except stars. A few hundred were of a visual magnitude of about minus three.

Approximately the same number were of minus two or thereabouts, and so on down;

but there did not seem to be a star or other celestial object in that starkly incredible sky

of an apparent magnitude greater than about plus four.

     "What do you make "of this, Sir Austin?" Kinnison asked, quietly. "It's got me

stopped like a traffic light."

     The mathematician ran toward him and the Lensman stared. He had never

known Cardynge to hurry—in fact, he was not really running now. He was walking, even

though his legs were fairly twinkling in their rapidity of motion. As he approached

Kinnison his pace gradually slowed to normal.

     "Oh—time must be cock-eyed here, too," the Lensman observed. "Look over

there—see how fast those fellows are moving, and how slow those others over that way

are?"

     "Ah, yes. Interesting—intensely interesting. Truly, a most remarkable and

intriguing phenomenon," the fascinated mathematician enthused.

     "But that wasn't what I meant. Swing this plate—it's on visual—around outside,

so as to get the star aspect and distribution. What do you think of it?"

     "Peculiar—I might almost say unique," the scientist concluded, after his survey.

"Not at all like any normal configuration or arrangement with which I am familiar. We

could perhaps speculate, but would it not be preferable to secure data first? Say by

approaching a solar system and conducting systematic investigations?"

     "Uh-huh," and again Kinnison stared at the wispy little physicist in surprise. Here

was a man! "You're certainly something to tie to, ace, do you know it?" he asked,

admiringly. Then, as Cardynge gazed at him questioningly, uncomprehendingly:

     "Skip it. Can you feel my thought, Henderson?"

     "Yes."

     "Shoot us across to one of those nearer stars, stop, and go inert.""

     "QX, chief." The pilot obeyed.

     And in the instant of inerting, the visiplate into which the two men stared went

black. The thousands of stars studding the sky a moment before had disappeared as

though they had never been.

     "Why . . . what . . . How in all the yellow hells of space can that happen?"

Kinnison blurted.

     Without a word Cardynge reached out and snapped the plate's receiver over

from "visual" to "ultra", whereupon the stars reappeared as suddenly as they had

vanished.

     "Something's screwy somewhere!" the Lensman protested. "We can't have an

inert velocity greater than that of light— it's impossible!"

     "Few things, if any, can be said definitely to be impossible; and everything is

relative, not absolute," the old scientist declared, pompously. "This space, for instance.

You have not yet perceived, I see, even that you are not in the same three-dimensional

space in which we have heretofore existed."

     Kinnison gulped. He was going to protest about that, too, but in the face of

Cardynge's unperturbed acceptance of the fact he did not quite dare to say what he had

in mind.

     "That is better," the old man declaimed. "Do not get excited—to do so dulls the

mind. Take nothing for granted, do not jump at conclusions—to commit either of those

errors will operate powerfully against success. Working hypotheses, young man, must

be based upon accurately determined facts; not upon mere guesses, superstitions, or

figments of personal prejudices."

     "Bub—bub—but . . . QX—skip it!" Nine-tenths of the Dauntless" crew would have

gone out of control at the impact of the knowledge of what had happened; even

Kinnison's powerful mind was shaken. Cardynge, however, was—not seemed to be, but

actually was—as calm and as self-contained as though he were in his own quiet study.

"Explain it to me, will you please, in words of as nearly one syllable as possible?"

     "Our looser thinkers have for centuries speculated upon the possibility of an

entire series of different spaces existing simultaneously, side by side in a hypothetical

hyper-continuum. I have never indulged in such time-wasting; but now that actual

corroborative data have become available, I regard it as a highly fruitful field of

investigation. Two extremely significant facts have already become apparent; the

variability of time and the non-applicability of our so-called 'laws' of motion. Different

spaces, different laws, it would seem."

     "But when we cut our generators in that other tube we emerged into our own

space," Kinnison argued. "How do you account for that?"

     "I do not as yet try to account for it!" Cardynge snapped. "Two very evident

possibilities should already be apparent, even to your feeble brain. One, that at the

moment of release your vessel happened to be situated within a fold of our own space.

Two, that the collapse of the ship's force-fields always returns it to its original space,

while the collapse of those of the shore station always forces it into some other space.

In the latter case, it would be reasonable to suppose that the persons or beings at the

other end of the tube may have suspected that we were following Kandron, and, as

soon as he landed, cut off their forces deliberately to throw us out of space. They may

even have learned that persons of lesser ability, so treated, never return. Do not allow

yourself to be at all impressed by any of these possibilities, however, as the truth may

very well lie in something altogether different. Bear it in mind that we have as yet very

little data upon which to formulate any theories, and that the truth can be revealed only

by a very careful, accurate, and thorough investigation. Please note also that I would

surely have discovered and evaluated all these unknowns during the course of my as

yet incomplete study of our own hyper-spatial tubes; that I am merely continuing here a

research in which I have already made noteworthy progress."

     Kinnison really gasped at that—the guy was certainly terrific! He called the chief

pilot. "Go free, Hen, and start flitting for a planet—we've got to sit down somewhere

before we can start back home. When you find one, land free. Stay free, and watch your

Bergs—I don't have to tell you what will happen if they quit on us."

     Then Thorndyke. "Verne? Break out some personal neutralizers. We've got a job

of building to do—inertialess," and he explained to both men in flashing thoughts what

had happened and what they had to do.

     "You grasp the basic idea, Kinnison," Cardynge approved, "that it is necessary to

construct a station apart from the vessel in which we propose to return to our normal

environment. You err grievously, however, in your insistence ,upon the necessity of

discovering a planet, satellite, asteroid, or other similar celestial body upon which to

build it."

     "Huh?" Kinnison demanded.

     "It is eminently possible—yes, even practicable—for us to use the Dauntless as

an anchorage for the tube and for us to return in the lifeboats," Cardynge pointed out.

     "What? Abandon this ship? Waste all that time rebuilding all the boats?"

     "It is preferable, of course, and more expeditious, to find a planet, if possible," the

scientist conceded. "However, it is plain that it is in no sense necessary. Your reasoning

is fallacious, your phraseology is deplorable. 1 am correcting you in the admittedly faint

hope of teaching you scientific accuracy of thought and of statement."

     "Wow! Wottaman!" Kinnison breathed to himself, as, heroically, he "skipped it".

     Somewhat to Kinnison's surprise—he had more than half expected that planets

would be non-existent in that space— the pilots did find a solid world upon which to

land. It was a peculiar planet indeed. It did not move right, it did not look right, it did not

feel right. It was waterless, airless, desolate; a senseless jumble of jagged fragments,

mostly metallic. It was neither hot nor cold—indeed, it seemed to have no temperature

of its own at all. There was nothing whatever right about it, Kinnison declared.

     "Oh, yes, there is!" Thorndyke contradicted. 'Time is constant here, whatever its

absolute rate may be, these metals are nice to work with, and some of this other stuff

will make insulation. Or hadn't you thought of that? Which would be faster, cutting down

an intrinsic velocity of fifteen lights to zero or building the projector out of native

materials? And if you match intrinsics, what will happen when you hit our normal space

again?

     "Plenty, probably—uh-huh, faster to use the stuff that belongs here. Careful,

though, fella!"

     And care was indeed necessary; extreme care that not a particle of matter from

the ship was used in the construction and that not a particle of the planet's substance by

any mischance got aboard the spare-ship.

     The actual work was simple enough. Cardynge knew exactly what had to be

done. Thorndyke knew exactly how to do it, as he had built precisely similar generators

for the experimental tubes upon Tellus. He had a staff of experts; the Dauntless carried

a machine shop and equipment second to none. Raw material was abundant, and it

was an easy matter to block out an inertialess room within which the projectors and

motors were built. And, after they were built, they worked.

     It was not the work, then, but the strain which wore Kinnison down. The constant,

wearing strain of incessant vigilance to be sure that the Bergenholms and the small

units of the personal neutralizes did not falter for a single instant. He did not lose a man,

but again and again there flashed into his mind the ghastly picture of one of his boys

colliding with the solid metal of the planet at a relative velocity fifteen times that of light!

The strain of the endless checking and re-checking to make certain that there was no

exchange of material, however slight, between the ship and the planet.

     Above all, the strain of knowing a thing which, apparently, no one else

suspected; that Cardynge, with all his mathematical knowledge, was not going to be

able to find his way back! He had never spoken of this to the scientist. He did not have

to. He knew that without a knowledge of the fundamental distinguishing characteristics

of our normal space —a knowledge even less to be expected than that a fish should

know the fundamental equations and structure of water—they never could, save by

sheerest accident, return to their own space. And as Cardynge grew more and more

tensely, unsocially immersed in his utterly insoluble problem, the more and more

uneasy the Gray Lensman became. But this last difficulty was resolved first, and in a

totally unexpected fashion.

     "Ah, Kinnison of Tellus, here you are—I have been considering your case for

some twenty nine of your seconds," a deep, well-remembered voice resounded within

his brain.

     "Mentor!" he exclaimed, and at the sheer shock of his relief he came very near

indeed to fainting. "Thank Klono and Noshabkeming you found us! How did you do it?

How do we get ourselves out of here?"

     "Finding you was elementary," the Arisian replied, calmly.

     "Since you were not in your own environment you must be elsewhere. It required

but little thought to perceive what was a logical, in fact an inevitable, development. Such

being the case, it needed very little additional effort to determine what had happened,

and how, and why; likewise precisely where you must now be. As for departure

therefrom, your mechanical preparations are both correct and adequate. I could give

you the necessary information, but it is rather technically specialized and not negligible

in amount; and since your brain is not of infinite capacity, it is better not to fill any part of

it with mathematics for which you will have no subsequent use. Put yourself en rapport,

therefore, with Sir Austin Cardynge. I will follow."

     He did so, and as mind met mind there ensued a conversation whose barest

essentials Kinnison could not even dimly grasp. For Cardynge, as has been said, could

think in the universal language of mathematics: in the esoteric symbology which very

few minds have ever been able even partially to master. The Lensman did not get it, nor

any part of it; he knew only that in that to him completely meaningless gibberish the

Arisian was describing to the physicist, exactly and fully, the distinguishing

characteristics of a vast number of parallel and simultaneously co-existent spaces.

     If that was "rather" technical stuff, the awed Lensman wondered, what would

really deep stuff be like? Not that he wanted to find out! No wonder these mathematical

wizards were nuts—went off the beam—he'd be pure squirrel-food if he had half that

stuff in his skull!

     But Sir Austin took to it like a cat lapping up cream or doing away with the

canary. He brightened visibly; he swelled: and, when the Arisian had withdrawn from his

mind, he preened himself and swaggered as he made meticulous adjustments of the

delicate meters and controls which the technicians had already built.

     Preparations complete, Cardynge threw in the switches and everything belonging

to the Dauntless was rushed aboard —everything, that is, that was demonstrably

uncontaminated by any particle of Nth-space matter. The spacesuits that had been

worn on the planet and everything else, no matter what it was, that could not show an

unquestionable bill of health were dumped. The neutralizers, worn so long and

cherished so assiduously, were taken off with profound sighs of relief. The vessel was

briefly, tentatively inerted. QX—no faster-than-light meteorites tore volatizingly through

her mass. So far, so good.

     Then the ship's generators were energized and smoothly, effortlessly the big

battle-wagon took the inter-dimensional plunge. There came the expected, but

nevertheless almost unendurable acceleration; the imperceptible, unloggable flight

through the drably featureless grayness; the horrible deceleration. Stars flashed

beautifully upon the plates.

     "We made it!" Kinnison shouted in relief when he had assured himself that they

had emerged into "real" space inside the Second Galaxy, only a few parsecs away from

their point of departure. "By Klono's golden grin, Sir Austin, you figured it to a red

whisker! And when the Society meets, Tuesday week, won't you just blast that ape

Weingarde to a cinder? Hot dog!"

     "Having the basic data, the solution and the application followed of

necessity—automatically—uniquely," the scientist said, austerely. He was highly

pleased with himself, he was tremendously flattered by the Lensman's ebullient praise;

but not for anything conceivable would he have so admitted.

     "Well, the first thing we'd better do is to find out what time of what day it is,"

Kinnison went on, as he directed a beam to the Patrol headquarters upon Klovia.

     "Better ask 'em the year, too," Henderson put in, pessimistically—he had missed

Illona poignantly—but it wasn't that bad.

     In fact, it was not bad at all; they had been gone only a little over a week of

Thralian time. This finding pleased Kinnison immensely, as he had been more than half

afraid that it had been a month. He could explain a week easily enough, but anything

over two weeks would have been tough to handle.

     The supplies of the Thralian speedster were adjusted to fit the actual elapsed

time, and Worsel and Kinnison engraved upon the minds of the five unconscious

Guardsmen completely detailed—even though equally completely fictitious— memories

of what they and Major Gannel had done since leaving Thrale. Their memories were not

exactly alike, of course —each man had had different duties and experiences, and no

two observers see precisely the same things even while watching the same event—but

they were very convincing. Also, and fortunately, not even the slightest scars were left

by the operations, for in these cases no memory chain had to be broken at any point.

     The Dauntless blasted off for Klovia; the speedster started for Thrale. Kinnison's

crew woke up—without having any inkling that they had ever been unconscious or that

their knowledge of recent events did not jibe exactly with the actual occurrences—and

resumed work.

     Immediately upon landing, Kinnison turned in a full official report of the mission,

giving himself neither too much nor too little credit for what had been accomplished.

They had found a Patrol sneak-boat near Line Eleven. They had chased it so many

parsecs, upon such-and-such a course, before forcing it to engage. They had crippled it

and boarded, bringing away material, described as follows, which had been turned over

to Space Intelligence. And so on. It would hold, Kinnison knew; and it would be

corroborated fully by the ultra-private reports which his men would make to their real

bosses.

     The colonel made good; hence with due pomp and ceremony Major Traska

Gannel was inducted into the Household. He was given one of the spy-ray-screened

cigarette boxes in which Alcon's most trusted officers were allowed to carry their private,

secret insignia. Kinnison was glad to get that—he could carry his Lens with him now, if

the thing was really ray-proof, instead of leaving it buried in a can outside the city limits.

     The Lensman went to his first meeting of the Advisory Cabinet with his mind set

on a hair-trigger. He hadn't been around Alcon very much, but he knew that the Tyrant

had a stronger mind-shield than any untreated human being had any right to have. He'd

have to play this mighty close to his chest—he didn't want any zwilnik reading his mind,

yet he didn't want to create suspicion by revealing the fact that he, too, had an

impenetrable block.

     As he approached the cabinet chamber he walked into a zone of compulsion,

and practically bounced. He threw up his head; it was all he could do to keep his

barriers down. It was general, he knew, not aimed specifically at him—to fight the

hypnotist would be to call attention to himself as the only man able either to detect his

work or to resist him; would give the whole show away. Therefore he let the thing take

hold—with reservations—of his mind. He studied it. He analyzed it. Sight only, eh?

QX—he'd let Alcon have superficial control, and he wouldn't put too much faith in

anything he saw.

     He entered the room; and, during the preliminaries, he reached out delicately, to

touch imperceptibly mind after mind. All the ordinary officers were on the level; now he'd

see about the prime minister. He'd heard a lot about this Fossten, but had never met

him before—he'd see what the guy really had on the ball.

     He did not find out, however. He did not even touch his mind, for that worthy also

had an automatic block; a block as effective as Alcon's or as Kinnison's own.

     Sight was unreliable; how about the sense of perception? He tried it, very daintily

and gingerly, upon Alcon's feet, legs, arms, and torso. Alcon was real, and present in

the flesh. Then the premier—and he yanked his sense back, cancelled it, appalled.

Perception was blocked, at exactly what his eyes told him was the fellow's skin!

     That tore it—that busted it wide open. What in all nine prime iridescent hells did

that mean? He didn't know of anything except a thought-screen that could stop a sense

of perception. He thought intensely. Alcon's mind was bad enough. It had been treated,

certainly; mine-shields like that didn't grow naturally on human or near-human beings.

Maybe the Eich, or the race of super-Eich to which Kandron belonged, could give

mental treatments of that kind. Fossten, though, was worse.

     Alcon's boss! Probably not a man at all. It was he, it was clear, and not Alcon,

who was putting out the zone of compulsion. An Eich, maybe? No, he was a warm-

blooded oxygen-breather; a frigid-blooded super-big-shot would make Alcon come to

him. A monster, almost certainly, though; possibly of a type Kinnison had never seen

before. Working by remote control? Possibly; but not necessarily. He could be—

probably was—right here, inside the dummy or figment or whatever it was that

everybody thought was die prime minister—that was it, for all the tea in China . . .

     "And what do you think, Major Gannel?" the prime minister asked, smoothly,

insinuating his mind into Kinnison's as he spoke.

     Kinnison, who knew that they had been discussing an invasion of the First

Galaxy, hesitated as though in thought. He was thinking, too, and ultra-carefully. If that

ape was out to do a job of digging he'd never dig again—QX, he was just checking

Gannel's real thoughts against what he was going to say.

     "Since I am such a newcomer to this Council I do not feel as though my opinions

should be given too much weight," Kinnison said—and thought—slowly, with the exactly

correct amount of obsequiousness. "However, I have a very decided opinion upon the

matter. I believe very firmly that it would be better tactics to consolidate our position

here in our own galaxy first."

     "You advise, then, against any immediate action against Tellus?" the prime

minister asked. "Why?"

     "I do, definitely. It seems to me that short-sighted, half-prepared measures,

based upon careless haste, were the underlying causes of our recent reverses. Time is

not an important factor—the Great Plan was worked out, not in terms of days or of

years, but of centuries and millenia—and it seems to me self-evident that we should

make ourselves impregnably secure, then expand slowly; seeing-to it that we can hold,

against everything that the Patrol can bring to bear, every planet that we take."

     "Do you realize that you are criticizing the chiefs of staff who are in complete

charge of military operations?" Alcon asked, venomously.

     "Fully," the Lensman replied, coldly. "I ventured this opinion because I was asked

specifically for it. The chiefs of staff failed, did they not? If they had succeeded, criticism

would have been neither appropriate nor forthcoming. As it is, I do not believe that mere

criticism of their conduct, abilities, and tactics is sufficient. They should be disciplined

and demoted. New chiefs should be chosen; persons abler and more efficient than the

present incumbents."

     This was a bomb-shell. Dissentions waxed rife and raucous, but amidst the

turmoil the Lensman received from the prime minister a flash of coldly congratulatory

approval.

     And as Major Traska Gannel made his way back to his quarters two things were

starkly plain:

     First, he would have to cut Alcon down and himself become the Tyrant of Thrale.

It was unthinkable to attack or to destroy this planet. It had too many too promising

leads— there were too many things that didn't make sense—above all, there were the

stupendous files of information which no one mind could scan in a lifetime.

     Second, if he wanted to keep on living he would have to keep his detectors

shoved out to maximum—this prime minister was just about as touchy and just about as

safe to play with as a hundred kilograms of dry nitrogen iodide!

CHAPTER 19

Gannel, Tyrant of Thrale

     Adreck, the Palainian Lensman, had not exaggerated in saying that he could not

leave his job, that his work would come undone if he did.

     As has been intimated, Nadreck was cowardly and lazy and characterized

otherwise by traits not usually regarded by humankind as being noble. He was,

however, efficient; and he was now engaged in one of the most colossal tasks ever

attempted by any one Lensman. Characteristically, he had told no one, not even

Haynes or Kinnison, what it was that he was trying to do—he never talked about a job

until after it was done, and his talking then was usually limited to a taped, Lensman's-

sealed, tersely factual report. He was "investigating" Onlo; that was all that anybody

knew.

     Onlo was at that time perhaps the most heavily fortified planet in the universe.

Compared to its massed might Jarnevon was weak; Tellus, except for its sunbeams and

its other open-space safeguards, a joke. Onlo's defenses were all, or nearly all,

planetary; Kandron's strategy, unlike Haynes", was to let any attacking force get almost

down to the ground and then blast it out of existence.

     Thus Onlo was in effect one tremendously armed, titanically powered fortress;

not one cubic foot of its poisonous atmosphere was out of range of projectors

theoretically capable of puncturing any defensive screen possible of mounting upon a

mobile base.

     And Nadreck, the cowardly, the self-effacing, the apologetic, had tackled

Onlo—alone!

     Using the technique which has already been described in connection with his

highly successful raid upon the Eich stronghold of Lyrane VIII, he made his way through

the Onlonian defensive screens and settled down comfortably near one of the gigantic

domes. Then, as though time were of no consequence whatever, he proceeded to get

acquainted with the personnel. He learned the identifying pattern of each entity and

analyzed every one psychologically, mentally, intellectually, and emotionally. He

tabulated his results upon the Palainian equivalent of index cards, then very carefully

arranged the cards into groups.

     In the same fashion he visited and took the census of dome after dome. No one

knew that he had been near, apparently he had done nothing; but in each dome as he

left it there had been sown seeds of discord and of strife which, at a carefully calculated

future time, would yield bitter fruit indeed.

     For every mind has some weakness, each intellect some trait of which it does not

care to boast, each Achilles his heel. That is true even of Gray Lensmen—and the

Onlonians, with their heredity and environment of Boskonianism, were in no sense

material from which Lensmen could be made.

     Subtly, then, and coldly and callously, Nadreck worked upon the basest

passions, the most ignoble traits of that far-from-noble race. Jealousy, suspicion, fear,

greed, revenge— quality by quality he grouped them, and to each group he sent series

after series of horridly stimulating thoughts.

     Jealousy, always rife, assumed fantastic proportions. Molehills became

mountains overnight. A passing word became a studied insult. No one aired his

grievances, however, for always and everywhere there was fear—fear of discipline, fear

of reprisal, fear of betrayal, fear of the double cross. Each monster brooded, sullenly

intense. Each became bitterly, gallingly, hatingly aware of an unwarranted and

intolerable persecution. Not much of a spark would be necessary to touch off such

explosive material as that!

     Nadreck left the headquarters dome until the last. In one sense it was the hardest

of all; in another the easiest. It was hard in that the entities there had stronger minds

than those of lower station; minds better disciplined, minds more accustomed to straight

thinking and to logical reasoning. It was easy, however, in that those minds were

practically all at war already—fighting either to tear down the one above or to resist die

attacks of those below. Every mind in it already hated, or feared, or distrusted, or was

suspicious of or jealous of some other.

     And while Nadreck labored thus deviously his wonders to perform, Kinnison went

ahead in his much more conventional and straightforward fashion upon Thrale. His first

care, of course, was to surround himself with the usual coterie of spies and courtiers.

     The selection of this group gave Kinnison many minutes of serious thought. It

was natural enough that he had not been able to place any of his own men in the secret

service of Alcon or the prime minister, since they both had minds of power. It would not

be natural, however, for either of them not to be able to get an agent into his. For to be

too good would be to invite a mental investigation which he simply could not as yet

permit. He would have to play dumb enough so that his hitherto unsuspected powers of

mind would remain unsuspected.

     He could, however, do much. Since he knew who the spies were, he was able

quite frequently to have his more trusted henchmen discover evidence against them,

branding them for what they were. Assassinations were then, of course, very much in

order. And even a strong suspicion, even though it could not be documented, was

reason enough for a duel.

     In this fashion, then, Kinnison built up his. entourage and kept it reasonably free

from subversive elements; and, peculiarly enough, those elements never happened to

learn anything which the Lensman did not want them to know.

     Building up a strong personal organization was now easy, for at last Kinnison

was a real Boskonian big shot. As a major of the Household he was a power to be

toadied to and fawned upon. As a personal adviser to Alcon the Tyrant he was one

whose ill-will should be avoided at all costs. As a tactician who had so boldly and yet so

altruistically put the skids under the chiefs of staff, thereby becoming a favorite even of

the dreaded prime minister, he was marked plainly as a climber to whose coat-tails it

would be wise to cling. In short, Kinnison made good in a big—it might almost be said in

a stupendous—way.

     With such powers at work the time of reckoning could not be delayed for long.

Alcon knew that Gunnel was working against him; learned very quickly, since he knew

exactly the personnel of Kinnison's "private" secret service and could read at will any of

their minds, that Gannel held most of the trumps. The Tyrant had tried many times to

read the major's mind, but the latter, by some subterfuge or other, had always managed

to elude his inquisitor without making an issue of the matter. Now, however, Alcon drove

in a solid questing beam which, he was grimly determined, would produce results of one

kind or another.

     It did: but, unfortunately for the Thralian, they were nothing he could use. For

Kinnison, instead either of allowing the Tyrant to read his whole mind or of throwing up

an all-too-revealing barricade, fell back upon the sheer native power of will which made

him unique in his generation. He concentrated upon an all-inclusive negation; which in

effect was a rather satisfactory block and which was entirely natural.

     "I don't know what you're trying to do, Alcon," he informed his superior, stiffly,

"but whatever it is I do NOT like it. I think you're trying to hypnotize me. If you are, know

now that you can't do it. No possible hypnotic force can overcome my definitely and

positively opposed will."

     "Major Gannel, you will . . ." the Tyrant began, then stopped. He was not quite

ready yet to come openly to grips with this would-be usurper. Besides, it was now plain

that Gannel had only an ordinary mind. He had not even suspected all the prying that

had occurred previously. He had not recognized even this last powerful thrust for what it

really was; he had merely felt it vaguely and had supposed that it was an attempt at

hypnotism!

     A few more days and he would cut him down. Hence Alcon changed his tone and

went on smoothly, "It is not hypnotism, Major Gannel, but a sort of telepathy which you

cannot understand. It is, however, necessary; for in the case of a man occupying such a

high position as yours, it is self-evident that we can permit no secrets whatever to be

withheld from us— that we can allow no mental reservations of any kind. You see the

justice and the necessity of that, do you not?"

     Kinnison did. He saw also that Alcon was being super-humanly forbearing.

Moreover, he knew what the Tyrant was covering up so carefully—the real reason for

this highly unusual tolerance.

     "I suppose you're right; but I still don't like it," Gannel grumbled. Then, without

either denying or acceding to Alcon's right of mental search, he went to his own

quarters.

     And there—or thereabouts—he wrought diligently at a thing which had been long

in the making. He had known all along that his retinue would be useless against Alcon,

hence he had built up an organization entirely separate from, and completely unknown

to any member of, his visible following. Nor was this really secret outfit composed of

spies or sycophants. Instead, its members were hard, able, thoroughly proven men,

each one carefully selected for the ability and the desire to take the place of one of

Alcon's present department heads. One at a time he put himself en rapport with them;

gave them certain definite orders and instructions.

     Then he put on a mechanical thought-screen. Its use could not make the prime

minister any more suspicious than he already was, and it was the only way he could

remain in character. This screen was, like those of Lonabar, decidedly pervious in that it

had an open slit. Unlike Bleeko's, however, which had their slits set upon a fixed

frequency, the open channel of this one could be varied, both in width and in wave-

length, to any setting which Kinnison desired.

     Thus equipped, Kinnison attended the meeting of the Council of Advisers, and to

say that he disrupted the meeting is no exaggeration. The other advisers perceived

nothing out of the ordinary, of course, but both Alcon and the prime minister were so

perturbed that the session was cut very short indeed. The other members were

dismissed summarily, with no attempt at explanation. The Tyrant was raging, furious;

the premier was alertly, watchfully intent.

     "I did not expect any more physical privacy than I have been granted," Kinnison

grated, after listening quietly to a minute or two of Alcon's unbridled language. "This

thing of being spied upon continuously, both by men and by mechanisms, while it is

insulting and revolting to any real man's self-respect, can—just barely—be borne. I find

it impossible, however, to force myself to submit to such an ultimately degrading

humiliation as the surrender of the only vestiges of privacy I have remaining; those of

my mind. I will resign from the Council if you wish, I will resume my status as an officer

of the line, but I cannot and will not tolerate your extinction of the last spark of my self-

respect," he finished, stubbornly.

     "Resign? Resume? Do you think I'll let you off that easily, fool?" Alcon sneered.

"Don't you realize what I'm going to do to you? That, were it not for the fact that I am

going to watch you die slowly and hideously, I would have you blasted where you

stand?"

     "I do not, no, and neither do you," Gannel answered, as quietly as surprisingly. "If

you were sure of your ability, you would be doing something instead of talking about it."

He saluted crisply, turned, and walked out.

     Now the prime minister, as the student of this history already knows, was

considerably more than he appeared upon the surface to be. His, not Alcon's, was the

voice of authority, although he worked so subtly that the Tyrant himself never did realize

that he was little better than a figure-head.

     Therefore, as Gannel departed, the premier thought briefly but cogently. This

major was smart—too smart. He was too able, he knew too much. His advancement

had been just a trifle too rapid. That thought-screen was an entirely unexpected

development. The mind behind it was not quite right, either—a glimpse through the slit

had revealed a flash of something that might be taken to indicate that Major Gannel had

an ability which ordinary Thralians did not have. This open defiance of the Tyrant of

Thrale did not ring exactly true—it was not quite in character. If it had been a bluff, it

was too good—much too good. If it had not been a bluff, where was his support? How

could Gannel have grown so powerful without his, Fossten's, knowledge?

     If Major Gannel were bona-fide, all well and good. Boskonia needed the

strongest possible leaders, and if any other man showed himself superior to Alcon,

Alcon should and would die. However, there was a bare possibility that . . . Was Gannel

bona-fide? That point should be cleared up without delay. And Fossten, after a

quizzical, searching, more than half contemptuous inspection of the furiously

discomfited Tyrant, followed the rebellious, the contumaceous, the enigmatic Gannel to

his rooms.

     He knocked and was admitted. A preliminary and entirely meaningless

conversation occurred. Then:

     "Just when did you leave the Circle?" the visitor demanded, sharply.

     "What do you want to know for?" Kinnison shot back. That question didn't mean a

thing to him. Maybe it didn't to the big fellow, either—it could be just a catch—but he

didn't intend to give any kind of an analyzable reply to any question that this ape asked

him.

     Nor did he, through thirty minutes of viciously skillful verbal fencing. That

conversation was far from meaningless, but it was entirely unproductive of results; and it

was a baffled, intensely thoughtful Fossten who at its conclusion left Gannel's quarters.

From those quarters he went to the Hall of Records, where he requisitioned the major's

dossier. Then to his own private laboratory, where he applied to those records every

test known to the scientists of his ultra-suspicious race.

     The photographs were right in every detail. The prints agreed exactly with those

he himself had secured from the subject not twenty four hours since. The typing was

right. The ink was right. Everything checked. And why not? Ink, paper, fiber, and film

were in fact exactly what they should have been. There had been no erasures, no

alterations. Everything had been aged to the precisely correct number of days. For

Kinnison had known that this check-up was coming; and while the experts of the Patrol

were not infallible, Mentor of Arisia was.

     Even though he had found exactly what he had expected to find, the suspicions

of the prime minister were intensified rather than allayed. Besides his own, there were

two unreadable minds upon Thrale, where there should have been only one. He knew

how Alcon's had been treated—could Gannel's possibly be a natural phenomenon? If

not, who had treated it, and why?

     There were three, and only three possibilities. Another Eddorian, another

member of the Innermost Circle, working against him? Probably not; this job was too

important. The All-Highest would not permit it. The Arisian who had been hampering

him so long? Much more likely. Star A Star? Most likely of all.

     Not enough data . . . but in any event, circumspection was very definitely

indicated. The show-down would come at a time and a place of his own choosing, not

the foe's.

     He left the palace then, ostensibly to attend a function at the Military Academy.

There, too, everything checked. He visited the town in which Gannel had been

born—finding no irregularities whatever in the records of the birth. He went to the city in

which Gannel had lived for the greater part of his life; where he assured himself that

school records, club records, even photographs and negatives, all dead-centered the

beam.

     He studied the minds of six different persons who had known Gannel from

childhood. As one they agreed that the Traska Gannel who was now Traska Gannel

was in fact the real Traska Gannel, and could not by any possibility be anyone else. He

examined their memory tracks minutely for scars, breaks, or other evidences of surgery;

finding none. In fact, none existed, for the therapists who had performed those

operations had gone back clear to the very beginnings, to the earliest memories of the

Gannel child.

     In spite of the fact that all the data thus far investigated were so precisely what

they should have been—or because of it—the prime minister was now morally certain

that Gannel was, in some fashion or other, completely spurious. Should he go farther,

delve into unimportant but perhaps highly revealing side issues? He should. He did so

with a minute attention to detail anticipated only by Mentor of Arisia. He found nothing

amiss in any particular, but he was still unsatisfied. The mind who had falsified those

records so flawlessly—if they had in fact been falsified—had done a beautiful piece of

work; as masterly a job as he himself could have done. He himself would have left no

traces; neither, in all probability, had the unknown.

     Who, then, and why? This was no ordinary plot, no part of any ordinary scheme

to overthrow Alcon. It was bigger, deeper, far more sinister. Nothing so elaborate and

efficient originating upon Thrale could possibly have been developed and executed

without his knowledge and at least his tacit consent. It could not be Eddorian. That

narrowed the field to two—the Arisian or Star A Star.

     His mind flashed back, reviewing everything that had been ascribed to that

mysterious Director of Lensmen. Something clicked.

     BLAKESLEE!

     This was much finer than the Blakeslee affair, of course; more subtle and more

polished by far. It was not nearly as obvious, as blatant, but the basic similarity was

nevertheless there. Could this similarity have been accidental? No—unthinkable. In this

undertaking accidents could be ruled out— definitely. Whatever had been done had

been done deliberately and after meticulous preparation.

     But Star A Star never repeated . . . Therefore, this time, he had repeated;

deliberately, to throw Alcon and his psychologists off the trail. But he, Fossten, was not

to be deceived by even such clever tactics.

     Gannel was, then, really Gannel, just as Blakeslee had really been Blakeslee.

Blakeslee had obviously been under control. Here, however, there were two

possibilities. First, Gannel might be under similar control. Second, Star A Star might

have operated upon Gannel's mind so radically as to make an entirely different man of

him. Either hypothesis would explain Gannel's extreme reticence in submitting to any

except the most superficial mental examination. Each would account for Gannel's calm

certainty that Alcon was afraid to attack him openly. Which of these hypotheses was the

correct one could be determined later. It was unimportant, anyway, for in either case

there was now accounted for the heretofore inexplicable power of Gannel's mind.

     In either case it was not Gannel's mind at all, but that of THE Lensman, who was

making Gannel act as he could not normally have acted. Somewhere hereabouts, in

either case, there actually was lurking Boskonia's Nemesis' the mentality whom above

all others Boskonia was raving to destroy; the one Lensman who had never been seen

or heard or perceived: the feared and detested Lensman about whom nothing whatever

had ever been learned.

     That Lensman, whoever he might be, had at last met his match. Gannel, as

Gannel, was of no importance whatever: the veriest pawn. But he who stood behind

Gannel . . . Ah! . . . He, Gharlane himself, would wait and he would watch. Then, at

precisely the correct instant, he would pounce!

     And Kinnison, during the absence of the prime minister, worked swiftly and

surely. Twelve men died, and as they ceased to live twelve others, grimly ready and

thoroughly equipped for any emergency, took their places. And during that same minute

of time Kinnison strode into Alcon's private sanctum.

     The Tyrant hurled orders to his guards—orders which were not obeyed He then

went for his own weapons, and he was fast—but Kinnison was faster. Alcon's guns and

hands disappeared and the sickened Tellurian slugged him into unconsciousness.

Then, grimly, relentlessly, he took every item of interest from the Thralian's mind, killed

him, and assumed forthwith the title and the full authority of the Tyrant of Thrale.

     Unlike most such revolutions, this one was accomplished with very little

bloodshed and with scarcely any interference with the business of the realm. Indeed, if

anything, there was an improvement in almost every respect, since the new men were

more thoroughly trained and were more competent than the previous officers hod been.

Also, they had arranged matters beforehand so that their accessions could be made

with a minimum of friction.

     They were as yet loyal to Kinnison and to Boskonia: and in a rather faint hope of

persuading them to stay that way, without developing any queer ideas about

overthrowing him, the Lensman called them into conference.

     "Men, you know how you got where you are," he began, coldly. "You are loyal to

me at the moment. You know that real cooperation is the only way to achieve maximum

productivity, and that true cooperation cannot exist in any regime in which the

department heads, individually or en masse, are trying to do away with the dictator.

     "Some of you will probably be tempted very shortly to begin to work against me

instead of for me and with me. I am not pleading with you, nor even asking you out of

gratitude for what I have done for you, to refrain from such activities. Instead, I am

telling you as a simple matter of fact that any or all of you, at the first move toward any

such disloyalty, will die. In that connection, I know that all of you have been exerting

every resource to discover in what manner your predecessors came so conveniently to

die, and that none of you have succeeded."

     One by one they admitted that they had not. "Nor will you, ever. Be advised that I

know vastly more than Alcon did, and that I am far mere powerful. Alcon, while in no

sense a weakling, did not know how to command obedience. I do. Alcon's sources of

information were meager and untrustworthy; mine are comprehensive and reliable.

Alcon very often did not know that anything was being plotted against him until the thing

was well along; I shall always know of the first seditious move. Alcon blustered,

threatened, and warned; he tortured; he gave some offenders a second chance before

he killed. I shall do none of these things. I do not threaten, I do not warn, I do not

torture. Above all, I give no snake a second chance to strike at me. I execute traitors

without bluster or fanfare. For your own good, gentlemen, I advise you in all seriousness

to believe that I mean precisely every word I say."

     They slunk out, but Boskonian habit was too strong. Thus, within three days,

three of Kinnison's newly appointed head men died. He called another cabinet meeting.

     "The three new members have listened to the recording of our first meeting,

hence there is no need to repeat what I said at that time," the Tyrant announced, in a

voice so silkily venomous that his listeners cringed. "I will add to it merely that I will have

full cooperation, and only cooperation, if I have to kill all of you and all of your

successors to get it. You may go."

CHAPTER 20

Gannel vs. Fossten

     This killing made Kinnison ill; physically and mentally sick. It was ruthless,

cowardly murder. It was worse than stabbing a man in the back; the poor devils didn't

have even the faintest shadow of a chance. Nevertheless he did it.

     When he had first invaded the stronghold of the Wheelmen of Aldebaran I, he

had acted almost without thought. If there was a chance of success, Lensmen went in.

When he had scouted Jarnevon he had thought but little more. True—and

fortunately—he took Worsel along; but he did not stop to consider whether or not there

were minds in the Patrol better fitted to cope with the problem than was his own. It was

his problem, he figured, and it was up to him to solve it.

     Now, however, he knew bitterly that he could no longer act in that comparatively

thoughtless fashion. At whatever loss of self-esteem, of personal stature, or of standing,

he had to revise the Tellurian Lensmen's Code. It griped him to admit it, but Nadreck

was right. It was not enough to give his life in an attempt to conquer a half-way station;

he must remain alive in order to follow through to completion the job which was so

uniquely his. He must think, assaying and evaluating every factor of his entire task.

Then, without considering his own personal feelings, he must employ whatever forces

and methods were best fitted to do the work at the irreducible minimum of cost and of

risk.

     Thus Kinnison sat unharmed upon the throne of the Tyrant of Thrale, and thus

the prime minister returned to the palace to find the fact accomplished. That worthy

studied with care every aspect of the situation before he sought an audience with the

new potentate.

     "Allow me to congratulate you, Tyrant Gannel," he said, smoothly. "I cannot say

that I am surprised, since I have been watching you and your activities for some little

time— with distinct approval, I may add. You have fulfilled—more than fulfilled,

perhaps—my expectations. Your regime is functioning superbly; you have established

in this very short time a smoothness of operation and an esprit de corps which are

decidedly unusual. There are, however, certain matters about which it is possible that

you are not completely informed."

     "It is possible," Kinnison agreed, with the merest trace of irony. "Such as?"

     "In good time. You know, do you not, who is the real authority here upon Thrale?"

     "I know who was," the Tellurian corrected, with the faintest perceptible accent

upon the final verb. "In part only, however, for if you had concerned yourself wholly, the

late Alcon would not have made so many nor so serious mistakes."

     "I thank you. You know, of course, the reason for that. I want the Tyrant of Thrale

to be the strongest man of Thrale, and I may say without flattery that I believe he now is.

And I would suggest that you add 'sire' when you speak to me."

     "I thank you in turn. I will so address you when you call me 'Your

Supremacy'—not sooner."

     "We will let it pass for the moment. To come to your question, you apparently do

not know that the Tyrant of Thrale, whoever he may be, opens his mind to me."

     "I have suspected that such a condition has existed in the past. However, please

be informed that I trust fully only those who fully trust me; and that thus far in my short

life such persons have been few. You will observe that I am still respecting your privacy

in that I am allowing your control of my sense of sight to continue. It is not because I

trust you, but because your true appearance is to me a matter of complete indifference.

For, frankly, I do not trust you at all. I will open my mind to you just exactly as wide as

you will 1 open yours to me—no wider."

     "Ah . . . the bravery of ignorance. It is as I thought. You do not realize, Gannel,

that I can slay you at any moment I choose, or that a very few more words of defiance

from you will be enough." Fossten did not raise his voice, but his tone was instinct with

menace.

     "I do not, and neither do you, as I remarked to the then Tyrant Alcon in this very

room not long ago. I am sure that you will understand without elaboration the

connotations and implications inherent in that remark." Kinnison's voice also was low

and level, freighted in its every clipped syllable with the calm assurance of power.

"Would you be interested in knowing why I am so certain that you will not accept my

suggestion of a mutual opening of minds?"

     "Very much so."

     "Because I suspect that you are, or are in league with, Star A Star of the Galactic

Patrol." Even at that astounding charge Fossten gave no sign of surprise or of shock. "I

have not been able as yet to obtain any evidence supporting that belief, but I tell you

now that when I do so, you die. Not by power of thought, either, but in the beam of my

personal ray-gun."

     "Ah—you interest me strangely," and the premier's hand strayed almost

imperceptibly toward an inconspicuous button.

     "Don't touch that switch!" Kinnison snapped. He did not quite see why Fossten

was letting him see the maneuver, but he would bite, anyway.

     "Why not, may I ask? It is merely a . . ."

     "I know what it is, and I do not like thought-screens. I prefer that my mind be left

free to roam."

     Fossten's thoughts raced in turn. Since the Tyrant was on guard, this was

inconclusive. It might—or might not—indicate that Gannel was controlled by or in

communication with Star A Star.

     "Do not be childish," he chided. "You know as well as I do that your accusations

are absurd. However, as I reconsider the matter, the fact that neither of us trusts

unreservedly the other may not after all be an insuperable obstacle to our working

together for the good of Boskonia. I think now more than ever that yours is the strongest

Thralian mind, and as such the logical one to wield the Tyrant's power. It would be a

shame to destroy you unnecessarily, especially in view of the probability that you will

come later of your own accord to see the reasonableness of that which I have

suggested."

     "It is possible," Kinnison admitted, "but not, I would say, probable." He thought

that he knew why the lug had pulled in his horns, but he wasn't sure. "Now that we have

clarified our attitudes toward each other, have decided upon an armed and suspicious

truce, I see nothing to prevent us from working together in a completely harmonious

mutual distrust for the good of all. The first thing to do, as I see it, is to devote our every

effort to the destruction of the planet Klovia and all the Patrol forces based upon it."

     "Right." If Fossten suspected that the Tyrant was somewhat less than frank he

did not show it, and the conversation became strictly technical.

     "We must not strike until we are completely ready," was Kinnison's first

statement, and he repeated it so often thereafter during the numerous conferences with

the chiefs of staff that it came almost to be a slogan.

     The prime minister did not know that Kinnison's main purpose was to give the

Patrol plenty of time to make Klovia utterly impregnable. Fossten could know nothing of

the Patrol's sunbeam, to which even the mightiest fortress possible for man to build

could offer scarcely more resistance than could the lightest, the most fragile pleasure

yacht.

     Hence he grew more and more puzzled, more and more at a loss week by week,

as Tyrant Gannel kept on insisting upon building up the strongest, the most logically

perfect fleet which all the ability of their pooled brains could devise. Once or twice he

offered criticisms and suggestions which, while defensible according to one theory,

would actually have, weakened their striking power. These offerings Gannel rejected

flatly; insisting, even to an out-and-out break with his co-administrator if necessary,

upon the strongest possible armada.

     The Tyrant wanted, and declared that he must and would have, more and bigger

of everything. More and heavier flying fortresses, more and stronger battleships and

super-dreadnoughts, more and faster cruisers and scouts, more and deadlier weapons.

     "We want more of everything than our operations officers can possibly handle in

battle," he declared over and over; and he got them. Then:

     "Now, you operations officers, learn how to handle them!" he commanded.

     Even the prime minister protested at that, but it was finally accomplished.

Fossten was a real thinker. So, in a smaller way, was Kinnison, and between them they

worked out a system. It was crudeness and inefficiency incarnate in comparison with

the Z9M9Z, but it was so much better than anything previously known to the Boskonians

that everyone was delighted. Even the suspicious and cynical Fossten began to

entertain some doubts as to the infallibility of his own judgment. Tyrant Gannel might be

working under his own power, after all.

     And these doubts grew apace as the Tyrant drilled his Grand Fleet. He drove the

personnel unmercifully, especially the operations officers; as relentlessly as he drove

himself. He simply could not be satisfied, his ardor and lust for efficiency were

insatiable. His reprimands were scathingly accurate; officer after officer he demoted

bitingly during ever more complicated, ever more inhumanly difficult maneuvers; until

finally he had what were unquestionably his best men in those supremely important

positions. Then, one day:

     "QX, Kim, come ahead—we're ready," Haynes Leased him, briefly.

     For Kinnison had been in touch with the Port Admiral every day. He had learned

long since that the prime minister could not detect a Lensed thought, particularly when

the Lensman was wearing a thought-screen, as he did practically constantly; wherefore

the strategists of the Patrol were as well informed as was Kinnison himself of every

move made by the Boskonians.

     Then Kinnison called Fossten, and was staring glumly at nothing when the latter

entered the room.

     "Well, it would seem that we're about as nearly ready as we ever will be," the

Tyrant brooded, pessimistically. "Have you any suggestions, criticisms, or other

contributions to offer, of however minor a nature?"

     "None whatever. You have done very well indeed."

     "Unnhh," Gannel grunted, without enthusiasm. "You have observed, no doubt,

that I have said little if anything as to the actual method of approach?"

     The prime minister had indeed noticed that peculiar oversight, and said so. Here,

undoubtedly, he thought, was the rub. Here was where Star A Star's minion would get in

his dirty work.

     "I have thought about it at length," Kinnison said, still hi his brown study. "But I

know enough to recognize and to admit my own limitations. I do know tactics and

strategy, and thus far I have worked with known implements toward known objectives.

That condition, however, no longer exists. The simple fact is that I do not know enough

about the possibilities, the techniques and the potentialities, the advantages and the

disadvantages of the hyper-spatial tube as an avenue of approach to enable me to

come to a defensible decision one way or the other. I have decided, therefore, that if

you have any preference in the matter I will give you full authority and let you handle the

approach in any manner you please. I shall of course direct the actual battle, as in that I

shall again be upon familiar ground."

     The premier was flabbergasted. This was incredible. Gannel must really be

working for Boskonia after all, to make such a decision as that. Still skeptical,

unprepared for such a startling development as that one was, he temporized.

     "The bad—the very bad—features of the approach via rube are two," he

pondered aloud. "We have no means of knowing anything about what happens; and,

since our previous such venture was a total failure, we must assume that, contrary to

our plans and expectations, the enemy was not taken by surprise."

     "Right," Kinnison concurred, tonelessly.

     "Upon the other hand, an approach via open space, while conducive to the

preservation of our two lives, would be seen from afar and would certainly be met by an

appropriate formation."

     "Check," came emotionlessly non-commital agreement.

     "Haven't you the slightest bias, one way or the other?" Fossten demanded,

incredulously.

     "None whatever," the Tyrant was coldly matter-of-fact. "If I had had any such, I

would have ordered the approach made in the fashion I preferred. Having none, I

delegated authority to you. When I delegate authority I do so without reservations."

     This was a stopper.

     "Let it be open space, then," the prime minister finally decided.

     "So be it." And so it was.

     Each of the component flotillas of Grand Fleet made a flying trip to some nearby

base, where each unit was serviced. Every item of mechanism and of equipment was

checked and rechecked. Stores were replenished, and munitions—especially munitions.

Then the mighty armada, the most frightfully powerful aggregation ever to fly for

Boskonia—the mightiest fleet ever assembled anywhere, according to the speeches of

the politicians—remade its stupendous formation and set out for Klovia. And as it flew

through space, shortly before contact was made with the Patrol's Grand Fleet, the

premier called Kinnison into the control room.

     "Gannel, I simply can not make you out," he remarked, after studying him fixedly

for five minutes. "You have offered no advice. You have not interfered with my handling

of the Fleet in any way. Nevertheless, I still suspect you of treacherous intentions. I

have been suspicious of you from the first . . ."

     "With no grounds whatever for your suspicions," Kinnison reminded him, coldly.

     "What? With all the reason possible!" Fossten declared. "Have you not steadily

refused to bare your mind to me?"

     "Certainly. Why not? Do we have to go over that again? Just how do you figure

that I should so trust any being who refuses to reveal even his true shape to me?"

     "That is for your own good. I have not wanted to tell you this, but the truth is that

no human being can perceive my true self and retain his sanity."

     Fossten's Eddorian mind flashed. Should he reveal this form of flesh, which was

real enough, as Tellurians understood reality? Impossible. Star-A-Star-Gannel was no

more Tellurian than Fossten was Thralian. He would not be satisfied with perceiving the

flesh; he would bore in for the mind.

     "I'll take a chance on that," Kinnison replied, skeptically. "I've seen a lot of

monstrous entities in my time and I haven't conked out yet."

     "There speaks the sheer folly of callow youth; the rashness of an ignorance so

abysmal as to be possible only to one of your ephemeral race." The voice deepened,

became more resonant. Kinnison, staring into those inscrutable eyes which he knew did

not in fact exist, thrilled forebodingly; the timbre and the overtones of that voice

reminded him very disquietingly of something which he could not at the moment recall

to mind. "I forbear to discipline you, not from any doubt as to my ability to do so, as you

suppose, but because of the sure knowledge that breaking you by force will destroy

your usefulness. On the other hand, it is certain that if you cooperate with me willingly

you will be the strongest, ablest leader that Boskonia has ever had. Think well upon

these matters, O Tyrant."

     "I will," the Lensman agreed, more seriously than he had intended. "But just

what, if anything, has led you to believe that I am not working to the fullest and best of

my ability for Boskonia?"

     "Everything," Fossten summarized. "I have been able to find no flaws in your

actions, but those actions do not fit in with your unexplained and apparently

unexplainable reticence in letting me perceive for myself exactly what is in your mind.

Furthermore, you have never even troubled to deny accusations that you are in fact

playing a far deeper game than you appear upon the surface to be playing."

     "That reticence I have explained over and over as an overmastering

repugnance—call it a phobia if you like," Kinnison rejoined, wearily. "I simply can't and

won't. Since you cannot understand that, denials would have been entirely useless.

Would you believe anything that I could possibly say— that I would swear by everything

I hold sacred—whether it was that I am whole-heartedly loyal to Boskonia or that I am in

fact Star A Star himself?"

     "Probably not," came the measured reply. "No, certainly not. Men—especially

men such as you, bent ruthlessly upon the acquisition of power—are liars . . . ah, could

it, by any chance, be that the reason for your intractability is that you have the effrontery

to entertain some insane idea of supplanting ME?"

     Kinnison jumped mentally. That tore it—that was a flare-lit tip-off. This man—this

thing—being—entity—whatever he really was—instead of being just another Boskonian

big shot, must be the clear quill—the real McCoy—BOSKONE HIMSELF! The end of

the job must be right here! This was—must be—the real Brain for whom he had been

searching so long; here within three feet of him sat the creature with whom he had been

longing so fervently to come to grips!

     "The reason is as I have said," the Tellurian stated, quietly. "I will attempt to

make no secret, however, of a fact which you must already have deduced; that if and

when it becomes apparent that you have any authority above or beyond that of the

Tyrant of Thrale I shall take it away from you. Why not? Now that I have come so far,

why should I not aspire to sit in the highest seat of all?"

     "Hrrummphhh!" the monster—Kinnison could no longer think of him as Fossten,

or as the prime minister, or as anything even remotely human—snorted with such utter,

such searing contempt that even the Lensman's burly spirit quailed. "As well might you

attempt to pit your vaunted physical strength against the momentum of an inert planet.

Now, youth, have done. The time for temporizing is past. As 1 have said, I desire to

spare you, as I wish you to rule this part of Boskonia as my viceroy. Know, however,

that you are in no sense essential, and that if you do not yield your mind fully to mine,

here and now, before this coming battle is joined, you most certainly die." At the grim

finality, the calmly assured certainty of the pronouncement, a quick chill struck into the

Gray Lensman's vitals.

     This thing who called himself Fossten . . . who or what was he? What was it that

he reminded him of? He thought and talked like . . . like . . . MENTOR! But it couldn't be

an Arisian, possibly—that wouldn't make sense . . . But then, it didn't make any kind of

sense, anyway, any way you looked at it . . . Whoever he was, he had plenty of jets—

jets enough to lift a freighter off of the north pole of Valeria . . . and by the same token,

his present line of talk didn't make sense, either—there must be some good reason why

he hadn't made a real pass at him long before this, instead of arguing with him so

patiently—what could it be? . . . Oh, that was it, of course . . . He needed only a few

minutes more, now; he could probably stall off the final show-down that long by crawling

a bit—much as it griped him to let this zwilnik think that he was licking his boots . . .

     "Your forebearance is appreciated, sire." At the apparently unconscious tribute to

superiority and at the fact that the hitherto completely self-possessed Tyrant got up and

began to pace nervously up and down the control room, the prime minister's austere

mien softened appreciably. "It is, however, a little strange. It is not quite in character; it

does not check quite satisfactorily with the facts thus far revealed. I may, perhaps, as

you say, be stupid. I may be overestimating flagrantly my own abilities. To one of my

temperament, however, to surrender in such a craven fashion as you demand comes

hard—extremely, almost unbearably hard. It would be easier, I think, if Your Supremacy

would condescend to reveal his true identity, thereby making plainly evident and

manifest that which at present must be left to unsupported words, surmise, and not too

much conviction."

     "But I told you, and now tell you again, that for you to look upon my real form is to

lose your reason!" the creature rasped.

     "What do you care whether or not I remain sane?" Kinnison shot his bolt at last,

in what he hoped would be taken for a last resurgence of spirit. His time was about up.

In less than one minute now the screens of scout cruisers would be in engagement, and

either he or the prime minister or both would be expected to be devoting every cell of

their brains to the all-important battle of giants. And in that very nick of time he would

have to cripple the Bergenholms and thus inert the flagship. "Could it be that the real

reason for your otherwise inexplicable forbearance is that you must know how my mind

became as it now is, and that the breaking down of my barriers by mental force will

destroy the knowledge which you, for your own security, must have?"

     This was the blow-off. Kinnison still paced the room, but his pacings took him

nearer and ever nearer to a certain control panel. Behind his thought-screen, which he

could not now trust, he mustered every iota of his tremendous force of mind and of will.

Only seconds now. His left hand, thrust into his breeches pocket, grasped the cigarette

case within which reposed his Lens. His right arm and hand were tensely ready to draw

and to fire his weapon.

     "Die, then! I should have known from the sheer perfection of your work that you

were what you really are—Star A Star!"

     The mental blast came ahead even of the first word, but the Gray Lensman,

supremely ready, was already in action. One quick thrust of his chin flicked off the

thought-screen. The shielded cigarette-case flew open, his more-than-half-alive Lens

blazed again upon his massive wrist. His blaster leaped out of its scabbard, flaming

destruction as it came— a ravening tongue of incandescent fury which licked out of

existence in the twinking of an eye the Bergenholms' control panels and the operators

clustered before it. The vessel went inert—much work would have to be done before the

Boskonian flagship could again fly free!

     These matters required only a fraction of a second. Well indeed it was that they

did not take longer, for the ever-mounting fury of the prime minister's attack soon

necessitated more—much more—than an automatic block, however capable. But

Kimball Kinnison, Gray Lensman, Lensman of Lensmen had more—ever so much

more—than that!

     He whirled, lips thinned over tight-set teeth in a savage fighting grin. Now he'd

see what this zwilnik was and what he had. No fear, no doubt of the outcome, entered

his mind. He had suffered such punishment as few minds have ever endured in learning

to ward off everything that Mentor, one of the mightiest intellects of this or of any other

universe, could send; but through that suffering he had learned. This unknown entity

was an able operator, of course, but he certainly had a thick, hard crust to think that he

could rub him out!

     So thinking, the Lensman hurled a bolt of his own, a blast of power sufficient to

have slain a dozen men—and, amazedly, saw it rebound harmlessly from the premier's

hard-held block.

     Which of the two combatants was the more surprised it would be hard to say;

each had considered his own mind impregnable and invincible. Now, as the prime

minister perceived how astoundingly capable a foe he faced, he drove a thought toward

Eddore and the All-Highest.

     Blocked!

     Star A Star and the Arisian, then, were not two, but one!

     He ordered the officers on duty to blast their Tyrant down. In vain. For, even so

early in that ultimately lethal struggle, he could not spare enough of his mind to control

effectively any outsider; and in a matter of seconds there were no minds left throughout

that entire room in any condition to be controlled.

     For the first reverberations, the ricochets, the spent forces of the monster's attack

against Kinnison's shield had wrought grievously among the mentalities of all

bystanders. Those forces were deadly—deadly beyond telling—so inimical to and

destructive of intelligence that even their transformation products affected tremendously

the nervous systems of all within range.

     Then, instants later, the spectacle of the detested and searingly feared Lens

scintillating balefully upon the wrist of their own ruler was an utterly inexpressible shock.

Some of the officers tried then to go for their blasters, but it was already too late; their

shaking, trembling, almost paralyzed muscles could not be forced to function.

     An even worse shock followed almost instantly, for the prime minister, under the

incredibly mounting intensity of the Lensman's poignant thrusts, found it necessary to

concentrate his every iota of power upon his opponent. Fossten's form of flesh

dissolved, revealing to all beholders except Kinnison what their prime minister actually

was—and he had not been very much wrong in saying that that sight would drive any

human being mad. Most of the Boskonians did go mad, then and there; but they did not

rush about nor scream. They could not move purposefully, but only twitched and writhed

horribly as they lay grotesquely a-sprawl. They could not scream or shriek, but only

mouthed and mumbled meaningless burblings.

     And ever higher, ever more brilliant flamed the Lens as Kinnison threw all of his

prodigious will-power, all of his tremendous, indomitable drive, through it and against

the incredibly resistant thing to which he was opposed. This was the supreme, the

climactic battle of his life thus far. Ether and sub-ether seethed and boiled invisibly

under the frightful violence of the forces there unleashed. The men in the control room

lay still; all life rived away. Now death spread throughout the confines of the vast space-

ship.

     Indomitably, relentlessly, the Gray Lensman held his offense upon that

unimaginably high level; his Lens flooding the room with intensely coruscant

polychromatic light. He did not know, then or ever, how he did it. He never did suspect

that he was not alone. It seemed as though his Lens, of its own volition in this time of

ultimate need, reached out into unguessable continua and drew therefrom an added, an

extra something. But, however it was done, Kinnison and his Lens managed to hold;

and under the appalling, the never-ceasing concentration of force the monster's

defenses began gradually to weaken and go down.

     Then sketchily, patchily, there was revealed to Kinnison's sight and sense of

perception—a—a—a BRAIN!

     There was a body, of sorts, of course—a peculiarly neckless body designed

solely to support that gigantic, thin-skulled head. There were certain appendages of

limbs, and such-like appurtenances and incidentalia to nourishment, locomotion, and

the like; but to all intents and purposes the thing was simply and solely a brain.

     Kinnison knew starkly that it was an Arisian—it looked enough like old Mentor to

be his twin brother. He would have been stunned, except for the fact that he was far too

intent upon victory to let any circumstance, however distracting, affect his purpose. His

concentration upon the task in hand was so complete that nothing—literally nothing

whatever—could sway him from it.

     Step by short, hard, jerky step, Kinnison advanced. Close enough, he selected

certain areas upon the sides of that enormous head and with big, hard, open hands he

went viciously to work. Right, left, right, left, he slapped those bulging temples brutally,

rocking monstrous head and repulsive body from side to side, pendulum-like, with every

stunning blow.

     His fist would have smashed that thin skull, would perhaps have buried itself

deep within the soft tissues of that tremendous brain; and Kinnison did not want to kill

his inexplicable opponent—yet. He had to find out first what this was all about.

     He knew that he was due to black out soon as he let go, and he intended to

addle the thing's senses so thoroughly that he would be completely out of action for

hours—long enough to give the Lensman plenty of time in which to recover his strength.

     He did so.

     Kinnison did not quite faint. He did, however, have to lie down flat upon the floor;

as limp, almost, as the dead men so thickly strewn about.

     And thus, while the two immense Grand Fleets met in battle, Boskonia's flagship

hung inert and silent in space afar; manned by fifteen hundred corpses, one

unconscious Brain, and one utterly exhausted Gray Lensman.

CHAPTER 21

The Battle of Klovia

     Boskonia's Grand Fleet was, as has been said, enormous. It was not as large as

that of the Patrol in total number of ships, since no ordinary brain nor any possible

combination of such brains could have coordinated and directed the activities of so vast

a number of units. Its center was, however, heavier; composed of a number and a

tonnage of super-maulers which made it self-evidently irresistible.

     In his training of his operations staff Kinnison had not overlooked a single bet,

had not made a single move which by its falsity might have excited Premier Fossten's

all-too-ready suspicions. They had handled Grand Fleet as a whole in vast, slow

maneuvers; plainly the only kind possible to so tremendous a force. Kinnison and his

officers had in turn harshly and thoroughly instructed the sub-fleet commanders in the

various arts and maneuvers of conquering units equal to or smaller than their own.

     That was all; and to the Boskonians, even to Fossten, that had been enough.

That was obviously all that was possible. Not one of them realized that Tyrant Gannel

very carefully avoided any suggestion that there might be any intermediate tactics, such

as that of three or four hundred sub-fleets, too widely spread in space and too

numerous to be handled by any ordinary mind or apparatus, to englobe and to wipe out

simultaneously perhaps fifty sub-fleets whose commanders were not even in

communication with each other. This technique was as yet the exclusive property of the

Patrol and the Z9M9Z.

     And in that exact operation, a closed book to the zwilniks, lay—supposedly and

tactically—the Patrol's overwhelming advantage. For Haynes, through his four highly-

specialized Rigellian Lensmen and thence through the two hundred Rigellian operator-

computers, could perform maneuvers upon any intermediate scale he pleased. He

could handle his whole vast Grand Fleet and its every component part—he supposed—

as effectively, as rapidly, and almost as easily as a skilled chess player handles his

pieces and his pawns. Neither Kinnison nor Haynes can be blamed, however, for the

fact that their suppositions were somewhat in error; it would have taken an Arisian to

deduce that this battle was not to be fought exactly as they had planned it.

     Haynes had another enormous advantage in knowing the exact number, rating,

disposition, course, and velocity of every main unit of the aggregation to which he was

opposed. And third, he had the sunbeam, concerning which the enemy knew nothing at

all and which was now in good working order.

     It is needless to say that the sunbeam generators were already set to hurl that

shaft of irresistible destruction along the precisely correct line, or that Haynes' Grand

Fleet formation had been made with that particular weapon in mind. It was not an

orthodox formation; in any ordinary space-battle it would have been sheerly suicidal. But

the Port Admiral, knowing for the first time in his career every pertinent fact concerning

his foe, knew exactly what he was doing.

     His fleet, instead of driving ahead to meet the enemy, remained inert and

practically motionless well within the limits of Klovia's solar system. His heavy stuff,

instead of being massed at the center, was arranged in a vast ring. There was no center

except for a concealing screen of heavy cruisers.

     When the far-flung screens of scout cruisers came into engagement, then, the

Patrol scouts near the central line did not fight, but sped lightly aside. So did the light

and heavy-cruisers and the battleships. The whole vast center of the Boskonians drove

onward, unopposed, into—nothing.

     Nevertheless they kept on driving. They could, without orders, do nothing else,

and no orders were forthcoming from the flagship. Commanders tried to get in touch

with Grand Fleet Operations, but could not; and, in failing, kept on under their original

instructions. They had, they could have, no suspicion that any minion of the Patrol was

back of what had happened to their top brass. The flagship had been in the safest

possible position and no attack had as yet been made. They probably wondered futilely

as to what kind of a mechanical breakdown could have immobilized and completely

silenced their High Command, but that was—strictly —none of their business. They had

had orders, very definite orders, that no matter what happened they were to go on to

Klovia and to destroy it. Thus, however wondering, they kept on. They were on the line.

They would hold it. They would blast out of existence anything and everything which

might attempt to bar their way. They would reach Klovia and they would reduce it to its

component atoms.

     Unresisted, then, the Boskonian center bored ahead into nothing, until Haynes,

through his Rigellians, perceived that it had come far enough. Then Klovia's brilliantly

shining sun darkened almost to the point of extinction. Along the line of centers, through

the space so peculiarly empty of Patrol ships, there came into being the sunbeam—a

bar of quasi-solid lightning into which there had been compressed all the energy of well

over four million tons per second of disintegrating matter.

     Scouts and cruisers caught in that ravening beam flashed briefly, like sparks

flying from a forge, and vanished. Battleships and super-dreadnoughts the same. Even

the solid warhead of fortresses and maulers was utterly helpless. No screen has ever

been designed capable of handling that hellish load; no possible or conceivable

substance can withstand save momentarily the ardor of a sunbeam. For the energy

liberated by the total annihilation of four million tons per second of matter is in fact as

irresistible as it is incomprehensible.

     The armed and armored planets did not disappear. They contained too much

sheer mass for even that inconceivably powerful beam to volitalize in any small number

of seconds. Their surfaces, however, melted and boiled. The controlling and powering

mechanisms fused into useless pools of molten metal. Inert, then, inactive and

powerless, they no longer constituted threats to Klovia's well-being.

     The negaspheres also were rendered ineffective by the beam. Their anti-masses

were not decreased, of course— in fact, they were probably increased a trifle by the

fervor of the treatment—but, with the controlling superstructures volatilized away, they

became more of menace to the Boskonian forces than to those of Civilization. Indeed,

several of the terrible things were drawn into contact with ruined planets. Then

negasphere and planet consumed each other, flooding all nearby space with intensely

hard and horribly lethal radiation.

     The beam winked out; Klovia's sun flashed on. The sunbeam was—and

is—clumsy, unwieldy, quite definitely not rapidly maneuverable. But it had done its work;

now the component parts of Civilization's Grand Fleet started in to do theirs.

     Since the Battle of Klovia—it was and still is called that, as though it were the

only battle which that warlike planet has ever seen—has been fought over in the

classrooms of practically every civilized planet of two galaxies, it would be redundant to

discuss it in detail here.

     It was, of course, unique. No other battle like it has ever been fought, either

before or since—and let us hope that no other ever will be. It is studied by strategists,

who have offered many thousands of widely variant profundities as to what Port Admiral

Haynes should have done. Its profound emotional appeal, however, lies only and

sheerly in its unorthodoxy. For in the technically proper space battle there is no hand-to-

hand fighting, no purely personal heroism, no individual deeds of valor. It is a thing of

logic and of mathematics and of science, the massing of superior fire-power against a

well-chosen succession of weaker opponents. When the screens of a space-ship go

down that ship is done, her personnel only memories.

     But here how different! With the supposed breakdown of the lines of

communication to the flagship, the sub-fleets carried on in formation. With the

destruction of the entire center, however, all semblance of organization or of

cooperation was lost. Every staff officer knew that no more orders would emanate from

the flagship. Each knew chillingly that there could be neither escape nor succor. The

captain of each vessel, thoroughly convinced that he knew vastly more than did his fleet

commander, proceeded to run the war to suit himself. The outcome was fantastic, so

utterly bizarre that the Z9M9Z and her trained coordinating officers were useless.

Science and tactics and the million lines of communication could do nothing against a

foe who insisted upon making it a ship-to-ship, yes, a man-to-man affair!

     The result was the most gigantic dog-fight in the annals of military science.

Ships—Civilization's perhaps as eagerly as Boskonia's—cut off their projectors, cut off

their screens, the better to ram, to board, to come to grips personally with the enemy.

Scout to scout, cruiser to cruiser, battleship to battleship, the insane contagion spread.

Haynes and his staff men swore fulminantly, the Rigellians hurled out orders, but those

orders simply could not be obeyed. The dog-fight spread until it filled a good sixth of

Klovia's entire solar system.

     Board and storm! Armor—DeLameters—axes! The mad blood-lust of hand-to-

hand combat, the insensately horrible savagery of our pirate forbears, multiplied by

millions and spread out to fill a million million cubic miles of space!

     Haynes and his fellows wept unashamed as they stood by helpless, unable to

avoid or to prevent the slaughter of so many splendid men, the gutting of so many

magnificent ships. It was ghastly—it was appalling—it was WAR!

     And far from this scene of turmoil and of butchery lay Boskonia's great flagship,

and in her control room Kinnison began to recover. He sat up groggily. He gave his

throbbing head a couple of tentative shakes. Nothing rattled. Good— he was QX, he

guessed, even if he did feel as limp as nine wet dishrags. Even his Lens felt weak; its

usually refulgent radiance was sluggish, wan, and dim. This had taken plenty out of

them, he reflected soberly; but he was mighty lucky to be alive. But he'd better get his

batteries charged. He couldn't drive a thought across the room, the shape he was in

now, and he knew of only one brain in the universe Capable of straightening out this

mess.

     After assuring himself that the highly inimical brain would not be able to function

normally for a long time to come, the Lensman made his way to the galley. He could

walk without staggering already—fine! There he fried himself a big, thick, rare

steak—his never-failing remedy for all the ills to which flesh is heir—and brewed a pot of

Thralian coffee; making it viciously, almost corrosively strong. And as he ate and drank

his head cleared magically. Strength flowed back into him in waves. His Lens flamed

into its normal splendor. He stretched prodigiously; inhaled gratefully a few deep

breaths. He was QX.

     Back in the control room, after again checking up on the still quiescent brain—he

wouldn't trust this Fossten as far as he could spit—he hurled a thought to far-distant

Arisia and to Mentor, its ancient sage.

     "What's an Arisian doing in this Second Galaxy, working against the Patrol? Just

what is somebody trying to pull off?" he demanded heatedly, and in a second of flashing

thought reported what had happened.

     'Truly, Kinnison of Tellus, my mind is not entirely capable," the deeply resonant,

slow simulacrum of a voice resounded within the Lensman's brain. The Arisian never

hurried; nothing whatever, apparently, not even such a cataclysmic upheaval as this,

could fluster or excite him. "It does not seem to be in accord with the visualization of the

Cosmic All which I hold at the moment that any one of my fellows is in fact either in the

Second Galaxy or acting antagonistically to the Galactic Patrol. It is, however, a truism

that hypotheses, theories, and visualizations must fit themselves to known or observed

facts, and even your immature mind is eminently able to report truly upon actualities.

But before I attempt to revise my visualization to conform to this admittedly peculiar

circumstance, we must be very sure indeed of our facts. Are you certain, youth, that the

being whom you have beaten into unconsciousness is actually an Arisian?"

     "Certainly I'm certain!" Kinnison snapped. "Why, he's enough like you to have

been hatched out of half of the same egg. Take a look!" and he knew that the Arisian

was studying every external and internal detail, part, and organ of the erstwhile Fossten

of Thrale.

     "Ah, it would appear to be an Arisian, at that, youth," Mentor finally agreed. "He

appears to be old, as you said— as old, perhaps, as I am. Since I have been of the

opinion that I am acquainted with every member of my race this will require some little

thought—allow me therefore, please, a moment of time." The Arisian fell silent,

presently to resume: "I have it now. Many millions of years ago—so long ago that it was

with some little difficulty that I recalled it to mind—when I was scarcely more than an

infant, a youth but little older than myself disappeared from Arisia. It was determined

then that he was aberrant—insane—and since only an unusually capable mind can

predict truly the illogical workings of a diseased and disordered mind for even one year

in advance, it is not surprising that in my visualization that unbalanced youth perished

long ago. Nor is it surprising that I do not recognize him in the creature before you."

     "Well, aren't you surprised that I could get the best of him?" Kinnison asked,

naively. He had really expected that Mentor would compliment him upon his prowess,

he figured that he had earned a few pats on the back; but here the old fellow was

mooning about his own mind and his own philosophy, and acting as though knocking off

an Arisian were something to be taken in stride. And it wasn't, by half!

     "No," came the flatly definite reply. "You have a force of will, a totalizable and

concentrable power, a mental and psychological drive whose capabilities you do not

and cannot fully appreciate. I perceived those latent capabilities when I assembled your

Lens, and developed them when I developed you. It was their presence which made it

certain that you would return here for that development; they made you what you

intrinsically are."

     "QX then—skip it. What shall I do with him? It's going to be a real job of work,

any way you figure it, for us to keep him alive and harmless until we get him back there

to Arisia."

     "We do not want him here," Mentor replied without emotion. "He has no present

or future place within our society. Nor, however I consider the matter, can I perceive that

he has any longer a permissible or condonable place in the all-inclusive Scheme of

Things. He has served his purpose. Destroy him, therefore, forthwith, before he

recovers consciousness; lest much and grievous harm befall you."

     "I believe you, Mentor. You said something then, if anybody ever did. Thanks,"

and communication ceased.

     The Lensman's ray-gun flamed briefly and whatever it was that lay there became

a smoking, shapeless heap.

     Kinnison noticed then that a call-light was shining brightly upon a communicator

panel. This thing must have taken longer than he had supposed. The battle must be

over, otherwise all space would still be filled with interference through which no long-

range communicator beam could have been driven. Or . . . could Boskonia have . . . no,

that was unthinkable. The Patrol must have won. This must be Haynes, calling him . . .

     It was. The frightful Battle of Klovia was over. While many of the Patrol ships had

yielded, either by choice or by necessity, to the Boskonians' challenge, most of them

had not. And the majority of those who did so yield, came out victorious.

     While fighting in any kind of recognized formation against such myriads of

independently-operating, widely-spaced individual ships was of course out of the

question, Haynes and his aides had been able to work out a technique of sorts. General

orders were sent out to sub-fleet commanders, who in turn relayed them to the

individual captains by means of visual beams. Single vessels, then, locked to equal or

inferior craft—avoiding carefully anything larger than themselves— with tractor zones

and held grimly on. If they could defeat the foe, QX. If not, they hung on; until shortly

one of the Patrol's maulers—who had no opposition of their own class to face—would

come lumbering up. And when the dreadful primary batteries of one of those things cut

loose that was, very conclusively, that.

     Thus Boskonia's mighty fleet vanished from the skies.

     The all-pervading interference was cut off and Port Admiral Haynes, not daring to

use his Lens in what might be a critical instant, sat down at his board and punched a

call. Time after time he punched it. Finally he shoved it in and left it in; and as he stared,

minute after minute, into the coldly unresponsive plate his face grew gray and old.

     Just before he decided to Lens Kinnison anyway, come what might, the plate

lighted up to show the smiling, deeply space-tanned face of the one for whom he had

just about given up hope.

     "Thank God!" Haynes' exclamation was wholly reverent; his strained old face lost

twenty years in half that many seconds. "Thank God you're safe. You did it, then?"

     "I managed it, but just by the skin of my teeth—I didn't have half a jet to spare. It

was Old Man Boskone himself, in person. And you?"

     "Clean-up—one hundred point zero zero zero percent."

     "Fine business!" Kinnison exulted. "Everything's on the exact center of the green,

then—come on!"

     And Civilization's Grand Fleet went.

     The Z9M9Z flashed up to visibility, inerted, and with furious driving blasts full

ablaze, matched her intrinsic velocity to that of the Boskonian flagship—the only

Boskonian vessel remaining in that whole vast volume of space. Tractors and pressors

were locked on and balanced. Flexible—or, more accurately, not ultimately

rigid—connecting tubes were pushed out and sealed. Hundreds, yes thousands, of

men— men in full Thralian uniform—strode through those tubes and into the Thralian

ship. The Z9M9Z unhooked and a battleship took her place. Time after time the

maneuver was repeated, until it seemed as though Kinnison's vessel, huge as she was,

could not possibly carry the numbers of men who marched aboard.

     Those men were all human or approximately so—nearly enough human, at least,

to pass as Thralians under a casual inspection. More peculiarly, that army contained an

astounding number of Lensmen. So many Lensmen, it is certain, had never before been

gathered together into so small a space.

     But the fact that they were Lensmen was not apparent; their Lenses were not

upon their wrists, but were high upon their arms, concealed from even the most prying

eyes within the sleeves of their tunics.

     Then the captured flagship, her Bergenholms again at work, the Z9M9Z, and the

battleships which had already assumed the intrinsic velocity possessed originally by the

Boskonians, spread out widely in space. Each surrounded itself with a globe of intensely

vivid red light. Orders as to course and power flashed out. The word was given and

spectacular fire flooded space as that vast host of ships, guided by those red beacons,

matched in one prodigious and beautiful maneuver its intrinsic velocity to theirs.

     Finally, all the intrinsics in exact agreement, Grand Fleet formation was remade.

The term "remade" is used advisedly, since this was not to be a battle formation. For

Traska Gannel had long since sent a message to his capital; a terse and truthful

message which was, nevertheless, utterly misleading. It was:

     "My forces have won, my enemy has been wiped out to the last man. Prepare for

a two-world broadcast, to cover both Thrale and Onlo, at hour ten today of my palace

time."

     The formation, then, was not one of warfare, but of boasting triumph. It was the

consciously proud formation of a Grand Fleet which, secure in the knowledge that it has

blasted out of - the ether everything which can threaten it, returns victoriously home to

receive as its just due the plaudits and the acclaim of the populace.

     Well in the van—alone in the van, in fact, and strutting —was the flagship. She,

having originated upon Thrale and having been built specifically for a flagship, would be

recognized at sight. Back of her came, in gigantic co-axial cones, the sub-fleets;

arranged now not class by class of ships, but world by world of origin. One mauler,

perhaps, or two; from four or five to a dozen or more battleships; an appropriate number

of cruisers and of scouts; all flying along together in a tight little group.

     But not all of the Patrol's armada was in that formation. It would have been very

poor technique indeed to have had Boskonia's Grand Fleet come back to home ether

forty percent larger than it had set out. Besides, the Z9M9Z simply could not be allowed

to come within detector range of any Boskonian look-out. She was utterly unlike any

other vessel ever to fly: she would not, perhaps, be recognized for what she really was,

but it would be evident to the most casual observer that she was not and could not be of

Thrale or Boskonia.

     The Z9M9Z, then, hung back—far back—escorted and enveloped by the great

number of warships which could not be made to fit into the roll-call of the Tyrant's

original Grand Fleet.

     The sub-fleet which was originally from Thrale could land without any trouble

without arousing any suspicion. Boskonian and Patrol designs were not identical, of

course: but the requirements of sound engineering dictated that externals should be

essentially the same. The individual ships now bore the correct identifying symbols and

insignia. The minor differences could not be perceived until after the vessels had

actually landed, and that would be—for the Thralians—entirely too late.

     Thralian hour ten arrived. Kinnison, after a long, minutely searching inspection of

the entire room, became again in every millimeter Traska Gannel, the Tyrant of Thrale.

He waved a hand. The scanner before him glowed: for a full minute he stared into it

haughtily, to give his teeming millions of minions ample opportunity to gaze upon the

inspiring countenance of His Supremacy the Feared.

     He knew that the scanner revealed clearly every detail of the control room behind

him, but everything there was QX. There wasn't a chance that some person would fail to

recognize a familiar face at any post, for not a single face except his own would be

visible. Not a head back of him would turn, not even a rear-quarter profile would show: it

would be lese majeste of the most intolerable for any face, however inconspicuous, to

share the lime-light with that of the Tyrant of Thrale while His Supremacy was

addressing his subjects. Serenely and assuredly enough, then, Tyrant Gannel spoke:

     "MY people! As you have already been told, my forces have won the complete

victory which my foresight and my leadership made inevitable. This milestone of

progress is merely a repetition upon a grander scale of those which I have already

accomplished upon a somewhat smaller; an extension and a continuation of the

carefully considered procedure by virtue of which I shall see to it that My Plan succeeds.

     "As one item in that scheduled procedure I removed the weakling Alcon, and in

the stead of his rule of oppression, short-sightedness, corruption, favoritism, and greed,

I substituted my beneficient regime of fair play, of mutual cooperation for the good of all.

     "I have now accomplished the next major step in my program; the complete

destruction of the armed forces which might be, which would be employed to hamper

and to nullify the development and the fruition of My Plan.

     "I shall take the next step immediately upon my return to my palace. There is no

need to inform you now as to the details of what I have in mind. In broad, however, it

pleases me to inform you that, having crushed all opposition, I am now able to institute

and shall proceed at once to institute certain changes in policy, in administration, and in

jurisdiction. I assure you that all of these changes will be for the best good of all save

the enemies of society.

     "I caution you therefore to cooperate fully and willingly with my officers who may

shortly come among you with instructions; some of these, perhaps, of a nature not

hitherto promulgated upon Thrale. Those of you who do so cooperate will live and will

prosper; those who do not will die in the slowest, most hideous fashions which all the

generations of Thralian torturers have been able to devise."

CHAPTER 22

The Taking of Thrale

     Up to the present, Kinnison's revolution, his self-advancement into the

dictatorship, had been perfectly normal; in perfect accordance with the best tenets of

Boskonian etiquette. While it would be idle to contend that any of the others of the High

Command really approved of it—each wanted intensely that high place for

himself—none of them had been strong enough at the moment to challenge the Tyrant

effectively and all of them knew that an ineffective challenge would mean certain death.

Wherefore each perforce bided his time; Gannel would slip, Gannel would become lax

or over-confident—and that would be the end of Gannel.

     They were, however, loyal to Boskonia. They were very much in favor of the rule

of the strong and the ruthless. They believed implicitly that might made right They

themselves bowed the knee to anyone strong enough to command such servility from

them; in turn they commanded brutally an even more abject servility from those over

whom they held in practice, if not at law, the power of life and death.

     Thus Kinnison knew that he could handle his cabinet easily enough as long as he

could make them believe that he was a Boskonian. There was, there could be, no real

unity among them under those conditions; each would be fighting his fellows as well as

working to overthrow His Supremacy the Tyrant. But they all hated the Patrol and all

that it stood for with a whole-hearted fervor which no one adherent to Civilization can

really appreciate. Hence at the first sign that Gannel might be in league with the Patrol

they would combine forces instantly -against him; automatically there would go into

effect a tacit agreement to kill him first and then, later, to fight it out among themselves

for the prize of the Tyrancy.

     And that combined opposition would be a formidable one indeed. Those men

were really able. They were as clever and as shrewd and as smart and as subtle as

they were hard. They were masters of intrigue; they simply could not be fooled. And if

their united word went down the line that Traska Gannel was in fact a traitor to

Boskonia, an upheaval would ensue which would throw into the shade the bloodiest

revolutions of all history. Everything would be destroyed.

     Nor could the Lensman hurl the metal of the Patrol against Thrale in direct frontal

attack. Not only was it immensely strong, but also there were those priceless records,

without which it might very well be the work of generations for the Patrol to secure the

information which it must, for its own security, have.

     No. Kinnison, having started near the bottom and worked up, must now begin all

over again at the top and work down; and he must be very, very sure that no alarm was

given until at too late a time for the alarmed ones to do anything of harm to the

Lensman's cause. He didn't know whether he had jets enough to swing the load or

not— a lot depended on whether or not he could civilize those twelve devils of his—but

the scheme that the psychologists had worked out was a honey and he would certainly

give it the good old college try.

     Thus Grand Fleet slowed down; and, with the flagship just out of range of the

capital's terrific offensive weapons, it stopped. Half a dozen maulers, towing a blackly

indetectable, imperceptible object, came up and stopped. The Tyrant called, from the

safety of his control room, a conference of his cabinet in the council chamber.

     "While I have not been gone very long in point of days," he addressed them

smoothly, via plate, "and while I of course trust each and every one of you, there are

certain matters which must be made clear before I land. None of you has, by any

possible chance, made any effort to lay a trap for me, or anything of the kind?" There

may have been a trace of irony in the speaker's voice.

     They assured him, one and all, that they had not had the slightest idea of even

considering such a thing.

     "It is well. None of you have discovered, then, that by changing locks and

combinations, and by destroying or removing certain inconspicuous but essential

mechanisms of an extremely complicated nature—and perhaps substituting others—I

made it quite definitely impossible for any one of all of you to render this planet

inertialess. I have brought back with me a negasphere of planetary anti-mass, which no

power at your disposal can effect. It is here beside me in space; please study it

attentively. It should not be necessary for me to inform you that there are countless

other planets from which I can rule Boskonia quite as effectively as from Thrale; or that,

while I do not relish the idea of destroying my home planet and everything upon it, I

would not hesitate to do so if it became a matter of choice between that action and the

loss of my life and my position."

     They believed the statement. That was the eminently sensible thing to do. Any

one of them would have done the same; hence they knew that Gannel would do exactly

what he threatened—if he could. And as they studied Gannel's abysmally black ace of

trumps they knew starkly that Gannel could. For they had found out, individually, that

the Tyrant had so effectively sabotaged Thrale's Bergenholms that they could not

possibly be made operative until after his return. Consequently repairs had not been

started—any such activity, they knew, would be a fatal mistake.

     By out-guessing and out-maneuvering the members of his cabinet Gannel had

once more shown his fitness to rule. They accepted that fact with a good enough grace;

indeed, they admired him all the more for the ability thus shown. No one of them had

given himself away by any overt moves; they could wait. Gannel would slip yet—quite

possibly even before he got back into his palace. So they thought, not knowing that the

Tyrant could read at will their most deeply-hidden plans; and, so thinking, each one

pledged anew in unreserved terms his fealty and his loyalty.

     "I thank you, gentlemen." The Tyrant did not, and the officers were pretty sure

that he did not, believe a word of their protestations. "As loyal cabinet members, I will

give you the honor of sitting in the front of those who welcome me home. You men and

your guards will occupy the front boxes in the Royal Stand. With you and around you

will be the entire palace personnel—I want no person except the, usual guards inside

the buildings or even within the grounds when I land. Back of these you will have

arranged the Personal Troops and the Royal Guards. The remaining stands and all of

the usual open grounds will be for the common people— first come, first served.

     "But one word of caution. You may wear your side-arms, as usual. Bear in mind,

however, that armor is neither usual nor a part of your full-dress uniform, and that any

armored man or men in or near the concourse will be blasted by a needle-ray before I

land. Be advised also that I myself shall be wearing full armor. Furthermore, no vessel

of the fleet will land until I, personally, from my private sanctum, order them to do so."

     This situation was another poser; but it, too, they had to take. There was no way

out of it, and it was still perfect Boskonian generalship. The welcoming arrangements

were therefore made precisely as Tyrant Gannel had directed.

     The flagship settled toward ground, her under-jets blasting unusually viciously

because of her tremendous load; and as she descended Kinnison glanced briefly down

at the familiar terrain. There was the immense space-field, a dock-studded expanse of

burned, scarred, pock-marked concrete and steel. Midway of its extreme northern end,

that nearest the palace, was the berth of the flagship, Dock No. I. An eighth of a mile

straight north from the dock—the minimum distance possible because of the terrific fury

of the under-jets —was the entrance to the palace grounds. At the northern end of the

western side of the field, a good three-quarters of a mile from Dock No. I and somewhat

more than that distance from the palace gates, were the Stands of Ceremony. That

made the Lensman completely the master of the situation.

     The flagship landed. Her madly blasting jets died out. A car of state rolled grandly

up. Airlocks opened. Kinnison and his bodyguards seated themselves in the car.

Helicopters appeared above the stands and above the massed crowds thronging the

western approaches to the field; hovering, flitting slowly and watchfully about.

     Then from the flagship there emerged an incredible number of armed and

armored soldiers. One small column of these marched behind the slowly-moving car of

state, but by far the greater number went directly to and through the imposing portals of

the palace grounds. The people in general, gathered there to see a major spectacle,

thought nothing of these circumstances—who were they to wonder at what the Tyrant of

Thrale might choose to do?—but to Gannel's Council of Advisers they were extremely

disquieting departures from the norm. There was, however, nothing they could do about

them, away out there in the grandstand; and they knew with a stark certainty what those

helicopters had orders to do in case of any uprising or commotion anywhere in the

crowd.

     The car rolled slowly along before the fenced-back, wildly-cheering multitudes,

with blaring bands and the columns of armored spacemen marching crisply, swingingly

behind it. There was nothing to indicate that those selected men were not Thralians;

nothing whatever to hint that over a thousand of them were in fact Lensmen of the

Galactic Patrol. And Kinnison, standing stiffly erect in his car, acknowledged gravely,

with upraised right arm, the plaudits of his subjects.

     The triumphal bus stopped in front of the most out-thrust, the most ornate stand,

and through loud-voiced amplifiers the Tyrant invited, as a signal honor, the twelve

members of his Advisory Cabinet to ride with him in state to the palace. There were

exactly twelve vacant seats in the great coach. The advisers would have to leave their

bodyguards and ride alone with the Tyrant: even had there been room, it was

unthinkable that any one else's personal killers could ride with the Presence. This was

no honor, they knew chillingly, no matter what the mob might think—it looked much

more like a death-sentence. But what could they do? They glanced at their unarmored

henchmen; then at the armor and the semi-portables of Gannel's own heelers; then at

the 'copters now clustering thickly overhead, with the narrow snouts of needle-ray

projectors very much in evidence.

     They accepted.

     It was in no quiet frame of mind, then, that they rode into the pretentious grounds

of the palace. They felt no better when, as they entered the council chamber, they were

seized and disarmed without a word having been spoken. And the world fairly dropped

out from beneath them when Tyrant Gannel emerged from his armor with a Lens

glowing upon his wrist.

     "Yes, I am a Lensman," he gravely informed the stupefied but unshrinking

Boskonians. "That is why I know that all twelve of you tried while I was gone to cut me

down, in spite of everything I told you and everything you have seen me do. If it were

still necessary for me to pose as Traska Gannel I would have to kill you here and now

for your treachery. That phase is, however, past.

     "1 am one of the Lensmen whose collective activities you have ascribed to 'the'

Lensman or to Star A Star. All those others who came with me into the palace are

Lensmen. All those outside are either Lensmen or tried and seasoned veterans of the

Galactic Patrol. The fleet surrounding this world is the Grand Fleet of that Patrol. The

Boskonian force was completely destroyed—every man and every ship except your

flagship—before it reached Klovia. In short, the power of Boskonia is broken forever;

Civilization is to rule henceforth throughout both galaxies.

     "You are the twelve strongest, the twelve ablest men of the planet, perhaps of

your whole dark culture. Will you help us to rule according to the principles of Civilization

that which has been the Boskonian Empire or will you die?"

     The Thralians stiffened themselves rigidly against the expected blasts of death,

but only one spoke. "We are fortunate at least, Lensman, in that you do not torture," he

said, coldly, his lips twisted into a hard, defiant sneer.

     "Good!" and the Lensman actually smiled. "I expected no less. With that solid

bottom, all that is necessary is to wipe away a few of your misconceptions and

misunderstandings, correct your viewpoints, and . . ."

     "Do you think for a second that your therapists can fit us into the pattern of your

Civilization?" the Boskonian spokesman demanded, bitingly.

     "I don't have to think, Lanion—I know," Kinnison assured him. "Take them away,

fellows, and lock them up— you know where. Everything will go ahead as scheduled."

     It did.

     And while the mighty vessels of war landed upon the space-field and while the

thronging Lensmen took over post after post in an ever-widening downward course,

Kinnison led Worsel and Tregonsee to the cell in which the outspoken Thralian chieftain

was confined.

     "I do not know whether I can prevent you from operating upon me or not," Lanion

of Thrale spoke harshly, "but I will try. I have seen the pitiful, distorted wrecks left after

such operations and I do not like them. Furthermore, I do not believe that any possible

science can eradicate from my subconscious the fixed determination to kill myself the

instant you release me. Therefore you had better kill me now, Lensman, and save your

time and trouble."

     "You are right, and wrong," Kinnison replied, quietly. "It may very well be

impossible to remove such a fixation." He knew that he could remove any such, but

Lanion must not know it. Civilization needed those twelve hard, shrewd minds and he

had no intention of allowing an inferiority complex to weaken their powers. "We do not,

however, intend to operate, but only and simply to educate. You will not be unconscious

at any time. You will be in full control of your own mind and you will know beyond

peradventure that you are so in control. We shall engrave, in parallel with your own

present knowledges of the culture of Boskonia, the equivalent or corresponding

knowledges of Civilization."

     They did so. It was not a short undertaking, nor an easy: but it was thorough and

it was finally done. Then Kinnison spoke.

     "You now have completely detailed knowledge both of Boskonia and of

Civilization, a combination possessed by but few intelligences indeed. You know that we

did not alter, did not even touch, any track of your original mind. Being fully en rapport

with us, you know that we gave you as unprejudiced a concept of Civilization as we

possibly could. Also, you have assimilated completely the new knowledge."

     "That is all true," Lanion conceded. "Remarkable, but true. I was, and remained

throughout, myself; I checked constantly to be sure of that. I can still kill myself at any

moment I choose."

     "Right." Kinnison did not smile, even mentally, at the unconscious alteration of

intent. "The whole proposition can now be boiled down into one clear-cut question, to

which you can formulate an equally clear-cut reply. Would you, Lanion, personally,

prefer to keep on as you have been, working for personal power, or would you rather

team up with others to work for the good of all?"

     The Thralian thought for moments, and as he pondered an expression of

consternation spread over his hard-hewn face. "You mean actually—personally—apart

from all consideration of your so-called altruism and your other infantile weaknesses?"

he demanded, resistantly.

     "Exactly," Kinnison assured him. "Which would you rather do? Which would you,

personally, get the most good—the most fun—out of?"

     The bitter conflict was plainly visible in Lanion's bronzed face; so was the

direction in which it was going.

     "Well . . . I'll . . . be . . . damned! You win, Lensman!" and the ex-Boskonian

executive held out his hand. Those were not his words, of course; but as nearly as

Tellurian English can come to it, that is the exact sense of his final decision.

     And the same, or approximately the same, was the decision of each of his eleven

fellows, each in his turn.

     Thus it was, then, that Civilization won over the twelve recruits who were so

potently instrumental in the bloodless conquest of Thrale, and who were later to be of

such signal service throughout the Second Galaxy. For they knew Boskonia with a sure

knowledge, from top to bottom and from side to side, in every aspect and ramification;

they knew precisely where and when and how to work to secure the desired ends. And

they worked—how they worked!—but space is lacking to go into any of their labors

here.

     Specialists gathered, of a hundred different sorts; and when, after peace and

security had been gained, they began to attack the stupendous files of the Hall of

Records, Kinnison finally yielded to Haynes' insistence and moved out to the Z9M9Z.

     "It's about time, young fellow!" the Port Admiral snapped. "I've gnawed my finger-

nails off just about to the elbow and I still haven't figured out how to crack Onlo. Have

you got any ideas?"

     "Thrale first," Kinnison suggested. "Everything QX here, you sure?"

     "Absolutely," Haynes grunted. 'A's strongly held as Tellus or Klovia. Primaries,

helices, super-tractors, Bergenholms, sunbeam—everything. They don't need us here

any longer, any more than a hen needs teeth. Grand Fleet is all set to go, but we

haven't been able to work out a feasible plan of campaign. The best way would be not

to use the fleet at all, but a sunbeam—but we can't move the sun and Thorndyke can't

hold the beam together that far. I don't suppose we could use a negasphere?"

     "I don't see how," Kinnison pondered. "Ever since we used it first they've been

ready for it. I'd be inclined to wait and see what Nadreck works out. He's a wise old owl,

that bird— what does he tell you?"

     "Nothing. Nothing flat." Haynes' smile was grimly amused. "The fact that he is still

'investigating'—whatever that means—is all he'll say. Why don't you try him? You know

him better than I do or ever will."

     "It wouldn't do any harm," Kinnison agreed. "Nor good, either, probably. Funny

egg, Nadreck. I'd tie fourteen of his arms into lover's knots if it'd make him give, but it

wouldn't—he's really tough." Nevertheless he sent out a call, which was acknowledged

instantly.

     "Ah, Kinnison, greetings. I am even now on my way to Thrale and the Directrix to

report."

     "You are? Fine!" Kinnison exclaimed. "How did you come out?"

     "I did not—exactly—fail, but the work was very incompletely and very poorly

done," Nadreck apologized, the while the Tellurian's mind felt very strongly the Palainian

equivalent of a painful blush of shame. "My report of the affair is going in under

Lensman's Seal."

     "But what did you do?" both Tellurians demanded as one.

     "I scarcely know how to confess to such blundering," and Nadreck actually

squirmed. "Will you not permit me to leave my shame to the spool of record?"

     They would not, they informed him.

     "If you must have it, then, I yield. The plan was to make all Onlonians destroy

themselves. In theory it 'was sound and simple, but my execution was pitifully imperfect.

My work was so poorly done that the commanding officer in each one of three of the

domes remained alive, making it necessary for me to slay those three commanders

personally, by the use of crude force. I regret exceedingly the lack of finish of this

undertaking, and I apologize profoundly for it. I trust that you will not allow this

information to become a matter of public knowledge," and the apologetic, mentally

sweating, really humiliated Palainian broke the connection.

     Haynes and Kinnison stared at each other, for moments completely at a loss for

words. The Port Admiral first broke the silence.

     "Hell's—jingling—bells!" he wrenched out, finally, and waved a hand at the points

of light crowding so thickly his tactical tank. 'A thing that the whole damned Grand Fleet

couldn't do, and he does it alone, and then he apologizes for it as though he ought to be

stood up in a corner or sent to bed without any supper!"

     "Uh-huh, that's the way he is," Kinnison breathed, in awe. "What a brain! . . .

what a man!"

     Nadreck's black speedster arrived and a three-way conference was held. Both

Haynes and Kinnison pressed him for the details of his really stupendous achievement,

but he refused positively even to mention any phase of it "The matter is

closed—finished," he declared, in a mood of anger and self-reproach which neither of

the Tellurians had ever supposed that the gently scientific monster could assume, "I

practically failed. It is the poorest piece of work of which I have been guilty since

cubhood, and I desire and I insist that it shall not be mentioned again. If you wish to4ay

plans for the future, I will be very glad indeed to place at your disposal my small ability--

which has now been shown to be even smaller than I had supposed—but if you insist

upon discussing my fiasco, 1 shall forthwith go home. I will not discuss it. The record of

it will remain permanently under Lensman's Seal. That is my last word."

     And it was. Neither of the two Tellurians mentioned the subject, of course, either

then or ever, but many other persons—including your historian—have done so, with no

trace whatever of success. It is a shame, it is positively outrageous, that no details are

available of the actual fall of Onlo. No human mind can understand why Nadreck will not

release his seal, but the bitter fact of his refusal to do so has been made all too plain.

     Thus, in all probability, it never will become publicly known how those monstrous

Onlonians destroyed each other, nor how Nadreck penetrated the defensive screens of

Onlo's embattled domes, nor in what fashions he warred upon the three surviving

commanders. These matters, and many others of perhaps equal interest and value,

must have been of such an epic nature that it is a cosmic crime that they cannot be

recorded here; that this, one of the most important incidents of the campaign, must be

mentioned merely and baldly as having happened. But, unless Nadreck relents—and he

apparently never does—that is the starkly tragic fact.

     Other Lensmen were called in then, and admirals and generals and other

personages. It was decided to man the fortifications of Onlo immediately, from the

several fleets of frigid-blooded poison-breathers which made up a certain percentage of

Civilization's forces. This decision was influenced markedly by Nadreck, who said in

part:

     "Onlo is a beautiful planet. Its atmosphere is perfect, its climate is ideal; not only

for us of Palain VII, but also for the inhabitants of many other planets, such as . . ." and

he mentioned some twenty names. "While I personally am not a fighter, there are some

who are; and while those of a more warlike disposition man Onlo's defenses and

weapons, my fellow researchers and I might very well be carrying on with the same type

of work which you fire-blooded oxygen-breathers are doing elsewhere."

     This eminently sensible suggestion was adopted at once. The conference broke

up. The selected sub-fleets sailed. Kinnison went to see Haynes.

     "Well, sir, that's it. . . I hope . . . what do you think? Am I, or am I not, due for a

spot of free time?" The Gray Lensman's face was drawn and grim.

     "I wish I knew, son . . . but I don't." Eyes and voice were deeply troubled. "You

ought to be . . . I hope you are . . . but you're the only judge of that, you know."

     "Uh-huh . . . that is, I know how to find out . . . but I'm afraid to—afraid he'll say

no. However, I'm going to see Cris first—talk it over with her. How about having a gig

drop me down to the hospital?"

     For he did not have to travel very far to find his fiancee. From the time of leaving

Lyrane until the taking over of Thrale she had as a matter of course been chief nurse of

the hospital ship Pasteur, and with the civilizing of that planet she had as automatically

become chief nurse of the Patrol's Base Hospital there.

     "Certainly, Kim—anything you want, whenever you please."

     "Thanks, chief . . . Now that this fracas is finally over— if it is—I suppose you'll

have to take over as president of the Galactic Council?"

     "I suppose so—after we clean up Lyrane VIII, that you've been holding me away

from so long—but I don't relish the thought. And you'll be Coordinator Kinnison."

     "Uh-huh," gloomily. "By Klono, I hate to put my Grays away! I'm not going to do it,

either, until after we're married and I'm really settled down onto the job."

     "Of course not. You'll be wearing them for some time yet, I'm thinking." Haynes'

tone was distinctly envious. "Getting your job reduced to routine will take a long, long

time . . . It'll probably take years even to find out what it's really going to be."

     "That's so, too," Kinnison brightened visibly. "Well, clear ether, President

Haynes!" and he turned away, whistling unmelodiously—in fact, somewhat

raucously—through his teeth.

CHAPTER 23

Attainment

     At base hospital it was midnight. the two largest of Thrale's four major moons

were visible, close together in the zenith, almost at the full: shining brilliantly from a

cloudless, star-besprinkled sky upon the magnificent grounds.

     Fountains splashed and tinkled musically. Masses of flowering shrubs, bordering

meandering walks, flooded the still air with a perfume almost cloying in its intensity. No

one who has once smelled the fragrance of Thralian thorn-flower at midnight will ever

forget it—it is as though the poignant sweetness of the mountain syringa has been

blended harmoniously with the heavy, entrancing scent of the jasmine and the

appealing pungency of the lily-of-the-valley. Statues of gleaming white stone and of

glinting metal were spaced infrequently over acres and acres of springy, close-clipped

turf. Trees, not over-high but massive of bole and of tremendous spread and thickness

of foliage, cast shadows of impenetrable black.

     "QX, Cris?" Kinnison Lensed the thought as he entered the grounds: she had

known that he was coming. "Kinda late, I know, but I wanted to s^e you, and you don't

have to punch the clock."

     "Surely, Kim," and her low, infectious chuckle welled out. "What's the use of

being a Red Lensman, else? This is just right—you couldn't make it any sooner and

tomorrow would have been too late—much too late."

     They met at the door and with arms around each other strolled wordless down a

walk. Across the resilient sward they made their way and to a bench beneath one of the

spreading trees.

     Kinnison swept her into both arms, hers went eagerly around his neck. How long,

how unutterably long it had been since they had stood thus, nurse's white crushed

against Lensman's Gray!

     They had no need, these Lensmen, of sight. Nor of language. Hence, since

words are so pitifully inadequate, no attempt will be made to chronicle the ecstasy of

that reunion. Finally, however:

     "Now that we're together again I'll never let you go," the man declared aloud.

     "If they separate us again it will simply break my heart," Clarrissa agreed. Then,

woman-like, she faced the facts and made the man face them, too. "Let's sit down, Kim,

and have this out. You know as well as I do that we can't go on if. . . if we can't. . . that's

all."

     "I do not," Kinnison said, flatly. "We've got a right to some happiness, you and I.

They, can't keep us apart forever, sweetheart—we're going straight through with it this

time."

     "Uh-uh, Kim," she denied gently, shaking her spectacular head. "What would

have happened if we'd have gone ahead before, leaving those horrible Thralians free to

ruin Civilization?"

     "But Mentor stopped us then," Kinnison argued. Deep down, he knew that if the

Arisian called he would have to answer, but he argued nevertheless. "If the job wasn't

done, he would have stopped us before we got this far—I think."

     "You hope, you mean," the girl contradicted. "What makes you think—if you

really do—that he might not wait until the ceremony has actually begun?"

     "Not a thing in the universe. He might, at that," Kinnison confessed, bleakly.

     "You've been afraid to ask him, haven't you?"

     "But the job must be done!" he insisted, avoiding the question. "The prime

minister—that Fossten—must have been the top; there couldn't possibly be anything

bigger than an Arisian to be back of Boskone. It's unthinkable! They've got no military

organization left—not a beam hot enough to light a cigarette or a screen that would stop

a firecracker. We have all their records—everything. Why, it's just a matter of routine

now for the boys to uproot them completely; system by system, planet by planet."

     "Uh-huh." She eyed him shrewdly, there in the dark. "Cogent. Really pellucid. As

clear as so much crystal—and twice as fragile. If you're so sure, why not call Mentor

and ask him, right now? You're not afraid of just the calling part, like I am; you're afraid

of what he'll say."

     "I'm going to marry you before I do another lick of work of any kind, anywhere,"

he insisted, doggedly.

     "I just love to hear you say that, even if I do know you're just popping off!" She

snuggled deeper into the curve of his arm. "I feel that way too, but both of us know very

well that if Mentor stops us . . . even at the altar . . ." her thought slowed, became tense,

solemn. "We're Lensmen, Kim, you and I. We both know exactly what that means. We'll

have to muster jets enough, some way or other, to swing the load. Let's call him now,

Kim, together. I just simply can't stand this not knowing . . . I can't, Kim . . . I can't!"

Tears come hard and seldom to such a woman as Clarrissa MacDougall; but they came

then—and they hurt.

     "QX, ace." Kinnison patted her back and her gorgeous head. "Let's go—but I tell

you now that if he says 'no' I'll tell him to go out to the Rim and take a swan-dive off into

inter-galactic space."

     She linked her mind with his, thinking in affectionate half-reproach, "I'd like to,

too, Kim, but that's pure balloon juice and you know it. You couldn't . . ." she broke off

as he hurled their joint thought to Arisia the Old, going on frantically:

     "You think at him, Kim, and I'll just listen. He scares me into a shrinking,

quivering pulp!"

     "QX, ace," he said again. Then: "Is it permissible that we do what we are about to

do?" he asked crisply of Arisia's ancient sage.

     "Ah, 'tis Kinnison and MacDougall; once of Tellus, henceforth of Klovia," the

calmly unsurprised thought rolled in. "I was expecting you at this time. Any mind,

however far from competent, could have visualized this event in its entirety. That which

you contemplate is not merely permissible; it has now become necessary," and as

usual, without tapering off or leave-taking, Mentor broke the line.

     The two clung together rapturously then for minutes, but something was

obtruding itself disquietingly upon the nurse's mind.

     "But his thought was 'necessary', Kim?" she asked, rather than said. "Isn't there a

sort of a sinister connotation in that, somewhere? What did he mean?"

     "Nothing—exactly nothing," Kinnison assured her, comfortably. "He's got a

complete picture of the macro-cosmic universe in his mind—his 'Visualization of the

Cosmic AH', he calls it—and in it we get married now, just as I've been telling you we

are going to. Since it gripes him no end to have even the tiniest thing not conform to his

visualization, our marriage is NECESSARY, in capital letters. See?"

     "Uh-huh . . . Oh, I'm glad!" she exclaimed. "That shows you how scared of him I

am," and thoughts and actions became such that, although they were no doubt of much

personal pleasure and satisfaction, they do not require detailed treatment here.

     Clarrissa MacDougall resigned the next day, without formality or fanfare. That is,

she thought that she did so then, and rather wondered at the frictionless ease with

which it went through: it had simply not occurred to her that in the instant of being made

an Unattached Lensman she had been freed automatically from every man-made

restraint. That was one of the few lessons hard for her to learn; it was the only one

which she refused consistently even to try to learn.

     Nothing was said or done about the ten thousand credits which had been

promised her upon the occasion of her fifteen-minutes-long separation from die Patrol

following the fall of Jarnevon. She thought about it briefly, but with no real sense of loss.

Some way or other, money did not seem important. Anyway, she had some—enough

for a fairly nice, if limited, trousseau—in a Tellurian bank. She could undoubtedly get it

through the Disbursing Office here.

     She took off her Lens and stuffed it into a pocket. That wasn't so good, she

reflected. It bulged, and besides, it might fall out; and anyone who touched it would die.

She didn't have a bag; in fact, she had with her no civilian clothes at all. Wherefore she

put it back on, pausing as she did so to admire the Manarkan star-drop flashing pale fire

from the third finger of her left hand. Of Cartiff's whole stock of fine gems, this was the

loveliest.

     It was not far to the Disbursing Office, so she walked; window-shopping as she

went. It was a peculiar sensation, this being out of harness—it felt good, though, at

that— and upon arriving at the bank she found to her surprise that she was both well

known and expected. An officer whom she had never seen before greeted her cordially

and led her into his private office.

     "We have been wondering why you didn't pick up your kit, Lensman

MacDougall," he went on, briskly. "Sign here, please, and press your right thumb in this

box here, after peeling off this plastic strip, so." She wrote in her boldly flowing script,

and peeled, and pressed; and watched fascinatedly as her thumb-print developed itself

sharply black against the bluish off-white of the Patrol's stationery. "That transfers your

balance upon Tellus to the Patrol's general fund. Now sign and print this, in

quadruplicate . . . Thank you. Here's your kit. When this book of slips is gone you can

get another one at any bank or Patrol station anywhere. It has been a real pleasure to

have met you, Lensman MacDougall; come in again whenever you happen to be upon

Thrale," and he escorted her to the street as briskly as he had ushered her in.

     Clarrissa felt slightly dazed. She had gone in there to get the couple of hundred

credits which represented her total wealth; but instead of getting it she had meekly

surrendered her savings to the Patrol and had been given—what? She leafed through

the little book. One hundred blue-white slips; small things, smaller than currency bills. A

little printing, two lines for description, a blank for figures, a space for signature, and a

plastic-covered oblong area for thumb-print. That was all—but what an all! Any one of

those slips, she knew, would be honored without hesitation or question for any amount

of cash money she pleased to draw; for any object or thing she chose to buy.

Anything—absolutely anything—from a pair of half-credit stockings up to and beyond a

hundred-million-credit space-ship. ANYTHING! The thought chilled her buoyant spirit,

took away her zest for shopping.

     "Kim, I can't!" she wailed through her Lens. "Why didn't they give me my own

money and let me spend it the way I please?"

     "Hold everything, ace—Til be with you in a sec." He wasn't—quite—but it was not

long. "You can get all the money you want, you know—just give them a chit."

     "I know, but all I wanted was my own money. I didn't ask for this stuff!"

     "None of that, Cris—when you get to be a Lensman you've got to take what goes

with it. Besides, if you spend money foolishly all the rest of your life, the Patrol knows

that it will still owe you plenty for what you did on Lyrane II. Where do you want to

begin?"

     "Brenleer's," she decided, after she had been partially convinced. "They aren't

the largest, but they give real quality at a fair price."

     At the shop the two Lensmen were recognized at sight and Brenleer himself did

the honors.

     "Clothes," the girl said succinctly, with an all-inclusive wave of her hand. "All

kinds of clothes, except white uniforms."

     They were ushered into a private room and Kinnison wriggled as mannequins

began to appear in various degrees of enclothement.

     "This is no place for me," he declared. "I'll see you later, ace. How long—half an

hour or so?"

     "Half an hour?" The nurse giggled, and:

     "She will be here all the rest of today, and most of the time for a week," the

merchant informed him severely—and she was.

     "Oh, Kim, I'm having the most marvelous time!" she told him excitedly, a few

days later. "But it makes me feel sick to think of how much of the Patrol's money I'm

spending."

     "That's what you think."

     "Huh? What do you mean?" she demanded, but he would not talk.

     She found out, however, after the long-drawn-out business of selecting and

matching and designing and fitting was over.

     "You've only seen me in real clothes once, and that time you hardly looked at

me. Besides, I got myself all prettied up in the beauty shop." She posed provocatively.

"Do you like me, Kim?"

     "Like you!" The man could scarcely speak. She had been a seven-sector call-out

in faded moleskin breeches and a patched shirt. She had been a thionite dream in

uniform. But now—radiantly, vibrantly beautiful, a symphony in her favorite dark green .

. . "Words fail. ace. Thoughts, too. They fold up and quit. The universe's best, is all I can

say . . ."

     And—later—they sought out Brenleer.

     "I would like to ask you to do me a tremendous favor," he said, hesitantly, without

filling in any of the blanks upon the blue-white slip the girl had proffered. "If, instead of

paying for these things, you would write upon this voucher the date and 'my fall outfit

and much of my trousseau were made by Brenleer of Thrale . . .'" His voice expired

upon a wistful note.

     "Why . . . I never even thought of such a thing . . . would it be quite ethical, do

you think, Kim?"

     "You said that he gives value for price, so I don't see why not . . . Lots of things

they never let any of us pay for . . ." Then, to Brenleer, "Never thought of that angle, of

what a terrific draw she'd be . . . you're figuring on displaying that chit unobtrusively in a

gold and platinum frame four feet square."

     Brenleer nodded. "Something like that. This will be the most fantastically lucky

break a man in my position ever had, if you approve of it."

     "I don't see why not," Kinnison said again. "You might as well give him a break,

Cris. What tore it was buying so much stuff here, not admitting the fact over your

signature and thumb-print.''

     She wrote and they went out.

     "You mean to tell me I'm so . . . so . . ."

     "Famous? Notorious?" he helped out.

     "Ufa-hull. Or words to that effect." A touch of fear darkened her glorious eyes.

     "All of that, and then some. I never thought of what your buying so much plunder

in one store would do, but it'd have the pulling power of a planetary tractor. It's bad

enough with us regulars—half the chits we issue are never cashed—but you are

absolutely unique. The first Lady Lensman—the only Red Lensman—and what a

Lensman! Wow! As I think it over one gets you a hundred if any chit you ever sign ever

will get cashed. There have been collectors, you know, ever since Civilization

began—maybe before."

     "But I don't like it!" she stormed.

     "That won't change the facts," he countered, philosophically. "Are you ready to

flit? The Dauntless is hot, they tell me."

     "Uh-huh, all my stuff is aboard," and soon they were en-route to Klovia.

     The trip was uneventful, and even before they reached that transformed planet it

became evident that it was theirs from pole to pole. Their cruiser was met by a horde of

spaceships of all types and sizes, which formed a turbulent and demonstrative escort of

honor. The seething crowd at the space-port could scarcely be kept out of range of the

dreadnought's searing landing-blasts. Half the brass bands of the world, it seemed,

burst into "Our Patrol" as the Lensmen disembarked, and their ground-car and the

street along which it slowly rolled were decorated lavishly with deep-blue flowers.

     "Thorn-flowers!" Clarrissa choked. "Thralian thorn-flowers, Kim—how could

they?"

     "They grow here as well as there, and when they found out that you liked them

so well they imported them by the shipload," and Kinnison himself swallowed a lump.

     Their brief stay upon Klovia was a hectic one indeed. Parties and balls, informal

and formal, and at least a dozen Telenews poses every day. Receptions, at which there

were presented the personages and the potentates of a thousand planets; at which the

uniforms and robes and gowns put the solar spectrum to shame.

     And from tens of thousands of planets came Lensmen, to make or to renew

acquaintance with the Galactic Co-ordinator and to welcome into their ranks the

Lensman-bride. From Tellus, of course, they came in greatest number and enthusiasm,

but other planets were not too far behind. They came from Manarka and Velantia and

Chickladoria and Alsakan and Vandemar, from the worlds of Canopus and Vega and

Antares, from all over the galaxy. Human, near-human, non-human, monstrous; there

even appeared briefly quite large numbers of frigid-blooded Lensmen, whose fiercely-

laboring refrigerators chilled the atmosphere for yards around their insulated and

impervious suits. All those various beings came with a united purpose, with a common

thought—to congratulate Kinnison of Tellus and to wish his Lensman-mate all the luck

and all the happiness of the universe.

     Kinnison was surprised at the sincerity with which they acclaimed him; he was

amazed at the genuineness and the tensity of their adoption of his Clarrissa as their

own. He had been afraid that some of them would think he was throwing his weight

around when he violated precedent by making her a Lensman. He had been afraid of

animosity and ill-will. He had been afraid that outraged masculine pride would set up a

sex antagonism. But if any of these things existed, the keenest use of his every

penetrant sense could not discover them.

     Instead, the human Lensmen literally mobbed her as they took her to their

collective bosom. No party, wherever or for what reason held, was complete without

her. If she ever had less than ten escorts at once, she was slighted. They ran her

ragged, they danced her slippers off, they stuffed her to repletion, they would not let her

sleep, they granted her the privacy of a gold-fish—and she loved every tumultuous

second of it.

     She had wanted, as she had told Haynes and Lacy so long ago, a big wedding;

but this one was already out of hand and was growing more so by the minute. The idea

of holding it in a church had been abandoned long since; now it became clear that the

biggest armory of Klovia would not hold even half of the Lensmen, to say nothing of the

notables and dignitaries who had come so far. It would simply have to be the Stadium.

     Even that tremendous structure could not hold enough people, hence speakers

and plates were run outside, clear up to the space-field fence. And, although neither of

the principals knew it, this marriage had so fired public interest that Universal Telenews

men had already arranged the hook-up which was to carry it to every planet of

Civilization. Thus the number of entities who saw and heard that wedding has been

estimated, but the figures are too fantastic to be repeated here.

     But it was in no sense a circus. No ceremony ever held, in home or in church or

in cathedral, was ever more solemn. For when half a million Lensmen concentrate upon

solemnity, it prevails.

     The whole vast bowl was gay with flowers—it seemed as though a state must

have been stripped of blooms to furnish so many—and ferns and white ribbons were

everywhere. There was a mighty organ, which pealed out triumphal melody as the bridal

parties marched down the aisles, subsiding into a lilting accompaniment as the betrothal

couple ascended the white-brocaded stairway and faced the Lensman-Chaplain in the

heavily-garlanded little open-air chapel. The minister raised both hands. The massed

Patrolmen and nurses stood at attention. A profound silence fell.

     "Dearly beloved . . ." The grand old service—short and simple, but utterly

impressive—was soon over. Then, as Kinnison kissed his wife, half a million Lensed

members were thrust upward in silent salute.

     Through a double lane of glowing Lenses the wedding party made its way up to

the locked and guarded gate of the space-field where lay the Dauntless—the super-

dreadnought "yacht" in which the Kinnisons were to take a honeymoon voyage to

distant Tellus. The gate opened. The couple, accompanied by the Port Admiral and the

Surgeon Marshal, stepped into the car, which sped out to the battleship; and as it did so

the crowd loosed its pent-up feelings in a prolonged outburst of cheering.

     And as the newlyweds walked up the gangplank Kinnison turned his head and

Lensed a thought to Haynes:

     "You've been griping so long about Lyrane VIII, chief —I forgot to tell you—you

can go mop up on it now!"

     Acknowledgment

     Your historian, not wishing to take credit which is not rightfully his, wishes to say

here that without the fine cooperation of many persons and entities this history must

have been of much less value and importance than it now is.

     First, of course, there were the Lensmen. It is unfortunate that Nadreck of Palain

VII could not be induced either to release his spool of the Fall of Onlo or to enlarge upon

his other undertakings.

     Coordinator Kinnison, Worsel of Velantia, and Tregonsee of Rigel IV, however,

were splendidly cooperative, giving in personal conversations much highly useful

material which is not heretofore of public record. The gracious and queenly Red

Lensman also was of great assistance.

     Dr. James R. Enright was both prolific and masterly in deducing that certain

otherwise necessarily obscure events and sequences must have in fact occurred, and it

is gratefully admitted here that the author has drawn heavily upon "Doctor Jim's"

profound knowledge of the mind.

     The Galactic Roamers, those intrepid spacemen, assisted no little: E. Everett

Evans, their Chief Communications Officer, F. Edwin Counts, Paul Leavy, Jr., Alfred

Ashley, to name only a few who aided in the selection, arrangement, and presentation

of material.

     Verna Trestrail, the exquisite connoisseurs, was of help, not only by virtue of her

knowledge of the jewels of Lonabar, but also in her interpretations of many things

concerning Illona Potter of which Illona Henderson—characteristically—will not speak.

     To all" these, and to many others whose help was only slightly less, the writer

extends his sincere thanks.

                        edward e. smith