the Arisians and the Children of the Lens had known that Eddore must be

attacked as soon as possible after the fall of Floor. They were fairly certain that the

interspatial use of planets as projectiles was new; but they were completely certain that

the Eddorians would be able to deduce in a short time the principles and the concepts,

the fundamental equations, and the essential operators involved in the process. They

would find Nth space or one like it in one day; certainly not more than two. Their slaves

would duplicate the weapon in approximately three weeks. Shortly thereafter both Ultra

Prime and Prime Base, both Klovia and Tellus, would be blown out of the ether. So

would Arisia—perhaps Arisia would go first. The Eddorians would probably not be able

to ami such planets as accurately as the Arisians had, but they would keep on trying

and they would learn fast.

     This weapon was the sheer ultimate in destructiveness. No defense against it

was possible. There was no theory which applied to it or which could be stretched to

cover it. Even the Arisian Masters of Mathematics had not as yet been able to invent

symbologies and techniques to handle the quantities and magnitudes involved when

those interloping masses of foreign matter struck normal space.

     Thus Kit did not have to follow up his announced intention of making the Arisians

hurry. They did not hurry, of course, but they did not lose or waste a minute. Each

Arisian, from the youngest watchman up to the oldest philosopher, tuned a part of his

mind to Mentor, another part to some one of the millions of Lensmen upon his list, and

flashed a message.

     "Lensmen, attend—keep your mind sensitized to this, the pattern of Mentor of

Arisia, who will speak to you as soon as all have been alerted."

     That message went throughout the First Galaxy, throughout intergalactic space,

and throughout what part of the Second Galaxy had felt the touch of Civilization. It went

to Alsakan and Vandemar and Klovia, to Thrale and Tellus and Rigel IV, to Mars and

Velantia and Palain VII, to Medon and Venus and Centralia. It went to flitters,

battleships, and loose planets. It went to asteroids and moonlets, to planets large and

small. It went to newly graduated Lensmen and to Lensmen long since retired; to

Lensmen at work and at play. It went to every First-Stage Lensman of the Galactic

Patrol.

     Wherever the message went, turmoil followed. Lensmen everywhere flashed

questions at other Lensmen.

     "What do you make of it, Fred?"

     "Did you get the same thing I did?"

     "Mentor! Grinning Noshabkeming, what's up?"

     "Damfino. Must be big, though, for Mentor to be handling it"

     "Big! It's immense! Who ever heard of Arisia stepping in before?"

     "Big! Colossal! Mentor never talked twice to anybody except the L2's before, did

he?"

     Millions of Lensed questions flooded every base and every office of the Patrol.

Nobody, not even the vice-coordinator, knew a thing.

     "You might as well stop sending in questions as to what this is all about, because

none of us knows any more about it than you do," Maitland finally sent out a general

message. "Apparently everybody with a Lens is getting the same thought, no more and

no less. All I can say is that it must be a Class A Prime emergency, and everyone who

is not actually tied up in a life and death matter will please drop everything and stand

by."

     Mentor wanted, and had to have, high tension. He got it. Tension mounted higher

and higher as eventless hours passed and as, for the first time in history, Patrol

business slowed down almost to a stop.

     And in a small cruiser, manned by four red-headed girls and one red-headed

youth, tension was also building up. The problem of the mechanical screens had long

since been solved. Atomic powered counter-generators were in place, ready at the

touch of a button to neutralize the mechanically-generated screens of the enemy and

thus to make the engagement a mind-to-mind combat. They were as close to Eddore's

star-cluster as they could be without giving alarm. They had had nothing to do for hours

except wait. They were probably keyed up higher than any other five Lensmen in all of

space.

     Kit, son of his father, was pacing the floor, chain-smoking.

     Constance was alternately getting up and sitting down—up— down—up. She,

too, was smoking; or, rather, she was lighting cigarettes and throwing them away.

Kathryn was sitting, stiffly still, manufacturing Lenses which, starting at her wrists, raced

up both bare arms to her shoulders and disappeared. Karen was meticulously sticking

holes in a piece of blank paper with a pin, making an intricate and meaningless design.

Only Camilla made any pretense of calmness, and it was as transparent as glass. She

was pretending to read a novel; but instead of absorbing its full content at the rate of

one glance per page, she had read half of it word by word and still had no idea of what

the story was about.

     "Are you ready, children?" Mentor's thought came in at last.

     "Ready!" Without knowing how they got there, the Five found themselves

standing in the middle of the room, packed tight.

     "Oh, Kit, I'm shaking like a torso-tosser!" Constance wailed. "I just know I'm going

to louse up this whole damn war!"

     "QX, baby, we're all in the same fix. Can't you hear my teeth chatter? Doesn't

mean a thing. Good teams—champions —all feel the same way before a big game

starts . . . and this is the biggest game ever . . . steady down, kids. We'll be QX as soon

as the whistle blows—I hope . . ."

     "P-s-s-t!" Kathryn hissed. "Listen!"

     "Lensmen of the Galactic Patrol!" Mentor's resonant pseudo-voice filled all space.

"I, Mentor of Arisia, am calling upon you because of a crisis in which no lesser force can

be of use. You have been informed upon the matter of Floor. It is true that Floor has

been destroyed; that the Ploorans, physically, are no more. You of the Lens, however,

already know dimly that the physical is not the all. Know now that there is a residuum of

non-material malignancy against which all the physical weapons of all the universes

would be completely impotent. That evil effluvium, intrinsically vicious, is implacably

opposed to every basic concept and idea of your Patrol. It has been on the move ever

since the destruction of the planet Floor. Unaided, we of Arisia are not strong enough to

handle it, but the massed and directed force of your collective mind will be able to

destroy it completely. If you wish me to do so, I will supervise the work of so directing

your mental force as to encompass the complete destruction of this menace, which I tell

you most solemnly is the last weapon of power with which Boskonia will be able to

threaten Civilization. Lensmen of the Galactic Patrol, met as one for the first time in

Civilization's long history, what is your wish?"

     A tremendous wave of thought, expressed in millions of variant phraseologies,

made the wish of the Lensmen very clear indeed. They did not know how such a thing

could be done, but they were supremely eager to have Mentor of Arisia lead them

against the Boskonians, whoever and wherever they might be.

     "Your verdict is unanimous, as I had hoped and believed that it would be. It is

well. The part of each of you will be simple, but not easy. You will all of you, individually,

think of two things, and of only two. First, of your love for and your pride in and your

loyalty to your Patrol. Second, of the clear fact that Civilization must and shall triumph

over Boskonia. Think these thoughts, each of you with all the strength that in him lies.

     "You need not consciously direct those thoughts. Being attuned to my pattern,

the force will flow at my direction. As it passes from you, you will replenish it, each

according to his strength. You will find it the hardest labor you have ever performed, but

it will be of permanent harm to none and it will not be of long duration. Are you ready?"

     "WE ARE READY!" The crescendo roar of thought bulged the galaxy to its poles.

     "Children—strike!"

     The generators flared into action—the mechanical screens collapsed—the Unit

struck. The outermost mental screen went down. The Unit struck again, almost

instantly. Down went the second. The third. The fourth.

     It was that flawless Unit, not Camilla, who detected and analyzed and precisely

located the Eddorian guardsman handling each of those far-flung screens. It was the

Unit, not Kathryn and Kit, who drilled the pilot hole through each Eddorian's hard-held

block and enlarged it into a working orifice. It was the Unit, not Karen, whose

impenetrable shield held stubbornly every circular mil of advantage gained in making

such ingress. It was the Unit, not Constance, who assembled and drove home the

blasts of mental force in which the Eddorians died. No time whatever was lost in

consultation or decision. Action was not only instantaneous, but simultaneous with

perception. The Children of the Lens were not now five, but one. The UNIT.

     "Come in, Mentor!" Kit snapped then. "All you Arisians and all the Lensmen.

Nothing specialized—just a general slam at the whole screen. This fifth screen is the

works—they've got twenty minds on it instead of one, and they're top-notchers. Best

strategy now is for us five to lay off for a second or two and show 'em what we've got in

the line of defense, while the rest of you fellows give 'em hell!"

     Arisia and the massed Lensmen struck; a tidal wave of such tremendous weight

and power that under its impact the fifth screen sagged Sat against the planet's surface.

Any one Lensman's power was small, of course, in comparison with that of any

Eddorian; but every available Lensman of the Galactic Patrol was giving, each

according to his strength, and the output of one Lensman, multiplied by the countless

millions which was the number of Lensmen then at work, made itself tellingly felt.

     Countless? Yes. Only Mentor ever knew how many minds contributed to that

stupendous flood of force. Bear in mind that in the First Galaxy alone there are over one

hundred thousand million suns: that each sun has, on the average, something over one

and thirty seven hundredths planets inhabited by intelligent life: that about one-half of

these planets then adhered to Civilization; and that Tellus, an average planet, graduates

approximately one hundred Lensmen every year. '

     "So far, Kit, so good," Constance panted. Although she was no longer trembling,

she was still highly excited. "But I don't know how many more shots like that

I've—we've—got left in the locker."

     "You're doing fine, Connie," Camilla soothed.

     "Sure you are, baby. You've got plenty of jets," Kit agreed. Except in moments of

supreme stress these personal, individual exchanges of by-thoughts did not interfere

with the smooth functioning of the Unit. "Fine work, all of you, kids. I thought we'd get

over the shakes as soon as . . ."

     "Watch it!" Camilla snapped. "Here comes the shock wave. Brace yourself, Kay.

Hold us together, Kit!"

     The wave came. Everything that the Eddorians could send. The Unit's barrier did

not waver. After a full second of it— a time comparable to days of saturation atomic

bombing in ordinary warfare—Karen, who had been standing stiff and still, began to

relax.

     "This is too, too easy," she declared. "Who's helping me? I can't feel anything,

but I simply know I haven't got this much stuff. You, Cam—or is it all of you?" Not one of

the Five was as yet thoroughly familiar with the operating characteristics of the Unit.

     "All of us, more or less, but mostly Kit," Camilla decided after a moment's

thought. "He's as solid as an inert planet."

     "Not me," Kit denied, vigorously. "Must be you other kids. Feels to me like Kat,

mostly. All I'm doing is just sort of leaning up against you a little—just in case. I haven't

done a thing so far."

     "Oh, no? Sure not!" Kathryn giggled, an infectious chuckle inherited or copied

directly from her mother. "We know it, Kit. You wouldn't think of doing anything, even if

you could. Just the same, we're mighty glad you're here, chum!"

     "QX, kids, seal the chatter. We've had time to learn that they can't crack us, and

so have they, so let's get to work."

     Since the Unit was now under continuous attack, its technique would have to be

entirely different from that used previously. Its barrier must vanish for an infinitesimal

period of time, during which it must simultaneously detect and blast Or, rather, the blast

would have to be directed in mid-flight, while the Unit's own block was open. Nor could

that block be open for more than the barest fractional millimicrosecond before or after

the passage of the bolt. It is time that the bolt compared with the power of the Unit very

much as the steady pressure of burning propellant powder compares with the disruptive

force of detonating duodec: even so it would have wrought much damage to the minds

of the Five had any of it been allowed to reach them.

     Also, like parachute-jumping, this technique could not be practiced. Since the

timing had to be so nearly absolute, the first two shots missed their targets completely;

but the Unit learned fast. Eddorian after Eddorian died.

     "Help, All-Highest, help!" a high Eddorian appealed, finally.

     "What is it?" His Ultimate Supremacy, knowing that only utter desperation could

be back of such intrusion, accepted the call.

     "It is this new Arisian entity . . ."

     "It is not an entity, fool, but a fusion," came curt reprimand. "We decided that

point long ago."

     "An entity, I say!" In his urgency the operator committed the unpardonable by

omitting the titles of address. "No possible fusion can attain such perfection of timing, of

synchronization. Our best fusions have attempted to match it, and have failed. Its

screens are impenetrable. Its thrusts cannot be blocked. My message is this: solve for

us, and quickly, the problem of this entity. If you do not or cannot do so, we perish all of

us, even to you of the Innermost Circle."

     "Think you so?" The thought was a sneer. "If your fusions cannot match those of

the Arisians you should die, and the loss will be small."

     The fifth screen went down. Eddore lay bare to the Arisian mind. There were

inner defenses, of course, but Kit knew every one; their strengths and their

weaknesses. He had long since spread in Mentor's mind an exact and completely

detailed chart: they had long since drawn up a completely detailed plan of campaign.

Nevertheless, Kit could not keep from advising Mentor:

     "Pick off any who may try to get away. Start on Area B and work up. Be sure,

though, to lay off of Area K or you'll get your beard singed off."

     "The plan is being followed, youth," Mentor assured him. "Children, you have

done very well indeed. Rest now, and recuperate your powers against that which is yet

to come."

     "QX. Unlace yourselves, kids. Loosen up. Relax. I'll break out a few beakers of

fayalin, and all of us—you especially, Con—had better stoke up with candy bars."

     "Eat! Why, I couldn't . . ." but at her brother's insistence she took an experimental

bite. "But say, I am hungry, at that!"

     "Of course you are. You've been putting out a lot of stuff, and there's more and

worse coming. Now rest, all of you."

     They rested. Somewhat to their surprise, they could rest; even Constance. But

the respite was short. Area K, the headquarters and the citadel of His Ultimate

Supremacy and the Innermost Circle of the Boskonian Empire, contained all that

remained of Eddorian life.

     But this, Kit knew, was the crux. This was what had stopped the Arisians cold;

had held them off for all these millions upon millions of years. Everything up to now the

Arisians could have done themselves; but even the totalized and integrated mind of

Arisia would hit Area K and bounce.

     To handle Area K two things were necessary: the Unit and the utterly

inconceivable massed might of the Lensmen.

     Knowing better even than Mentor what the situation was, Kit felt again a twinge

of panic, but managed to throw it off.

     "No tight linkage yet, kids," Kit the Organizer went smoothly to work. "Individual

effort—a flash of fusion, perhaps, now and then, if any of us call for it, but no Unit until I

give the word. Then give it everything you've got. Cam, analyze that screen and set us

up a pattern for it—you'll find it'll take some doing. See whether it's absolutely

homogeneous—hunt for weak Spots, if any. Con, narrow down to the sharpest needle

you can possibly make and start pecking. Not too hard—don't tire yourself—just to get

acquainted with the texture of the thing and keep them awake. Kay, take over our guard

so Eukonidor can join the other Arisians. Kat, come along with me—you'll have to help

with the Arisians until I call you into the Unit.

     "You Arisians, except Mentor, blanket this dome. Thinner than that—solider,

harder . . . there. A trifle off-balance yet—give me just a little more, here 'on this side.

QX—hold it right there! SQUEEZE! Kat, watch 'em. Hold them right there and in balance

until you're sure the Eddorians aren't going to be able to put any bulges up through the

blanket.

     "Now, Mentor, you and the Lensmen. Tell them to give us, for the next five

seconds, absolutely everything they can deliver. When they're at absolute peak, hit us

with the whole charge. Dead center. Don't pull your punch. We'll be ready.

     "Con, get ready to stick the needle right there—they'll think it's just another peck,

I hope—and slug as you never slugged before. Kay, get ready to drop that screen and

stiffen the needle—when that beam hits us it'll be NO pat on the back. The rest of us will

brace you both and keep the shock from killing us all. Here it comes . . . make Unit! . . .

GO!"

     The Unit struck. Its needle of pure force drove against the Eddorians' supposedly

absolutely impenetrable shield. The Unit's thrust was, of itself, like nothing ever before

known. The Lensmen's pile-driver blow—the integrated sum total of the top effort of

every Lensman of the entire Galactic Patrol—was of itself irresistible. Something had to

give way.

     For an instant it seemed as though nothing were happening or ever would

happen. Strong young arms laced the straining Five into a group as motionless and as

sculpturesque as statuary, while between their bodies and around them there came into

being a gigantic Lens: a Lens whose splendor filled the entire room with radiance.

     Under that awful concentration of force something had to give way. The Unit

held. The Arisians held. The Lensmen held. The needle, superlatively braced, neither

bent nor broke. Therefore the Eddorian's screen was punctured; and in the instant of its

puncturing it disappeared as does a bubble when it breaks.

     There was no mopping up to do. Such was the torrent of force cascading into the

stronghold that within a microsecond after its shield went down all life within it was

snuffed out.