The "Big Noise"—socially the Directrix, technically the Z9M9Z—floated through

space at the center of a hollow sphere of maulers packed almost screen to screen. She

was the Brain. She had been built around the seventeen million cubic feet of

unobstructed space which comprised her "tank"—the three-dimensional chart in which

vari-colored lights, stationary and moving, represented the positions and motions of

solar systems, ships, loose planets, negaspheres, and all other objects and items in

which Grand Fleet Operations was, or might become, interested. Completely encircling

the tank's more than two thousand feet of circumference was the Rigellian-manned,

multi-million-plug board; a crew and a board capable of handling efficiently more than a

million combat units.

     In the "reducer," the comparatively tiny ten-foot tank set into an alcove, there

were condensed the continuously-changing major features of the main chart, so that

one man could comprehend and direct the board strategy of the engagement.

     Instead of Port Admiral Haynes, who had conned that reducer and issued

general orders during the only previous experience of the Z9M9Z in serious warfare,

Kimball Kinnison was now in supreme command. Instead of Kinnison and Worsel, who

had formerly handled the big tank and the board, there were Clarrissa, Worsel,

Tregonsee, and the Children of the Lens. There also, in a built-in, thoroughly competent

refrigerator, was Nadreck. Port Admiral Raoul LaForge and Vice-Coordinator Clifford

Maitland were just coming aboard.

     Might he need anybody else, Kinnison wondered. Couldn't think of anybody—he

had just about the whole top echelon of Civilization. Cliff and Laf weren't L2's, of course,

but they •were mighty good men . . . besides, he liked them! Too bad the fourth officer

of their class couldn't be there, too . . . gallant Wiedel Holmberg, killed in action . . . at

that, three out of four was a high average—mighty high . . .

     "Hi, Cliff—Hi, Laf!" "Hi, Kim!"

     The three old friends shook hands cordially, then the two newcomers stared for

minutes into the maze of lights flashing and winking in the tremendous space-chart.

     "Glad I don't have to try to make sense out of that," LaForge commented, finally.

"Looks a lot different in battle harness than on practice cruises. You want me on that

forward wall there, you said?"

     "Yes. You can see it plainer down in the reducer. The white star is Arisia. The

yellows, all marked, are suns and other fixed points, such as the markers along the

arbitrary rim of the galaxy, running from there to there. Reds will be Boskonians when

they get close enough to show. Greens are ours. Up in the big tank everything is

identified, but down here there's no room for details—each green light marks the

location of a whole operating fleet. That block of green circles, there, is your command.

It's about eighty parsecs deep and covers everything within two hours—say a hundred

and fifty parsecs—of the line between Arisia and the Second Galaxy. Pretty loose now,

of course, but you can tighten it up and shift it as you please as soon as some reds

show up. You'll have a Rigeliian talker—here he is now— when you want anything

done, think at bun and he'll give it to the right panel on the board. QX?"

     "I think so. I'll practice a bit."

     "Now you, Cliff. These green crosses, half-way between the forward wall and

Arisia, are yours. You won't have quite as much depth as Laf, but a wider coverage. The

green tetrahedrons are mine. They blanket Arisia, you notice, and fill the space out to

the second wall."

     "Do you think you and I will have anything to do?" Maitland asked, waving a hand

at LaForge's tremendous barrier.

     "I wish I could hope not, but I can't. They're going to throw everything they've got

at us."

     For weeks Grand Fleet drilled, maneuvered, and practiced. All space within ten

parsecs of Arisia was divided into cubes, each of which was given a reference number.

Fleets were so placed that any point in that space could be reached by at least one fleet

in thirty seconds or less of elapsed time.

     Drill went on until, finally, it happened. Constance, on guard at the moment,

perceived the slight "curdling" of space which presages the appearance of the terminus

of a hyper-spatial tube and gave the alarm. Kit, the girls, and all the Arisians responded

instantly—all knew that this was to be a thing which not even the Five could handle

unaided.

     Not one, or a hundred, or a thousand, but at least two hundred thousand of those

tubes erupted, practically at once. Kit could alert and instruct ten Rigellian operators

every second, and so could each of his sisters; but since every tube within striking

distance of Arisia had to be guarded or plugged within thirty seconds of its appearance,

it is seen that the Arisians did practically all of the spotting and placing during those first

literally incredible two or three minutes.

     If the Boskonians could have emerged from a tube's terminus in the moment of

its appearance, it is quite probable that nothing could have saved Arisia. As it was,

however, the enemy required seconds, or sometimes even whole minutes, to traverse

their tubes, which gave the defenders much valuable time.

     Upon arriving at the tube's end, the fleet laced itself, by means of tractors and

pressors, into a rigid although inertia-less structure. Then, if there was time, and

because the theory was that the pirates would probably send a negasphere through

first, with an intrinsic velocity aimed at Arisia, a suitably-equipped loose planet was

tossed into "this end" of the tube. Since they might send a loose or an armed planet

through first, however, the fleet admiral usually threw a negasphere in, too.

     What happened when planet met negasphere, in the unknown medium which

makes up the "interior" of a hyper-spatial tube, is not surely known. Several highly

abstruse mathematical treatises and many volumes of rather gruesome fiction have

been written upon the subject—none of which, however, has any bearing here.

     If the Patrol fleet did not get there first, the succession of events was different;

the degree of difference depending upon how much time the enemy had had. If, as

sometimes happened, a fleet was coming through it was met by a super-atomic bomb

and by the concentrated fire of every primary projector that the englobing task force

could bring to bear; with consequences upon which it is neither necessary or desirable

to dwell. If a planet had emerged, it was met by a negasphere . . .

     Have you ever seen a negasphere strike a planet?

     The negasphere is built of negative matter. This material—or, rather, anti-

material—is in every respect the exact opposite of the every-day matter of normal

space. Instead of electrons, it has positrons. To it a push, however violent, is a pull; a

pull is a push. When negative matter strikes positive, then, there is no collision in the

usual sense of the word. One electron and one positron neutralize each other and

disappear; giving rise to two quanta of extremely hard radiation.

     Thus, when the spherical hyper-plane which was the aspect of the negasphere

tended to occupy the same three-dimensional space in which the loose planet already

was, there was no actual collision. Instead, the materials of both simply vanished, along

the surface of what should have been a contact, in a gigantically crescendo burst of

pure, raw energy. The atoms and the molecules of the planet's substance disappeared;

the physically incomprehensible texture of the negasphere's anti-mass changed into

that of normal space. And all circumambient space was flooded with inconceivably lethal

radiation; so intensely lethal that any being not adequately shielded from it died before

he had time to realize that he was being burned.

     Gravitation, of course, was unaffected; and the rapid disappearance of the

planet's mass set up unbalanced forces of tremendous magnitude. The hot, dense,

pseudo-liquid magma tended to erupt as the sphere of nothingness devoured so rapidly

the planet's substance, but not a particle of it could move. Instead, it vanished.

Mountains fell, crashingly. Oceans poured. Earth-cracks appeared; miles wide, tens of

miles deep, hundreds of miles long. The world heaved . . . shuddered . . . disintegrated .

. . vanished.

     The shock attack upon Arisia itself, which in the Ed-dorian mind had been

mathematically certain to succeed, was over in approximately six minutes. Kinnison,

Maitland, and LaForge, fuming at their stations, had done nothing at all. The

Boskonians had probably thrown everything they could; the probability was vanishingly

small that that particular attack was to be or could be resumed. Nevertheless a host of

Kinnison's task forces remained on guard and a detail of Arisians still scanned all

nearby space.

     "What shall I do next, Kit?" Camilla asked. "Help Connie crack that screen?"

     Kit glanced at his youngest sister, who was stretched out flat, every muscle

rigidly tense in an extremity of effort.

      "No," he decided. "If she can't crack it alone, all four of us couldn't help her

much. Besides, I don't believe she can break it. It's a mechanical, you know, powered

by atomic-motored generators. My guess is that it'll have to be solved, not cracked, and

the solution will take time. When she comes down off that peak, Kay, you might tell her

so, and both of you start solving it. The rest of us have another job. The Boskonian

moppers-up are coming in force, and there isn't a chance that either we or the Arisians

can derive the counter-formula of that screen in less than a week. Therefore the rest of

this battle will have to be fought out on conventional lines. We can do the most good, I

think, by spotting the Boskonians into the big tank—our scouts aren't locating five

percent of them—for the L2's to pass on to dad and the rest of the top brass so they can

run this battle the way it ought to be run. You'll do the spotting, Cam, of course; Kat and

I will do the pushing. And if you thought that Tregonsee took you for a ride . . . ! It'll

work, don't you think?" "Of course it'll work!"

     Thus, apparently as though by magic, red lights winked into being throughout a

third of the volume of the immense tank; and the three master strategists, informed of

what was being done, heaved tremendous sighs of relief. They now had real control.

They knew, not only the positions of their own task forces, but also, and exactly, the

position of every task-force of the enemy. More, by merely forming in his mind the

desire for the information, any one of the three could know, with no appreciable lapse of

time, the exact composition and the exact strength of any individual fleet, flotilla, or

squadron!

     Kit and his two sisters stood close-grouped, motionless; heads bent and almost

touching, arms interlocked. Kinnison perceived with surprise that Lenses, as big and as

bright as Kit's own, flamed upon his daughters' wrists; a surprise which changed to awe

as the very air around those three red-bronze-auburn heads began to thicken, to

pulsate, and to glow with that indefinable, indescribable polychromatic effulgence so

uniquely characteristic of the Lens of the Galactic Patrol. But there was work to do, and

Kinnison did it.

     Since the Z9M9Z was now working as not even the most optimistic of her

planners and designers had dared to hope, the war could now be fought strategically;

that is, with the object of doing the enemy as much harm as possible with the irreducible

minimum of risk. It was not sporting. It was not clubby. There was nothing whatever of

chivalry. There was no thought whatever of giving the enemy a break. It was

massacre—it was murder—it was war.

     It was not ship to ship. No, nor fleet to fleet. Instead, ten or twenty Patrol task-

forces, under sure pilotage, dashed out to englobe at extreme range one fleet of the

Boskonians. Then, before the opposing admiral could assemble a picture of what was

going on, his entire command became the center of impact of hundreds or even

thousands of super-atomic bombs, as well as the focus of an immensely greater

number of scarcely less ravaging primary beams. Not a ship nor a scout nor a lifeboat of

the englobed fleet escaped, ever. In fact, few indeed were the blobs, or even droplets,

of hard alloy or of dureum which remained merely liquefied or which, later, were able to

condense.

     Fleet by fleet the Boskonians were blown out of the ether; one by one the red

lights in the tank and in the reducer winked out. And finally the slaughter was done.

     Kit and his two now Lensless sisters unlaced themselves. Karen and Constance

came up for air, announcing that they knew how to work the problem Kit had handed

them, but that it would take time. Clarrissa, white and shaken by what she had driven

herself to do, looked and felt sick. So did Kinnison; nor had either of the other two

commanders derived any pleasure from the engagement. Tregonsee deplored it. Of all

the Lensed personnel, only Worsel had enjoyed himself. He liked to kill enemies, at

close range or far, and he could not understand or sympathize with squeamishness.

Nadreck, of course, had neither liked nor disliked any part of the whole affair; to him his

part had been merely another task, to be performed with the smallest outlay of physical

and mental effort consistent with good workmanship.

     "What next?" Kinnison asked then, of the group at large. "I say the Ploorans.

They're not like these poor devils were —they probably sent them in. They've got it

coming!"

     "They certainly have!"

     "Floor!"

     "By all means Floor!"

     "But how about Arisia here?" Maitland asked.

     "Under control," Kinnison replied. "We'll leave a heavy guard and a spare

tank—the Arisians will do the rest."

     As soon as the tremendous fleet had shaken itself down into the course for Floor,

all seven of the Kinnisons retired to a small dining room and ate a festive meal. They

drank after-dinner coffee. Most of them smoked. They discussed, for a long time and

not very quietly, the matter of the Hell-Hole in Space. Finally:

     "I know it's a trap, as well as you do." Kinnison got up from the table, rammed his

hands into his breeches pockets, and paced the floor. It's jot T - R - A - P painted all

over it, in bill-poster letters seventeen meters high. So what? Since I'm the .only one

who can, I've got to go in, if it's still there after we knock Floor off. And it'll still be there,

for all the tea in China. All the Ploorans aren't on Floor."

     Four young Kinnisons flashed thoughts at Kathryn, who frowned and bit her lip.

She had hit that hole with everything she had, and simply bounced. She had been able

to block the radiation, of course, but such solid barriers had been necessary that she

had blinded herself by her own screens. That it was Eddorian there could be no doubt . .

. warned by her own activities in the other tube—Plooran of course—and dad would be

worth taking in more ways than one . . .

     "I can't say that I'm any keener about going in than any of you are about having

me do it," the big Lensman went on, "but unless some of you can figure out a reason for

my not going in that isn't fuller of holes than a sponge, I'm going to tackle it just as soon

after we blow Floor apart as I can possibly get there."

     And Kathryn, his self-appointed guardian, knew that nothing could stop him. Nor

did anyone there, even Clarrissa, try to stop him. Lensmen all, they knew that he had to

go in.

     To the Five, the situation was not too serious. Kinnison would come through

unhurt. The Eddorians could take him, of course. But whether or not they could do

anything to him after they got him would depend on what the Kinnison kids would be

doing in the meantime—and that would be plenty. They couldn't delay his entry into the

tube very much without making a smell, but they could and would hurry Arisia up. And

even if, as seemed probable, he was already in the tube when Arisia was ready for the

big push, a lot could be done at the other end. Those amoeboid monstrosities would be

fighting for their own precious lives, this time, not for the lives of slaves: and the Five

promised each other grimly that the Eddorians would have too much else to worry about

to waste any time on Kimball Kinnison.

     Clarrissa Kinnison, however, fought the hardest and bitterest battle of her life.

She loved Kim with a depth and a fervor which very few women, anywhere, have ever

been able to feel. She knew with a sick, cold certainty, knew with every fibre of her

being and with every cell of her brain, that if he went into that trap he would die in it.

Nevertheless, she would have to let him go in. More, and worse, she would have to

send him in—to his death—with a smile. She could not ask him not to go in. She could

not even suggest again that there was any possibility that he need not go in. He had to

go in. He had to . . .

     And if Lensman's Load was heavy on him, on her it was almost unbearable. His

part was vastly the easier. He would only have to die; she would have to live. She would

have to keep on living—without Kim—living a lifetime of deaths, one after another. And

she would have to hold her block and smile, not only with her face, but with her whole

mind. She could be scared, of course, apprehensive, as he himself was; she could wish

with all her strength for his safe return: but if he suspected the thousandth part of what

she really felt it would break his heart. Nor would it do a bit of good. However broken-

hearted at her rebellion against the inflexible Code of the Lens, he would still go in.

Being Kimball Kinnison, he could not do anything else.

     As soon as she could, Clarrissa went to a distant room and turned on a full-

coverage block. She lay down, buried her face in the pillow, clenched her fists, and

fought.

     Was there any way—any possible way—that she could die instead? None. It was

not that simple.

     She would have to let him go . . .

     With a SMILE . . .

     Not gladly, but proudly and willingly . . . for the good of the Patrol . . .

     DAMN THE PATROL!!

     Clarrissa Kinnison gritted her teeth and writhed.

     She would simply have to let him go into that ghastly trap —go to his absolutely

sure and certain death—without showing one white feather,, either to her husband or to

her children. Her husband, her Kim, would have to die . . . and

she—would—have—to—live . . .

     She got up, smiled experimentally, and snapped off the block. Then, actually

smiling and apparently confident, she strolled down the corridor.