perfectly," Clarrissa's thought

flashed on. "Ladora didn't know much, and you do. So tell me all about things, so we