Boys, take her upstairs," Klnnison-Thyron ordered, and the tremendous

raider—actually the Dauntless in disguise —floated serenely upward to a station

immediately astern of Mendonai's flagship. All three courses of multi-ply defensive

screen were out, as were full-coverage spy-ray blocks and thought-screens.

     As the fleet blasted in tight formation for Kalonia III, Boskonian experts tested the

Dauntless' defenses thoroughly, and found them bottle-tight. No intrusion was possible.

The only open channel was to Thyron's plate, which was so villainously fogged that

nothing could be seen except Thyron's face. Convinced at last of that fact, Mendonai sat

back and seethed quietly; his pervasive Kalonian blueness pointing up his grim and

vicious mood.

     He had never, in all his life, been insulted so outrageously. Was there

anything—anything!—he could do about it? There was not. Thyron, personally, he could

not touch—yet—and toe fact that the outlaw had so brazenly and so nonchalantly

Placed his vessel in the exact center of the Boskonian fleet made it pellucidly clear to

any Boskonian mind that he had nothing whatever to fear from that fleet.

     Wherefore the Kalonian seethed, and, his minions stepped ever more softly and

followed with ever-increasing punctilio the rigid Boskonian code. For the grapevine

carries news swiftly; by this time the whole fleet knew that His Nibs had been taking a

God-awful kicking around, and the first guy who gave him an excuse to blow his stack

would be lucky if he only got skinned alive.

     As the fleet spread out for inert maneuvering above the Kalonian atmosphere,

Kinnison turned again to the young Lensman.

     "One last word, Frank. I'm sure everything's covered—a lot of smart people

worked on this problem. Nevertheless, something may happen, so I'll send you the data

as fast as I get it. Remember what I told you before—if I get the dope we need, I'm

expendable and it'll be your job to get it back to Base. No heroics. Is that clear?"

     "Yes, sir." The young Lensman gulped. "I hope, though, that it doesn't. . ."

     "So do I," Kinnison grinned as he climbed into his highly special dureum armor,

"and the chances are a million to one that it won't. That's why I'm going down there."

     In their respective speedsters Kinnison and Mendonai made the long drop to

ground, and side by side they went into the office of Black Lensman Melasnikov. That

worthy, too, wore heavy armor; but he did not have a mechanical thought-screen. With

his terrific power of mind, he did not need one. Thyron, of course, did; a fact of which

Melasnikov became instantly aware.

     "Release your screen," he directed, bruskly.

     "Not yet, pal—don't be so hasty," Thyron advised. "Some things about this here

hook-up don't exactly click. We got a little talking to do before I open up."

     "No talk, worm. Talk, especially your talk, is meaningless. From you I want, and

will have, the truth, and not talk. CUT THOSE SCREENS!"

                        *    *    *    *

     And lovely Kathryn, in her speedster not too far away, straightened up and sent

out a call.

     "Kit—Kay—Cam—Con . . . are you free?" They were, for the moment. "Stand by,

please, all of you. I'm pretty sure something is going to happen. Dad can handle this

Melasnikov easily enough, if none of the higher-ups step in, but they probably will. Their

Lensmen are probably important enough to rate protection. Check?"

     "Check."

     "So, as soon as dad begins to get the best of the argument, the protector will

step in," Kathryn continued, "and whether I can handle him alone or not depends on

how high a higher-up they send in. So I'd like to have you all stand by for a minute or

two, just in case."

     How different was Kathryn's attitude now than it had been in the hyper-spatial

tube! And how well for Civilization that ft was!

     "Hold it, kids, I've got a thought," Kit suggested. "We've never done any

teamwork since we learned how to handle heavy stuff, and we'll have to get in some

practice" sometime. What say we link up on this?"

     "Oh, yes!" "Let's do!" 'Take over, Kit!" Three approvals came as one, and:

     "QX, Kit," came Kathryn's less enthusiastic concurrence, a moment later.

Naturally enough, she would rather do it alone if she could; but she had to admit that

her brother's plan was the better.

     Kit laid out the matrix and the four girls came in. There ?was a brief moment of

snuggling and fitting; then each of the Five caught his breath in awe. This was

new—brand new. Each had thought himself complete and full; each had supposed that

much practice and at least some give-and-take Would be necessary before they could

work efficiently as a group. But this! This was the supposedly ultimately

unattainable—perfection itself! This was UNITY: full; round; complete. No practice was

or ever would be necessary. Not one micro-micro-second of doubt or of uncertainty

would or ever could exist. This was the UNIT, a thing for which there are no words in

any written or spoken language, a thing theretofore undreamed-of save as a purely

theoretical concept in an unthinkably ancient, four-ply Arisian brain.

     "U-m-n-g-n-k." Kit swallowed a lump as big as his fist. "This, kids, is really . . ."

     "Ah, children, you have done it." Mentor's thought rolled smoothly in. "You now

understand why I could not attempt to describe the Unit to any one of you. This is the

culminating moment of my life—of our lives, we may now say. For the first time in more

years than you can understand, we are at last sure that our lives have not been lived in

vain. But attend —that for which you are waiting will soon be here." "What is it?" "Who?"

'Tell us how to . . ." "We cannot." Four separate Arisians smiled as one; a wash of

ineffable blessing and benediction suffused the Five. "We who made the Unit possible

are almost completely ignorant of the details of its higher functions. But that it will need

no help from our lesser minds is certain; it is the most powerful and the most nearly

perfect creation this universe has ever seen."

     The Arisian vanished; and, even before Kimball Kinnison had released his

screen, a cryptic, utterly untraceable and all-pervasive foreign thought came in.

     To aid the Black Lensman? To study this disturbing new element? Or merely to

observe? Or what? The only certainty was that that thought was coldly, clearly, and

highly inimical to all Civilization.

     Again everything happened at once. Karen's impenetrable block flared into

being—not instantly, but instantaneously. Constance assembled and hurled, in the

same lack of time, a mental bolt of whose size and power she had never been capable.

Camilla, the detector-scanner, synchronized with the attacking thought and steered.

And Kathryn and Kit, with all the force, all the will, and all the drive of human heredity,

got behind it and pushed.

     Nor was this, any of it, conscious individual effort. The children of the Lens were

not now five, but one. This was the Unit at work; doing its first job. It is literally

impossible to describe what happened; but each of the Five knew that one would-be

Protector, whever he had been in space or whenever in time, would never think again.

Seconds passed. The Unit held tense, awaiting the riposte. No riposte came.

     "Fine work, kids!" Kit broke the linkage and each girl felt hard, brotherly pats on

her back. "That's all there is to this one, I guess—must have been only one guard on

duty. You're good eggs, and I like you—How we can operate now!"

     "But it was too easy, Kit!" Kathryn protested. 'Too easy by far for it to have been

an Eddorian. We aren't that good. Why, I could have handled him alone . . . I think," she

added hastily, as she realized that she, although an essential part of the Unit, had as

yet no real understanding of what that Unit really was.

     "You hope, you mean!" Constance jeered. "If that bolt was as big and as hot as

I'm afraid it was, anything it hit would have looked easy. Why didn't you slow us down,

Kit? You're supposed to be the Big Brain, you know. As it was, we haven't the faintest

idea of what happened. Who was he, anyway?"

     "Didn't have time," Kit grinned. "Everything got out of hand. All of us were sort of

inebriated by the exuberance of our own enthusiasm, I guess. Now that we know what

our speed is, though, we can slow down next time—if we want to. As for your last

question, Con, you're asking the wrong guy. Was it Eddorian, Cam, or not?"

     "What difference does it make?" Karen asked.

     "On the practical side, none. For the completion of the picture, maybe a lot.

Come in, Cam."

     "It was not an Eddorian," Camilla decided. "It was not of Arisian, or even near-

Arisian, grade. Sorry to say it, Kit, but it was another member of that high-thinking race

you've already got down on Page One of your little black book."

     "I thought it might be. The missing link between Kalonia and Eddore. Credits to

millos it's that dopey planet Floor Mentor was yowling about. Oh, DAMN!"

     "Why the capital damn?" asked Constance, brightly. "Let's link up and let the Unit

find it and knock hell out of it. That'd be fun."

     "Act your age, baby," Kit advised. "Floor is taboo—you know that as well as I do.

Mentor told us all not to try to investigate it—that we'd learn of it in time, so we probably

will. I told him a while back I was going to hunt it up myself, and he told me if I did he'd

tie both my legs around my neck in a lovers' knot, or words to that effect. Sometimes I'd

like to half-brain the old buzzard, but everything he has said so far has dead-centered

the beam. We'll just have to take it, and try to like it."

                      *     *     *     *

     Kinnison was eminently willing to cut his thought-screen, since he could not work

through it to do what had to be done here. Nor was he over-confident. He knew that he

could handle the Black Lensman—any Black Lensman—but he also knew enough of

mental phenomena in general and of Lensmanship in particular to realize that

Melasnikov might very well have within call reserves about whom he, Kinnison, could

know nothing. He knew that he had lied outrageously to young Frank in regard to the

odds applicable to this enterprise; that instead of a million to one, the actuality was one

to one, or even less.

      Nevertheless, he was well content. He had neither lied nor exaggerated in

saying that he himself was expendable. That was why Frank and the Dauntless were

upstairs now. Getting the dope and getting it back to Base were what mattered. Nothing

else did.

     He was coldly certain that he could get all the information that Melasnikov had,

once he had engaged the Kalonian Lensman mind to mind. No Boskonian power or

thing, he was convinced, could treat him rough enough or kill him fast enough to keep

him from doing that. And he could and would shoot the stuff along to Frank as fast as he

got it. And he stood an even—almost even, anyway—chance of getting away afterward.

If he could, QX. If he couldn't. . . well, that would have to be QX, too.

     Kinnison flipped his switch and there ensued a conflict of wills that made the sub-

ether boil. The Kalonian was one of the strongest, hardest, and ablest individuals of his

hellishly capable race; and the fact that he believed implicitly in his own complete

invulnerability operated to double and to quadruple his naturally tremendous strength.

     On the other hand, Kimball Kinnison was a Second-Stage Lensman of the

Galactic Patrol.

     Back and back, then, inch by inch and foot by foot, the Black Lensman's

defensive zone was forced; back to and down into his own mind. And there, appallingly

enough, Kinnison found almost nothing of value.

     No knowledge of the higher reaches of the Boskonian organization; no hint that

any real organization of Black Lensmen existed; only the peculiarly disturbing fact that

he had picked up his Lens on Lyrane IX. And "picked up" was literal. He had not seen,

nor heard, nor had any dealings of any kind with anyone while he was there.

     Since both armored figures stood motionless, no sign of the tremendous actuality

of their mental battle was evident. Thus the Boskonians were not surprised to hear their

Black Lensman speak.

     "Very well, Thyron, you have passed this preliminary examination. I know all that

I now need to know. I will accompany you to your vessel, to complete my investigation

there. Lead the way."

     Kinnison did so, and as the speedster came to rest inside the Dauntless the

Black Lensman addressed Vice-Admiral Mendonai via plate.

     "I am taking Bradlow Thyron and his ship to the spaceyards on Four, where a

really comprehensive study of it can be made. Return to and complete your original

assignment"

     "I abase myself, Your Supremacy, but . . . but I . . . I discovered that ship!"

Mendonai protested.

     "Granted," the Black Lensman sneered. "You will be given full credit in my report

for what you have done. The fact of discovery, however, does not excuse your present

conduct. Go—and consider yourself fortunate that, because of that service, I forbear

from disciplining you for your intolerable insubordination."

     "I abase myself, Your Supremacy. I go." He really did abase himself, this time,

and the fleet disappeared.

     Then, the mighty Dauntless safely away from Kalonia and on her course to

rendezvous with die Velan, Kinnison again went over his captive's mind; line by line and

almost cell by cell. It was still the same. It was still Lyrane IX and it still didn't make any

kind of sense. Since Boskonians were certainly not supermen, and hence could not

possibly have developed their own Lenses, it followed that they must have obtained

them from the Boskonian counterpart of Arista. Hence, Lyrane IX must be IT—a

conclusion which was certainly fallacious. Ridiculous—preposterous—utterly untenable:

Lyrane IX never had been, was not, and never would be the home of any Boskonian

super-race. Nevertheless, it was a definite fact that Melasnikov had got his Lens there.

Also, if he had ever had any special training, such as any Lensman must have had, he

didn't have any memory of it. Nor did he carry any scars of surgery. What a hash! How

could anybody make any sense out of such a mess as that?

                      *     *     *     *

     Ever-watchful Kathryn, eyes narrowed now in concentration, could have told him,

but she did not. Her visualization was beginning to clear up. Lyrane was out. So was

Floor. The Lenses originated on Eddore; that was certain. The fact that their training

was subconscious weakened the Black Lensman in precisely the characteristics

requisite for ultimate strength —although probably neither the Eddorians nor the

Ploorans, with their warped, Boskonian sense of values, realized it. The Black Lensmen

would never constitute a serious problem. QX.

                      *     *     *     *

     Kinnison, having attended to the unpleasant but necessary job of resolving

Melasnikov into his component atoms, turned to his Lensman-aide.

     "Hold everything, Frank, until I get back. This won't take long."

     Nor. did it, although the outcome was not at all what the Gray Lensman had

expected.

     Kinnison and Worsel, in an inert speedster, crossed the Hell-Hole's barrier web at

a speed of only miles per hour, and then slowed down. The ship was backing in on her

brakes, with everything set to hurl her forward under full free drive should either

Lensman flick a finger. Kinnison could feel nothing, even though, being en rapport with

Worsel, he knew that his friend was soon suffering intensely.

     "Let's flit," the Gray Lensman suggested, and threw on the drive. "I probed my

limit, and couldn't touch or feel a thing. Had enough, didn't you?"

     "More than enough—I couldn't have taken much more."

     Each boarded his ship; and as the Dauntless and the Velan tore through space

toward far Lyrane, Kinnison paced his room, scowling in black abstraction. Nor would a

mind-reader have found his thoughts either cogent or informative.

     "Lyrane Nine . . . Lyrane Nine . . . Lyrane Nine . . . LYRANE NINE . . . and

something I can't feel or sense or perceive that kills anybody and everybody else . . .