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air and that foeman too was done.
Not fair fighting, no; nor clubby. Lensmen did not and do not fight
according to the tenets of the square ring. They use the weapons provided by
Mother Nature only when they must; but they can and do use them with telling
effect indeed when body-to-body brawling becomes necessary. For they are
skilled in the artûevery Lensman has a completely detailed knowledge of all
the lethal tricks of foul combat known to all the dirty fighters of ten
thousand planets for twice ten thousand years.
And then the doors and windows crashed in, admitting those whom no other
bifurcate race has ever faced willingly in hand-to-hand combatûfull armed
Valerians, swinging their space-axes!
The gangsters broke, then, and fled in panic disorder; but escape from
Narcotics' fine-meshed net was impossible. They were cut down to a man.
"QX, Kinnison?" came two hard, sharp thoughts. The Lensmen did not see the
Tellurian, but Lieutenant Peter vanBuskirk did. That is, he saw him, but did
not look at him.
"Hi, Kim, you little Tellurian wart!" That worthy's thought was a yell.
"Ain't we got fun?"
"QX, fellowsûthanks," to Gerrond and to Winstead, and "Ho, Bus! Thanks, you
big, Valerian ape!" to the gigantic Dutch-Valerian with whom he had shared so
many experiences in the past. "A good clean-up, fellows?"
"One hundred percent, thanks to you. We'll put you..."
"Don't, please. You'll clog my jets if you do. I don't appear in this
anywhereûit's just one of your good, routine jobs of mopping up. Clear ether,
fellows, I've got to do a flit."
"Where?" all three wanted to ask, but they didn'tûthe Gray Lensman was gone.
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CHAPTER 7
AMBUSCADE
Kinnison did start his flit, but he did not get far. In fact, he did not
even reach his squalid room before cold reason told him that the job was only
half doneûyes, less than half. He had to give Boskone credit for having
brains, and it was not at all likely that even such a comparatively small unit
as a planetary headquarters would have only one string to its bow. They
certainly would have been forced to install duplicate controls of some sort or
other by the trouble they had had after Helmuth's supposedly impregnable Grand
Base had been destroyed.
There were other straws pointing the same way. Where had those five strange
thought-screened men come from? Bominger hadn't known of them apparently. If
that idea was sound, the other headquarters would have had a spy-ray on the
whole thing. Both sides used spy-rays freely, of course, and to block them
was, ordinarily, worse than to let them come. The enemies' use of the
thought-screen was different. They realized that it made it easy for the
unknown Lensman to discover their agents, but they were forced to use it
because of the deadliness of the supposed mind-ray. Why hadn't he thought of
this sooner, and had the whole area blocked off? Too late to cry about it now,
though.
Assume the idea correct. They certainly knew now that he was a Lensman;
probably were morally certain that he was the Lensman. His instantaneous
change from a drunken dock-walloper to a cold-sober, deadly-skilled
rough-and-tumble brawler... and the unexplained deaths of half-a-dozen agents,
as well as that of Bominger himself... this was bad. Very, very bad... a
flare-lit tip-off, if there ever was one. Their spy-rays would have combed
him, millimeter by plotted-cubic millimeter: they knew exactly where his Lens
was, as well as he did himself. He had put his tail right into the wringer...
wrecked the whole job right at the start... unless he could get that other
headquarters outfit, too, and get them before they reported in detail to
Boskone.
In his room, then, he sat and thought, harder and more intensely than he had
ever thought before. No ordinary method of tracing would do. It might be
anywhere on the planet, and it certainly would have no connection whatever
with the thionite gang. It would be a small outfit; just a few men, but under
smart direction. Their purpose would be to watch the business end of the
organization, but not to touch it save in an emergency. All that the two
groups would have in common would be recognition signals, so that the reserves
could take over in case anything happened to Bominger-as it already had. They
had him, Kinnison, cold... What to do? WHAT TO DO? The Lens. That must be the
answer-it had to be. The Lens-what was it, really, anyway? Simply an
aggregation of crystalloids. Not really alive; just a pseudo-life, a sort of
reflection of his own life... he wondered... Great Klono's tungsten teeth,
could that be it? An idea had struck him, an idea so stupendous in its
connotations and ramifications that he gasped, shuddered, and almost went
faint at the shock. He started to reach for his Lens, then forced himself to
relax and shot a thought to Base.
"Gerrond! Send me a portable spy-ray block, quick!"
"But that would give everything awayûthat's why we haven't been using them."
"Are you telling me?" the Lensman demanded. "Shoot it alongûI'll explain
while it's on the way." He went on to tell the Radeligian everything he
thought it well for him to know, concluding: "I'm as wide open as
inter-galactic spaceûnothing but fast and sure moves will do us a bit of
good."
The block arrived, and as soon as the messenger had departed Kinnison set it
going. He was now the center of a sphere into which no spy-ray beam could
penetrate. He was also an object of suspicion to anyone using a spy-ray, but
that fact made no difference, then. Snatching off his shoe, he took out his
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Lens, wrapped it in a handkerchief, and placed it on the floor. Then, just as
though he still wore it, he directed a thought at Winstead.
"All serene, Lensman?" he asked, quietly.
"Everything's on the beam," came instant reply. "Why?"
"Just checking, is all." Kinnison did not specify exactly what he was
checking!
He then did something which, so far as he knew, no Lensman had ever before
even thought of doing. Although he felt stark naked without his Lens, he
hurled a thought three-quarters of the way across the galaxy to that dread
planet Arisia; a thought narrowed down to the exact pattern of Mentor
himselfûthe gigantic, fearsome Brain who had been his teacher and his sponsor.
"Ah, 'tis Kimball Kinnison, of Earth," that entity responded, in precisely
the same modulation it had employed once before. "You have perceived, then,
youth, that the Lens is not the supremely important thing you have supposed it
to be?"
"I... you... I mean..." the flustered Lensman, taken completely aback, was
cut off by a sharp rebuke.
"Stop! You are thinking muddilyûconduct ordinarily inexcusable! Now, youth,
to redeem yourself, you will explain the phenomenon to me, instead of asking
me to explain it to you. I realize that you have just discovered another facet
of the Cosmic Truth; I know what a shock it has been to your immature mind;
hence for this once it may be permissible for me to overlook your crime. But
strive not to repeat the offense, for I tell you again in all possible
seriousnessûI cannot urge upon you too strongly the factûthat in clear and
precise thinking lies your only safeguard through that which you are
attempting. Confused, wandering thought will assuredly bring disaster
inevitable and irreparable." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]