Classic Audiobook Collection - Second Stage Lensmen by E. E. Smith ~ Full Audiobook [scifi]

Episode Date: October 9, 2025

Second Stage Lensmen by E. E. Smith audiobook. Genre: scifi The war between the Galactic Patrol and the hidden forces of Boskone is about to turn from skirmishes into something far larger. Kimball Kinnison, newly proven as a Lensman, carries a tool no ordinary agent can wield: the Lens itself, a living symbol of authority that amplifies his mind and binds him to the Patrol's highest purpose. But a badge of power is not enough. Boskone fights through proxies - smugglers, corrupt financiers, and criminal syndicates - and its influence reaches into worlds that appear civilized, even peaceful, on the surface. To strike at the enemy's heart, Kinnison must go beyond straightforward policing into deep-cover operations, impossible chases, and battles where thought can be as deadly as any weapon. Along the way he confronts the limits of his own training, the cost of escalation, and the unsettling idea that the Patrol may need a new kind of agent to match a foe that refuses to fight in the open. Bigger enemies, stronger minds, and higher stakes push the Lensmen program toward its next evolution - and Kinnison toward choices that will shape the fate of civilization. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 01 (00:18:28) Chapter 02 (00:40:41) Chapter 03 (01:16:30) Chapter 04 (02:00:46) Chapter 05 (02:27:41) Chapter 06 (02:55:17) Chapter 07 (03:17:43) Chapter 08 (03:43:27) Chapter 09 (04:13:32) Chapter 10 (04:37:10) Chapter 11 (05:06:12) Chapter 12 (05:33:24) Chapter 13 (05:51:13) Chapter 14 (06:21:15) Chapter 15 (06:48:45) Chapter 16 (07:15:39) Chapter 17 (07:47:12) Chapter 18 (08:08:43) Chapter 19 (08:34:54) Chapter 20 (09:01:10) Chapter 21 (09:33:54) Chapter 22 (10:02:46) Chapter 23 (10:31:48) Chapter 24 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Second Stage Lensman by E.E. Doc Smith Historical Law enforcement lagged behind crime because the police were limited in their spheres of action while criminals were not. Therefore, when Bergenholm invented the inertialist drive and commerce throughout the galaxy became commonplace,

crime became so rampant as to threaten the very existence of civilization. Thus came into being the Galactic Patrol, an organization whose highest members are called Lensmen. Each is identified by wearing the lens, a pseudo-living telepathic jewel matched to the ego of its wearer by those master philosophers the Elysians. The lens cannot be either imitated or counterfeited, since it glows with color when worn by its owner,

and since it kills any other who attempts to wear it. Of each million selected candidates for the lens, all except about a hundred failed to pass the grueling test, employed to weed out the unfit. Kimball Kinnison graduated number one in his class and was put in command of the spaceship Britannia, a war vessel of a new type, using explosives, even though such weapons have been obsolete for centuries.

The Pirates, the Bosconian conflict was just beginning, so that no one yet suspected that the patrol faced anything worse than highly organized piracy, were gaining the upper hand because of a new and apparent, almost unlimited source of power. Kinnison was instructed to capture one of the new type pirate ships in order to learn the secret of that power. He found and defeated a Bosconian warship.

Peter Van Buskirk led the storming party of Valerians, men of human type, but of extraordinary size, strength, and agility because of the enormous gravitational forces of their home planet in wiping out those of the pirate crew not killed in the battle between the two ships. The scientists of the expedition secured the information desired. It could not be transmitted to prime base, however, because the pirates blanketed all channels of communication. Bosconian warships were gathering, and the crippled Britannia could neither run nor fight. Therefore, each man was given a spool of tape bearing the data, and all the patrolmen took to the

lifeboats. Kinnison and Van Buskirk in one of the boats, were forced to land upon the planet Delgon, where they joined forces with Worsal, later to become Lensman Worsal, a winged reptilian native of a neighboring planet, Volantia. The three destroyed a number of the overlords of Delgon, a sadistic race of monsters who preyed upon the other races of their solar system by sheer power of mind. Worsal accompanied the patrolmen to Valencia, where all the resources of the planet were devoted to preparing defenses against the expected Bosconian attack.

Several others of the Britannia's lifeboats reach Valantia, called by Worsal's prodigious mind working through Kinnison's ego and lens. Kinnison finally succeeded in tapping a communicator beam, thus getting one line upon Helmuth, who spoke for Boscone. It was supposed then that Helmuth actually was Boscone instead of a comparatively unimportant director of operations, and upon his grand base. The Basconians attacked Valantia, and six of their vessels were captured.

In these ships, manned by Volantian crews, the Tullerians set out for Earth and prime base of the Galactic Patrol. Kinnison's Bergenholm, the generator of the force which makes inertialists, free in space pilots, flight possible, broke down, wherefore he had to land upon the planet Trenko for repairs. Trenko, the tempestuous, billiard-ball-s smooth planet, where it rains 47 feet and five inches every night, and where the wind blows 800 miles an hour. Trenko, the world upon which is produced thionite, the deadliest and most potent of all habit-forming drugs. Trenko, the mecca of all the Zwillnix, members of the Baskonian drug ring,

sometimes loosely applied to any Baskonian of the galaxy. Trenko, whose weirdly charged ether and atmosphere so distort beams and vision, that it can be policed only by such beings as the Rigelians, who possessed the sense of perception instead of sight and hearing. Lensman Tragansy of Rigel IV, then in command of the patrol's wandering base upon Trenko, furnished Kinnison a new Bergenholm, and he again set out for Tellus. Meanwhile, Helmuth, the Bosconian commander, had to do with, that some one particular lensman was back of all his setbacks,

and that the lens, a complete enigma to the Baskonians, was in some way connected with ERISA. That planet had always been dreaded and shunned by all spacemen. No one would ever say why, but no being who had ever approached that planet uninvited could be compelled even by threat of death to go near it again. Helmuth, thinking himself secure by virtue of his thought screens, the secret of which he had stolen from Valantia, went alone to ERISA to learn how the lens gave

its wearer such power. He was stopped at the barrier. His thought screens were useless. The Elysians had given them to Valantia, hence knew how to break them down. He was punished to the verge of insanity, but was finally permitted to return to his grand base, alive and sane, not for your own good, but for the good of that struggling young civilization which you opposed. Kinnison finally reached Prime Base with the all-important data. By building super-powerful battleships called Mallors, the patrol gained a temporary advantage over Bosconia, but a stalemate soon ensued.

Kinnison developed a plan of action, whereby he hoped to locate Helmless Grand Base, and asked Port Admiral Haynes, chief of staff of the entire patrol, for permission to follow it. In lieu of that, however, Haines informed him that he had been given his release, that he was an unattached lensman, a gray lensman, popularly so-called, from the color of the plain leather uniforms they wear.

Thus he earned the highest honor which the Galactic Patrol can bestow, for the gray lensman works under no direction whatever. He is as absolutely a free agent as it is possible to be. He is responsible to no one, to nothing save his own conscience. He is no longer of Telus, nor of the Solarian system, but of the universe as a whole. He is no longer a cog in the immense machine of the patrol. Wherever he may go, throughout the unbounded reaches of space, he is the patrol. In quest of a second line upon Grand Base, Kinnison scouted a pirate stronghold upon Aldebaran One. Its personnel, however, were not even near human, but were wheelmen, possessed of the

sense of perception. Hence, Kinnison was discovered before he could accomplish anything and was very seriously wounded. He managed to get back to his speedster and to send a thought to Port Admiral Haynes, who immediately rushed ships to his aid. In Base Hospital, Surgeon General Lacey put him together, and during a long and quarrelsome convalescence, Nurse Clarissa McDougal held him together. Lacey and Haynes conive to promote a romance between nurse and lensman. As soon as he could leave the hospital, he went to ERISA and the hope that he might be permitted to take advanced training, an unheard-of idea. Much to his surprise, he learned that he had been expected to return for exactly such training. Getting it almost killed him,

but he emerged infinitely stronger of mind than any man had ever been before. He also now had the sense of perception. A sense somewhat analogous to that of sight, but of vastly greater penetration, power and scope, and not depended upon light. A sense only vaguely forecast by ancient work upon clairvoyance. By the use of his new mental equipment, he succeeded in entering a Baskonian base upon Boisea, too. There he took over the mind of the communications officer and waited. A pirate ship working out of that base captured a hospital ship of the patrol and brought it in. Clarissa, now chief nurse of the captured vessel, working under Kinnison's instructions, stirred up trouble. Helmuth from Grand Base interfered, thus enabling the

lensman to get his second, old important line. The intersection of the two lines, Baskonian's grand base, lay in a star cluster well outside the galaxy. pausing only long enough to destroy the wheelman of Aldebaran 1, the project in which his first attempt had failed so dismally, he investigated Helmuth's headquarters. He found fortifications impregnable to any mass attack of the patrol, manned by beings wearing thought screens. His sense of perception was suddenly cut off.

The enemy had thrown a thought screen around the whole planet. He returned to prime base, deciding en route that boring from within was the only possible way in which that base could be reduced. In consultation with Haynes, the zero-hour was set, at which the grand fleet of the patrol would start reing helmet's base with every available projector. Pursuant to his plan, Kinnison again visited Trenko, where Tragansi and his Rigelians extracted for him

50 kilograms of thionite, the noxious drug, which in microgram inhalations, makes the addict experience all the physical and men sensations of doing whatever it is that he wishes most ardently to do. The larger the dose, the more intense the sensations, but the slightest overdose means a sudden and super-extatic death. Thence to Helmuth's planet, where, by controlling the muscles of a dog whose brain was unscreened,

he led himself into the central dome. Here, just before zero-time, he released his thionite into the primary air-stream, thus wiping out all the pirate personnel except Helmuth, who in his inner dome could not be affected. The patrol attacked on schedule. Kinnison killed Helmuth in hand-to-hand combat. Grand base was blasted out of existence, largely by the explosion of bombs of du decapyl atomite placed by the pirates themselves. These bombs were detonated by an enigmatic, sparkling forceball which Kinnison had studied with care. He knew that it was operated by thought, and he suspected, correctly, that it was in reality

an intergalactic communicator. Kinnison's search for the real Boscon led to Lundmark's nebula, thenceforth called the Second Galaxy. His ship, the super-powerful Dauntless, met and defeated a squadron of Bosconian warships. The Tullorians landed upon the planet Medon, whose people were fighting a losing war against the forces of Boscone. The Medonians, electrical wizards who had been able to install

inertia neutralizers and a space drive upon their planet, move their world over to our first galaxy. With the cessation of military activity, however, the illicit traffic and habit-forming drugs amongst all races of warm-blooded oxygen-breatzers had increased tremendously,

and Kinnison, deducing that Boscon was the back of the drug syndicate, decided that the best way to find the real leader of the enemy was to work upward through the drug ring. Disguised as a dock walloper, he frequented the saloon of a drug baron and helped to raid it. But although he secured much information, his disguise was penetrated. He called a conference of scientists to devise means of building a gigantic bomb of negative matter. Then, impersonating a Tullerian secret service agent who lent himself to the deception, he tried to investigate the stronghold of Prelan of Bronsica,

one of Boscon's regional directors. This disguise also failed, and he barely escaped. Ordinary disguises, having proved useless against Boscon's clever agents, Kinnison himself became Wild Bill Williams, once a gentleman of Aldebaran, too, now a space-rat meteor miner. Instead of pretending to drink, he really drank. making of himself a practically bottomless drinker of the most vicious beverages known to space. He became a drug fiend, a bentlem eater, discovering that his Elysian-developed mind could function

at full efficiency even while his physical body was stupefied. He became widely known as the fastest, deadliest performer with twin ray guns that had ever struck the asteroid belts. Thus through solar system after solar system, he built up an unimpeachable, identity as a hard-drinking, wildly carousing, bentlem-eating, fast-shooting, space hell in. A lucky, or a very skillful meteor miner, a derelict, who had been an Aldebaranian gentleman once, and who would be again if he should ever strike it rich, and if he could conquer his weaknesses. Physically helpless in a Bentham stupor, he listened in on a Zwillnit conference and learned that

Edmund Crownen Shield of Tresilia III was also a regional director of the enemy. Boscon formed an alliance with the overlords of Delgon, and through a hyperspacial tube or vortex, the combined forces again attacked humanity. Not simple slaughter this time, for the overlords tortured their captives and consumed their life forces in sadistic orgies. The conference of scientists solved the mystery of the tube, and the dauntless attacked through it, returning victorious. Wild Bill Williams struck it rich at last. Fourthwith, he abandoned the low dives in which he had been wont to carouse, and made an obvious effort to become again an Aldabaritanian gentleman. He secured an invitation to visit

Crownen Shields' resort. The Bosconian, believing that Williams was basically a drink-and-drug-soaked bomb, took him in, to get his quarter-million credits. Relapsing into a characteristically wild debauch, Kinnison Williams did squander a large part of his new fortune, but he learned from Crown and Shields' mind that one Jalti, a Colonian by birth, was Boscon's galactic director, and that Jalty had his headquarters in a star cluster just outside the first galaxy. Pretending bitter humiliation and declaring that he would change his name and disappear, the gray lensman left the planet to investigate Jalti's base. He learned that Boscone was not a single entity, but was a council.

He also learned that, while the colonian did not. not know who or where Bascon was. Eichmill, Jalty Superior, who lived upon the planet Jarnivon in the second galaxy, would probably know all about it. Kinnison and Worsal, therefore, set out to investigate Jarnivon. Kinnison was captured and tortured. There was at least one Delgonian upon Jarnivon, but Worsl rescued him before his mind was damaged and brought him back to the patrol's grand fleet with his knowledge intact.

Jarnovan was populated by the Ike, a race of monsters as bad as the overlords of Delghan. The Council of Nine which ruled the Noisome Planet was, in fact, the long-sought, the utterly detested, Boscon. The great surgeons of the age, Phillips of Posinium, and Wies of the newly acquired planet Medan, demonstrated that they could grow new nervous tissue, even new limbs and organs if necessary. Again, Clarissa McDougal nursed Kinnison back to health, and this time the love between them would not be denied. The grand fleet of the patrol was assembled, and with Kinnison in charge of operations, swept outward from the first galaxy. Jalti's planet was destroyed by means of the negosphere, the negative matter bomb, then on to the second galaxy. There the patrol forces destroyed Jarnovan, the planet of the Ike, by some of the night of the Ike, by some of the matter bomb,

smashing it between two barren planets which have been driven there in the free, inertialess condition. These planets, having opposite intrinsic velocities, were placed one upon each side of Jarnovan. Then their Bergenhomes were cut, restoring inertia and intrinsic velocity, and when that frightful collision was over, a minor star had come into being. Grand Fleet returned to our galaxy. Galactic civilization rejoiced. in particular made merry, and Prime Base was the center of celebration. And in Prime Base, Kinnison, supposing that the war was over and that his problem was solved, threw off his gray linsman's burden and forgot all about the Basconean menace. Marrying his Chris, he declared,

was the most important thing in the universe. But how wrong he was! For even as Lensman and sector chief nurse were walking down a hallway of base hospital after a conference with Lacey and Haynes regarding that marriage. End of Section 1. Section 2 of Second Stage Lensman. This Liberbox recording is in the public domain. Second Stage Lensman by E.E. Doc Smith. Chapter 1

Stop, Youth. The voice of that nameless, incredibly ancient. ancient Elysian, who was Kinnison's instructor, and whom he had thought of and spoken of simply as mentor, thundered silently deep within the Lensman's brain. He stopped convulsively, almost in mid-stride, and at the rigid, absent awareness in his eyes, Nurse McDougal's face went white. "'This is not merely the loose and muddy thinking of which you have all too frequently been guilty in the past.' The deeply resonant, soundless voice went on, "'It is simply not thinking at all.

"'At times, Kyneson of tell us, "'we almost despair of you. "'Think, youth, think! "'For no, Lensman, "'that upon the clarity of your thought "'and upon the trueness of your perception "'depends the whole future of your patrol "'and of your civilization,

"'more so now by far than at any point in the past. "'What do you mean, think?' "'Kinnison snapped back thoughtlessly. "'His mind was a seething turmoil, his emotions an indescribable blend of surprise, puzzlement, and incredulity. For moments, as Mentor did not reply, the Grey Lensman's mind raced. Increduity, becoming tinge with apprehension, turning rapidly into rebellion. "'Oh, Kim!' Claris choked.

A queer enough tableau they made, these two, had any been there to see. The two uniformed figures standing there so strainedly, the nurse's two hands gripping those of the lensman. She, completely on rapport with him, had understood his every fleeting thought. "'Oh, Kim, they can't do that to us.' "'I'll say they can't,' Kinnison flared. "'By Clonos tungsten teeth, I won't do it.

"'We have a right to happiness, you and I, and we'll—' "'Will what?' she asked quietly. "'She knew what they had to face, and strong-souled woman that she was, she was quicker to face it squarely than was he. You were just blasting off, Kim, and so was I. I suppose so, glumly. Why in all the nine hells of Valeria did I have to be a lensman? Why couldn't I have stayed a—

Because you are you, the girl interrupted gently. Kimball Kinnison, the man I love. You couldn't do anything else. "'Chin up, she was fighting gamely. "'And if I rate Lensman's mate, I can't be a sissy either. "'It won't last forever, dear. "'Just a little longer to wait, that's all.' "'Eyes, steel-gray now, stared down into the eyes of tawny, gold-flecked bronze.

"'Q-X, Chris? Really, QX?' "'What a world of meaning there was in that cryptic question.' "'Really, Kim?' She met his stare unfalteringly, if not entirely unafraid, at least with whole-hearted determination. On the beam and on the green gray lensman all the way, every long last millimeter. There, wherever it is, to the very end of whatever road it has to be, and back again, until it's over. I'll be here, or somewhere, Kim, waiting. The man shook himself.

and breathe deep. Hands dropped apart. Both knew consciously, as well as subconsciously, that the less of physical demonstration, the better for two such natures as theirs, and Kimball Kinnison, unattached lensman, came to grips with his problem. He began really to think, to think with the full power of his prodigious mind. And as he did so, he began to see what the Erysian could have, what he must have meant. He, Kinnison, had gumbed up the works. He had made a colossal blunder in the Bosconian campaign. He knew that the brain, although silent, was still on rapport with him.

And as he coldly, grimly thought the thing through to its logical conclusion, he knew with a dull sixth certainty what was coming next. It came. Ah, you perceive at last some portion of the truth. You see that you're confused. superficial thinking has brought about almost irreparable harm. I grant that in specimens so young of such a youthful race, emotion has its place and its function.

But I tell you now in all solemnity that for you the time of emotional relaxation has not yet come. Think youth! Think! And the ancient sage of Elysias snapped the telepathic line. As one, without a word, nurse and lendsmen retraced their way to the room they had left so shortly before. Port Admiral Haynes and Surgeon General Lacey still sat upon the nurse's Davenport, scheming rosy at schemes having to do with the wedding they had so subtly engineered. Back so soon?

Forget something, McDougal? Lacey asked amiably. Then, as both men noticed the couple's utterly untranslatable, What happened? Break it out, Kim! Haynes commanded. Plenty chief, Kinnison answered quietly. Mentor, my Elysian, you know, stopped us before we got to the elevator. Told me that I'd put my foot in it clear up to the hip joint on that Basconian thing,

that instead of being all buttoned up, my fool blundering has put us further back than we were when we started. Mentor. You're Elysian. "'Told you. Put us back!' It was an entirely unpremeditated, unconscious duet. The two old officers were completely dumbfounded. Elysians never had come out of their shells.

They never would. Infinitely less disturbing would have been the authentic tidings that a brick house had fallen upstairs. They had nursed this romance along so carefully, had timed it so exactly, and now it had gone, pht. It had been taken out of their hands entirely. That thought flashed through their minds first.

Then, as catastrophe follows lightning's flash, the real knowledge exploded within their consciousness that in some unguessable fashion or other, the whole Bosconian campaign had gone to. Port Admiral Hay's master tactician reviewed in his keen strategist's mind every phase of the recent struggle without being able to find a flaw in it. There wasn't a loophole anywhere, he said aloud.

Where did they figure we slipped up? We didn't slip, I slipped, Kinnison stated flatly. When we took Beauminger, the fat chiefs Wilnik of Redelix, you know, I took a bop on the head to learn that Boscone had more than one string per bow. Observers, independent, for every station at all important. I learned that fact thoroughly then, I thought. At least we figured on Boscones having lines of communication passed, not through his regional directors,

such as Prelan of Bronsica. Since I changed my line of attack at that point, I did not need to consider whether or not Crown and Shield of Tresilia III was bypassed in the same way. And when I'd worked my way up through Jalti and his star cluster to Boscone itself on Jarnovan, I'd forgotten the concept completely. Its possibility did not even occur to me.

That is where I fell down. I still don't see it, Haynes protested. Boscon was the top. Yeah, Kinnison asked, pointedly. That's what I thought, but prove it. Oh, the Port Admiral hesitated. We had no reason to think otherwise. Looked at it in that light,

this intervention would seem to be conclusive. But before that, there were no—there were so, Kness and contradicted. But I didn't see them then. That's where my brain went sour. I should have seen them. Little things mostly, but significant. Not so much positive as negative indices. Above all, there was nothing whatever to indicate that Boscone actually was the top. That idea was the product of my own wishful and very low-grade thinking. with no basis or foundation in fact or in theory. And now, he concluded bitterly,

because my skull is so thick that it takes an idea a hundred years to filter through it, because a sheer bare fact has to be driven into my brain with a Valerian mall before I can grasp it, we're sunk without a trace. Wait a minute, Kim. We aren't sunk yet, the girl advised shrewdly.

The fact that for the first time in history and ERISian has taken the initiative and communicating with a human being means something big, really big. Mentor does not indulge in what he calls loose and muddy thinking. Every part of every thought he sent carries meaning, plenty of meaning. What do you mean? As one, the three men asked substantially the same question. The lensman, by virtue of his faster reactions, being perhaps half a syllable in the lead.

"'I don't know exactly,' Clarissa admitted. "'I've got only an ordinary mind, "'and it's firing on half its jets or less right now. "'But I do know that his thought was almost irreparable, "'and that he met precisely that, nothing else. "'If it had been wholly irreparable, "'he not only would have expressed his thought that way, "'but he would have stopped you before you destroy Jarnovan.

"'I know that. "'Apparently it would have been wholly irreparable, if we had got—she faltered, blushing, then went on, if we had kept on about her own personal affairs. That's why he stopped us. We can win out, he meant, if you keep on working. It's your oyster, Kim. It's up to you to open it.

You can do it, too. I just know that you can. But why didn't he stop you before you fellow smashed Bosconne? Lacey demanded, exasperated. I hope you're right, Chris. "'It sounds reasonable,' Kinnison said thoughtfully. "'Then to Lacey. "'That's an easy one to answer, Doctor,

"'because knowledge that comes the hard way "'is knowledge that really sticks with you. "'If he had drawn me a diagram before, "'it wouldn't have helped the next time I get into a jam. "'This way it will. "'I've got to learn how to think if it cracks my skull.' "'Really think,' he went on, "'more to himself than to the other three,

to think so that it counts. Well, what are we going to do about it? Haynes was, he had to be, to get where he was and to stay where he was, quick on the uptake. Or, more specifically, what are you going to do, and what am I going to do?

What I am going to do will take a bit of mulling over, Kinnison replied slowly. Find some more leads and trace them up is the best that occurs to me right now. Your job and procedure are rather clearer. You were marked out in space that Bosco knew that Telos was very strongly held. That statement, of course, is no longer true. Huh?

Hayes half pulled himself up from the Davenport, then sank back. Why? he demanded. Because we use the Negosphere, a negative matter bomb of planetary antimass to wipe out Jalti's planet, and because we smash Jarnivon between two colliding planets, the lendsman explained concisely. Can the present defenses of TELUS cope with either one of those offensives? I'm afraid not, no, the Port Admiral admitted. But we can admit no buts, Admiral, Kinnison declared with grim finality.

Having used those weapons, we must assume that the Baskonian scientists will have to keep on calling them Bosconians, I suppose, until we find a truer name, had recorders on them, and have now duplicated them. Tellis must be made safe against anything that we have ever used. Against as well everything that, by the wildest stretch of the imagination, we can conceive of the enemy using. You're right, I can see that. Haines nodded. We have been underestimating them right along, Kinnison went on.

At first, we thought, thought that they were merely organized outlaws and pirates. Then, when it was forced upon us that they could match us, overmatches in some things, we still would not admit that they must be as large and as widespread as we are, galactic in scope. We know now that they were wider spread than we are, intergalactic. They penetrated into our galaxy, riddled it before we knew even that theirs was inhabited or inhabitable, right? To a hair, although... I never thought of it in exactly that way before. None of us have.

Mental cowardice. And they have the advantage, Kinnison continued inexorably, in knowing that our prime base is upon Tellus. Whereas if Jarnivon was not in fact theirs, we have no idea whatever where it is. And another point. Does that fleet of theirs, as you look back on it,

strike you as having been a planetary outfit? Well, Jarnivon was a big, planet, and the Ike were a mighty warlike race. Quibbling a bit, aren't you, Chief? Uh-huh, Haines admitted so much sheepishly. The probability is very great that no one planet either built or maintained that fleet. And that leads us to expect what? Counter-attack, in force, everything they can shove this way.

However, they've got to rebuild their fleet, besides designing and building the new stuff. We'll have time enough, probably, if we get started right now. But, after all, Jarnifon may have been their vital spot, Lacey submitted. Even if that were true, which it probably isn't, the now thoroughly convinced Port Admiral sided with Kinnison. It doesn't mean a thing, Sawbones. If they should blow Telos out of space, it wouldn't kill the Galactic Patrol. It would hurt it, of course, but it wouldn't cripple, but go ahead with it. My thought exactly, from Kinnison.

I check you to the proverbial 19 decimals. Well, there's a lot to do. I'd better be getting at it. And Haines and Lacey got up to go. Gone now was all thought of demerits or infractions of rules. Each knew what a wrenching the young couple had undergone. See you in my office when convenient? I'll be there directly, Chief.

As soon as I tell Chris here a good friend, by. At about the same time that Haynes and Lacey went to Nurse McDougal's room, Worsal the Valentian, arrowed downward through the atmosphere toward a certain flat roof. Leather wings shot out with a snap, and in a blast of wind, valanteans could stand eleven Tullerian gravities, he came into his customary appalling landing and dived unconcernedly down a nearby shaft. Into a corridor, along which he wriggled blithely to the office of his old friend, master technician Laverne Thorndyke.

"'Earn, I have been thinking,' he announced, as he coiled all but about six feet of his sinuous length into a tight spiral upon the rug and thrust out half a dozen weirdly stalked eyes. That's nothing new,' Thorndyke countered. No human mind can sympathize with or even remotely understand the Valentian passion for solid weeks of intense, uninterrupted concentration

upon a single thought. What about this time? The witchness of the why? That is the trouble with you, Telerians, Worsal grumbled. Not only do you not know how to think, but you— Hold on, Thorndyke interrupted, unimpressed.

If you've got anything to say, old snake, why not say it? Why circumnavigate all the stars in space before you get to the point? I have been thinking about thought. "'So what?' the technician derided. "'That's even worse. "'That's a dizzy spiral, if there ever was one.'

"'Thought and Kinnison,' Worsle declared with finality. "'Kinnison? Oh, that's different. I am interested. Very much so. Go ahead.' "'And his weapons. His delameters, you know.' "'No, I don't know, and you know that I don't know. What about them? They are so, so, so obvious, the Valentian finally found the exact thought he wanted. So big and so clumsy and so obtrusive,

so inefficient, so wasteful of power, no subtlety, no finesse. But that's far and away the best hand weapon that has ever been developed, Thorndyke protested. True, nevertheless. a millionth of that power properly applied, could be at least a million times as deadly. How? The Tullerian, although shocked, was dubious.

I have reasoned out that thought in any organic being is and must be connected with one definite organic compound. This one. The Valentian explained didactically, the while there appeared within the technician's mind the space formula of an incredible, incredibly complex molecule, a formula which seemed to fill not only his mind, but the entire room as well. You will note that it is a large molecule and one of high molecular weight. Thus it is comparatively unstable. A vibration at the resonant frequency of any one of its component groups would break it down, and thought would therefore cease. It took perhaps a minute

for the full import of the ghastly thing to sink into Thorndyke's mind. Then every fiber of him flinching from the idea he began to protest. But he doesn't need it, Worsall. He's got a mind already that can— It takes much mental force to kill. Wursel broke in equably. But that method can slay only a few at a time, and it is exhausting work. My proposed method would require only a minute fraction of a wad of power and scarcely any mental force at all. And it would kill. It would have to.

That reaction could not be made reversible. Certainly, Worsal concurred. I never could understand why you soft-headed, soft-hearted, soft-bodied human beings are so reluctant to kill your enemies. What good does it do merely to stun them? QX, skip it. Thorn-dike knew that it was hopeless to attempt to convince the utter unhuman worsel of the fundamental rightness of human ethics.

But nothing has ever been designed small enough to project such a wave. I realize that. Its design and construction will challenge your inventive ability. Its smallness is its great advantage. He could wear it in a ring, in the bracelet of his lens, or, since it will be actuated, controlled and directed by thought, even embedded surgically beneath his skin. How about backfires? Gorndike actually shuddered. Projection, shielding.

Details, mere details, Worsal assured him, with an airy flip of his scimitared tail. That's nothing to be running around loose, the man argued. Nobody could tell what killed them, could they? Probably not, Worsel pondered briefly.

No, certainly not. The substance must decompose in the instant of death from any cause. And it would not be loose, as you think. It should not become known even. You would make only the one, of course. Oh, you don't want one then? Certainly not. What do I need of such a thing?

Kinnison only, and only for his protection. Kim can handle it. But he's the only being this side of ERISA that I trust with one. QX, give me the dope on the frequency, wave form, and so on, and I'll see what I can do. End of Section 2. Section 3 of Second Stage Lensman. This Libra Box recording is in the public domain. Second Stage Lensman, by E. E. Doc Smith. Chapter 2. Port Admiral Haynes, newly chosen President of the Galactic Council, and by virtue of... of his double office, probably the most powerful being in the first galaxy, set instantly into motion

the vast machinery which would make TELUS safe against any possible attack. He first called together his board of strategy, the same keen-minded tacticians who had helped him plan the invasion of the second galaxy and the eminently successful attack upon Jarnivon. Should Grand Fleet, many of whose component fleets had not yet reached their home planets, be recalled? Not yet. Lots of time for that. Let them go home for a while first. The enemy would have to rebuild before they could attack, and there were many more pressing matters. Scouting was most important. The planets near the galactic rim could take care of that. In fact, they should concentrate upon it to the exclusion of everything else of warfare's activities. Every approach to the galaxy

yes, the space between the two galaxies and as far into the second galaxy as it was safe to penetrate should be covered as with a blanket. That way they could not be surprised. Kinnison, when he heard that, became vaguely uneasy. He did not really have a thought. It was as though he should have had one, but didn't. Deep down, far off, just barely above the threshold of perception, an indefinite, formless something obtruded itself upon his conscience. consciousness. Hug and hauled at it as he would. He could not get the drift. There was something he ought to be thinking of, but what in all the iridescent hells

from Van Damar to Alsacan was it? So instead of flitting about upon his declared business, he stuck around, helping the general staff and thinking. And defense-planned GBT went from the idea men to the draftsman, then to the engineers. This was to be primarily a war of planets. Ships could battle ships, fleets, fleets, but postulating good tactics upon the other side, no fleet, however armed and powered, could stop a planet. That had been proved. A planet had a mass of the order of magnitude of one times ten to the twenty-fifth kilogram

and an intrinsic velocity of somewhere around forty kilometers per second, a hundred probably relative to tell us if the planet came from the second galaxy. kinetic energy roughly about five times ten to the forty-first ergs. No, that was nothing for any possible fleet to cope with. Also, the attacking planets would, of course, be inertialist until the last strategic instant. Very well, they must be made inert prematurely, when the patrol wanted them that way, not the enemy. How? The Bergenholmes upon those planets would be guarded with everything the Baskonians had. The answer to that question, as worked out by the engineers, was something they called a super-muller.

It was gigantic, cumbersome, and slow, but little faster indeed than a free planet. It was like Helmuth's fortresses of space only larger. It was like the special defense cruisers of the patrol, except that its screens were vastly heavier. It was like a regular muller, except that it had only one weapon. All of its incomprehensible mass was devoted to one thing, power. It could defend itself, and if it could get close enough to its objective, it could do plenty of damage. Its dreadful primary was the first weapon ever developed capable of cutting a Q-type helix squarely in two. And in various solar systems, uninhabitable and worthless planets were converted into projectiles, dozens of them, possessing widely varying masses

and intrinsic velocities. One by one, they flitted away from their parent-sons and took up positions, not too far away from our solar system, but not too near. And finally, Kinnison, worrying at his tantalizing thought as a dog rays a bone, crystallized it. Prozaically enough, it was an extremely short and flamboyantly wagging pink shirt, which catalyzed the reaction, which acted as the seed of the crystallization.

Pink, a chickledorian. Zilpick, the Navigator, overlords of Delgon. Thus flashed the train of thought, culminating in, Oh, so that's it! He exclaimed aloud. That's it, as sure as hell's a man-trap!

He whistled raucously at a taxi, took the wheel himself, and broke, or at least bent, most of the city's traffic ordinances in getting to Haynes' office. The Port Admiral was always busy, but he was never too busy to see Gray-Linsman Kinnison, especially when the latter demanded the right-of-way in such terms as he used then. The whole defense set up is screwy, Kinnison stated, baldly, and at once.

I thought from the first that I was overlooking a bet, but I couldn't locate it. Why should they fight their way through intergalactic space and through 60,000 parsecs of planet-infested galaxy when they don't have to, he demanded. Think of the length of the supply line, with our base is placed to cut it in a hundred places no matter how they root it. It doesn't make sense. They'd have to outweigh us in an almost impossibly high ratio, unless they have an improbably superior armament. Check! The old warrior was entirely unperturbed. Surprise you didn't see that long ago. We did.

We do not believe that they are going to attack at all. But you're going ahead with all this just as though. Certainly, something may happen, and we can't be caught off guard. Besides, it's good training for the boys. Helps morale no end. Haynes nonchalad air disappeared, and he studied the younger man keenly for moments. But Mentor's warning certainly meant something, and you said when they don't have to.

but even if they go clear around the galaxy to the other side, an impossibly long haul, were covered. Tellus is near enough to the center of this galaxy so that they can't possibly take us by surprise. So, spell it. How about a hyperspacial tube? They know exactly where we are, you know. Hmm.

Haynes was taken aback. Never thought of it. Possible, distinctly a possibility. A Duodec bomb, say, just far enough underground. Nobody else thought of it either until just now, Kinnison broke in. However, I'm not afraid of Duodeck. Don't see how they could control it accurately enough at this three-dimensional distance. Too deep, it wouldn't explode at all.

What I don't like to think of, though, is a negasphere, or a planet, perhaps. Ideas, suggestions? The Admiral snapped. No, I don't. know anything about this stuff. How about putting our lenses on Cardinge? That's a thought. And in seconds, they were in communication with Sir Austin Cardinge, Earth's mightiest mathematical brain. Ginnison, how many times must I tell you that I am not to be interrupted? The aged scientist's thought was a crackle of fury. How can I concentrate upon vital problems

if every young whippersnapper in the system is to perpetrate such abominable, such outrageous intrusions! Hold it, Sir Austin, hold everything. Kinnison soothed. I'm sorry. I wouldn't have intruded if it hadn't been a matter of life or death. But it would be a worse intrusion, wouldn't it, if the Bosconian sent a planet about the size of Jupiter, or a negasphere through one of their extra-dimensional vortices into your study?

That's exactly what they're figuring on doing. What, what? Cardinche snapped, like a string of firecrackers. He quieted down then and thought. And Sir Austin Cardinge could think, upon occasion, and when he felt so inclined, could think in the abstruse symbology of pure mathematics with a cogency equaled by few minds in the universe. Both lensmen perceived those thoughts,

but neither could understand or follow them. No mind, not a member of the Conference of Scientists, could have done so. They can't. Of a sudden, the mathematician cackled, gleefully disdainful. Impossible! Quite definitely impossible! There are laws governing such things, Kinnison, my impetuous and ignorant young friend. The terminus of the necessary hypertube could not be established within such proximity to the mass of the sun. This is shown by—never mind the proof. is enough, Kinnison interposed hastily. How close to the sun could it be established?

I couldn't say offhand, came the cautiously scientific reply. More than two astronomical units, certainly, but the computation of the exact distance would require some little thought. It would, however, be an interesting, if minor problem. I will solve it for you, if you like, and advise you of the exact minimum distance. Please do so. so, thanks a million, and the linsman disconnected. The conceited old goat! Hain snorted. I'd like to smack him down. I felt like it more than once, but it wouldn't do any good. You've got to handle him with gloves. Besides, you can afford to make concessions to a man with a brain like that.

I suppose so. But how about that infernal tube? Knowing that it cannot be set up within or very near tell us help some, but not enough. We've got to know where it is, if it is. Can you detect it? Yes, that is, I can't, but the specialist can, I think. Wise of Medan would know more about that than anyone else. Why wouldn't it be a thought to call him over here? It would that, and it was done. Wise of Meadon and his staff came, conferred, and departed. Sir Austin Cardinge solved his minor problem, reporting that the minimum distance from the sun's center to the postulated center of the terminus of the vortex, actually the geometrical origin of the three-dimensional figure, which was the hyperplane of intersection, was 3.647, approximately, astronomical units.

The last figure being tentative and somewhat uncertain because of the rapidly moving masses of Jupiter. Cover everything beyond three units out in every direction, Haynes directed when he got that far along the tape. He had no time to listen to an hour of mathematical dissertation. What he wanted was facts. Shortly thereafter, five-man speedsters, plentifully equipped with new instruments, flashed at full drive along courses carefully calculated to give the greatest possible coverage in the shortest possible time.

Unobtrusively, the loose planets closed in upon the solar system. Not close enough to affect appreciably the orbits of Saul's own children, but close enough so that at least three or four of them could reach any designated point in one minute or less. And the outlined units of Grand Fleet, too, were pulled in. That fleet was not actually mobilized yet, but every vessel in it was kept in readiness for instant action. No trace came the report from the Medonian surveyors,

and Haynes looked at Kinnison quizzically. QX, Chief, glad of it. The Gray-Lensman answered, the unspoken query. If it was up, that would mean that they were on the way. Hope they don't get a trace for two months yet. But I'm next to positive that that's the way they're coming, and the longer they put it off, the better. There's a possible new projector that will take a bit of doping out. I've got to do a flit. Can I have the dauntless?

Sure, anything you want. She's yours, anyway. Kinnison went, and, wonder of wonders, he took Sir Austin Cardinge with him. From solar system to solar system, from planet to planet, the mighty dauntless hurdle at the incomprehensible velocity of her full maximum blast, and every planet so visited was the home world of one of the most cooperative, or, more accurately, one of the least non-cooperative, members of the Conference of Scientists. For days, brilliant but more or less unstable minds struggled with new and obdurate problems.

Struggled heatedly and with friction, as was their want. Few, if any, of those mighty intellects would have really enjoyed a quietly studious session, even had such a thing been possible. Then Kinnison returned his guest to their respective homes and shot his flying worship laboratory back to prime base. And even before the Dauntless landed, the first few hundreds of a fleet, which was soon to be numbered in the millions of meteor miners' boats, began working like beavers to build a new and exactly designed system of asteroid belts of iron meteors. And soon, as such things go, new structures began to appear here and there in the void. Comparatively small these things were, tiny, in fact, compared to the patrol's mallers. Unarmed, too, carrying nothing except defensive screen. Each was, apparently, simply a powerhouse. Stuffed skin full of

atomic motors, exciters, intakes, and generators of highly peculiar design and pattern. Unnoticed, except by gauntly haggard Thorndyke and his experts, who kept dashing from one of the strange craft to another, each took its place in a succession of precisely determined relationships to the sun. Between the orbits of Mars and of Jupiter, the new, sharply defined rings of asteroids moved smoothly. Grand Fleet formed an enormous hollow globe, six astronomical units in diameter. Outside that globe, the surveying speedsters and flitters rushed madly hither and yawn. Uselessly, apparently, for not one needle of the vortex detector stirred from its zero pin. And as nearly as possible at the center of that globe,

Circling the sun well inside the orbit of Venus, there floated the flagship. Technically, the Z-9-N-9-Z, socially the directrix, ordinarily simply GFHQ, that ship had been built specifically to control the operations of a million separate flotillas. At her million-plug board stood, they had no need ever to sit, two hundred blocky, tentacle-armed Rigelians. They were waiting, stolidly motionless. Intergalactic space remained empty. Interstellar, diddo, ditto. The flitters flitted fruitlessly. But if everything out there in the threatened volume of space seemed quiet and serene, things in the Z-9-M-9-Z were distinctly otherwise.

Haynes and Kinnison, upon whom the heaviest responsibilities rested, were tensely ill at ease. The Admiral had his formation made, but he did not like it at all. It was too bad. It was too big, too loose, too cumbersome. The Bosconian fleet might appear anywhere outside that thin globe of patrol ships, and it would take him far, far too long to get any kind of a fighting formation made anywhere. So he

worried. Minutes dragged. He wished that the pirates would hurry up and start something. Kinnison was even less easy in his mind. He was not afraid of necospheres, even if Bosconia should have them. But he was afraid of fortified mobile planets. The supermolars were big and powerful, of course, but they were very definitely not planets.

And the big, new idea was mighty hard to gel. He did not like to bough the Thorndype by calling him. The master technician had troubles of his own, but the reports that were coming in were none too cheery. The excitation was wrong, or the grid action was too unstable, or the screen potentials were too high or too low or something. Sometimes they got a concentration, but it was just as apt as not to be a spread flood instead of a tight beam.

To Kinnison, therefore, the minutes fled like seconds. But every minute that space remained clear was one more precious minute gained. Then suddenly it happened. A needle leapt into significant figures. Relays clicked. A bright red light flared into being. A gong clanged out its raucous warning. A fractional instant-lapinged.

later, 10,000 other gongs and 10,000 other ships came braisily to life as the discovering speedster automatically sent out its numbers and position. And those other ships, surveyors all, flashed toward that position, and dashed frantically about. There's the task to determine, in the least number of seconds possible, the approximate location of the center of the emergence. For Port Admiral Haynes, canny old tactician that he was, had planned his campaign long since. It was standing plain in his tactical tank, to englobe the entire space of emergence of the foe, and to blast them out of existence before they could maneuver. If he could get into formation before the Baskonians appeared, it would be a simple slaughter. If not, it might

be otherwise. Hence seconds counted, and hence he had had high-speed computers working steadily for weeks at the computation of courses for every possible center of emergence. "'Get me that center, fast!' Haynes barked at the surveyors, already blasting at maximum. It came in. The chief computer yelped a string of numbers. Selected loose-leaf binders were pulled down, yanked apart, and distributed on the double, leaf by leaf. And—' "'Get it over there! Especially the shock-globe!' the Port Admiral yelled. For he himself could direct the engagement only in broad.

Details must be left to others. To be big enough to hold in any significant relationship the millions of lights representing vessels, fleets, planets, structures, and objectives, the operations tank of the directrix had to be 700 feet in diameter, and it was a sheer physical impossibility for any ordinary mind, either to perceive that 17 million cubic feet of space as a whole, or to make any sense at all out of the stupendously bewildering maze of multicolored lights crawling and flashing therein. Kinnison and Worsall had handled Grand Fleet operations during the Battle of Jarnivon, but they had discovered that they could have used some help.

Four Rijellian linsmen had been training for months for that all-important job, but they were not yet ready. Therefore, the two old masters and one new one now labored at GFO. Three tremendous mines, each supplying something that the others lacked. Kinnison of Tellis with his hard, flat-driving o'clock. urge, his unconquerable, unstoppable, unstoppable will to do. Worcels of Volantia, with the prodigious reach and grasp which had enabled him, even without the lens to scan mentally a solar system eleven light-years distant.

Tregonzi of Rigel IV, with the vast, calm certainty, the imperturbable poise peculiar to his long-lived, solemn race. Unattached lensmen all. Mines linked basically together into one mind by wide. open three-way, superficially free, each to do is assigned third of the gigantic task. Smoothly, effortlessly, those three linked mines went to work at the Admiral's signal. Order shot out along tight beams of thought to the stolid hundreds of Rigelian switchboard operators, and thence along communicator beams to the pilot rooms, wherever stationed.

Flotillas, squadrons, sub-fleets flashed smoothly toward their newly assigned positions. Super Maldors moved ponderously toward theirs. The survey ships, their work done, vanished. They had no business anywhere near what was coming next. Small they were, and defenseless. A-speaster screens were as efficacious as so much vacuum against the forces about to be unleashed. The powerhouse is also moved.

Maintaining rigidly their cryptic mathematical relationship to each other and the sun, they went as a whole into a new one with respect. to the circling wings of tightly packed meteors, and the invisible, non-existent mouth of the Bosconian vortex. Then, before Haynes' formation was nearly complete, the Bosconian fleet materialized. Just that. One instant space was empty. The next it was full of warships.

A vast globe of battle-wagons, in perfect fighting formation. They were not free, but inert and deadly. Haynes swore viciously, his breath, the landsman pulled themselves together more tensely, but no additional orders were given. Everything that could possibly be done was already being done. Whether the Baskonians expected to meet a perfectly placed fleet, or whether they expected to emerge into empty space to descend upon a defenseless tellus is not known or knowable. It is certain, however, that they emerged in the best possible formation to meet anything that could be

brought to bear. It is also certain that, had the enemy had a Z-9M-9-Z and a Kinnison-Warsall-Tragansi combination scanning its operations tank, the outcome might well have been otherwise than it was. For that ordinarily insignificant delay, that few minutes of time necessary for the Bosconian's orientation, was exactly that required for these two hundred smoothly working Rigelians to get civilization shock globe into position. A million beams, primaries raised to the hellish heights possible only to Medonian conductors and insulation lashed out almost as one. Screens stiffened to the urge of every generable watt of defensive power.

Bolt after bolt of quasi-solid lightning struck and struck and struck again. Q-type helices bored, gouged, and searingly hit. Rods and cones, planes and shears of incredibly condensed pure force, clawed, tore, and ground in mad abandon. Torpedo after torpedo, charged to the very skin with Duodeck, loosed its horribly detonate cargo against flinching wall shields in such numbers and with such violence as to fill all circumambient space with an atmosphere of almost planetary density.

Screen after screen, wall shield after wall shield, in their hundreds and their thousands went down. A full eighth of the patrols' entire counter-battle ships were wrecked, riddled, blown apart, or blasted completely out of space in the paralyzingly cataclysmic violence of that first, seconds-long, mind-shaking, space-racking encounter. Nor could it have been otherwise, for this encounter had not been at battle range, not even at point-blank range. The warring monsters of the void were packed practically screen to screen. But not a man died. A

upon civilization's side, at least, even though practically all of the myriad of ships composing the inner sphere, the shock globe was lost. For they were automatic, manned by robots. What little superintendence was necessary had been furnished by remote control. Indeed, it is possible, although perhaps not entirely probable, that the shock globe of the foe was similarly manned.

That first frightful meeting gave time for the reserves of the patrol to get there, and it was then that the superior operations controlled of the Z-9-Z made itself tellingly felt. Ship for ship, beam for beam, screen for screen, the Bosconians were perhaps equal to the patrol, but they did not have the perfection of control necessary for unified action. The field was too immense, the number of contending units too enormously vast, but the mind of each of the three unattached lensmen, read or right the flashing lights of this particular volume of the gigantic tank, and spread their meaning truly in the infinitely smaller space model beside which Admiral Haynes' master tactician stood. Scanning the entire space of

battle as a whole, he wrapped out general orders, orders applying perhaps to a hundred or to five hundred planetary fleets. Kinnison and his fellows broke these orders down for the operators, who in turn told the vice-admails and rear-admails of the fleets what to do. They gave detailed orders to the units of their commands, and the line officers, knowing exactly what to do, and precisely how to do it, did it with neatness and dispatch. There was no doubt, no uncertainty, no indecision, or wavering. The line officers, even the rear and vice-admiral's knew nothing,

could know nothing whatever, of the progress of the engagement as a whole. But they had worked under the Z-9-M-9-9-9-1. Z before. They knew that the Maestro Haynes did know the battle as a whole. They knew that he was handling them as carefully and as skillfully as a master at chess places pieces upon the square-filled board. They knew that Kinnison or Worsal or Targanzi was assigning no task too difficult of accomplishment. They knew that they could not be taken by surprise, attacked from some unexpected and unprotected direction, knew that, although in those hundreds of thousands of of cubic miles of space, there were hundreds of thousands of highly inimical and exceedingly

powerful ships of war. None of them were, or shortly could be, in position to do them serious harm. If there had been, they would have been pulled out of their Boku fast. They were as safe as anyone in a worship in such a war could expect or even hope to be. Therefore, they acted instantly, directly, wholeheartedly, and efficiently. And it was the Bosconian, who were taken repeatedly and by the thousands by surprise. For the enemy, as has been said, did not have the patrol's smooth perfection of control. Thus, several of civilization's fleets, acting in full synchronizing, could and repeatedly did rush upon one unit of the foe, englobbing it, blasting it out of existence, and dashing back

to stations, all before the nearest by-fleets of Boscoe knew even that a threat was being made. Thus ended the second phase of the battle, the engagement of the two grand fleets, with the few remaining thousands of Boscon's battleships, taking refuge upon or near the phalanx of planets which had made up their center. Planets. Seven of them. Armed and powered as only a planet can be armed and powered, with fixed-mount weapons impossible of mounting upon any lesser mobile base, with fixed mount intakes and generators which only planetary resources could excite or feed. Galactic civilization's war vessels fell back. Attacking a full armored planet was no part of their job, and as they fell back, the supermolers moved ponderously up and went to work. This was their dish,

for this they had been designed. Tubes, lances, stilettos of unthinkable energies raved against their mighty screens. Bouncing off, glancing away, dissipating themselves in space-torturing discharges as they hurl themselves upon the nearest ground. In and in the monsters bored, inexorably taking up their positions directly over the ultra-protected domes, which their commanders knew sheltered the vitally important Bergenholmes and controls. Then they loosed forces of their own. forces of such appalling magnitude as to burn out in the twinkling of an eye projector shells of a refractoryness to withstand for ten full seconds the maximum output of a first-class battleship's primary batteries.

The result in beam was a very short duration, but of utterly intolerable poignancy. No material substance could endure it even momentarily. It pierced instantly the hardest, tightest wall-shield known to the scientists of the patrol. It was the only known thing which could cut or rupture the ultimately stubborn fabric of acute-type helix. Hence, it is not to be wondered at that as those incredible needles of ravening energy stabbed and stabbed and stabbed again at Basconian domes, every man of the patrol, even Kimball Kinnison fully expected those domes to go down. But those domes held. And those fixed mount projectors hurled back against the supermoder.

Smallers, forces at the impact of which, course after course of fierce-driven defensive screen flamed through the spectrum and went down. "'Back! Get them back!' Kinnison whispered, white-lipped, and the attacking structure suddenly, stubbornly gave way. "'Why?' gritted Haynes. "'They're all we've got!' "'You forgot the new one, Chief. Give us a chance.' "'What makes you think it'll work?'

The old Admiral flashed the searing thought. "'It probably won't. "'And if it doesn't?' "'If it doesn't,' the younger man shot back, "'were no worse off than now to use the mallors. "'But we've got to use the sunbeam now "'while those planets are together, "'and before they start toward Tellus.'

"'Q X,' the Admiral assented, "'and as soon as the patrol mullers were out of the way, "'Vern?' Kinnison flashed a thought. "'We can't crack them. "'Looks like it's up to you. "'What do you say?' "'Jury rigged. know whether she'll light a cigarette or not, but here she comes.

The sun, shining so brightly, darkened almost to the point of invisibility. The war-vessels of the enemy disappeared, each puffing out into a tiny but brilliant sparkle of light. Then, before the beam could affect the enormous masses of the planets, the engineers lost it. The sun flashed up, dulled, brightened, darkened, wavered. The beam waxed and waned irregularly, the planets began to move away under the urges of their now thoroughly scared commanders. Again, while millions upon millions of tensely straining patrol officers stared into their plates, Haggard Thorndyke and his sweating crews got the sunbeam under control again, and in a heart-stoppingly wavering fashion held it together. It flared, sputtered, ballooned out,

but very shortly, before they could get out of its way, the planets began to glow. ice caps melted, then boiled. Oceans boiled. Their surfaces almost exploding into steam. Mountain ranges melted and flowed slugglessly down into valleys. The Bosconian domes of force went down and stayed down. Kewex Kim, let it be, Haynes ordered. No use over doing it.

Not bad-looking planets. Maybe we can use them for something. The sun brightened to its wanted splendor. The planets began visibly to cool. Even the Titanic forces then at work had heated those planetary masses only superficially. The battle was over. What in all the purple hells of Palaine did you do, Haynes?

And how? demanded the Z-9M-9-Z's captain. He used the whole damn solar system as a vacuum tube, Haynes explained gleefully. Those power stations out there, with all their motors and intake screens, were simply the power leads, the asteroid belts, and maybe some of the planets are the grids and plates. The sun is, hold on, chief, Kinnison broke in. That isn't quite it. You see, the directive field is set up by the, hold on yourself, Haynes ordered brusquely. You're

too damn scientific, just like Sawbones Lacey. What do Rex and I care about the technical details that we can't understand anyway? The net result is what counts, and that was to concentrate upon those planets, practically the whole energy output of the Sun, wasn't it? Well, that's the main idea, Kinnison conceded. The energy equivalent, roughly, of 4,150,000 tons per second of disintegrating matter. "'Phew!' the captain whistled. "'No wonder it frizzled him up. "'I can say now, I think, with no fear of successful contradiction,

"'that Tellus is strongly held,' Haynes stated with conviction. What now, Kim, old son? I think they're done for a while, the Grey Lensman pondered. Cardinge can't communicate through the tube, so probably they can't. But if they manage to slip an observer through, they may know how almighty close they came to licking us. On the other hand, Vern says that he can get the bugs out of the sunbeam in a couple of weeks, and when he does, the next Zwillnicky cuts loose at is going to get a surprise. I'll say so, Haynes agreed.

We'll keep the surveyors on the prow, and some of the fleet will always be close by. Not all of it, of course. We'll adopt a schedule of reliefs, but enough of it to be useful. That ought to be enough, don't you think? I think so, yes, Kinnison answered thoughtfully. I'm just about positive that they won't be in shape to start anything here again for a long time, and I'd better get busy, sir. on my own job. I've got to put out a few jets.

I suppose so, Haynes admitted. For Tellis was strongly held now, so strongly held that Kinnison felt free to begin again the search upon whose successful conclusion depended, perhaps, the outcome of the struggle between Bosconia and the Galactic Civilization. End of Section 3. Section 4 of Second Stage Lensman. This Libervox recording is in the public domain.

Second Stage Lensman by E.E. Doc Smith Chapter 3 When the forces of the Galactic Patrol blasted Helmless Grand Base out of existence and hunted down and destroyed his secondary bases throughout this galaxy, Bosco's military grasp upon civilization was definitely broken.

Some minor bases may have escaped destruction, of course. Indeed, it is practically certain that some of them did so, for there are comparatively large volumes of our island universe which have not been mapped, even yet by the planetographers of the patrol. It is equally certain, however, that they were relatively few and of no real importance. For warships, being large, cannot be carried around or concealed in a vest pocket. A war fleet must of necessity be based upon a celestial object not smaller than a very large asteroid. Such a base, lying close enough to any one of civilization's planets to be of any use, could not be hidden successfully from the detectors of the patrol.

Reasoning from analogy, Kinnison quite justifiably concluded that the back of the drug syndicate had been broken in similar fashion when he had worked upward through Bomminger and Strongheart and Crown and Shield and Jalty to the dread counsel of Boscone itself. He was, however, wrong. for unlike the battleship, thionite is a vest-pocket commodity. Unlike the space fleet base,

a drug baron's headquarters can be, and frequently is, small, compact, and highly mobile. Also, the galaxy is huge, the number of planets in it immense, the total count of drug addicts utterly incomprehensible. Therefore, it had been found more efficient to arrange the drug hookup in multiple series parallel,

instead of in the straight cascade sequence, which Kinnison thought that he had followed up. He thought so at first, that is, but he did not think so long. He had thought, and he had told Haynes, as well as Gerond of Redelix, that the situation was entirely under control, that with the Zwillnick headquarters blasted out of existence, and with all of the regional heads and many of the planetary chiefs dead or under arrest, all that the enforcement men would have to cope with would be the normal boo-oenix. leg trickle. In that, too, he was wrong. Jarron and the other lawmen of narcotics had had a brief respite, it is true, but in a few

days or weeks, upon almost as many planets as before, the illicit traffic was again in full swing. After the Battle of Telas, then, it did not take the gray linsman long to discover the above facts. Indeed, they were pressed upon him. He was, however, more relieved than disappointed at the tidings, for he knew that he would have material upon which to work. If his original opinion had been right, if all lines of communication with the now completely unknown ultimate authorities of the Zwillnix had been destroyed, his task would have been an almost hopeless one. It would serve no good purpose here to go into details covering his early efforts, since they embodied in principle the same tactics as those which he had

previously employed. He studied, he analyzed, he investigated. He snooped and he spied. He fought, upon occasion, he killed. And in due course, and not too long, of course, he cut into the sign of what he thought must be a Keys Wilnik. Not upon Bronsica or Redelix or Chick-Lodoria, or any other distant planet, but right upon Tullus. But he could not locate him. He never saw him upon Tullus. As a matter of cold fact, he could not find a single person who had ever seen him or who knew anything definite about him except a number. These facts, of course, only wedded Kinnison's keenness to come to grips with the fellow. He might not be a very big shot, but the fact that he was covering himself up so thoroughly and so successfully made it abundantly evident that he was a fish well worth landing.

This white, however, proved to be as elusive as the proverbial flee. He was never there when Kinnison pounced. In London, he was a few minutes late. In Berlin, he was a minute or so too early, and the ape didn't show up at all. He missed him in Paris and in San Francisco and in Shanghai. The guy settled down finally in New York, but still the Grey Lensman could not connect. It was always the wrong street, or the wrong house, or the wrong time, or something.

Then Kinnison said a snare which should have caught a microbe, and almost caught his Zwillnick. He missed him by one mere second when he blasted off from New York spaceport. He was so close that he saw his flare, so close that he could slap onto the fleeing vessel at the beam of the CRX tracer, which he always carried with him. Unfortunately, however, the lensman was in Mufti at the time

and was driving a rented flitter. His speedster, altogether too spectacular and obvious a conveyance to be using in a hush-hush investigation, was at prime base. He didn't want the speedster anyway, except inside the dauntless. He'd go organized this time to chase the lug clear out of space if he had to. He shot in a call for the big cruiser, and while it was coming, he made luridly sulfurous inquiry. Fruitless. His orders have been carried out to the letter, except in the one day.

detail of not allowing any vessel to take off. This takeoff absolutely could not be helped. It was just one of those things. The ship was a patrol speister from Denham 5, registry number so-and-so, said he was coming in for servicing. Came in on the North Beam, identified himself properly. Lieutenant Quirkenthal of Denip 5, he said he was, and it checked. It would check, of course. The Zwillnick that Kinnison had been chasing so long, certainly would not be guilty of any such raw, crude work as a faulty identification. In fact, right then, he probably looked just as much like Quirkenfall as the lieutenant himself did. He wasn't in a hurry at all, the informant went on. He waited around for his landing clearance, then slanted in on his assigned slide to the service

pits. In the last hundred yards, though, he shot off to one side and sat down, plighted Lop, broadside on, clear over there in the far corner of the field. But he wasn't down but a second, sir. Long before anybody could get to him, before the cruisers could put a beam on him even, he blasted off as though the devil were on his tail. Then you came along, sir, but we did put a CRX tracer on him. I did that much myself, Kinnison stated morosely. He stopped just long enough to pick up a passenger, my Zwillnick, of course,

then flitted, and you fellows let him get away with it. But we couldn't help it, sir, the official protested. And anyway, he couldn't possibly have. He sure could. You'd be surprised no end at what that ape can do. Then the dauntless flashed in, not asking but demanding instant right of way. Like around, fellows, if you like, but you won't find a damn thing. Kinnison's unchearing conclusion came back. as he sprinted toward the dock into which his battleship had settled.

The lug hasn't left a loose and dangling yet. By the time the Great Patrol ship had cleared the stratosphere, Kinnison's CRX, powerful and tenacious as it was, was just barely registering a line. But that was enough. Henry Henderson, master pilot, stuck the dauntless needle nose into that line and shoved into the driving projectors

every wad of oof that those Brobdingnagian creatures could take. They had been following the Zwillnick for three days now, Kinnison reflected, and his CRXs were none too strong yet. They were overhauling him mighty slowly, and the Dauntless was supposed to be the fastest thing in space. That can up ahead had plenty of legs. Must have been souped up to the limit.

This was apt to be a long chase, but he'd get that bozo if he had to chase him on a geodesic line along the hyperdimensional curvature of space clear back to tell us where he started from. They did not have to circumnavigate total space, of course, but they did almost leave the galaxy before they could get the fugitive upon their plates. The stars were thinning out fast,

but still, hazily before them, in a vastness of distance, their stretched a milky band of opalescence. "'What's coming up, Hen? A rift?' Kinnison asked. "'A-huh, Rift 94,' the pilot replied. "'And if I remember right, that arm up ahead is Dunstan's region, and it has never been explored. I'll have the chart-room check up on it. Never mind. I'll go check it myself. I'm curious about this whole thing.' Unlike any smaller vessel, the Dauntless was large enough so that she could, and hence, as a matter of course, did,

carry every space chart issue by all the various boards and offices and bureaus concerned with space, astronomy, astrogation, and planetography. She had to, for there were usually mines aboard, which were apt at any time to become intensely and unpredictably interested in anything anywhere. Hence, it did not take Kinnison long to obtain what little information there was. The vacancy they were approaching was Rift 94, a vast space, practically empty of stars, lying between the main body of the galaxy and a minor branch of one of its prodigious spiral arms. The opalescence ahead was the branch, Dustin's region.

Henderson was right. It had never been explored. The galactic survey, which has not even yet mapped the whole of the galaxy proper, had, of course done no systematic work upon such outlying sections as the spiral arms. Some such regions were well known and well, well-mapped it is true, either because its own population, independently developing means of spaceflight, had come into contact with our civilization upon its own initiative, or because private exploration and investigation had opened up profitable lines of commerce. But Dunstan's region was bare. No people resident in it had ever made themselves known. No private prospecting, if there had ever been any such, had revealed anything worthy of exploitation.

or development. And with so many perfectly good uninhabited planets so much nearer to galactic center, it was, of course, much too far out for colonization. Through the rift then, and into Dunstan's region, the dauntless board at the unimaginable pace of a terrific full-blast drive. The tracer's beams grew harder and more taught with every passing hour. The fleeing speister itself grew large and clear upon the plates. The opalescence of the spiral arm became a firmament of stars. A sun detached itself from that firmament, a dwarf of type G, and planets. One of these in particular, the second out, looked so much like Earth that it made some of the observers homesick. There were the familiar polar ice caps, the atmosphere and stratosphere,

the high-piled billowy masses of clouds. There were vast blue oceans, there were huge, unfamiliar continents glowing with chlorophyllic green. At the spectroscopes, at the ballometers, at the many other instruments, men went rapidly and skillfully to work. Hope the apes heading for two, and I think he is, Kinnison remarked as he studied the results. People living on that planet would be human to ten places for all the tea in China. No wonder he was so much at home on tellus. Yep, it's two. There, he's gone inert.

Whoever is piloting that can went to school just one day in his life, and that day it rained and the teacher didn't come. Henderson snorted. And he's trying to bounce her down on her tail. Look at her bounce and flop around. He's just begging for a crack-up. If he makes it, it'll be bad, plenty bad. Kinnison mused. He'll gain a lot of time on us while we're rounding the globe in our landing spiral.

Why spiral, Kim? Why not follow him down, huh? Our intrinsic is no worse than his. It's the same one, in fact. Get conscious, Hen. You haven't got a speedster under you now. So what? I can certainly handle this scrap heap a damn sight better

than that ground gripper is handling that speedster. Henry Henderson, Master Pilot No. 1 of the service, was not bragging. He was merely voicing what to him was the simple and obvious truth. Mass is what? Mass and volume and velocity and inertia and power. You never stunted this much weight before, did you? No, but what of it? I took a course in piloting once in my youth. He was then a grand old man of twenty-eight or thereabouts. I can line up the main rear center pipe onto any grain of sand you want to pick out on that field and hold her there until she slags it down. If you think you can spell Able, hop to it. QX, this is going to be fun.

Henderson gleefully accepted the challenge, then clicked on his general alarm microphone. Strap down, everybody, for inert maneuvering. Class 9. Four G's on the tail. Tail over to belly landing. Hype. The Bergen homes were cut, and as the tremendously massive super-dreadnought, inert, shot off at an angle under its Tullerian intrinsic velocity, Master Pilot No. 1 proved his rating.

As much a virtuoso of the banks and tears of blast keys and levers before him, as a concert organist is of his instrument, his hands and feet flashed hither and yon. Not music? The bellowing crescendo thunders of those jets were music to the hard-boiled space-hounds who heard them. And in response to the exact placement and the precisely measured power of those blasts, The great sky rover spun, twisted, and bucked, as her prodigious mass was forced into motionlessness relative to the terrain beneath her. Four G's Kinnison reflected, while this was going on. Not bad. He had thought that it would take five, possibly six.

He could sit up and take notice at four, and he did so. The world wasn't very densely populated, apparently. Quite a few cities, but all just about on the equator. Nothing in the temperate zones at all. Even the highest power revealed no handiwork of man. Virgin forest, untouched prairie, lots of roads and things in the torrid zone, but nothing anywhere else.

The speedster was making a rough and unskilful, but not catastrophic landing. The field which was their destination lay just outside a large city. Funny, it wasn't a space field at all. No docks, no pits, no shoal. ships, low-flat buildings, hangers. An airfield then, although not like any airfield upon tellus, too small. Gyros, copters, didn't see any, all little ships. Crates, biplanes,

and tripes, made of wire and fabric. What a whil! What a wail! The Daughtless landed, fairly close to the now deserted speedster. Hold everything, men. Can you? in his cautioned. Something funny here. I'll do a bit of looking around before we open up. He was not surprised that the people in and around the airport were human to at least ten places of classification. He had expected that from the planetary data. Nor was he surprised at the fact that they wore no clothing. He had learned long since that, while human or near human races, particularly the women, were at least a few ornaments, the wearing of clothing as such, except when it was actually needed for protection, was far more the exception than the rule.

And just as a Martian, out of deference to conventions, wears a light robe upon Tulles, Kinnison, as a matter of course, stripped to his evenly tan hide when visiting planets upon which nakedness was de rigueur. He had attended more than one state function, without a quibble or a qualm, tastefully attired in a pair of sandals and his dilameters. No, the startling fact was that there was not a man in sight anywhere around the place. There was nothing male perceptible as far as his sense of perception could reach. Women were laboring, women were supervising, women were running the machines.

Women were operating the airplanes and servicing them. Women were in the offices. Women and girls and little girls and girl babies filled the waiting rooms and the automobile-like conveyances parked near the airport and rowing. running along the streets. And even before Kinnison had finished uttering his warning, while his hand was in the air reaching for a spy-ray switch, he felt an alien force attempting to insinuate itself into his mind.

Fat chance. With any ordinary mind, it would have succeeded. But in the case of the gray lensman, it was just like trying to stick a pin unobtrusively into a panther. He put up a solid block automatically, instantaneously. Then a fraction, of a second later, a thought-tight screen enveloped the whole vessel. "'Did any of you fellows?'

He began, then broke off. They wouldn't have felt it, of course. Their brains could have been read completely, with them none the wiser. He was the only lendsman aboard, and even most lendsmen couldn't. This was his oyster. But that kind of stuff, on such an apparently backward planet as this, it didn't make sense, unless that's Wielnick. Ah, this was his oyster, absolutely.

Something funnier even than I thought. Thought waves, he calmly continued his original remark. Thought I'd better undress to go out there, but I'm not going to. I'd wear full armor, except that I may need my hands or have to move fast. If they get insulted at my clothes, I'll apologize later. But listen, Kim, you can't go out there alone, especially without armor. Sure I can. I'm not taking any chances.

You fellows couldn't do me much good out there, but you can hear. Break out the copter and keep a spy ray on me. If I give you the signal, go to work with a couple of narrow needlebeams. Pretty sure that I won't need any help, but you can't always tell. The airlock opened and Kinnison stepped out. He had a high-powered thought screen, but he did not need it yet. He had his dilameters. He had also a weapon deadlier by far even than those mighty portables,

a weapon so utterly deadly that he had not used it. He did not need to test it, since Worsle had said that it would work, it would. The trouble with it was that it could not merely disable. If used at all, it killed, with complete and grim finality. And behind him he had the full awful power of the dauntless. He had nothing to worry about. Only when the spaceship had settled down upon and into the hard-packed soil of the airport, could those at work there realize just how big and how heavy the visitor was.

Practically everyone stopped work and stared, and they continued to stare as Kinnison strode toward the office. The landsman had landed on many strange planets. He had been met in diverse fashions and with various emotions, but never before had his presence stirred up anything even remotely resembling the sentiments written so plainly upon these women's faces and expressed even more plainly in their seething thoughts. Loathing, hatred, detestation, not precisely any one of the three, yet containing something of each, as though he were a monstrosity, a revolting abnormality that should be destroyed

on sight. Being such as the fantastically ugly, spider-like denizens of Decanor Six had shuddered at the sight of him, but their thoughts were mild compared to these. Besides, that was natural enough. Any human being would appear a monstrosity to such as those. But these women were human, as human as he was. He didn't get it at all. Kinnison opened the door and faced the manager, who was standing at the otherworldly equivalent of a desk. His first glance at her brought to the surface of his mind one of the peculiarities which he had already unconsciously observed. Here, for the first time in his life, he saw a woman without any touch whatever of personal adornment. She was tall and beautifully proportioned, strong and

fine. Her smooth skin was tan to a rich and even brown. She was clean, almost blatantly so. But she wore no jewelry, no bracelets, no ribbons, no decorations of any sword or kind. No paint, no powder, no touch of perfume. Her heavy, bushy eyebrows had never been either plucked or clipped. Some of her teeth had been expertly filled, and she had a two-tooth bridge that would have done credit to any Tullerian dentist. But her hair. It too was painfully clean, as was the white scalp beneath it, but aesthetically it was a mess. Some of it reached almost to her shoulders, but it was very evident that whenever a lot grew long enough to be a bother,

she was wont to grab it and hew it off, as close to the skull as possible, with whatever knife, shears, or other implement came ready as to hand. These thoughts and the general inspection did not take any appreciable length of time, of course. Before Kinnison had taken two steps toward the manager's desk, he directed a thought. Kinnison of Saul III, Lensman, on a time, It is possible, however, that neither tellus nor the lens are known upon this planet.

Neither is known, nor do we care to know them, she replied coldly. Her brain was keen and clear, her personality, vigorous, striking, forceful. But compared with Kinnison's doubly Erysian-trained mind, hers was woefully slow. He watched her assemble the mental bolt, which was intended to slay him then and there. He let her send it. then struck back. Not lethally, not even paralyzingly, but solid enough so that she slumped down, almost unconscious, into a nearby chair. It's good technique to size a man up before you tackle him, sister, he advised her when she had recovered. Couldn't you tell from the feel of my mind-block

that you couldn't crack it? I was afraid so, she admitted hopelessly, but I had to kill you if I possibly could. Since you are the stronger, you will, of course, kill me. Whatever else these peculiar women were, they were stark realists. Go ahead. Get it over with. But it can't be. Her thought was a wail of protest. I do not grasp your thought of a man, but you are certainly a male. And no mere male can be, can possibly be ever as strong as a person. Kiddison got that thought. thought perfectly, and it rocked him. She did not think of herself as a woman, a female, at all. She was simply a person. She could not understand even dimly Kinnison's reference to himself as a man.

To her, man and male were synonymous terms. Both met sex, and nothing whatever except sex. I have no intention of killing you or anyone else upon this planet. He informed her levely, unless I absolutely have to. But I have chased that speister over there all the way from Tellis, and I intend to get the man that drove it here if I have to wipe out half of your population to do it. Is that perfectly clear? That is perfectly clear, male.

Her mind was fuzzy with a melange of immiscible emotions. Surprise and relief that she was not to be slain out of hand, disgust and repugnance at the very idea of such a horrible, monstrous male creature of having the audacity to exist. Stunned, disbelieving wonder at his unprecedented power of mind. A dawning comprehension

that there were perhaps some things which she did not know. These and numerous other conflicting thoughts surged through her mind. But there was no male within the space traversing vessel which you think of as a speedster, she concluded surprisingly.

And he knew that she was not lying. No mentality in existence, not even that of Mentor the Elysian, could lie to Gray-Lensman Kinnison against his will. Damnation! He snorted to himself, fighting against women again. Who was she then? It, I mean. He hastily corrected the thought.

It was our elder sister. The thought, so translated by the man, was not really sister. That term, having distinctly sexual connotation. and implications, would never have entered the mind of any person of Lyraine, too. Elder child of the same heritage was more like it. And another person, from what it claimed, was another world. The thought flowed smoothly on. An entity, rather, not really a person, but you would not be interested in that, of course.

Of course I would, Kinnison assured her. In fact, it is this other person, and not your elderly relative, in whom I am interested. But you say that it is an entity, not a person? How come? Tell me all about it. Well, it looked like a person, but it wasn't. Its intelligence was low.

Its brain power was small. And its mind was upon things. Its thoughts were so. Kiddison grinned at the Lyrannian's efforts to express clearly thoughts so utterly foreign to her mind as to be totally incomprehensible. You don't know what that entity is, but I do. He broke in upon her floundering.

It was a person who was also, and quite definitely, a female, right? But a person couldn't... Couldn't possibly be a female? She protested. Why, even biologically, it doesn't make sense. There are no such things as females. There can't be. And Kinnison saw her viewpoint clearly enough.

"'According to her sociology and conditioning, there could not be.' "'We'll go into that later,' he told her. "'What I want now is this female Zwillnick. "'Is she, or it, with your elder relative now?' "'Yes, they will be having dinner in the hall very shortly. "'Sorry to be a bother, but you'll have to take me to them, right now.' "'Oh, may I? Since I could not kill you myself, "'I must take you to them so that they can do it.

"'I have been wondering how I could force you to go there,' she explained naively. "'Henderson?' The linsman spoke into his microphone, thought screens, of course, being no barrier to radio waves. "'I'm going after the Zwillnick. This woman here is taking me. Have the copter stay over me, ready to needle anything I tell them to. While I'm gone, go over that speecher with a fine-tooth comb, and when you get everything we want, blast it. It and the dog, hauntless are the only space cans on the planet, and I haven't got a picture of them taking the cruiser away from you. But keep your thoughts screens up. Don't let them down for a fraction of a

second, because these Janes here carry plenty of jets, and they're just as sweet and reasonable as a cageful of cat-egals. Got it? On the tape, Chief, came the instant answer. But don't take any chances, Kim. Sure you could swing it alone? Jets enough and despair, Kinnison assured him curtly. Then as the Tullerian's helicopter shot into the air, he again turned his thought to the manager. "'Let's go,' he directed, and she led him across the way to a row of parked ground cars. She manipulated a couple of levers, and smoothly, if slowly, the little vehicle rolled away. The distance was long, and the pace was slow. The woman was driving automatically, the while her every sense was concentrated upon finding some weak point, some chink and

his barrier to which to thrust at him. Kinnison was amazed, stumped at her fixity of purpose, at her grimly single-minded determination to make an end of him. She was out to get him, and she was not fooling. "'Listen, sister,' he thought at her, after a few minutes of it, almost plaintively for him. "'Let's be reasonable about this thing. I told you that I didn't want to kill you.

Why in all the iridescent hells of space are you so dead set on killing me? If you don't behave yourself, I'll give you a treatment that will make your head ache for the next six months. Why don't you snap out of it, you dumb little lug and be friends? This thought jarred her so that she stopped the car, the better to stare directly and viciously into his eyes. Be friends? With a male? The thought literally seared its way into the man's brain. "'Listen, half-wit,' Kinnison stormed, exasperated.

"'Forget your narrow-minded, one-planet prejudices, and think for a minute, if you can think. Use that pint of bean-soup inside your skull for something besides hating me all over the place. Get this. I am no more a male that you are the kind of a female that you think, by analogy, such a creature would have to be, if she could exist in a sane and logical world.' Oh, the lyranium was taken aback at such cavalier instruction. But the others, those in your so immense vessel, they are of a certainty males, she stated with conviction.

I understood what you told them via your telephone without conductors. You have mechanical shields against the thought which kills. Yet you do not have to use it, while the others, males indubitably do. You yourself are not entirely a male. Your brain is almost as good as a person's. Better, you mean, he corrected her. You're wrong. All of us of the ship are men, all alike.

But a man on a job can't concentrate all the time on defending his brain against attack, hence the use of thought screens. I can't use a screen out here because I've got to talk to you, people. See? You fear us then, so little? She flared all of her old animosity blazing out anew.

You consider our power then so small a thing? Right, right to a hair, he declared with tightening jaw. But he did not believe it, quite. This girl was just about as safe to play around with as a five feet eleven of coiled bushmaster and twice as deadly. She could not kill him mentally, nor could the elder sister, whoever she might be, and her crew. He was pretty sure of that.

But if they couldn't do him in by dint of brain, it was a foregone conclusion that they would try brawn, and brawn they certainly had. This jade beside him weighed 165 or 70, and she was trained down fine, hard, limber, and fast. He might be able to lick three or four of them, maybe half a dozen, in a rough and tumble brawl, but more than that would mean either killing or being killed.

"'Damn it all! He'd never killed a woman yet, but it looked as though he might have to start in pretty quick now.' "'Well, let's get going again,' he suggested. "'And while we're on route, let's see if we can't work out some basis of cooperation, a sort of live-and-let-live arrangement. Since you understood the orders I gave the crew, you realize that our ship carries weapons capable of raising this entire city in a space of minutes. It was a statement, not a question.

I realized that. The thought was muffled in helpless fury. Weapons! Weapons! Always weapons! The eternal male! If it were not for your huge vessel and the peculiar airplane hovering over us, I would claw your eyes out and strangle you with my bare hands.

That would be a good trick if you could do it, he countered equably enough. But listen, you frustrated young murderous, You have already shown yourself to be basically a realist in facing physical facts. Why not face mental, intellectual facts in the same spirit? Why, I do, of course. I always do. You do not, he contradicted sharply. Males, according to your lights, have two and only two attributes.

One, they breed, two, they fight. They fight each other and everything else to the death and at the drop of hat, right? Right, but, but nothing, let me talk. Why didn't you breed the combativeness out of your males hundreds of generations ago? They tried it once, but the race began to deteriorate, she admitted. Exactly.

Your whole setup is cock-eyed, unbalanced. You can think of me only as a male, one to be destroyed on sight, since I am not like one of yours. Yet when I could kill you and had every reason to do so, I didn't. We can destroy you all, but we won't unless we must. What's the answer? I don't know, she confessed, frankly. Her frenzy desire for killing abated, although her ingrained antipathy and revulsion did not. In some ways, you do seem to have some of the instincts and qualities of a, almost a person. I am a person. You are not. Do you think that I am to be misled by

the silly coverings you wear? Just a minute. I am a person of a race having two equal sexes. Equal in every way. Numbers, too. One man and one woman. And he went on to explain to her, as well as he could, the sociology of civilization.

Incredible, she gasped at the thought. But true, he assured her. And now, are you going to lay off me and behave yourself like a little? a good little girl, or am I going to have to do a bit of massaging on your brain? Or wind that beautiful body of yours a couple of times around a tree. I'm asking this for your own good, kid. Believe me. Yes, I do believe you, she marveled.

I am becoming convinced that, that perhaps you are a person, at least of a sort, after all. Sure I am. That's what I've been trying to tell you for an hour. and cancel that of a sort, too. But tell me, she interrupted. A thought you used. Beautiful. I do not understand it. What does it mean, beautiful body?

Holy Clonos whiskers. If Kinnison had never been stumped before, he was now, how could he explain beauty or music or art to this, this matriarchal savage? How explained Ceres to a man born blind? and above all, who had ever heard of having to explain to a woman, to any woman, anywhere in the whole macrocosmic universe that she in particular was beautiful? But he tried. In her mind, he spread a portrait of her as he had seen her first.

He pointed out to her the graceful curves and lovely contours, the lively flowing lines, the perfection of proportion and modeling and symmetry, the flawlessly smooth, firm textured skin, the supple, hard-trained fineness of her whole physique. No soap. She tried, in brow-furrowing concentration to get it, but in vain. It simply did not register. But that is merely efficiency, everything you have shown, she declared, nothing else. I must be so, for my own good and for the good of those to come. But I think that I've seen some of your beauty. And in turn, she sent into his mind a weirdly distorted picture of a human woman. The Zwillnick he was following, Kinnison decided instantly. She would be jeweled, of course,

but not that heavily. A horse couldn't carry that load. And no woman ever born put paint on that thick, or reeked so a violent perfume, or plucked her eyebrows to such a thread, or indulged in such a hairdo. "'If that is beauty, I want none of it,' the Lyranian declared. Kinnison tried it again. He showed her a waterfall this time, in a stupendous gorge, with appropriate cloud formations and scenery. That, the girl declared, was simply erosion, geological formations and meteorological phenomena. Beauty still did not appear. Painting, it appeared to her, was a waste of pigment and oil, useless,

and inefficient. For any purpose of record, the camera was much more precise and truthful. Music, vibrations in the atmosphere would of necessity be simply a noise. And noise, any kind of noise, was not efficient. You poor little devil! The lensman gave up. You poor, ignorant, soul-starved little devil. And the worst of it is that you don't even realize, and never can realize what you are missing. Don't be silly. For the first time the woman actually laughed. You are utterly foolish to make such a fuss about such trivial things. Kinnison quit appalled. He knew now that he and this apparently human creature beside him were as far apart as the galactic poles in every essential phase of life. He had heard of matriarchies, but he had never considered what a real matriarchy carried to its logic.

conclusion would be like. This was it. For ages there had been, to all intents and purposes, only one sex, the masculine element never having been allowed to rise above the fundamental necessity of reproducing the completely dominant female. And that dominant female had become, in every respect, save the purely and necessitously physical one, absolutely and utterly sexless. Men, upon Lyrain II, were dwarfs about thirty inches tall. They had the temper and the disposition of a mad red-elegian cat eagle, the intellectual capacity of a Zabriskin Fontima. They were not regarded as people, either at birth or at any subsequent time. To maintain a static population,

each person gave birth to one person on the grand average. The occasional male baby, about one in a hundred, did not count. He was not even kept at home, but was taken to taken immediately to the mailatorium, in which he lived until attaining maturity. One man to a hundred or so women for a year, then death. The hundred persons had their babies at twenty-one or twenty-two years of age. They lived to an average age of a hundred years, then calmly blasted their male's mind and disposed of his carcass. The male was not exactly an outcast, not precisely a pariah.

He was tolerated as a necessary adjunct, to the society of persons, but in no sense whatever was he a member of it. The more Kinnison pondered this hookup, the more appalled he became. Physically, these people were practically indistinguishable from human, Tullerian, Caucasian women. But mentally, intellectually, in every other way, how utterly different. Shockingly, astoundingly so, to any really human being whose entire outlook and existence is fundamentally, however unconsciously or subconsciously, based upon and conditioned by the prime division of life into two fully co-operant sexes. It didn't seem at first glance that such a case

could have such terrific effects, but here they were. In cold reality, these women were no more human than were the—the Ike. Take the Poissinians, or the Rigelians, or even the Valentians. Any normal stay-at-home-to-Lurian woman, would pass out cold if she happened to stumble onto Wursell in a dark alley at night. Yet, the members of his repulsively reptilian-appearing race, merely because of having a heredity of equality and cooperation between the sexes, were, in essence, more nearly human than were these tall, splendidly built, actually and intrinsically beautiful creatures of Lyrain, too. "'This is the hall,' the person informed him, as the car-cared, came to a halt in front of a large structure of plain gray stone.

Come with me. Gladly. And they walked across the peculiarly bare grounds. They were side by side, but a couple of feet apart. She had been altogether too close to him in the little car. She did not want this male, or any male, to touch her or to be near her. And considerably to her surprise, if the truth were to be known, the feeling was entirely mutual. Kinnison would have preferred to touch a Borovian slime lizard.

They mounted the granite steps. They passed through the dull, weather-beaten portal. They were still side by side, but they were now a full yard apart. End of Section 4. Section 5 of Second Stage Lensman. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Second Stage Lensman by E. E. Dock Smith Chapter 4 Listen, my beautiful but dumb guide, Kinnis and counsel the Lyranian girl as they neared their objective. I see that you're forgetting all your good Girl Scout resolutions and are getting all hot and bothered again.

I'm telling you now for the last time to watch your step. If that's Wilnick person has even a split-second's warning that I am on her tail. All hell will be out for noon, and I don't mean perchance. But I must notify the elder one that I am bringing you in, she told him. One simply does not intrude unannounced. It is not permitted. QX. Stick to the announcement, though, and don't put out any funny ideas. I'll send a thought along just to make sure. But he did more than that, for even as he spoke, his sense of perception was already in the room to which they were going. It was a large room and bare, filled with tables, except for a clear central space,

upon which at the moment a lithe and supple person was doing what seemed to be a routine of acrobatic dancing, interspersed with suddenly motionless posings and posturings of extreme technical difficulty. At the tables receded a hundred or so Lyrrhenians' eating. "'Kinnison was not interested in the floor show, "'whatever it was, nor in the masked Lyranians. "'The Zwillnick was what he was after. "'Ah, there she was, at a ringside table, "'a small square table seating four near the door.

"'Her back was to it. Good. "'At her left, commanding the central view of the floor, "'was a redhead sitting in a revolving, reclining chair, "'the only such seat in the room.' probably the big noise herself, the elder one. No matter, he wasn't interested in her either, yet. His attention flashed back to his proposed quarry, and he almost gasped. For she, like Dessa Dysplains, was an Alda-Boranian,

and she was everything that the Displains woman had been, more so if possible. She was a seven-sector call-out, a thionite dream if there ever was one. and jewelry. This Lyranian tiger hadn't exaggerated that angle very much at that. Her breast shields were of gold and platinum filigree, thickly studded with diamonds, emeralds, and rubies in intricate designs. Her shorts, or rather trunks, were of monarch and glamorette, blazing with gems. A cleverly concealed dagger with a jeweled haft and a vicious little fang of a blade. Rings, even a thumb-ring. A neck-and-a-neceneer. A next-a-necilled-a-tealed dagger. A which was practically a collar flashed all the colors of the rainbow.

Bracelets, armlets, anklets, and knee-bands, high-laced dress boots, jeweled from stem to gudgeon, earrings, and a meticulous, micrometrically precise coiffure held in place by at least a dozen glittering buckles, combs, and barrettes. Holy clonous brazen tendons! The lansman whistled to himself. For every last, least one of those stones was the clear Quill. Half a million credits, if it's a mellow's worth. But he was not particularly interested in

this jeweller's vision of what the well-dressed ladies Wilnick will wear. There were other far more important things. Yes, she had a thought-screen. Its battery was mighty low now, but it would still work. Good thing he had blocked the warning. And she had a hollow tooth, too, but he'd seen to it that she didn't get a chance to swallow its contents. She knew plenty, and he hadn't chased her this far to let her knowledge be obliterated by that hellish Bosconian drug. They were at the door now. Disregarding the fiercely driven mental protests of his companion, Kinnison flung it open, stiffening up his mental guard as he did so.

Simultaneously, he invaded the Zwillnick's mind with a flood of force, clamping down so hard that she could not move a single voluntary muscle. Then, paying no attention whatever to the shot surprise of the assembled Lyranians, he strode directly up to the Aldermanian and bent her head back into the crook of his elbow. Forcibly, but gently, he opened her mouth. With thumb and forefinger, he deftly removed the false tooth. Releasing her then, mentally and physically, he dropped his spoil to the cement floor and grounded savagely to bits under his hard and heavy heel.

The Zilnick screamed wildly, piercingly at first. However, finding that she was getting no results, from Lansman or Lirrhenian, she subsided quickly into alertly watchful waiting. Still unsatisfied, Kinnison flipped out one of his dilameters and flamed the remains of the capsule of worse than paralyzing fluid, carrying not a wit that his vicious portable, even in that brief instant, seared a hole a foot deep into the floor. Then, and only then, did he turn his attention to the redhead in the boss chair.

He had to hand it to the elder sister. Through all this sudden, and to her entirely unprecedented violence of action, she hadn't turned a hair. She had swung her chair around so that she was facing him. Her back was to the athletic dancer, who, now holding a flawlessly perfect pose, was going on with the act as though nothing out of the ordinary were transpiring. She was leaning backward, far backward, in the armless swivel chair, her right foot resting upon its pedestal.

Her left ankle was crossed over her right knee. Her left knee rested lightly against the table's top. Her hands were clasped together at the nape of her neck, supporting her red-thatched head. Her elbow spread abroad in easy, indolent grace. Her eyes, so deeply, darkly green as to be almost black, stared up unwinkingly into the lensman's. Insolently was the descriptive word that came first to his mind. If the elder sister was supposed to be old, Kinnison reflected, as he studied appreciatively

the startlingly beautiful picture which the artless chief person of this tribe so unconsciously made, she certainly belied her looks. As far as looks went, she really really, really qualified. Whatever it took, she in abundant measure had. Her hair was not really red either. It was a flamboyant, gorgeous Auburn, about the same color as Chris Own, and just as thick. And it wasn't all haggled up. Accidentally, of course, and no doubt because in her particular job her hair didn't get in the way very often, it happened to be a fairly even shoulder-length bob. What a mop! And damn... if it wasn't wavy.

Just as she was, with no dawling up at all, she would be a primary beam on any man's planet. She had this Wylnick here, knock out that she was, and with all her war paint and feathers, blasted clear out of the ether. But this Queen B had a sting. She was still boring away at his shield.

He'd better let her know that she didn't even begin to have enough jets to swing that load. QX, Ace. Cut the gun, he directed crisply. Ace from him was a complimentary term indeed. "'Pipe down! That is all of that kind of stuff from you. I stood for this much of it, just to show you that you can't get to the first check-station

with that kind of fuel, but enough is a great plenty.' At the sheer cutting power of the thought, re-broadcasts, no doubt, by the airport manager, like raining activity throughout the room came to a halt. This was decidedly out of the ordinary. For a male mind, any male mind, to be able even momentarily to resist that of the meanest person of Lyrain was starkly unthinkable. The elder's graceful body tensed.

Into her eyes there crept a dawning doubt, a peculiar wondering uncertainty. Of fear there was none. All these sexless Lyranian women were brave to the point of foolhardiness. "'You tell her, Dragalpate,' he ordered his erstwhile guide. "'It took me hell's own time to make you understand that I mean business, but you talk her language. See how fast you can get the thing through her royal nib's skull.' It did not take long. The lovely dark green eyes held conviction now,

but also a greater uncertainty. "'It will be best, I think, to kill you now instead of allowing you to leave.' She began. Allow me to leave. Kinnison exploded. Where do you get such funny ideas as that killing stuff? Just who, Tuts, is going to keep me from leaving? This.

At the thought, a weirdly conglomerate monstrosity, which certainly had not been in the dining hall an instant before, leapt at Kinnison's throat. It was a frightful thing indeed, combining the worst features of the reptile and the feline, a serpent's head upon a panther's body. Through the air it hurtled, terrible claws unsheathed to rend

and venomous fangs outthrust to stab. Kinnison had never before met that particular form of attack, but he knew instantly what it was. Knew that neither leather nor armor of proof nor screen of force could stop it. He knew that the thing was real only to the woman and himself,

that it was not only invisible, but non-existent to everyone else. He also knew how ultimately deadly the creature was, knew that if claw or fang should strike him, he would die then and there. Ordinarily very efficient. To the lensman, this method of slaughter was crude and amateurish. No such figment of any other mind could harm him

unless he knew that it was coming, unless his mind was given ample time in which to appreciate, in reality to manufacture the danger he was in. And in that time his mind could negate it. He had two defenses. He could deny the monster's existence, in which case it would simply disappear, or a much more difficult,

but technically a much nicer course, would be to take over control and toss it back at her. Unhesitatingly, he did the latter. In mid-leap, the apparition swerved, in a full right-angle turn directly toward the quietly poised body of the Lyranian. She acted just barely in time. The madly reaching claws were within scant inches of her skin when they vanished. Her eyes widened in frightened startlement.

She was quite evidently shaken to the core by the Linsman's viciously skillful repost. With an obvious effort she pulled herself together. "'Or these, then, if I must.' And with a sweeping gesture of thought, she indicated the roomful of her Lyrr Iranian sisters. "'How?' Kinnison asked pointedly. "'By force of numbers, by sheer weight and strength. "'You can kill many of them with your weapons, of course,

"'but not enough or quickly enough. "'You yourself would be the first to die,' he cautioned her, and since she was on rapport with his very mind, she knew that it was not a threat, but the stern finality of fact. What of that? He in turn knew that she, too, met precisely that and nothing else.

He had another weapon, but she would not believe it without a demonstration, and he simply could not prove that weapon upon an unarmed, defenseless woman, even though she was a lyranian. Stalemate. No, the copter. Listen, Queen of Sheba, to what I tell my boys, he ordered and spoke into his microphone.

Ralph, stick a three-second needle down through the floor here, close enough to make her jump, but far enough away so that you won't blister her. Say about fifteen feet or so back. Fire. At Kinnison's word, a narrow but ragingly incandescent pencil of destruction raved downward through the ceiling and floor. So inconceivably hot was it that if it had been a fraction larger, it would have ignited the elder sister's very chair. Effortlessly, insatiably,

it consumed everything in its immediate path, radiating the while the entire spectrum of vibrations. It was unbearable, and the Auburn-haired creature did indeed jump in spite of herself, halfway to the door. The rest of the hitherto imperturbable persons, clustered together in panic-stricken knots.

"'You see, Cleopatra,' Kinnison explained as the dreadful needle beam expired. "'I've got plenty of stuff if I want to, or have to use it. The boys up there will stick a needle like that through the brain of anyone or everyone in this room if I give the word. I don't want to kill any of you unless it's necessary, as I explain to your Miss Barbard friend here. but I am leaving here alive and all in one piece, and I'm taking this Alda-Boranian along with me in the same condition. If I must, I'll lay down a barrage like that sample you just saw, and only the Zwillnick and I will get out alive.

How about it? What are you going to do with the stranger? The Lyrrhenian asked, avoiding the issue. I'm going to take some information away from her, that's all. Why? "'What were you going to do with her yourselves?' "'We were and are going to kill it,' came flashing reply. "'The lethal bolt came even before the reply,

"'but fast as the elder one was, the grey lensman was faster. "'He blinked out the thought, "'reached over and flipped on the Eldobaranian's thought-screen. "'Keep it on until we get to the ship, sister.' "'He spoke aloud in the girl's native tongue. "'Your battery's low, I know. but it'll last long enough. These hens seem to be strictly on the peck.

I'll say they are. You don't know the half of it. Her voice was low, rich, vibrant. Thanks, Kinnison. Listen, Scarlet Top, what's the percentage in playing so dirty? The lensman complained then. I'm doing my damnedest to let you off easy,

but I'm all done dickering. Do we go out of here peaceably, or do we fry you and your crew to cinders in your own lard and walk out over the grease spots? It's strictly up to you, but you'll decide right here and right now. The elder one's face was hard, her eyes flinty. Her fingers were curled into ball-tight fists. I suppose, since we cannot stop you, we must let you go free. She hissed in a helpless but controlled fury. If by giving my life and the lives of all these others we could kill you, here and now would you two die. But as it is, you may go. But why all the rage? The puzzle Lensman asked.

You strike me as being, on the whole, reasoning creatures. You in particular went to tell us with this Wilnick here, so you should know. I do know, the Lyrrhenian broke in. That is why I would go to any length, pay any price whatever, to keep you from returning to your own world, to prevent the in-rush of your barbarous hordes here. Oh, so that's it, Kinnison exclaimed. You think that some of our people might want to settle down here, or to have traffic with you? Yes. She went on into a eulogy concerning Lyrene, too, concluding, I have seen the planets and the races of your so-called civilization, and I detest the them and it. Never again shall any of us leave Lyrene, nor if I can help it, shall any stranger ever

again come here. Listen, Angel Face, the man commanded, you're as mad as a Radalijian cat eagle, you're as cock-eyed as Tranko's ether. Get this and get it straight. To any really intelligent being of any one of forty million planets, your whole Iranian race would be a total loss with no insurance. You're a god-forsaken, spiritually and emotionally starved, barren, mentally ossified, and completely monstrous mess. If I personally never see either you or your planet again, that will be exactly 27 minutes too soon. This girl here thinks the same of you as I do. If anybody else ever hears of Lyraine and thinks he wants to visit it, I'll take him out of, I'll knock a hip down on him if I have to, to keep you.

him away from here. Do I make myself clear?' "'Oh, yes, perfectly!' she fairly squealed in school-girlish delight. The Lensman's tirade, instead of infuriating her further, had been sweet music to her peculiarly insular mind. "'Go then at once. Hurry! Oh, please, hurry! Can you drive the car back to your vessel, or will one of us have to go with you?' "'Thanks. I could drive your car, but it be necessary. The copter will pick us up. He spoke to the watchful Ralph, then he and the Aldebaranian left the hall, followed at a careful distance by the throng. The helicopter was on the ground waiting. The man and the woman climbed aboard. Clear ether persons. The landsman

waved a salute to the crowd and the Tullurian craft shot into the air. Thence to the dauntless, which immediately did likewise, leaving behind her upon the little airport, a fused blob of metal that had once been the Zwillnick Speedster. Kinnison studied the white face of his captive, then handed her a tiny canister. Fresh battery for your thought-screen generator. Yours is about shot. Since he made no motion to accept it, he made the exchange himself and tested the result. It worked. What's the matter with you, kid, anyway?

I'd say that you were starved if I hadn't caught you at a full table. I am starved, the girl said simply. I couldn't eat there. I knew that they were going to kill me, and it... It sort of took away my appetite. Well, what are we waiting for? I'm hungry, too. Let's go eat. Not with you either, any more than with them.

I thanked you, Lensman, for saving my life there, and I meant it. I thought then, and still think, that I would rather have you kill me than those horrible monstrous women, but I simply can't eat. But I'm not even thinking of killing you. Can't you get that through your skull? I don't make war on women. You ought to know that by this time. You will have to. The girl's voice was low and level. You didn't kill any of those Lyranians, no, but you didn't chase them a million parsecs either. We have been taught ever since we were born that you patrolmen always torture people to death. I don't quite believe that of you personally, since I have had a couple of glimpses into your mind, but you'll kill me before I'll talk. At least I hope and I believe that I can hold out. Listen, girl, Kinnison was in deadly earnest. You are in no danger whatever. You were just as safe as though you were in Clonoh's hip pocket.

You have some information that I want, yes, and I will get it. But in the process, I will neither hurt you, nor do you mental or physical harm. The only torture you will undergo will be that which, as now you give yourself. But you call me a—a Zwillnick, and they always kill them, she protested. Not always. In battles and in raids, yes. Captured ones are tried in court. If found guilty, they used to go into the lethal chambers. Sometimes they do yet, but not usually. We have mental therapists now who can operate on a mind if there's anything there worth saving. And you think that I will wait to stand trial upon Tellis

in the entirely negligible hope that your bewiskered, fossilized therapist will find something in me worth saving? You won't have to, Kinnison laughed. Your case has already been decided, in your favor. I am neither a policeman nor a narcotics man, but I happen to be qualified as judge, jury, and executioner. I am a therapist to boot. I once saved a worse Zwillnick than you are, even though she wasn't quite such a knockout.

Now, do we eat? Really? You aren't just, just giving me the needle? The lensman flipped off her screen and gave her unmistakable evidence. The girl, hitherto so unmovedly self-reliant, broke down. She recovered quickly, however, and in Kiddison's cabin she ate ravenously. "'Have you a cigarette?' she sighed with replet when she could hold no more food. "'Sure. Alskineite, Veneerian, Tullurian, most anything. We carry a couple of hundred different brands. What would you like?'

"'Tillurian, by all means. I had a package of Camerian. field once. They were gorgeous. Would you have those by any chance? Uh-huh, he answered her. Quartermaster, Carden Cammer Fields, please. It popped out of the pneumatic tube in seconds. Here you are, sister. The glittery girl drew the fragrant smoke deep down into her lungs. Ah, that tastes good. Thanks, Kinnison, for everything. I'm glad that you hidded me into eating. That was the finest meal I ever ate. But it won't take, really. I have never broken yet, and I don't believe that I will break now. And if I do, I'm dead certain that I won't be worth a damn, to myself or to anybody else from then on. She crushed out the

butt. So, let's get on with the third degree. Bring on your rubber hose and your lights and the drip can. You're still on the wrong foot, Toots. Kinnison said pityingly. What a frightful contrast there was between her slimly rounded body in its fantastically gorgeous costume and the stark somberness of her eyes. There'll be no third degree, no hose, no lights, nothing like that. In fact, I'm not even going to talk to you until you've had a good long sleep.

You don't look hungry anymore, but you're still not in tune by seven thousand kilocycles. How long has it been since you really slothold? A couple of weeks, said a guess, maybe a month? Thought so. Come on, you're going to sleep now. The girl did not move. With whom? She asked quietly. Her voice did not quiver, but stark terror lay in her mind, and her hand crept unconsciously toward the hilt of her dagger. Holy Clonos claws! Kinnison snorted, staring at her in wide-eyed wonder. Just what kind of a bunch of hyenas do you think you've gotten into anyway? Bad, the girl replied gravely.

Not the worst possible, but from my standpoint, plenty bad enough. What can I expect from the patrol except what I do expect? You don't need to kid me along, Hinnison. I can take it, and I'd a lot rather take it standing up facing it than have you sneak up on me with it after giving me your shots in the arm. What somebody has done to you is a sin and a shrieking shame, Kinnison declared feelingly. Come on, you poor little devil.

He picked up sundry pieces of apparatus, then, taking her arm, he escorted her to another cabin. That door, he explained carefully, is solid tool steel. The lock is on the inside, and it cannot be picked. There are only two keys to it in the universe, and here they are. There is a bolt, too, that cannot be forced by anything short of a hydraulic jack.

Here's a full-covered screen, and here's a 20-foot spy-ray block. There is your stuff out of the speedster. If you want help or anything to eat or drink, or anything else that can be expected aboard a star wagon, there's the communicator. QX? Then you really mean it?

That I, that you, I mean, absolutely, he assured her. Just that. You are completely the master of your destiny, the captain of your soul. Good night. Good night, Kinnison. Good night and... Thanks. The girl threw herself face downward upon the bed in a storm of sobs. Nevertheless, as Kinnison started back toward his own cabin, he heard the massive bolt click into its socket and felt the blocking screens go on. End of Section 5. Section 6 of Second Stage Lensman. This liberal

of OX recording is in the public domain. Second Stage Lensman by E. E. Doc Smith Chapter 5 Some 12 or 14 hours later, after the Aldebaranian girl had had her breakfast, Kinnison went to her cabin. Hi, cutie, you look better.

By the way, what's your name, so we'll know what to call you? Ilona. Ilona what? No what, just Ilona. That's all. How do they tell you from the other alonnas then? Oh, you mean my registry number?

In the Aldebaran language, there are not the symbols. It would have to be the Ilona who is the daughter of Port-Lacant, the potter who lives in the house of, Hold everything. We'll call you Elona Potter. He eyed her keenly. I thought your Aldebaranian wasn't so hot. Didn't seem possible that I could have got that rusty.

You haven't been on Alda Baron, too, for a long time, have you? No, we moved to a Lona Bar when I was about six. Lona Bar, never heard of it. I'll check up on it later. Your stuff was all there, wasn't it? Did any of the red-headed persons things get mixed in? Things? She giggled suddenly, then sobered in quick embarrassment.

She didn't carry any. They're horrid, I think. Positively indecent to run around that. way. Hmm. Glad you brought the point up. You've got to put on some clothes aboard this ship, you know. Me? She demanded. Why, I'm fully dressed. She paused, then shrank together visibly. Oh, Telerians, I remember all those coverings. You mean then? You think I'm shameless and indecent, too? No, not at all. Yet? At his obvious insurmess, Elyona unfolded again.

Most of us, especially the officers, have been on so many different planets, had dealings with so many different types and kinds of entities, that we're used to anything. When we visit a planet that goes naked, we do also, as a matter of course. When we hit up one that muffles up to complete invisibility, we do that too.

When in Rome, be a Roman candle, you know. The point is that we're at home here. You're the visitor. It's all a matter of convention, of course, but a rather important one. Don't you think so? Covering up, certainly. Uncovering is different. They told me to be sure to, but I simply can't.

I tried it back there, but I felt naked. QX will have the tailor make you a dress or two. Some of the boys haven't been around very much, and you look pretty bare to them. Everything you've got on, jewelry and all, would make a to-lawful. luring sun suit, you know. Then have them hurry up the dress, please. But this isn't jewelry. It is—

Jet back, beautiful. I know, gold and platinum, and— The metal is expensive, yes, Ilona conceded. These alone—she tapped one of the delicate shields. Cost five days of work. But base metal stains the skin blue and green and black,

so what can one do? As for the beads, they're synthetics, junk. Poor girls, if they buy it themselves, do not wear jewelry, but beads like these. Half a day's work buys the lot. What? Kinnison demanded. Certainly. Rich girls only, or poor girls who do not work, wear real jewelry, such as— The Eldobaritan has not the words. Let me think it you, please. Sorry, nothing there that I recognize at all, Kinnison answered, after a studying a succession of thought images of multicolored spectacular gems.

That's one to file away in the book, too, believe me. But as to that junk you've got draped all over yourself, half a day's pay, what do you work at for a living when you work? I'm a dancer, like this. She leapt lightly to her feet, and her left boot whizzed past her ear in a flashingly fast high kick. Then followed a series of gyrations and contortions, for which the lansman knew known names, during which the girl seemed a practically boneless embodiment of suppleness and grace. She sat down.

Maticulous hairdress scarcely rumbled, not a buckle or bracelet or eye, breathing hardly one count faster. Nice, Kinnison applauded briefly. Hard for me to evaluate such talent as that. However, upon Tellis, or any one of a thousand other planets I could point out to you, you can sell that junk you're wearing for, At a rough guess, about fifty thousand days' work. Impossible.

True, nevertheless. So, before we land, you better give them to me, so that I can send them to a bank for you under guard. If I land. As Kinnison spoke, Ilona's manner changed, darkened as though an inner light had been extinguished. You have been so friendly and nice, I was forgetting where I am and the business ahead.

Putting it off won't make it any easier. Better be getting on with it, don't you think? Oh, that? That's all done, long ago. What? She almost screamed. It isn't. It couldn't be. Sure. I got most of the stuff I wanted last night while I was changing your thought-screen battery. Manjo Bliko, your big-shot boss, and so on.

You didn't. But... You must have it that, to know it. You didn't hurt me or anything. You couldn't have operated, changed me, because I have all my memories, or seem to. I'm not an idiot. I mean any more than usual. You've been taught a good many sheer lies and quite a few half-truths. He informed her evenly. For instance, what do they tell you that hollowed tooth would do to you when you broke the seal? Make my mind a blank. But one of their doctors would get hold of me very soon and give me the antidote that would restore me exactly as I was before. That is one of the half-truths. It would certainly have made your mind a blank,

but only by blasting nine-tenths of your memory files out of existence. Their therapists would restore you by substituting other memories for your own, whatever other ones they pleased. How horrible! How perfectly ghastly! "'That was why you treated it so then, as though it were a snake. I wondered at your savagery toward it. "'But how really do I know that you are telling the truth?' "'You don't,' he admitted. "'You will have to make your own decisions after acquiring full information.'

"'You are a therapist,' she remarked shrewdly. "'But if you operated upon my mind, you didn't save me because I still still think exactly the same as I always did about the patrol and everything pertaining to it. Or do I? Or is this? Her eyes widened with a startling possibility. No, I didn't operate, he assured her. No such operation can possibly be done without leaving scars, breaks in the memory chains, that you can find in a minute if you look for them. There are no breaks or blanks in any chain in your mind. "'No, at least I can't find any,' she reported after a few minutes thought.

"'But why didn't you? You can't turn me loose this way, you know. A Z, an enemy of your society. You don't need saving. You believe in absolute good and absolute evil, don't you?' "'Why, of course, certainly, everybody must. Not necessarily. Some of the greatest thinkers in the universe do not. His voice grew somber, then lightened again. Such being the case, however, all that you need to save yourself is experience, observation, and knowledge of both sides of the question. You're a colossal little fraud, you know. How do you mean? She blushed vividly, her eyes wavered. Pretending to be such a hard-boiled egg? Never broke yet. Why should you have broken when you have never been under pressure.

I have, so, she flared. What do you suppose I'm carrying this knife for? Oh, that. He mentally shrugged the wicked little dagger aside as he pondered. You little lamb in wolf's clothing. But at that, your memories may, I think, be altogether too valuable to monkey with. There's something funny about this whole matrix, damned funny.

Come clean, angel face. Why? They told me, Elona admitted, wriggling slightly, to act tough, really tough, as though I were an adventurous, who had been everywhere and had done, done everything, that the worse I acted, the better I would get along in your civilization.

I suspected something of the sort. And what did you's will— Excuse me, you folks go to Lyrain for in the first place? I don't know. From chance remarks, I gathered that we were to land upon one of the planets, anyone, I supposed, and wait for somebody. What were you personally going to do? I don't know that either. Not exactly, that is. Whoever it was that we were going to meet was going to give us instructions. How come those women killed your men? Didn't they have thought screens too?

No, they were not agents, just soldiers. They killed about a dozen of them. the Lyranians when we first landed, to demonstrate their power, then they dropped dead. Um, poor technique, but typically Bosconian. Your trip to Tellus was more or less accidental, then? Yes, I wanted her to take me back to Lanabar, but she wouldn't. She learned about Tellus and the patrol from our minds. None of them could believe at first that there were any inhabited worlds except their own, and wanted to study them at first-hand-hand. So she took our ship and used me as—as a sort of blind, I think. I see. I'm not surprised. I thought that there was something remarkably screwy about those

activities. They seemed so aimless and so barren of results. But I couldn't put my finger on it. And we crowded her so close that she decided to flit for home. You drove the ship and picked her up. You could see her, but nobody else could. That she did. didn't want to. That was it. She said that she was being hampered by a mind of power. That was you, of course. And others. Well, that's that for a while. He called the tailor in. No, he didn't have a thing to make a girl's dress out of, especially not a girl like that. She should wear glamorette and sheer, very sheer. He didn't know a thing about ladies tailoring either. He hadn't made a gown since he was knee-high to.

a duck. All he had in the shop was coat linings. Perhaps nylon would do, after a fashion. He remember now, he did have a bolt of gray nylon that wasn't good for linings, not stiff enough. Far too heavy, of course, but it would drape well. It did. She came swaggering back an hour or so later, the hem of her skirt swishing against the tops of her high-laced boots. "'Do you like it?' she asked, pirouetting gaily. "'Fine,' he applauded, and it was. The tailorhead understated tremendously both his ability and the resources of his shop. "'Now what? I don't have to stay in my room all the time now, please.'

"'I'll say not. The ship is yours. I want you to get acquainted with every man on board. Go anywhere you like, except the private quarters, of course, even to the control room. The boys all know that you're at large. "'The language. But I'm talking English now. "'Sure. I've been giving it to you right along. You know it as well now as I do.' She stared at him in awe. Then her natural buoyancy asserting itself, she flitted out of the room with a wave of her hand. And Kinnison sat down to think. A girl, a kid who wasn't dry behind the ears yet, wearing beads worth a full-grown fortune, sent somewhere, to do what?

Lyrene 2. A perfect matriarchy. Lonebar, a planet of Zwillnix that knew all about Tulles, but that Tullus had never even heard of, sending expeditions to Lyraine. To the system, perhaps, not specifically to Lyraine too.

Why? For what? To do what? Strange new jewels of fabulous value. What was the hookup? It didn't make any kind of sense yet, not enough data. And faintly, waveringly, barely impinging upon the outermost, most tenuous fringes of his mind, he felt something, the groping, questing summons of an incredibly distant thought.

Male of civilization, person of tellus, kinnessin of tellus, lensman kinison of Saul three, any lens-bearing official of the Galactic Patrol. Endlessly, the desperately urgent, almost imperceptible thought implored. Kinnison stiffened. He reached out with the full power of his mind, seized the thought, tuned to it, and hurled a reply. And when that mind really pushed a thought, it traveled. Kinnison of Tellus acknowledging. His answer fairly crackled on its way.

You do not know my name, the stranger's thought came clearly now. I am the Tuts, the Queen of Sheba, the Cleopatra, the elder person of Lyrain II. Do you know me, O Kyneson of Saul III? I know you, he shot back. What a brain! What a terrific brain that sexless woman had! We are invaded by manlike beings and ships of sea. space, who wear screens against our thoughts and who slay without cause. Will you help us with your ship of might and your mind of power?'

"'Just a sec, Toots.' "'Henderson!' Order snapped. The dauntless spun end for end. "'Q X, Helen of Troy,' he reported then. "'We're on our way back there at maximum blast. "'Say, that name Helen of Troy fits you better than anything else I have called you. You don't know it, of course, but that other Helen launched a thousand ships. You're launching only one. But believe me, babe, the old Dauntless is some ship.

I hope so. The person of Lyrain, too, ignoring the by-play, went directly to the heart of the matter in her usual pragmatic fashion. We have no right to ask. You have every reason to refuse. Don't worry about that, Helen. We're all good little boy scouts at heart. We're supposed to do a good deed every day,

and we have missed a lot of days lately. You are what you call kidding, I think. A matriarch could not be expected to possess a sense of humor. But I do not lie to you or pretend. We did not, do not now, and never will like you or yours. With us now, however, it is that you are more, much the lesser of two terrible evils. If you will aid us now, we will tolerate your patrol.

And that's big of you, Helen, no fooling. The lendsman was really impressed. The plight of the Lyrranias must be desperate indeed. Just keep a stiff upper lip, all of you. We're coming loaded for bear, and were not exactly creeping. Nor were they. The big cruiser had plenty of legs, and she was using them all. the engineers were giving her all the oof that her drivers would take.

She was literally blasting a hole through space. She was traveling so fast that the atoms of substance in the interstellar vacuum, merely waveforms though they were, simply could not get out of the flyer's way. They were being blasted into nothingness against the dauntless wall shields. And throughout her interior, the patrol ship, always in complete readiness for strife, was being gone over again with microscopic thoroughness to be put into more readiness, if possible, even than that. After a few hours, Ilona danced back to Kinnison's con-room, fairly bubbling over.

"'They're marvelous, lendsmen,' she cried. "'Simply marvelous!' "'What are marvelous?' "'The boys,' she enthused. "'All of them. "'They're here because they want to be. "'Why, the officers don't even have whips. They liked them actually.

The officers who push the little buttons and things, and those who walk around and look through the little glass things, and even the gray-haired old man with the four stripes, why, they liked them all. And the boys were all putting on guns when I left. Why, I never heard of such a thing. And they're just simply crazy about you. I thought it was awfully funny that you took off your guns

as soon as the ship left Lyrain, and that you don't have guards around you all the time, because I thought, sure, somebody would stab you in the back or something. But they don't even want to, and that's what's so marvelous. And Hank Henderson told me, Save it, he ordered. Jet back, Angel Face, before you blow a fuse. He had been right in not operating.

This girl was going to be a mind of information concerning Bosconian methods and operations, and all without knowing it. That's what I've been trying to tell you about our civilization, that it's founded upon the freedom of the individual to do pretty much as he pleases, as long as it is not to the public harm, and as far as possible, equality of all the entities of civilization. Uh-huh, I know you did. She nodded brightly, then sobered quickly. But I couldn't understand it. I can't understand it yet.

I can scarcely believe that you all are so. You know, don't you, what would happen if this were a Lonebarian ship, and I would go running around talking to officers as though I were there equal? No, what? It's inconceivable, of course. It simply couldn't happen. But if it did, I would be punished terribly. Perhaps, though, at a first offence, I might be given only a twenty-scar whipping.

At his lifted eyebrows. she explained. One that leaves 20 scars that show for life. That's why I'm acting so intoxicated, I think. You see, she hesitated shyly. I am not used to being treated as anybody's equal, except, of course, other girls like me. Nobody is on Lanbarar. Everybody's higher or lower than you are. I'm going to simply love this when I get accustomed to it. She spread both arms in a sweeping gesture. I'd like to squeeze this whole ship and everybody in it. I just can't wait to get to tell us and really live there. That's a thing that's been bothering me, Kineson confessed, and the girl stared wonderingly at his serious face. We are going into battle, and we can't take time to land you

anywhere before the battle starts. Of course not. Why should you? She paused, thinking deeply. You're not worrying about me, surely. Why, you're a high officer. Officers don't care whether a girl is shot or not, do they? The thought was obviously utterly new. We do. It's extremely poor hospitality to invite a guest aboard and then have her killed. All I can say, though, is that if our number goes up, I hope that you can forgive me for getting you into it. Oh, thanks, Gray-Lensman. Nobody ever spoke to me like that before. But I wouldn't land if I could. I'd like civilization. If you, if you don't win, I couldn't go to tell us anyway, so I'd much rather take my chances here than not, sir, really. I'll never go back to Lana Barr in any case. At a girl, Toots. He extended his hand.

She looked at it dubiously, then hesitantly stretched out her own. But she learned fast. She put as much pressure into the brief hand-clasp as Kinnison did. You better blast off now. I've got work to do. Go anywhere you like until I call you. Before the trouble starts, I'm going to put you down in the center where you'll be as safe as possible. The girl hurried away and the linsman got into communication with Helen of Lyrane, who gave him then a resume of everything that had happened. Two ships, big ships, immense space cruisers, appeared near the airport.

Nobody saw them coming, they came so fast. They stopped, and without warning or parley, destroyed all the buildings and all the people nearby with beams like Kinnison's needlebeam, except much larger. Then the ships landed, and men disembarked. The Lyrannians killed ten of them by direct mental impact or by monsters of the mind, but after that everyone who came out of the vessel wore a thought screen and the persons were quite helpless. The enemy had burned down and melted a part of the city, and as a further warning, were then making formal plans to execute publicly a hundred leaving Lyrannians,

ten for each man they had killed. Because of the screens, no communication was possible, but the invaders had made it clear that if there was one more sign of resistance, or even of non-cooperation, the entire city would be raid and every living thing in it blasted out of existence. She herself had escaped so far. She was hidden in a crypt in the deepest subseller of the city. She was, of course, one of the ones they wanted to execute, but finding any of Lyrne's leaders would be extremely difficult, if not impossible. They were still searching with many persons as highly unwilling guides. They had indicated that they would stay there until the leaders were found,

that they would make the Lyranians tear down their city stone by stone until they were found. But how could they know who your leaders are? Kinnison wanted to know. Perhaps one of our persons weakened under their torture, Helen replied equably. Perhaps they have among them a mind of power. Perhaps in some other fashion. What matters it? "'The thing of importance is that they do know.' "'Another thing of importance is that it'll hold them there until we get there,' Kinnison thought.

"'Typical Basconian technique, I gather. "'It won't be many hours now. Hold them off if you can.' "'I think that I can,' came Trank will reply. "'Through mental contact, each person acting as guide knows where each of us hidden ones is and is avoiding all our hiding places. Good. Tell me all you can about those ships, their size, shape, and armament. She could not, it developed, give him any reliable information as to size. She thought that the President Vaders were smaller than the dauntless, but she could not be sure.

Compared to the little airships which were the only flying structures with which she was familiar, both Kinnison ships and those now upon Lyrain were so immensely huge that trying to tell which was larger was very much like attempting to visualize the difference between infinity squared and infinity cubed. On shape, however, she was much better. She spread in the lensman's mind an accurately detailed picture of the two spaceships which the patrolmen intended to engage. In shape, they were ultra-fast, very much like the dauntless herself. Hence, they certainly were not maulers. Nor probably. were the first-line battleships, such as had composed the fleet which had met Civilization's

grand fleet off the edge of the Second Galaxy. Of course, the patrol had had in that battle ultra-fast ships which are ultra-powerful as well, such as this same dauntless, and it was a fact that while civilization was designing and building, Baskonia could very well have been doing the same thing. On the other hand, since the enemy could not logically be expecting real trouble in Dunstan's region. These cans might very well be second-line or out-of-date stuff. Are those ships lying in the same field we landed on? He asked at that point in his cogitations. Yes. You can give me pretty close to an actual measurement of the difference then, he told her. We left a hole in that field practically our whole length. How does it compare with theirs?

I can find that out, I think. And in due time, She did so, reporting that the dauntless was the longer by some twelve times a person's height. Thanks, Helen. Then and only then did Kinnison leave his private conning room and called his officers into consultation in the control room. He told them everything he had learned and deduced about the two Basconian vessels which they were about to attack. Then, the heads bent over a visit tank. The patrolman began to discuss strategy and tactics. End of Section 6. Section 7

of Second Stage Lensman This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Second Stage Lensman by E.E. Doc Smith Chapter 6 As the Nautilus approached Lyrene 2 so nearly that the planet showed a perceptible disc upon the plates, the observers began to study their detectors carefully.

Nothing registered. and a brief interchange of thoughts with the chief person of Lyrain informed the linsman that the two Baskonian warships were still upon the ground. Indeed, they were going to stay upon the ground until after the hundred Lyrainian leaders, most of whom were still safely hidden, had been found and executed, exactly as per announcement.

The strangers had killed many persons by torture, and were killing more in attempts to make them reveal the hiding places of the leaders, but little if any real information was being obtained. Good technique, perhaps, from a bull-headed dictatorial standpoint, but it strikes me as being damned poor tactics, grunted Malcolm Craig, the dauntless grizzled captain, when Kiddison had relayed the information. I'll say it's poor tactics, the lendsman agreed.

If Helmuth or one of the living military hot shots of his caliber were down there, one of those cans would be out on guard flitting all over space. But how could they be expecting trouble way out here, 9,000 parsecs from anywhere? argued Chathway, the chief firing officer. They ought to be. That's the point. This from Henderson. Where do we land, Kim? Did you find out?

Not exactly. They're on the other side of the planet from here now. Good thing we don't have to get rid of a Tullerian intrinsic this time. It'll be a near thing as it is. And it was. Scarcely was the intrinsic velocity matched to that of the planet, when the observers reported that the airport upon which the enemy lay was upon the horizon. Inertialis, the Dauntless flashed away, going inert and into action simultaneously

when within range of the Zwillnick ships. Within range of one of them, that is. For short as the time had been, the crew of one of the Basconian vessels had been sufficiently alert to get her away. The other one did not move, then or ever. The patrolman acted with flawless smoothness of long practice and perfect teamwork. At the first sign of Zwillnick activity, as revealed by his spy rays, Nelson, the chief communications officer, loosed a barrage of ethereal and sub-etherial static interference

to which no communications beam or signal could be driven. Captain Craig barked a word into his microphone, and every dreadful primary that could be brought to bear erupted as one weapon. Chief Pilot Henderson, after a casual glance below, cut in the Bergenholmes, tramped in his blasts, and set the cruiser's narrow nose into his tracers line. One glance was enough. He needed no orders as to what to do next. It would have been apparent to almost anyone, even to one of the persons of Lyrain, that that riddled, slashed, three-quarters-fused massive junk

never again would be or could contain odd of menace. The patrol ship had not stopped, has scarcely even paused. Now, having destroyed half of the opposition on Passant, she legged it after the remaining half. "'Now what, Kim?' asked Captain Craig. "'We can englob him, and he no doubt mounts tractor shears. "'We'll have to use the new tractor zone, won't we?' Ordinarily, the gray-haired four-striper would have made his own decisions, since he and he alone

fought his ship. But these circumstances were far from ordinary. First, any unattached lensman, wherever he was, was the boss. Second, the tractor zone was new, so brand new that even the Dauntless had not as yet used it. Third, the ship was on detached duty, assigned directly to Kinnison to do with as he willed. Fourth, said Kinnison was high in the confidence of the Galactic Council, and would know whether or not the present situation justified the use of the new mechanism. If he can cut a tractor, yes, the lensman agreed. Only one ship. He can't get away, and he can't communicate.

Safe enough, go to it. The Tullorian ship was faster than the Bosconian, and, since she had been only seconds behind at the start, she came within striking distance of her quarry in short order. Tractor beams reached out and seized, but only momentarily did they hold. At the first pull they were cut cleanly away. No one was surprised. It had been taken for granted that all Busconian ships would by this time have been equipped with tractor shears. These shears have been developed originally by the scientists of the patrol.

Immediately following that invention, looking forward to the time when Boscon would have acquired it, those same scientists set themselves to the task of working out something which would be just as good as a tractor-beam for combat purposes, but which could not be cut. They got it finally, a globular shell of force, very much like a meteorite screen, except a double in phase. That is, it was completely impervious to matter moving in either direction, instead of only to that, moving inwardly. Even if exact data as to generation, gauging, distance, and control of this weapon were available, which they very definitely are not, it would serve no good end to detail them here. Suffice it to say that the Dauntless mounted tractor zones and had ample power to hold them.

Closer up, the patrol ship blasted. The zone snapped on, well beyond the Basconian, and tightened. Henderson cut the Bergenhomes. Captain Craig's snapped out orders, and Chief Firing Officer Chatway and his boys did their stuff. Defensive screens full out, the Pirates stayed free and tried to run. No soap. She merely slid around upon the frictionless inner surface of the zone. She rolled and she spun. Then she went inert and rammed. Still no soap. She struck the zone and bounced, bounced with all of her mass and against all the power of her driving thrust. The impact jarred the Dauntless to her very skin, but the zone's anchorage had been computed and installed by top-flight

engineers, and they held. And the zone itself held. It yielded a bit, but it did not fail, and the sheer plains of the pirates could not cut it. Then, no other course being possible, the Baskonians fought. Of course, theoretically, surrender was possible, but it simply was not done. No pirate ship ever had surrendered to a patrol force, however large. None ever would. No patrol ship had ever surrendered to Bascone, or would. That was the unwritten but grimly understood code of this internecine conflict between two galaxy-wide and diametrically opposed cultures. It was and had to be a war of utter and complete extermination. Individuals or small groups might be captured bodily,

But no ship, no individual even, ever, under any conditions, surrendered. The fight was, always and everywhere, to the death. So this one was. The enemy was well armed of her type, but her type simply did not carry projectors of sufficient power to break down the dauntless, hard-held defensive screens. Nor did she mount screens heavy enough to withstand for long the furious assault of the patrol's terrific primaries.

As soon as the pirate screens went down, the firing stopped. That order had been given long since. Kinnison wanted information. He wanted charts. He wanted a few living Baskonians. He got nothing. Not a man remained alive aboard the riddled Hulk. The chart room contained only heaps of fused ash.

Everything which might have been of use to the patrol had been destroyed, either by the patrol's own beams or by the pirates themselves after they saw they must lose. Beam it out, Craig ordered, and the remains of the Baskonian warship disappeared. Back toward Lyrain too, then, the dauntless went, and Kinnison again made contact with Helen, the elder sister. She had emerged from her crypt

and was directing affairs from her, office, is perhaps the word, upon the top floor of the city's largest building. The search for the Lyrainian leaders, the torture and murder of the citizens, and the destruction of the city had stopped all at once when the grounded Baskonian cruiser had been blasted out of commission.

The directing intelligences of the raiders had remained it developed within the safe confines of their vessel's walls. And when they ceased directing, their minions in the actual theater of operations ceased operating. They had been grouped uncertainly in an open square, but at the first glimpse of the returning Dauntless they had dashed into the nearest large building,

each man seizing one or sometimes two persons as he went. They were now inside, erecting defenses, and very evidently, intending to use the Lyranians both as hostages and as shields. Motionless now, directly over the city, Kinnison and his officers studied through their spy race the number, armament, and disposition of the enemy force. There were 130 of them, human to about six places.

They were armed with the usual portable weapons carried by such parties. Originally, they had had several semi-portable projectors, but since all heavy stuff must be powered from the mothership, it had been abandoned long since. Surprisingly, though, they wore full armor. Kinnison had expected only thought screens, since the Lyranians had no offensive weapons, save those of the mind. But apparently, either the pirates did not know that or else were guarding against surprise.

Armor was and is heavy, cumbersome, a handicap to fast action, and a nuisance generally. Hence for the Baskonians to have dispensed with it would not have been poor tactics. True, the patrol did attack, but that could not have been what was expected. In fact, had such an attack been in the cards, that Basconian punitive party would not have been on the ground at all. It was equally true that Canny old Helmuth, who took nothing whatever for granted, would have had his men in armor. However, he would have guarded much more completely against surprise, but few commanders indeed went to such lengths of precaution as Helmuth did. Thus Kinnison pondered. This ought to be as easy as shooting fish down a well.

But you better put out space scouts just the same, he decided, as he punched a call for Lieutenant Peter Van Buskirk. "'Bus? Do you see what we see?' "'A-huh. We've been peeking a bit,' the huge Dutch Valerian responded happily. "'QX. Get your gang wrapped up in their tinware. I'll see you at the main lower stabberlock in ten minutes.' He switched off and turned to an orderly. "'Bre out my GP cage for me, will you, Spike?'

"'And I'll want the copters. Tell them to get hot.' "'But listen, Kim!' and, "'you can't do that, Kinnison,' came simultaneously from chief pilot and captain, neither of whom could leave the ship in such circumstances as these. They, the vessel's two top officers, were bound to her, while the linsman, although ranking both of them, even aboard ship, was not and could not be bound by anything. "'Sure I can. You fellows are just jealous, that's all,' Kinnison retorted cheerfully. "'I not only can, I've got to go with the Valerians. I need a lot of information, and I can't read a dead man's brain, yet.'

While the storming party was assembling, the Daughtless settled downward, coming to rest in the already devastated section of the town, as close as possible to the building in which the Bosconians had taken refuge. One hundred and two men disembarked. Kinnison, Van Buskirk, and the full company of 100 Valerians. Each of those space-fighting wildcats measured 78 inches or more from Seoul to Crown. Each was composed of 400 or more pounds of the fantastically powerful, rigid, and reactive brawn, bone, and sinew, necessary for survival upon a planet, having surface gravity

almost three times of that of small, feeble terror. Because of the women held captive by the pirates, the Valerians carried no machine rifles, no semi-portables, no heavy stuff at all. Only their dilameters, and of course their space-axes. A valerian trooper without his space-ax, unthinkable. A dire weapon, indeed, the space-ax. A combination and sublimation of battle-axe, mace, bludgeon and lumberman's pickeroon. Thirty pounds of hard, tough, space-tempered alloy.

A weapon of potentialities limited only by the physical strength and bodily agility of its wielder. And Van Busker's Valerians had both. Plenty of both. One-handed, with simple flicks of his incredible wrist, the smallest Valerian of the Dauntless boarding party, could manipulate his atrocious weapon as effortlessly as, and almost unbelievably faster than a fencing master handles his rapier, or an orchestra conductor waves his baton. With machine-like precision, the Valerians fell in and strode away. Van Buskirk in the lead, the helicopters hovering overhead, the gray linsman bringing up the rear.

Tall and heavy, strong and agile as he was, for a tellurian, he had no business in that front line, and no one knew that fact better than he did. The puniest Valerian of the company could do in full armor a standing high jump of over fourteen feet, and could dodge, faint, parry, and swing with a blinding speed starkly impossible to any member of any of the physically lesser breeds of man. Approaching the building they spread out, surrounded it, and at a signal from the helicopter that the ring was complete, the assault began.

doors and windows were locked, barred and barricaded, of course. But what of that? A few taps of the axes and a few blasts of the dilameters took care of things very nicely, and through the openings thus made their leapt, dove, rolled or strode, the space black and silver warriors of the Galactic Patrol. Valerians, then whom no fierce a race of hand-to-hand fighters has ever been known, no bifurcate race, but very few others, however, built or shaped, had ever willingly come to grips with the armored ax-men of Valeria. Not by choice, then, but of necessity, and in sheer desperation, the pirates fought. In the vicious beams of their portables, the stone walls of the room glared a baleful red.

In spots even were pierced through. Old-fashioned pistols barked, spitting steel-jacketed lead. But the GP suits were screened against lethal beams by generators capable of withstanding anything of lesser power than a semi-portable projector. GP armor was proof against any projectile possessing less energy than that hurled by the high-calibre machine rifle. Thus the Basconian beam splashed off the Valerian screens in torrents of mad-made lightning and in pyrotechnic displays of multicolored splendor. Their bullets ricocheted harmlessly as spent misshapen blobs of metal.

The patrolmen did not even draw their delameters during their inexorable advance. They knew that the pirate's armor was as capable as theirs, and the women were not to die if death for them could possibly be avoided. As they advanced, the enemy fell back toward the center of the great room, holding there with the Lyrannians forming the outer ring of their roughly circular formation, firing over the women's heads and between their naked bodies. Kinnison did not want those women to die. It seemed, however, that die they must, from the sheer tremendous reflection from the Valerian's fiercely radiant screens, if the patrolman persisted in their advance. He studied the enemy formation briefly, then flashed in order.

There ensued a startling and entirely unorthodox maneuver, one possible only to the troopers there at work, as at Kinnison's command every Valerian left the floor in a prodigious leap. Over the women's heads, over the heads of the enemy, but in mid-leap, as he passed, he passed, passed over, each patrolman swung his axe at a Basconian helmet with all the speed and all the power he could muster. Most of the enemy died then and there, for the helmet has never been forged, which is able to fend the diamond beak of a space axe driven as each of those was driven. The fact that the Valerians were nine or ten feet off the floor at the time made no difference whatever. They were space fighters, trained to handle themselves and their weapons in any position

or situation, with or without gravity, with or without even inertia. You persons, run! Get out of here! Scram! Kinnison fairly shouted the thought as the Valerians left the floor, and the matriarchs obeyed, frantically. Through doors and windows they fled, in all directions and at the highest possible speed. But in their enthusiasm to strike down the foe, not one of the Valerians had paid any attention to the exact spot upon which he was to land, or if he did, someone else got there either first or just barely second. Besides, there was not room for them all in the center of the ring. For seconds, therefore, confusion reigned, and a boiler-works clanger resounded for a mile around as a hundred and one extra big and extra

heavy men, a writhing, kicking, pulling tangle of armor, axes and equipment, jammed into a space which half their number would have filled over full. Sulfurous Valerian profanity and sizzling deep space oaths blistered the very air as each warrior struggled madly to write himself, to get one more crack at a pirate before somebody else beat him to it. During this terrible melee, some of the pirates released their screens and committed suicide. A few got out of the room, but not many. Not far, the men in the helicopter. saw to that.

They had needlebeams powered from the dauntless, which went through the screens of personal armor as a knife goes through ripe cheese. Save it, guys, hold everything, Kinnison yelled, as the tangled mass of Valerians resolved itself into erect and warlike units. No more axe work. Don't let them kill themselves. Catch them alive!

They did so quickly and easily. With the women out of the way, there was nothing to prevent the Valerians from darting right up to the muzzles of the foes delameters. Nor could the enemy dodge or run half fast enough to get away. Armored, shielded hands batted the weapons away. If an armor leg broke in the process, what the hell? And the victim was held motionless until his turn came to face the mind-reading Kinnison.

Nothing. Nothing flat. A string of zeros. And bitterly silent, Kinnison led the... the way back to the dauntless. The men he wanted, the ones who knew anything, were the ones who killed themselves, of course. Well, why not? In like case, officers of the patrol had undoubtedly done the same. The live ones didn't know where their planet was,

could give no picture even of where it lay in the galaxy, did not know where they were going, nor why. Well, so what? Wasn't ignorance the prime characteristic of the bottom layers of dictator, ships everywhere. If they had known anything, they would have been under orders to kill themselves, too, and would have done it. In his con-room in the Dauntless, his black mood lightened somewhat, and he called the elder person. Helen of Troy, I suppose that the best thing we can do now, for your peace of mind, prosperity, well-being, etc., is to drill out of here as fast as Clano and

the Nashbeb king will let us, right? "'Why, I—you—that is—' The matriarch was badly flustered at the Linsman's bald summation of her attitude. She did not want to agree, but she certainly did not want these males around a second longer than was necessary. "'Just as well say it, because it goes double for me. You can play it clear across the board, Toots, that if I ever see you again, it will be because I can't get out of it. Then to his chief pilot, Q. X. Hen, gave her the oof, back to tell us.

End of Section 7. Section 8. Of Second Stage Lensman. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Second Stage Lensman. By E. Doc Smith. Chapter 7. Through the ether, the mighty dauntless board her serene way homeward at the easy touring blast for her of some 80 parsecs an hour.

The engineers inspected and checked their equipment, from instrument needles to blast nozzles, relining, repairing, replacing anything and everything which showed any sign of wear or strain because of what the big vessel had just gone through. Then they relaxed into their customary routine of killing time. The games of a dozen planets, and the vying with each other in the telling of outrageously untruthful stories.

The officers on watch lulled at ease in their cushioned seats, making much ado of each tiny thing as it happened, even the changes of watch. The Valerians, as usual, remained invisible in their own special quarters. There, the gravity was set at 2,700, instead of at the Tullerian normal of 980. There, the atmospheric pressure was 40 pounds to the square inch. There, the temperature was 96 degrees Fahrenheit. And there, Van Busskirk and Girk and his fighters lived and moved and had their daily drills of fantastic violence and stress. They were irked less than any of the others by monotony, being, as has been intimated previously, neither mental nor intellectual giants. And Kinnison, mirror-polished gray boots,

stacked in all their majestic size upon a corner of his desk, leaned his chair precariously backward and thawed in black concentration. It still didn't make any kind of sense. He had just enough clues, fragments of clues, to drive a man nuts. Menjo Bliko was the man he wanted, on Lanabar. To find one was to find the other. But how in the steaming hells of Venus was he going to find either of them? It might seem funny not to be able to find a thing as big as a planet, but since nobody knew where it was by fifty thousand parsecs,

and since there were millions and scillions and willions of planets in the galaxy, a random search was quite definitely out. Bliko was a Zwillnick, or tied in with Zwillnicks, of course. But he could read a million Zwillnick minds without finding, except by Miris chance, one having any contact with or knowledge of the Lannabarian. The patrol had already scoured fruitlessly, Aldebaran, too, for any sign, however slight, pointing toward Lannabar. The planetographers had searched the files,

that charts the libraries thoroughly. No Lanabar. Of course they had suggested, what a help, they might know it under some other name. Personally, he didn't think so, since no jeweler throughout the far-flung bounds of civilization has as yet been found who could recognize or identify any of the items he had described. Whatever avenue or alley of thought Kness had started along, he always ended up with the jewels and the girl. Ilona, the squirrel-brained, romping, joyous little imp, who by now owned in fee-simple half of the ship and nine-tenths of the crew. Why in Palaine's purple hells could she have a brain back of that beautiful pan? But at that, he had to admit she was smarter than most.

You couldn't expect any other woman in the galaxy to have a mind like Max. For minutes then, he abandoned his problem and reveled in visions of the mental and physical perfections of his fiancée. But this was getting him nowhere fast. The girl or the jewels, which. They were the only real angles he had. He sent out a call for her, and in a few minutes she came swirling in. How different she was from what she had been.

Gone with the somberness, the dread, the terror which had oppressed her. Gone were the class-conscious inhibitions against which she had been rebelling, however subconsciously, since child, childhood. Here she was free. The boys were free. Everybody was free. She had expanded tremendously, unfolded. She was living as she had never dreamed it possible to live. Each new minute was an adventure in itself. Her black eyes, once so dull, sparkled with animation, radiated her sheer joy in living. Even her jet black hair seemed to have taken on a new luster and gloss in its every precisely arranged wavelet.

"'Hi, lensman!' Ilona burst out before Kinnison could say a word or think a thought in greeting. "'I'm so glad you sent for me, because there's something I've been wanting to ask you for days. The boys are going to throw a blowout, with all kinds of stunts, and they want me to do a dance. QX, do you think?' "'Sure, why not?' "'Cloze,' she explained. I told them I couldn't dance in a dress, and they said that I wasn't supposed to, that acrobats didn't wear dresses when they performed on tellus.

I said they lied like thieves, and they swore they didn't. Said to ask the old man— She broke off, two knuckles jammed into her mouth, expressive eyes wide in sudden fright. "'Oh, excuse me, sir?' she gasped. "'I didn't. "'S matter. What bit you?' Kinnison asked, then got it. "'Oh, the old man, huh?' "'Q X, Angel Face.

"'That is standard nomenclature in the patrol. "'Not with you folks, though, I take it.' "'I'll say not,' she breathed. "'She acted as though a catastrophe "'have been averted by the narrowest possible margin.' "'Why, if anybody got caught even thinking such a thing, "'the whole crew would go into the steamer that very minute. "'And if I would dare to say hi to Mendo Bliko,' she shuddered.

"'Nice people,' Kinnison commented. "'But are you sure that the—that I'm not getting any of the boys into trouble?' she pleaded. "'For, after all, none of them ever dare call you that to your face, you know.' "'You haven't been around enough yet,' he assured her. "'On duty, no. That's discipline, necessary for efficiency. "'And I haven't hung around the wardrooms much of late. Been too busy. but at the party you'll be surprised at some of the things they call me, if you happen to hear them. You've been practicing, keeping in shape?

Uh-huh, she confessed, in my room with the spy-ray block on. Good. No need to hide, though, and no need to wear dresses any time you're practicing. The boys were right on that. What do you think of this pseudo-inertia as compared to the real thing? He did not actually care what she thought of it. He was merely making conversation to cover up the fact that he was probing the deepest recesses of her mind. I like it, even better in some ways. Your legs and arms feel as though they were following through perfectly.

But if you kick something or come down too hard in a forward flip, back flips are easy. It doesn't hurt. It's nice. Must be, he agreed absently. Got to watch out for yourself, though, when you get back onto a planet. Now, I want you to help me, will you? Yes, sir. In anything I can.

Anything, sir, she answered instantly. I want you to give me every scrap of information you possibly can about Lanabar, its customs and habits, its work and its play, everything, even its money and its jewelry. This last, apparently, an afterthought. To do so, you'll have to let me into your mind of your own free will. You'll have to cooperate to the limit of your capability. QX? That will be quite all right, Lensman.

She agreed shyly. I know now that you are not going to hurt me. Ilona did not like it at first. There was no question of that. At small wonder. It is an intensely disturbing thing to have your mind invaded knowingly by another, particularly when that other

is the appallingly powerful mind of Gray Lensman Kimball. Kinnison. There were lots of things she did not one exposed, and the very effort not to think of them brought them ever and ever more vividly to the fore. She squirmed mentally and physically. Her mind was for minutes of practically illegible turmoil. But she soon steadied down, and as she got used to the new sensations, she went to work with a will. She could not increase materially the knowledge of the planet which Kinnisone had already obtained from her, but she was a mind of information concerning the peculiar gems.

She knew all about every one of them. With the completely detailed knowledge, one is all too apt to have of a thing long and intensely desired, but supposedly forever out of reach. Thanks, Alona. It was over. The lensman knew as much as she did about everything which had any bearing upon his quest. You have helped a lot. Now you can flit.

I'm glad to help, sir, really, any time. "'I'll see you at the party, then, if not before.' Ilona left the room in a far more subdued fashion than she had entered it. She had always been more than half afraid of Kinnison. Just being near him did things to her which he did not quite like. And this last thing, this mind-searching interview, did not operate to quiet her fears. It gave her the screaming memies, no less. And Kinnison, alone in his room, called for a tight beam to prime base.

He wanted something, he explained, when the visage of Port Admiral Haynes appeared upon his plate. Something big, something that had never been tried before. Namely, a wide-open, lens-to-lens conference with all the lensmen, particularly all the unattached lensmen of the whole galaxy at the same time. Could it be arranged? "'Hugh!' the Admiral whistled. "'I was in on a wide-open ten-way once, but that's as high as I ever tried it.' What's your thought as to technique?

Set a definite time, far enough ahead, to give everybody notice. At that time, have everybody tuned to your frequency. Since everybody will be on rapport with you, we will all be on rapport with each other automatically. Seems reasonable. Can do, I think. It will take at least a day to arrange the hookup. Day and a half, maybe.

Say, hour twenty, tomorrow? QX. Hour twenty, on the line. The next day dragged, even for the always-busy Kinnison. He prowled about aimlessly. He saw the beautiful Alboranians several times, noticing as he did so, something which he had not hitherto really observed, but which tied in nicely with a fact he had half seen in the girl's own mind

before he could dodge it, that whenever she made a toosome with any man, the man was Chief Pilot Henderson. Blasted hen? he asked casually, as he came upon the pilot in a corner of a wardroom, staring fixedly at nothing. "'Out of the ether,' Henderson admitted. "'I want to talk to you. "'G.A., we're alone. Or better yet, on the lens.

About Ilona, the elder-Baranian Zwilnik, I suppose?' "'Don't, Kim,' Henderson flinched. "'She isn't a Zwillnick, really. I bet my last millo on that.' "'Are you telling me or asking me? me, the Lansman asked. I don't know, Henderson hesitated. I wanted to ask you, you know, you've got a lot of stuff that the rest of us haven't. I'm punctured plenty, and it's getting worse.

Is there any reason, Chief, why I shouldn't, well, get married? Every reason in the book why you should, Hen. Why, when I get to be as old as you are, I hope to be retired, married, and the father of two or three kids. Damn nation, Kim, that isn't what I meant, and you know it. Think clearly, then. For your own sake, and Ilona's, not mine, Kinnison ordered. Yes, I know what you mean, but you've got to bring it out into the open yourself to do any good. QX. Have I the permission of Kimball Kinnison, unattached lensman of the Galactic Patrol, to marry Ilona Potter, if I've got jets enough to swing it?

"'Mighty clever,' the landsman thought. "'Since all the men of the patrol were notoriously averse to going sloppy or mottling about it, he wondered just how the pilot was going to phrase his question. Hen had done it very neatly by tossing the buck right back at him. But he wouldn't get sloppy either. The untarnished meteors upon the collars of the patrol stuff was QX for earthly spellbinders, but it didn't fit in anywhere else. So, that's better.

"'Kindison approved. As far as I know, and in this case I bashfully admit that I know it all, everything is on the green. All you've got to worry about is the opposition of twelve hundred or so other guys in this can, and the fact that Ilona will probably blast you to a cinder. "'Haw? Those apes? That? Watch my jets.' Henderson strode away, doubts all resolved. And Kinnison, seeing that hour twenty was very near, went to his own room. Precisely upon the hour, the lens been tuned his, not his lens really, since he no longer needed that,

but in all probability his very ego to that of Port Admiral Haynes. He had wondered frequently what it was going to feel like, but, having experienced it, he could never afterward describe it even in part. It is difficult for any ordinary mind to conceive of its being in complete accord with any other, however closely akin. Consider then how utterly impossible it is to envision that merging of a hundred thousand or five hundred thousand or a million. Nobody ever did know how many lensmen tuned in that day.

Minds so utterly different that no one human being can live long enough even to see each of the races there represented. Probably less than half of them were even approximately human. Many were not mammals. Many were not warm-blooded. Not all by far were even oxygen breathers. Oxygen, to many of those races, was sheerest poison. Nevertheless, they had much in common. All were intelligent, most of them very highly so, and all were imbued with the principles of freedom and equality for which the galactic civilization

stood and upon which it was fundamentally based. That meeting was staggering, even to Kinnison's mind. It was appalling, yet it was all. ultimately thrilling, too. It was one of the greatest, one of the most terrific thrills of the Lensman's long life. "'Thanks, fellows, for coming in,' he began simply. "'I will make my message very short. As Haynes may have told you, I am Kinnison of Tellis. It will help greatly in locating the head of the Baskonian culture if I can find a certain planet, known to me only by the name of Lanabar. Its people are human beings to the the last decimal. Its rarest jewels are these, and he spread in the collective mind a perfect,

exactly detailed, and picture description of the gems. Does any one of you know of such a planet? Has any one of you ever seen a stone like any of these? A pause, a heart-breakingly long pause. Then a faint, soft, definite thought appeared, appeared as though seeping slowly from a single cell of that incredibly linked million-fold composite Linsman's brain. I waited to be sure that no one else would speak, as my information is very meager, and uninsatisfactory and old. The thought apologized. Whatever its nature, any information at all is very welcome, Kinnison replied. Who is speaking, please?

Nedrek of Palin Seven unattached. Many cycles ago, I secured, and still have in my possession a crystal, or rather fragment of a super-cooled liquid, like one of the red gems you showed us, the one having practically all its transmittance in a very narrow band centering at point seven-o-o. But you do not know what planet it came from, is that it? Not exactly, the soft thought went on. I saw it upon its native planet, but unfortunately I do not now know just what or where that planet was. We were exploring at the time, and had visited many planets. Not being interested in any world having an atmosphere of oxygen, we paused but briefly, nor did we map it. I was interested in the fusion because of its peculiar filtering effect,

hence bought it from its owner. A scientific curiosity merely. Do you believe that you could find the planet again? By checking back upon the planets we did map, and by retracing our route, I should be able to—yes, I am certain that I can do so. And when Nadrick of Palain Seven says that he is certain of anything, another thought appeared, nothing in the macro-cosmic universe is more certain. I thank you, 24 of six, for the expression of confidence. And I think both of you, particular. as well as all of you collectively. Kinnison broadcast.

Then, as intelligences by the tens of thousands began to break away from the linkage, he continued to Nadrek. You will map this planet for me then, and send the data in to Prime Base? I will map the planet and will myself bring the data to you at Prime Base. Do you want some of the gems also?

I don't think so, Kinnison thought swiftly. No, better not. There'll be hard. harder to get now, and it might tip our hand too much. I'll get them myself later. Will you inform me through Haines when to expect you upon tell us? I will so inform you. I will proceed at once with speed. Thanks a million, Nadrick. Clear ether. And everyone cut loose. The ship sped on, and as it sped, Kinnison continued to think.

He attended the blowout. Ordinarily, he would have been right in the third. The thick of it, but this time, young though he was and enthusiastic, he simply could not tune in. Nothing fitted, and until he could see a picture that made some kind of sense, he could not let go. He listened to the music with half an ear. He watched the stunts with only half an eye. He forgot his problem for a while when, at the end, Ilona Potter danced. For Lana Barry an acrobatic dancing is not like the Tullerian art of the same name, or rather it is like it, except more so, much more so. An earthly expert would be scarcely a novice on Lanabar, and Ilona was a Lanabarian expert.

She had been training intensively all her life, and even in Lanabar's chill social and psychological environment, she had loved her work. Now, reveling as she was in the first realization of liberty of thought and of person, and inspired by the heartfelt applause of the spacehound so closely packed into the hall. She put on something more than an exhibition of coldly impersonal skill and limberness. And the feelings, both of performer and of spectators, were intensified by the fact that, of all the repertoire of the dauntless superb orchestra, Ilona liked best to dance to the stirring strains of Our Patrol.

Our Patrol, which any man who has ever worn the space black and silver, will say, is the greatest, grandest, most glorious, most horrific piece of music that ever was or ever will be written, played, or sung. Small wonder, then, that the dancer really gave, or that the mighty cruiser's walls almost bulged under the applause of Elona's boys at the end of her first number. They kept her at it until Captain Craig stopped it, to keep the girl from killing herself.

"'She's worn down to a nub,' he declared, and she was. She was trembling, she was panting, her almost lacquered down hair stood out in wild disorder. Her eyes were starry with tears, happy tears. Then the ranking officers made short speeches of appreciation, and the spectators carried the actors, actual carrying, in Elona's case upon an improvised throne, off for refreshments. Back in his quarters, Kinnison tackled his problem again. He could work out something on Lannabar, now, but what about Lyrain? It tied in, too. There was an angle there somewhere. To get it, though,

somebody would have to get close to, really friendly with, the Lyranians. Just looking on from the outside wouldn't do. Somebody they could trust and would confide in, and they were so damnably, so fanatically non-cooperative. A man couldn't get a millows worth of real information. He could read any mind by force, but he'd never get the right one. Neither could Whorsel or Tragancy or any other non-human lensman. The Lyrannians just simply didn't have the galactic viewpoint. No, what he wanted was a human woman lensman, and there weren't any. At the thought he gasped. The pit of his stomach felt cold. Chris! She was more than half lensman already. She was the only unlensed human being who was a little. He was the only unlensed human being

who had ever been able to read his thoughts. But he didn't have the gall, the sheer brazen crust, to shove a load like that onto her, or did he? Didn't the job come first? Wouldn't Chris be big enough to see it that way? Sure she would. As to what Haynes and the rest of the lendsmen would think, let them think.

In this he had to make his own decisions. He couldn't. He sat there for an hour, teeth locked until his jaws ached, fists clenched. I can't make that decision alone. He breathed finally. Not jets enough by half. And he shot a thought to distant ERISA and mentor the sage. This intrusion is necessary. He thought coldly, precisely. It seems to me to be wise to do this thing which has never before been done.

I have no data, however, upon which to base a date. decision, and the matter is grave. I ask, therefore, is it wise? You do not ask us to repercussions, consequences, either to yourself or to the woman? I ask what I asked. Ah, Kinnison of Tellus, you truly grow. You at last learned to think. It is wise. And the telepathic link snapped. Kinnison slumped down in relief. He had not known what to expect. He would not have been surprised if the Elysian had pinned his ears back. He certainly did not expect either the compliments or the clear-cut answer.

He knew that mentor would give him no help whatever in any problem which he could possibly solve alone. He was just beginning to realize that the Erysian would aid him in matters which were absolutely intrinsically beyond his reach. Recovering, he flashed a call to Surgeon General Lacey. Lacey, Kinnison. I would like to have sector-chief nurse Clarissa McDougal detached at once. Please have a report to me here aboard the Dauntless, en route at the earliest possible moment of rendezvous.

Huh? What? You can't... You wouldn't. The old lendsman gurgled. No, I wouldn't. The whole Corps will know it soon enough, so I might as well tell you now that I'm going to make a lensman out of her. Lacey exploded then, but Kinnison had expected that. Seal it, he counseled sharply.

I'm not doing it entirely on my own. Mantor of ERISA made the final decision. Prefer charges against me if you like, but in the meantime, please do as I request. And that was that. End of Section 8. Section 9. Of Second Stage Lensman.

This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Second Stage Lensman by E.E. Doc Smith Chapter 8 A few hours before the time of rendezvous with the cruiser, which was bringing Chris out to him, the detectors picked up a vessel whose course, it proved, was set to intersect their own.

A minute or so later, a sharp, clear thought came through Kinnison's lens. Kim, Raoul, been flitting around out ERISA way, and they called me in and asked me to bring you up package. Said you'd be expecting it. QX? Hi, Spacehound. QX. Kinnison had very decidedly not been expecting it. He had thought that he would have to do the best he could without it, but he realized instantly, with a thrill of gladness, what it was. Inert, or can't you stay? Free. Got to make a rendezvous. Can't take time to inert. That is, if you'll inert the thing in your cocoon. Don't want it to hold out on you, though. Can do. Free it is. Pilot room. Prepare for

inertial-less contact with vessel approaching. Magnets. Messenger coming aboard. Free. The two speeding vessels flashed together at all their unimaginable velocities without a thump or jar. Magnetic clamps locked and held. Air-locked doors opened, shut, opened. And at the inner port, Kinnison met Raoul La Forge, his classmate through the four years at Wentworth Hall. Brief but hearty greetings were exchanged, but the visitor could not stop. Lensman are busy men. Fine seeing you, Kim, be sure and inert the thing. Clear ether. Same to you, Ace. Sure I will. Think I want to tear a guy's arm off? Indeed, innerting the package was the lensman's first care, for in the free condition, it was a frightfully dangerous thing.

Its intrinsic velocity was that of ERISA, while the ships was that of Lyrain too. They might be forty or fifty miles per second apart. And if the dauntless should go inert, that harmless-looking package would instantly become a meteorite inside the ship. At the thought of that velocity, he paused. The cocoon would stand it, but would the lens. Oh, sure.

The Elysian knew that this was common. coming, the lens would be packed to stand it. Kinnison wrapped the package in heavy gauze, then in roll after roll of spring steel mesh. He jammed heavy steel springs into the ends, then clamped the whole thing into a form with tool steel bolts and inch in diameter. He poured in 200 pounds of metallic mercury,

filling the form to the top. Then a cover also bolted on. This whole assembly went into the cocoon, a cushioned, heavily padded affair suspended from all four walls, ceiling and floor by every shock-absorbing device known to the engineers of the patrol. The dauntless inerted briefly at Kinnison's word, and it seemed as though a troop of elephants were running silently amok in the cocoon room. The package, to be inerted, weighed no more than eight ounces,

but eight ounces of mass, at a relative velocity of 50 miles per second, possesses a kinetic energy by no means to be disdemeanor. despised. The frantic lurchings and bouncing subsided. The cruiser resumed her free flight, and the man undid all that he had done. The Erysian package looked exactly as before, but it was harmless now. It had the same intrinsic velocity as did everything else aboard the vessel. Then the lensman pulled on a pair of thick rubber gloves and opened the package, finding, as he had expected, that the packing material was a dense, viscous liquid. He poured it out, and there was the lens.

Chris's lens. He cleaned it carefully, then wrapped it in heavy insulation. For, of all the billions of unnumbered billions of living entities in existence, Clarissa McDougal was the only one whose flesh could touch that, apparently innocuous jewel, with impunity. Others could safely touch it while she wore it, while it glowed with its marvelously polychromatic cold flame. But until she wore it, and unless she wore it,

its touch met death to any life to which it was not attuned. Shortly thereafter, another patrol cruiser hove in sight. This meeting, however, was to be no casual one, for the nurse could not be inerted from the free state in the dauntless cocoon. No such device ever built could stand it, and those structures are stronger far than is the human frame. Any adjustment which even the hardest, toughest space-ound can take in a cocoon, is measured in feet per second, not in miles.

Hundreds of miles apart, the ships inerted, and their pilots fought with supreme skill to make the two intrinsics match. And even so, the vessels did not touch even nearly. A space line was thrown, the nurse and her space roll were quite unceremoniously hauled aboard. Kinnison did not meet her at the airlock, but waited for her in his con room, and the details of that meeting will remain unchronicled. They were young, they had not seen each other for a long time, and they were very much in love.

It is evident, therefore, that patrol affairs were not the first matters to be touched upon. Nor, if the historian has succeeded even partially in portraying truly the characters of the two persons involved, is it either necessary or desirable to go at any length into the argument they had as to whether or not she should be inducted so cavalierly into a service from which her sex had always automatically been barred. He did not want to make her carry that load, but he had to. She did not, although for entirely different reasons, want to take it. He shook out the lens, and, holding it in a thick-folded corner of the insulating blanket,

flicked one of the girl's fingertips across the bracelet. Satisfied by the fleeting flash of color which swept across the jewel, He snapped the platinum iridium band around her left wrist, which it fitted exactly. Chris stared for a minute at the smoothly, rhythmically flowing colors of the thing so magically sprung to life upon her wrist. Aw and humility in her glorious eyes. Then— "'I can't, Kim.

I simply can't. I'm not worthy of it.' She choked. "'None of us is, Chris. We can't be. But we've got to do it just the same.' I suppose that's true. It would be so, of course. I'll do my best. But you know perfectly well, Kim, that I'm not, can't ever be a real lensman. Sure you can. Do we have to go over all that again? You won't have some of the technical stuff that we got, of course, but you carry jets that no other lensman ever has had.

You're a real lensman. Don't worry about that. If you weren't, do you think that they would have made that lens for you? In a way, I see that that must be true, even though I can't understand it. But I'm simply scared to death of the rest of it, Kim. You needn't be. It'll hurt, but not more than you can stand. Don't think we better start that stuff for a few days yet, though, not until you get used to you're using your lens. Coming at you, lensman, and he went into lens-to-lens communication, broadening it gradually into a wide-open two-way.

She was appalled at first, but entranced some thirty minutes later when he called the lesson to a halt. Enough for now, he decided. It doesn't take much of that stuff to be a great plenty at first. I'll say it doesn't, she agreed. Put this away for me until next time, will you, Kim?

I don't want to wear it all the time until I know more about it. Fair enough. In the meantime, I want you to get acquainted with a new, new girl friend of mine, and he sent out a call for Ilona Potter. Girlfriend. Uh-huh. Study her. Educational no end. And she may be important. Want to compare notes with you on her later is why I'm not giving you any advanced dope on her. Here she comes. Mack, this is Alona. He introduced them informally. I told them to give you

the cabin next to hers, he added to the nurse. I'll go with you to be sure that everything's on the green. It was, and the linsman left the two together. I'm awfully glad you're here, Ilona said shyly. I've heard so much about you, Miss Mac to you, my dear. All of my friends call me that. The nurse broke in. And you don't want to believe everything you hear,

especially aboard this space can. Her lips smiled, but her eyes were faintly troubled. "'Oh, it was nice,' Ilona assured her. "'About what a grand person you are, and what a wonderful couple you and Lensman-Kinnison make. Why, you really are in love with him, aren't you?' This in surprise, as she studied the nurse's face. "'Yes,' unequivocally.

"'And you love him, too, and that makes it, good heavens no!' The Alderan exclaimed so positively that Colerissa jumped. What? You don't? Really? Gold-flecked, tawny eyes stared intensely into engagingly candid eyes of black. Mack wished then that she had left her lens on, so that she could tell whether this bejewed brunette hussy was telling the truth or not. Certainly not. That's what I meant. I'm simply scared to death of him. He's so, well, so overpowering. He's so much more tremendous than I am.

I didn't see how any girl could possibly love him, but I understand now how you could, perhaps. You're sort of terrific yourself, you know. I feel as though I ought to call you your magnificence instead of just plain Mac. Why, I'm no such thing, Clarissa exclaimed, but she softened noticeably nonetheless. And I think that I'm going to like you a lot. Oh, honestly, Ilona is. squealed. It sounds too good to be true. You're so marvelous. But if you do, I think that civilization will be everything that I've been afraid, so afraid that it couldn't possibly be. No longer was it a

feminine lensman investigating a female Zilnik. It was two girls, two young, intensely alive, human girls, who chattered on and on. Days passed. Mack learned the use of her lens. And as well as any first-stage lensman had ever known it. Then Kinnison, one of the few then-existent second-stage lensman, began really to bear down. Since the acquirement of the second stage of lensmanship has been described in detail elsewhere, it need be said here only that

Clarissa McDougal had mental capacity enough to take it without becoming insane. He suffered as much as she did. After every mental bout, he was as spent as she was. but both of them stuck relentlessly to it. As is now well known, the prime requisite of all such advanced treatment is to know with the utmost precision exactly what knowledge or ability is required. Mack had no idea as to what she wanted or needed, but Kinnison did.

He could not give her everything that the Elysian had given him, of course. Much of it was too hazy yet. More of it did not apply. He gave her everything, however, which she could handle. and which would be of any use to her in the work she was to do, including the sense of perception. He did it, that is, with a modicum of help. For once or twice, when he faltered or weakened, not knowing exactly what to do or not being quite able to do it, a stronger mind than his was always there. At length, approaching Tellus fast, Mack and Kim had a final conference, the consultation of two linsmen, settling the last details of procedure in a long-planned and highly

important campaign. I agree with you that Lyrene, too, is a key planet, the nurse was saying thoughtfully. It must be to have those expeditions from Lanabar, and the as-yet-unk-un-planet-un-planet X centering there. X certainly, and don't forget the possibility of Y and Z, and maybe others, he reminded her. The Lyrain-Lonabar linkage is the only one we are sure of. With you on one end of that, and me on the other, it'll be funny if we can't trace out some more.

While I'm building up an authentic identity to tackle Bliko, you'll be getting chummy with Helen of Lyrain. That's about as far ahead as we can plan definitely right now, since this groundwork can't be hurried too much. And I report to you often, frequently in fact. Mac widened her expressive eyes at her man, At least, he agreed, and I'll report to you between times. Oh, Kim, it's nice being a lensman.

She snuggled closer. Some way or other, the conference had become somewhat personal. Being on rapport will be almost as good as being together. We can stand it that way, at least. It'll help a lot, Ace, no fooling. That was why I was afraid to go ahead with it on my own hook. I couldn't be sure that my feelings were not in control instead of my judgment, if any. I'd have been certain that it was your soft heart instead of your hard head,

if it hadn't been for mentor. She sighed happily. As it is, though, I know that everything is on the green. All done with Alona? Yes, the darling. She's the sweetest thing, Kim, and a storehouse of information, if there ever was one. You and I know, more of Bosconian life than anyone of civilization ever knew before, I am sure. And it's so ghastly. We must win, Kim. We simply must, for the good of all creation. We will. Kinnison spoke with grim finality. But back to Ilona. She can't go with me, and she can't stay here with Hank aboard the Dauntless, taking me back to Lyraine, and you can't watch her. I'd hate to think of anything happening to her, Kim. "'It won't,' he replied comfortably.

"'Illiewicz won't sleep nights until he has her as the top-flight solo dancer in his show, "'even though she doesn't have to work for a living anymore. "'She will, though, I think, don't you?' "'Probably. "'Anyway, a couple of Haynes smart girls are going to be her best friends, wherever she goes. "'Sort of keep an eye on her until she learns the ropes. "'It won't take long. "'We owe her that much, I figure.'

"'That much, at least.' "'You're seen to the selling of her jewelry yourself, aren't you?' "'No, I had a new thought on that. "'I'm going to buy it myself, or rather Cardiff is. "'They're making up a set of paste imitations. "'Cardiff has to buy a stock somewhere. Why not hers?' "'That's a thought. There's certainly enough of them to stock a wholesaler. "'Cardiff. I can see that sign,' she snickered,

almost microscopic letters, severely plain, in the lower right-hand corner of an immense plate-glass window. One gem in the middle of an acre of black velvet. Cardiff, the most peculiar, if not quite the most exclusive, jeweler in the galaxy. And nobody except you and me knows anything about him. Isn't that something? Everybody will know about Cardiff pretty soon, he told her. Found any flaws in the scheme yet? "'Nary a flaw?' she shook her head.

"'That is, if none of the boys overdo it, and I'm sure they won't. "'I've got a picture of it,' and she giggled merrily. "'Think of a whole gang of sleuths from the Homicide Division chasing poor Cardiff, "'and never quite catching him. "'A-huh, a touching picture indeed.' "'But there goes the signal, and there's tell us. "'We're about to land. "'Oh, I went to see.'

"'And she started to get up. "'Look then,' pulling her down into her original place at his side. "'You've got this sense of perception now, remember? "'You don't need visiplates.' And side by side, arms around each other, the two linsmen watched the docking of their great vessel. It landed. Jewelers came aboard with their carefully made wares.

Assured that the metal would not discolor her skin, Ilona made the exchange willingly enough. Beads were beads to her. She could scarcely believe that she was now independently wealthy. In fact, she forgot all about her money after Iliwitz had seen her dance. You see, she explained to Mack and Kinnison. There were two things I wanted to do until Hank gets back. Travel around a lot and learn all I can about your civilization.

I wanted to dance, too, but I didn't see how I could. Now I can do all three and get paid for doing them besides. Isn't that marvelous? "'And Mr. Iliwit said that you said that it was QX. "'Is it really?' "'Right.' And Alona was off. The Dauntless was serviced, and Mack was off to Far Lyrane.

Lensman Kinnison was supposedly off somewhere also when Cardiff appeared. "'Cartiff, the ultra, the oh so exclusive.' Cardiff did not advertise. He catered, word-spread fast, to only the very upper flakes of the upper crust. Simple dignity was Cardiff's keynote, his insiduously spread claim, the dignified simplicity of immense wealth and impeccable social position. What he actually achieved, however, was something subtly different. His simplicity was just a hair off-beam. His dignity was an affected, not a natural quality. Nobody with less than a million

credits ever got past his door, it is true. However, instead of being the real Crem de la Crem of Earth, Cardiff's clients were those who pretended to belong to, or who were trying to force an entrance into, that select stratum. Cardiff was a snob of snobs. He built up a clientele of snobs. And even more than in his admittedly fine and flawless gems, he dealt in equally high-proof snobbery.

But times came Nadrick, the unattached lensman of Palane Seven, and Kinnison met him secretly at prime base. Soft voice as ever, apologetic, diffident, even though Kim had learned that the Pallanian had a record of accomplishment as long as any one of his arms. But it was not an act, not affectation.

It was simply a racial trait, for the intelligent and civilized race of that planet is in no sense human. Nedrick was utterly, startlingly unhuman. In his atmosphere there was no oxygen. In his body there flowed no acquiesce blood. At his normal body temperature, neither liquid water nor gaseous oxygen could exist.

The seventh planet out from any sun would, of course, be cold. But Kinnison had not thought particularly about the point until he felt the bitter radiation from the heavily insulated suit of his guest, perceived how fiercely its refrigerators were laboring to keep its internal temperature down. "'If you will permit it, please, I will depart at once,' Nadrick pleaded as soon as he had delivered his spool and his message. "'My heat dissipators, powerful though they are, cannot cope much longer with this frightfully high temperature.' "'QX, Nadrick, thanks a million.'

And the weird little monstrosity scuttled out. "'Remember, Lensman's seal on all this stuff until Prime Base releases it. "'Of course, Kinnison. "'You will understand, however, I am sure that "'None of our races of civilization are even remotely interested in L'Annebar. "'It is as hot, as poisonous, as Hellas generally, as is Tellis itself.' "'Kinnison went back to Cardiff's, and very soon thereafter "'it became noised abroad that Cardiff was a crook.

"'He was a cheat, a liar, a robber. "'His stones were synthetic. He made them himself. The stories grew. He was a smuggler. He didn't have an honest gem in his shop. He was a Zwillnick, an out-and-out pirate. A red-handed murderer, who, if he wasn't there already, certainly ought to be in the big black book of the Galactic Patrol. This wasn't just gossip either. Everybody saw and spoke to men who had seen unspeakable things with their own eyes. Thus, Cardiff was arrested. He blasted his way out, however, before he he was, could be brought to trial, and the newscasters blazed with that highly spectacular,

murderous jailbreak. Nobody actually saw Cardiff escape. Nobody actually saw any lifeless bodies. Everybody, however, saw the tele-news broadcasts of the shattered walls and the sheeted forms, and since such pictures are and always have been just as convincing as the real thing, everybody knew that there had been plenty of mango corpses in those ruins, and that Cardiff was a fugitive murderer. Also, everybody knew that the patrol never gives up on a murderer.

Hence it was natural enough that the search for Cardiff, the jeweler murderer, should spread from planet to planet and from region to region. Not exactly obtrusefully, but inexorably it did so spread. Until finally, anyone interested in the subject could find upon any one of a hundred million planets unmistakable evidence that the patrol wanted one Cardiff, description so-and-so for murder in the first degree. And the patrol was thorough. Wherever Cardiff went or how, they managed to follow him.

At first he disguised himself, changed his name, and stayed in the legitimate jewelry business. Apparently the only business he knew. But he never could get even a start. Scarcely would his shop open, then he would be discovered and forced again to flee. Deeper and deeper he went then, into the noisome society of crime.

A fence now, still and always he clung to jewelry. But always and ever the bloodhounds of the law were baying at his heels. Whatever name he used was Nosedesde side, and Cardiff they howled, so loudly that a thousand million worlds came to know that despised and hated name. Perforce he became a travelling fence, always on the go. He flew a dead black ship, ultra-fast, armed, armed, and armored like a super dreadnought, crude, according to the newscasts,

by the hardest-boiled gang of cutthroats in the known universe. He traded in, and boasted of trading in the most blood-stained, the most ghost-ridden gems of a thousand worlds. And so trading, hurling defiance the while into the teeth of the patrol, establishing himself ever more firmly as one of civilization's cleverest and most implacable foes. He worked zigzag-wise, and not at all

obviously toward the unexplored spiral arm in which the planet Lanabar lay. And as he moved farther and farther away from the Solarian system, his stock of jewels began to change. He had always favored pearls, the lovely, glorious things so characteristically Tullerian, and those he kept. The diamonds, however, he traded away, likewise the emeralds, the rubies, the sapphires, and some others.

He kept and accumulated Barovian firestones, monarch and star-drops, and a hundred other gorgeous gems, none of which would be beads upon the planet which was his goal. He visited planets only fleetingly now. The patrol was hopelessly out-distanced. Nevertheless, he took no chances. His villainous crew guarded his ship. His bullies guarded him wherever he went, surrounding him when he walked, standing behind him while he ate, sitting at either side of the bed in which he slept. He was a key, a key, King's snipe now. As such, he was accosted one evening as he was about to dine in a garish restaurant.

A tall, somewhat fish-faced man in faultless evening dress approached. His arms were at his sides, fingertips bent into the I'm not shooting sign. Captain Cardiff, I believe. May I seat myself at your table, please? The stranger asked, politely, in the lingua franca of deep space. Kinnis's sense of perception fristed. rapidly for concealed weapons. He was clean. "'I would be very happy, sir, to have you as my guest,' he replied courteously.

The stranger sat down, unfolded his napkin, and delicately allowed it to fall into his lap all without letting either of his hands disappear from sight, even for an instant beneath the table's top. He was an old and skillful hand. And during the excellent meal, the two men conversed brilliantly upon many topics, none of which were of the least importance. After it, Kinnison paid the check, despite the polite protestations of his vis-a-vis. Then, I am simply a messenger you will understand, nothing else, the guest observed. Number one has been checking up on you, and has decided to let you come in. He will receive you tonight. The usual safeguards on both sides, of course, I am to be your guide and

guarantee. Very kind of him, I'm sure. Kinnison's mind raced. Who could this number one be? The ape had a thought screen on, so he was flying blind. Couldn't be a real big shot, though, so soon. No use munking with him at all. Please convey my thanks, but also my regrets. What? The other demanded. His veneer politeness had sloughed off. His eyes were narrow, keen and cold. You know what happens to independent operators around here, don't you? Do you think that you can fight us? Not fight you, no.

The lansman elaborately stifled a yawn. He now had a clue. Simply ignore you. If you act up, smash you like bugs, that's all. Please tell your number one that I do not split my stakes with anybody. Tell him also that I am looking for a choice or location to settle down upon than any I have found as yet. If I do not find such a place near here, I shall move on. If I do find it, I shall take it, in spite of man or the devil.

The stranger stood up, glaring and quiet fury, but with both hands still above the table. "'You want to make it a war, then Captain Cardiff?' he gritted. "'Not Captain Cardiff.' "'Please,' Kinnison begged, dipping one paw delicately into his finger-bowl. "'Cartive merely, my dear fellow, if you don't mind. "'Simplicity, sir, and dignity. "'Those two are my key words.' "'Not for long,' prophesied the other.

"'Number one will blast you out of the ether before you can swap another necklace.' "'The patrol has been trying to do that for some time now, and I'm still here,' Kinnison reminded him gently. Caution him, please, in order to avoid bloodshed, not to comment after me in only one ship, but a fleet, and suggest that he have something hotter than patrol primaries before he tackles me at all. Surrounded by his bodyguards, Kinnison left the restaurant, and as he walked along, he reflected, "'Nice going this. It would get around fast. This number one couldn't be bleakow, but the king's snipe of Lanabar and its environs would hear the news in short order. He was now ready to go. He would flit around a few more days,

give his bunch of Zwillnicks a chance to make a pass at him, if they felt like calling his bluff. Then on to Lanibar. End of Section 9. Section 10 of Second Stage Lensman. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Second Stage Lensman by E. E. Doc Smith Chapter 9 Kinnison did not walk far, nor reflect much,

before he changed his mind and retraced his steps, finding the messenger still in the restaurant. So, you got wise to yourself and decided to crawl while the crawling's good, eh? He sneered before the lensman could say a word. I don't know whether the offer is still good or not. "'No, and I advise you to muffle your exhaust "'before somebody rams a ray gun down your throat.' "'Kinnison's voice was coldly level.

"'I came back to tell you to tell your number one "'that I'm calling his bluff. "'You know, Chukester? "'Of course.' "'The Zewilnik was plainly discomfited. "'Come along then and listen, "'so you'll know that I'm not running a blazer.' "'They sought out a booth,

"'wherein the native, himself got Chacuster on the visiplate. Chacuster, this is Cardiff. The start of surprise and the expression of pleased interest revealed how well that name was known. I'll be down at your old warehouse day after tomorrow night about this time. Pass the word around that if any of the boys have any stuff too hot for them to handle conveniently, I'll buy it,

paying for it in either patrol credits or bar platinum, whichever they like. He then turned to the pastoral. passenger. Did you get that straight lizard puss? The man nodded. Relay it to number one. Kiddison ordered and strode off. This time he got to his ship, which took off at once. Cardiff had never made a habit of wearing visible arms, and his guards, while undoubtedly fast, gunmen, were apparently only that. Therefore, there was no reason for number one to suppose that his mob would have any noteworthy difficulty in cutting this upstart Cardiff down. He was, however, surprised, for Cardiff did not come afoot or unarmed.

Instead, it was an armored car that brought the intruding fence through the truck entrance into the old warehouse. Not a car either. It was more like a 20-ton tank, except for the fact that it ran upon wheels, not treads. It was screened like a cruiser. It mounted a battery of projectors whose energies it was clear to any discerning eye nothing short of battle-screen could handle. The thing rolled quietly to a stop. A door swung open, and Kinnison emerged. He was neither unarmed nor unarmored now.

Instead, he wore a full suit of GP armor, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, and carried a semi-portable projector. "'You will excuse the seeming discourtesy men,' he announced. When I tell you that a certain number one has informed me that he will blast me out of the ether before I swap a necklace on this planet. Stand clear, please, until we see whether he met business or was just warming up his jets. Now, number one, if you're around, come and get it. Apparently, the challenged party was not present, for no overt move was made.

Neither could Kinnisand's sense of perception discover any sign of unfriendly activity within its range. Of mind-reading there was none, for every man upon the floor was, as usual, both masked and screened. Business was slack at first, for those present were not bold souls, and the lensman's overwhelmingly superior armament gave them very seriously to doubt his intentions. Many of them, in fact, had fled precipitately by the first sight of the armored truck, and of these more than a few, number one's thugs, no doubt, did not return. The others, however, came filtering back as they perceived that there was to be no warfare,

and as cupidity overcame their timorousness. And as it became evident to all that the stranger's armament was for defense only, that he was there to buy or to barter, and not to kill and thus to steal, Cardiff trafficked ever more and more briskly, as the evening wore on, in the hottest gems of the planet. Nor did he step out of character for a second. He was Cardiff the fence all the time, time. He drove hard bargains, but not too hard. He knew jewels thoroughly by this time,

he knew the code, and he followed it rigorously. He would give a thousand patrol credits in currency good upon any planet of civilization, or in bar-platinum good anywhere for any article worth five thousand, but which was so badly wanted by the law that its then-possessor could not dispose of it at all. Or in barter, he would swap for that article another item, worth fifteen hundred or so, but which was not hot, at least not upon that planet. Fair enough, so fair that it was almost morning before the silently running truck slid into its storage inside the dead black spaceship.

Then, insofar as number one, the patrol and civilization were concerned, Cardiff and his outfit simply vanished. The Zwillnick sub-chief hunted him viciously for a space, then bragged of how he had run him out of the region. The patrol, as usual, bided its time, watching alertly. The general public forgot him completely and the next sensation to arise. Fairly close, although he then was to the rim of the galaxy, Kinnison did not take any chances at all of detection in a line toward that rim.

The spiral arm beyond Rift 85 was unexplored. It had been of so little interest to civilization that even its various regions were nameless upon the charts, and the lensmen, wanted it to remain that way, at least for the time being. Therefore, he left the galaxy in as nearly a straight Nader line as he could without coming within detection distance of any trade route. Then, making a prodigious loop, so as to enter the spiral arm from the Nader direction, he threw NADREC's map into the pilot tank and began the computations,

which would enable him to place correctly in that three-dimensional chart, the brilliant point of light which represented his ship. In this work, he was ably assisted by his chief pilot. He did not have Henderson now, but he did have Watson, who rated number two only by the hair-splitting of the Supreme Board of Examiners. Such hair-splitting was, of course, necessary. Otherwise, no difference at all would have been found within the ranks of the first 50 of the patrol's master pilots, to say nothing of the first three or four,

and the rest of the crew did whatever they could. for it was only in the newscast that Cardiff's crew was one of murderous and villainous pirates. They were, in fact, volunteers. And since everyone is familiar with what that means in the patrol, that statement is as efficient as a book would be. The chart was sketchy and incomplete, of course. Around the flying ship were hundreds, yes, thousands of stars, which were not in the chart at all.

But Nadrick had furnished enough reference points so that the pilots could compute their orientation. No need to fear detectors now in these wild waste spaces, they set a right-line course for Lanabar and followed it. As soon as Kinnison could make out the continental outlines of the planet upon the plates, he took over control, as he alone of the crew was upon familiar ground. He knew everything about Lanabar that Ilona had ever learned, and although the girl was a total loss as an astronaut, she did know her geography. Kinnison docked his ship boldly at the spaceport of Lonia, the planet's largest city and its capital.

With equal boldness, he registered as Cardiff, filling in some of the blank spaces in the spaceport's routine registry form, not quite truthfully perhaps, and blindly ignoring others. The armored truck was hoisted out of the hold and made its way to Loney's largest bank, into which it disgorged a staggering total of bar platinum, as well as sundry coffers. of hard gray steel. These last items went directly into a private vault, under the watchful eyes and ready weapons of Kinnison's own guards. The truck rolled swiftly back to the spaceport,

and Cardiff's ship took off. It did not need servicing at the time, ostensibly for another planet unknown to the patrol, actually, to go inert, into a closed orbit around Lanabar, and near enough to it to respond to a call in seconds. immense wealth can command speed of construction and service. Hence, in a matter of days, Cardiff was again in business.

His salon was, upon a larger and grander scale, a repetition of his Tullerian shop. It was simple and dignified and blatantly expensive. Costly rugs covered the floor, impeccable works of art adorn the walls, and three precisely correct, flawlessly groomed clerks displayed with the exact right air of condescending humility, Cartiff's wares for those who wish to view them. Cardiff himself was visible, esconsed within a magnificent plate-glass and gold office in the rear,

but he did not ordinarily have anything to do with customers. He waited, nor did he wait long before there happened that which he expected. One of the super-perfect clerks coughed slightly into a microphone. A gentleman insists upon seeing you personally, sir, he announced. Very well. I will see him now. Show him in, please.

And the visitor was ceremoniously ushered into the presence. This is a very nice place you have here, Mr. Cardiff. But did it ever occur to you that it never did and it never will? Kinnison snapped. He still lulled at ease in his chair, but his eyes were frosty and his voice carried an icy sting. I quit paying protection to little shots a good many years ago.

Or are you from Menjol Bliko?' The visitor's eyes widened. He gasped, as though even to utter that dread name were sheer sacrilege. "'No, but—no! Save it, slob!' The cold venom of that crisp but quiet order set the fellow back onto his heels. "'I am thoroughly sick of this thing, of every half-baked tin-horn Zwillnick in space, calling himself number one as soon as he can steal enough small change to hire an ape to walk around behind him, packing a couple of ray guns.

If that louse of a boss of yours has a name, use it. If he hasn't, call him the louse. But cancel that number one stuff. In my book, there is no number one in the whole damned universe. Doesn't your mob know yet who and what Cardiff is? What do we care? The visitor gathered courage visibly. A good big bomb!

Clam it, you squint-eyed slime lizard. the Lensman's voice was still low and level, but his tone bit deep and his words drilled in. That stuff? He waved inclusively at the magnificent hall. Sucker bait, nothing more. The whole worst cost only a hundred thousand. Chicken feed. It wouldn't even nick the edge of the roll if you blew up ten of them.

Bomb at any time you feel the urge. But take notice that it would make me sore, plenty sore, and that I would do things about it, because I'm in a big game, not this petty larceny racketeering and chisling that your mob is doing, and when a toad gets in my way, I step on it. So go back and tell that number one of yours to case a job a lot more thoroughly than he did this one before he starts throwing his weight around. Now scram, before I feed your carcass to the other rats around here. Kinnison grinned inwardly as the completely deflated gangster slunk out. Good going. It wouldn't take long for that blast to get action.

This little shot number one wouldn't dare to lift a hand, but Bliko would have to. That was axiomatic from the very nature of things. It was very definitely Bliko's move next. The only moot point was as to which his nibs would do first, talk or act. He would talk, the lendsman thought. The prime reward of being a hot shot. was to have people know it and bend the knee. Therefore, although Cardiff's Salon was at all times in complete readiness for any form of violence, Kinnison was practically certain

that Menjoblico would send an emissary before he started the rough stuff. He did, and shortly. A big, massive man was the messenger, a man wearing consciously an aura of superiority, of boundless power and force. He did not simply come into the shop, he made an entrance.

All three of the clerks literally cringed before him, and at his casually, matter-of-fact order, they hazed the already uncomfortable customers out of the shop and locked the doors. Then one of them escorted the visitor, with a sickening servility he had never thought of showing toward his employer, and with no thought of consulting Cardiff's wishes in the matter into Cardiff's private sanctum. Kinnison knew at first glance that this was Gundrith Carr's, Bliko's right-hand man. "'Cars the notorious, who kneeled only to his supremacy, Menjo Bliko himself, "'and to whom everyone else upon Lunabar and its subsidiary planets kneeled. "'The big shot waved a hand and the clerk fled in disorder.

"'Stand up, worm, and give me that!' "'Cars began loftily. "'Silence, fool! Attention!' "'Kinnison rasped, in such a drivingly domineering tone that the stupefied involuntarily. The lensman, psychologist par excellence that he was,

knew that this man, with a background of twenty years of blind, dumb obedience to his every order, simply could not cope with a positive and self-confident opposition. You will not be here long enough to sit down, even if I permitted it in my presence, which I very definitely do not.

You came here to give me certain instructions and orders. Instead, you are going to listen merely. I will do all the talking. First, the only reason you did not die as you entered this place is that neither you nor Menjo Bliko knows any better. The next one of you to approach me in this fashion dies in his tracks. Second, knowing as I do the workings of that which your bloated leech of a Menjo Bliko calls his brain, I know that he is a spy ray on us now.

I am not blocking it out, as I want him to receive ungarbled, and I know that you would not have the courage to transmit it accurately to his foulness, everything I have to say. Third, I have been searching for a long time for a planet that I like. This is it. I fully intend to stay here as long as I please. There is plenty of room here for both of us without crowding. Fourth, being essentially a peaceable man,

I came in peace, and I prefer a peaceable arrangement. However, let it be distinctly understood that I truckle to no man or entity, dead, living, or yet to be born. Fifth, tell Bleco from me to consider very carefully and very thoroughly an iceberg. It's every phase and aspect. That is all. You may go. But, but, but, the big man stammered, "'An iceberg?'

"'An iceberg. "'Yes, just that.' "'Kinnison assured him. "'Don't bother to try to think about it yourself "'since you've got nothing to think with. "'But his putrescence, Bliko, "'even though he is a mental, moral, "'and intellectual slime lizard, can think,

"'at least in a narrow, mean, small-souled sort of way. "'And I advise him in all seriousness to do so. "'Now get out of here, "'before I burn the seat of your pants off. off. Cars got, gathering together visibly the shreds of his self-esteem as he did so, the clerks staring the while in dumbfounded amazement. Then they huddled together, eyeing the owner of the establishment with a brand-new respect, of subservient respects, heavily laced with awe.

"'Business as usual, boys,' he counseled them, cheerfully enough. They won't blow up the place until after dark. The clerks resumed their places, then, and trade did go on after a fashion, but Cardiff's force had not recovered its wanted to blazea plum even at closing time. Just a moment. The proprietor called his employees together, and reaching into his pocket, distributed among them a sheaf of currency.

In case you don't find the shop here in the morning, you may consider yourselves on vacation at full pay until I call you. They departed, and Kineson went back to his office. His first care was to set up a spy-ray block, a block which had been purchased upon Lanabar, and which was, therefore, certainly pervious to Bliko's instruments. Then he prowled about, apparently in deep and anxious thought. But as he prowled, the eavesdroppers did not, could not know, that his weight set into operation certain devices of his own highly secret installation,

or that when he finally left the shop, no really serious harm could be done to it except by an explosion sufficiently violent to demolish the neighborhood for blocks around. The front wall would go, of course. He wanted it to go. Otherwise, there would be neither reason nor excuse for doing that, which for days he had been ready to do. Since Cardiff lived rigorously to schedule and did not have a spy-ray block in his room, Bliko's methodical and efficient observers always turned off their beams when the observer went to sleep. This night, however, Kinnison was not really asleep, and as soon as the ray went off, he acted. He threw on his clothes and sought the street, where he took a taxi to a certain airport.

There he climbed into a rocket plane, which was already warmed up and waiting for him. Hanging from her screaming props, the fantastically powerful little plane bulleted upward in a vertical climb, and as she began to slow down from lack of air, her projectors took over. A tractor reached out, seizing her gently. Her wings retracted, and she was drawn into Cardiff's great spaceship, which, a few minutes later, hung poised above one of the largest, richest jewel mines of Lanabar. The mine was, among others, Menjo Bliko's personal property. Since overproduction would glut the market, it was being worked by only one shift of men,

the day shift. It was now black night. The usual guards were the only men upon the premises. The big black ship hung there and waited. But suppose they don't, Kim, Watson asked. Then we'll wait here every night until they do, Kinnison replied grimly. But they'll do it tonight for all the tea in China.

They'll have to to save Bliko's face. And they did. In a couple of hours, the observer at a high-powered plate reported that Cardiff's salon had just been blown to bits. Then the patrolman went into action. Bliko's mobsmen hadn't killed anybody at Cardiff's, therefore the Tullerians wouldn't kill anyone here. Hence, while ten immense beamed-origible torpedoes

were being piloted carefully down shafts and along tunnels into the deepest bowels of the workings, the guards were given warning that, if they got into their flyers fast enough, they could be 50 miles away and probably safe by zero-time. They hurried. At zero time, the torpedoes let go as one. The entire planet quivered under the trip-hammer shock of detonating duodeck. For those frightful, those appalling charges, have been placed by computations checked and re-checked precisely where they would wreak the most havoc,

the utmost possible measure of sheer destruction. Much of the rock, however hard, around each one of those incredible centers of demolition was simply blasted out of existence. That is the way Duodec, in massive charges, works. Matter simply cannot get out of its way in the first instance of its detonation. Matter's own inherent inertia forbids. Most of the rock between the bombs was pulverized the merest fraction of a second later. Then, the distortedly spherical explosion fronts merging, the total incomprehensible pressure was exerted as almost pure lift.

The field above the mineworks lifted, then, practically as a mass at first. But it could not remain as such. It could not move fast enough as a whole, nor did it possess even a minute fraction of the tensile strength necessary to withstand the stresses being applied. Those stresses, the forces of the explosions, were to all intents and purposes irresistible. The crust disintegrated, violently and almost instantaneously. Rock crushed, grindingly against rock, practically the whole mass reducing in the twinkling of an eye to an impalpable powder. Upward and outward, then, the ragingly compressed gases of detonation drove, hurling everything before them. Chong's blew out sideways,

flying for miles. The mine, staggeringly enormous volume of dust was hurled upward, clear into the stratosphere. Finally, that awful dust cloud was wafted aside. revealing through its thinning haze a strangely and hideously altered terrain. No sign remained of the buildings or the mechanisms of Bliko's richest mine. No vestige was left to show that anything built by or pertaining to man had ever existed there. Where those works had been, they're now yawned an absolutely featureless crater. A crater, whose sheer geometrical perfection of figure, revealed with shocking clarity the magnitude of the cataclysmic forces which had wrought there.

Kinnison, looking blackly down at that crater, did not feel the glow of satisfaction which comes of a good deed well done. He detested it, it made him sick at the stomach. But since he had had it to do, he had done it. Why in all the nine hells of Valeria did he have to be a lendsman anyway? Back to Lonia, then, the lendsman made his resentful way, and back to bed. And in the morning early, workmen began the reconstruction of Cardiff's Place of Business. End of Section 10. Section 11 of Second Stage Linsman.

This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Second Stage Lensman by E. E. Doc Smith. Chapter 10 Since Kinnisans' impenetrable shields of force had confined the damage to the store's front, it was not long before Cardiff's reopened. Business was and remained brisk, not only because of what had happened, but also because Cartiff's top lofty and arrogant snobbishness had an irresistible appeal to the upper layers of Lanabar's peculiarly stratified humanity. The lensman, however, paid little enough attention to business. Outwardly, seated at his ornate desk in haughty grandeur,

he was calmness itself. But it was, Inwardly, he was far from serene. If he had figured things right, and he was pretty sure that he had, it was up to Bliko to make the next move, and it would pretty nearly have to be a peaceable one. There was enough doubt about it, however, to make the lensman a bit jittery inside. Also, from the fact that everybody having any weight at all wore thought screens,

it was almost a foregone conclusion that they had been warned against and were on the lookout for the lensman, that never to be sufficiently damned Tullerian lensman, who had already done so much to hurt the Basconean cause. That they now thought that one to be a well-hidden, unknown director of lensman, and not an actual operative, was little protection. If he made one slip, they'd have him cold. He hadn't slipped yet. They didn't suspect him yet. He was sure of those points. With these people, to suspect was to act, and his world-circling ship, equipped with every scanning, spying, and eavesdropping device known to science, would have informed him instantly of any untoward

development anywhere upon or near the planet. And his fight with Bliko was, after all, natural enough and very much in character. It was of the very essence of Bosconian culture that King Snipes should do each other to death with whatever weapons came readiest to hand. The underdog was always trying to kill the upper, and if the latter was not strong enough to protect his loot, he deserved everything he got. A callous philosophy, it is true, but one truly characteristic of civilization's inveterate foes. The higher-ups never interfered. Their own skins were the only ones in which they were interested. They would, Kinnison reflected, probably check back on him just to ensure their own safety, but they would not take sides in this brawl if they were convinced that he was, as he appeared to be,

a struggling young racketeer making his way up the ladder of fame and fortune as best he could. Let them check. Cartiff's past have been fabricated especially to stand up precisely that investigation, no matter how rigid it were to be. Hence, Kinnison waited, as calmly as might be, for Bleiko to move. There was no particular hurry, especially since Chris was finding heavy, going and thick ether at her end of the line, too. They had been in communication at least once every day, usually oftener, and

Clarissa had reported seethingly, in near-masculine, almost deep-space verbiage, that that damned, red-headed Hussie of a Helen was a hard nut to crack. Kinnison grinned sourly every time he thought of Lyrain, too. Those matriarchs certainly were a rum-lot. They were a pig-headed, self-centered, Muleishly stubborn bunch of cock-eyed knotheads, he decided. Non-galaxy-minded. A short-sightedly antisocial as a flock of mad Ritaligian cat-eagles.

He'd better—no, he hadn't better either. He'd have to lay off. If Chris, with all her potency and charm, with all her drive and force of will, with all her sheer power of mind and of lens, couldn't pierce their armor, what chance did any other entity of civilization have of doing it, particularly any male creature? He'd like to wring half their beautiful necks all of them, but that wouldn't get him to the first check-station either.

He'd just have to wait until Chris broke through the matriarch's crust. She'd do it, too, by Clonoh's prehensal tale, and then they'd really ride the beam. So Kinnison waited, and waited, and waited. When he got tired of waiting, he gave a few more lessons in snobbishness and in the gentle art of self-preservation to the promising young Lanabarian thug whom he had selected to inherit the business, lock, stock, and barrel, including goodwill, if any, if as and when he was done with it. Then he waited some more, waited, in fact, until Bliko was forced by his silent pressure to act.

It was not an overt act, nor an unfriendly. He simply called him up on the visiphone. "'What do you think you're trying to do?' Gliko demanded his darkly handsome face darker than ever with wrath. "'You,' Kinnison made succinct answer. "'You should have taken my advice about pondering the various aspects of an iceberg.' "'Bah!' the other snorted. "'That silliness?'

"'Not as silly as you think. It was a warning, Bliko, that that which appears above the surface is but a very small portion of my total resources. But you could not or would not learn by precept. You had to have it the hard way. Apparently, however, you have learned. That you have not been able to locate my forces, I am certain. I am almost as sure that you do not want to try me again, at least until you have found

out what you do not know. But I can give you no more time. You must decide now, Bliko, whether it is to be peace or war between us. I still prefer a peaceful settlement with an equitable division of the spoils. But if you want war, so be it. I have decided upon peace, the big shot said, and the effort of it almost choked him. I, Menjo Bliko, the Supreme, will give you a place beside me. "'Come to me here at once, so that we may discuss the terms of peace.'

"'We will discuss them now,' Kinnison insisted. "'Impossible. Barded and shielded as this room is?' "'It would be,' Kinnison interrupted with a nod, "'for you to make such an admission as you have just made. "'I do not trust unreservedly this communication line. "'If you join me now, you may do so in peace. If you do not come to me, here and now, it is war to the death. Fair enough at that, the Lensman admitted.

After all, you've got to save your face, and I haven't, yet. And if I team up with you, I can't very well stay out of your palace forever. But before I come there, I want to give you three things. A reminder, a caution, and a warning. I remind you that our first exchange of amenities cost you a thousand times as much as it did me. I caution you to consider again, and more carefully this time, the iceberg. I warn you that if we again come into conflict,

you will lose not merely a mine, but everything you have, including your life. So, see to it that you lay no traps for me. I come. He went out into the shop. Take over, Sport, he told his gangster protege. I'm going up to the palace to see Menjo Bliko. If I'm not back in two hours, and if your grapevine reports that Bliko is out of the picture,

what I've left in the store here is yours until I come back and take it away from you. I'll take care of it, boss, thanks. And the lensman knew that in true Lanabarian gratitude, the youth was already, mentally, slipping a long, keen knife between his ribs. Without a qualm, but with every sense stretched to the limit,

and an instant readiness for any eventuality, Kinnison took a cab to the palace and entered its heavily guarded portals. He was sure that they would not cut him down before he got to Bliko's room. That room would surely be the one chosen for the execution. Nevertheless, he took no chances. He was supremely ready to slay instantly

every guard within range of his sense of perception at the first sign of inimical activity. Long before he came to them, he made sure that the beams which were set to search him for concealed weapons were really search beams and not lethal vibrations. And as he passed those beams, each one of them reported him clean. Rings, of course, a stick-pin and various other items of adornment, but Cardiff, the great jeweler, would be expected to wear very large and exceedingly expensive gems.

And the beam has never been projected, which could penetrate those Worsal-designed Thorndyke built walls of force to show that any one of those flamboyant gems was not precisely what it appeared to be. Searched, combed minutely, millimeter by cubic millimeter, Kinnison was escorted by a heavily armed quartet of Bliko's personal guards into a supremacy's private study. All four bowed as he entered,

but they strode in behind him, then shut and locked the door. "'You fool!' Bliko gloated from, behind his massive desk. His face flamed with sadistic joy and anticipation. You trusty, greedy fool! I have you exactly where I want you now. How easy! How simple! This entire building is screened and shielded by my screens and shields.

Your friends and accomplices, whoever or wherever they are, can neither see you nor know what is to happen to you. If your ship attempts your rescue, it will be blasted out of the ether. I will personally gouge out your eyes, tear off your nails, strip your hide from your quivering carcass. Gleco was now in his raging exultation, fairly frothing at the mouth. That would be a good trick if you could do it, Kinnison remarked coldly. But the real fact is that you haven't even tried to use that pint of blue mush

that you call a brain. Do you think that I am an utter idiot? I put on an act, and you fell for it. Seize him, guards! Silence his yammering! Tear out his tongue! His supremacy shrieked, leaping out of his chair as though possessed. The guards tried manfully, but before they could touch him, before any one of them could take one full step, they dropped. Without being touched by material object or visible beam, without their proposed victim having moved a muscle, they died and fell. Died instantly in their tracks. Died completely, effortlessly, painlessly, with every molecule of the all-important compound without which life cannot even momentarily exist, shattered instantaneously into its degradation products. Died, not knowing even that they died.

Glico was shaken, but he was not beaten. Needle-ray men, sharp-shooters all, were stationed behind those walls. Gone now the dictator's intent to torture his victim to death. Slaying him out of hand would have to suffice. He flashed a signal to the concealed marksman, but that order too went unobayed. For Kinnison had perceived the hidden gunman long since, and before any of them could align his sights or press his firing-stud, each one of them ceased to live.

The Zwillnick then flipped on his communicator, and gobbled orders. Uselessly, for death sped ahead. Before any mind at any switchboard could grasp the meaning of the signal, it could no longer think. "'You fiend!' Bliko screamed in mad panic now, and wrenched open a drawer in order to seize a weapon of his own. Too late.

The landsman had already leapt, and as he landed he struck, not gently. Lonerbar's tyrant collapsed upon the thick-piled rug in a rife, gasping heap. But he was not unconscious. To suit Kinnison's purpose, he could not be unconscious. He had to be in full possession of his mind. The lensman crooked one brawny arm around the Zwillnick's neck in an unbreakable stranglehold and flipped off his thought screen. Physical struggles were of no avail. The attacker knew exactly what to do to certain nerves and ganglia to paralyze all such activity. Mental resistance was equally futile, a against the overwhelmingly superior power of the Tullerian's mind.

Then, his subject quietly passive, Kinnison tuned in and began his search for information. Began it, and swore soulfully. This couldn't be so. It didn't make any kind of sense. But there it was. The ape simply didn't know a thing about any ramification whatever of the vast culture to which civilization was opposed.

He knew all about Lanabar and the rest of the domain which he had ruled with such an iron hand. He knew much, altogether too much, about humanity and civilization. And, plainly to be read in his mind, were the methods by which he had obtained those knowled those knowges, and the brutally efficient precautions he had taken to make sure that civilization would not, in turn, learn of him. Kinnison scowled blackly. His deduction simply couldn't be that far off. And besides, it wasn't reasonable that this guy was the top, or that he had done all that work on his own account.

He pondered deeply, staring unseeing at Bleiko's placid face, and as he pondered, some of the jigsaw blocks of the puzzle began to click into a pattern. Then, ultra-carefully, with the utmost nicety of which he was capable, he again fitted his mind to that of the dictator and began to trace one at a time the lines of memory. Searching, probing, coursing backward and forward along those deeply buried time tracks, until at last he found the brakes and the scars for which he was hunting. For as he had told Ilona, a radical mind operation cannot be performed without leaving scars. It is true that upon cold, unfriendly Jarnivon, after Worsal had so operated upon Kinnison's mind, Kinnison himself could not perceive that any work had been done. But that, be it remembered, was before any actual change had occurred, before the compulsion had

been applied. The false memory supplied by Wurzel were still latent, non-existent. The true memory chains, complete and intact, were still in place. This slug's brain had been operated upon, Kinnison now knew, and by an expert. What the compulsion was, what combination of thought stimuli it was that would restore those now non-existent knowages, Kinnison had utterly no means of finding out. Blico himself, even subconsciously, did not know. It was, it had to be, something external, a thought pattern impressed upon Blico's mind by the Baskonian higher-up whenever he wanted to use him, and to waste time in trying to solve that problem would be this sheerest folly. Nor could he discover how that compulsion had been or could be applied.

If he got his orders from the Bosconian High Command Direct, there would have to be an intergalactic communicator, and it would in all probability be right here in Bliko's private rooms. No forceball or anything else that could take its place was to be found. Therefore Bliko was, probably, merely another regional director, and took orders from someone here in the First Galaxy. Lyrain? The possibility jarred Kinnison. No real probability pointed that way yet, however.

It was simply a possibility, born of his own anxiety. He couldn't worry about it yet. His study of the Zwillnick's mind, unproductive although it was of the desired details of things Bosconian, had yielded one highly important fact. His supremacy of Lanabar had sent at least one expedition to Lyrain, too. Yet there was no present memory in his mind that he had, he had ever done so. Kinnison had scanned those files with surpassing care, and knew positively

that Bliko did not now know even that such a planet as Lyrain II existed. Could he, Kinnison, be wrong? Could somebody other than Menjo-Blico have sent that ship? Or those ships, since it was not only possible, but highly probable, that that voyage was not an isolated instance? No, he decided instantly. Ilona's knowledge was, was far too detailed and exact. Nothing of such importance would be or could be done without the knowledge and consent of Lanabar's dictator, and the fact that he did not now remember it was highly significant. It meant, it must mean, that the new Boscon, or whoever was back of Boscon, considered the solar system of Lyrain of such vital importance that knowledge of it must never,

under any circumstances get to star A. Star A. Star, the detested, hated, and feared director of Linsmen of the Galactic Patrol. And Mack was on Lyraine, too, alone. She had been safe enough so far, but... Chris, he sent her an instant thought. Yes, Kim, came flashing answer. Thank Clono and Nashab-Kemming. Your Q-X, then?

Why, of course. Why shouldn't I be? the same as I was this morning. Things have changed since then, he assured her grimly. I finally crack things open here, and I find that Lanabar is simply a dead end. It's a feeder for Lyrain, nothing else. It's not a certainty, of course, but there's a very distinct possibility that Lyraine is it.

If it is, I don't need to tell you that you're on a mighty hot spot. So I want you to quit whatever you're doing and run. Hide. crawl into a hole and pull it in after you. Get into one of Helen's deepest crypts and have somebody sit on the lid, and do it right now. Five minutes ago would have been better.

Why, Kim, she giggled. Everything here is exactly as it has always been. And surely you wouldn't have a lensman hide, would you? Would you yourself? That question was they both knew unanswerable. That's different. He, of course, protested, but he knew that it was not.

Well, anyway, be careful, he insisted. More careful than you ever were before in your life. Use everything you've got, every second, and if you notice anything, however small, the least bit out of the way, let me know right then. I'll do that. You're coming, of course. It was a statement, not a question.

I'll say I am, in force. Bye, Chris. "'Be careful,' and he snapped the line. "'He had a lot to do. He had to act fast, and he had to be right, and he couldn't take all day in deciding either.' Kinnison's mind flashed back over what he had done. "'Could he cover up? Should he cover up, even if he could? Yes, and no. Better not even try to cover Cardiff up, he decided.

Leave that trail just as it was, wide and plain, up to a a certain point. This point, right here. Cardiff would disappear here in Bliko's palace. He was done with Cardiff anyway. They would smell a rat, of course. It stunk to high heaven. They might not, they probably would not, believe that he had died in the ruins of the palace, but they wouldn't know that he hadn't. And they would think that he hadn't found out a thing, and he would keep them thinking so as long as he could. The young thug and Cardiff's would help too, all unconsciously. He would assume the name and station, of course, and fight with everything Kinnison had taught him.

That would help. Kinnison grinned as he realized just how much it would help. The real Cardiff would have to vanish as completely, as absolutely without a trace as was humanly possible. They would, of course, figure out in time that Cardiff had done whatever was done in the palace, but it was up to him to see to it that they could never find out how it was done. Wherefore he took from Menjo's mind every iota of knowledge which might conceivably be of use to him thereafter. Then Menjo Bliko died. His corpse fell into a heap upon the floor, and the linsmen strode along the corridors and down stairways, and wherever he went,

their death went also. This killing griped Kinnison to the core of his being, but it had to be. The fate of all civilization might very well depend upon the completeness of his butchery this day, upon the sheer mercilessness of his extermination of every foe who might be able to cast any light, however dim, upon what he had just done. Straight to the palace arsenal he went, where he labored briefly at the filling of a bin with bombs. A minute more to set a timer, and he was done. Out of the building he ran. No one stayed him,

nor did any later say that they had seen him go. He dumped a dead man out of a car and drove it away at reckless speed. Even at that, however, he was almost too slow. Hurdling stones from the dynamited palace showered down scarcely a hundred feet behind his screeching wheels. He headed for the spaceport. Then, changing his mind, braked savagely as he sent lensed instructions to Watson. He felt no compunction about fracturing the rules

regulations made and provided for the landing of spaceships at spaceports everywhere, but having his vessel make a hot blast, unauthorized and quite possibly highly destructive landing to pick him up. Nor did he fear pursuit. The big shots were, for the most part, dead. The survivors and the middle-sized shots were too busy by far to waste time over an irregular incident at a spaceport. Hence, nobody would give anybody any orders, and without explicit orders, a barian officer would act. No, there would be no pursuit. But they, the ones Kinnison was after, would interpret truly every such irregular incident, wherefore there must not be any. Thus it came about that when the speeding ground car was upon an empty stretch of highway, with nothing in sight in any

direction, a spaceship eased down upon muffled under-jets directly above it. A tractor-beam reached down. car and man were drawn upward and into the vessel's hold. Kinnison did not want the car, but he could not leave it there. Since many cars had been blown out of existence with Bliko's palace, for this one to disappear would be natural enough. But for it to be found abandoned out in the open country would be a highly irregular and an all-too-revealing occurrence. Upward through atmosphere and stratosphere, the black cruiser climbed.

Out into interstellar space she fly. Then, while Watson coaxed the sleek flyer to do even better than her prodigious best, Kinnison seated himself at the ultra-beam communicator and drilled a beam to prime base and Port Admiral Haynes. "'Lens to lens, chief, please,' Kinnison cautioned, when the handsome old face surmounted now by a shock of bushy gray hair appeared upon his plate. "'Didn't want to interrupt anything important, is why I called you through the office instead of direct.

You always have the right of way, Kim. You know that. You're the most important thing in the galaxy right now. Haynes said soberly. Well, a minute or so wouldn't make any difference. Not that much difference anyway. Kinnison replied uncomfortably. I don't like to lens you unless I have to.

And he began his report. Scarcely had he started, however, when he felt a call to impinge upon his own lens. Clarissa was calling him from Lyrene too. Just a sec, Admiral, he thought rapidly. Come in, Chris. Make it a three-way with Admiral Haynes.

You told me to report anything unusual, no matter what, the girl began. Well, I finally managed to get almost chummy with Helen, and absolutely the only unusual thing I can find out about the whole planet, or race, is that the death rate from airplane crashes began to go up a while ago and is still rising. I don't see how that fact can have any bearing, but am reporting it as per instructions. Hmm. What kind of crashes? Kinnison asked. That's the unusual feature of it. Nobody knows. They just disappear. What? Kinnison yelled the thought, so forcibly, that both Clarissa and Haynes winced under its

impact. Why, yes, she replied innocently. But I don't see yet that it means. It means that it means, it means that you do, right now, crawl into the deepest, most heavily thought-screen hold in Lyrne, and stay there until I, personally, come and dig you out,' he replied grimly. "'It means, Admiral, that I want Wurzel and Tragancy as fast as I can get them, not orders, of course, but very, very urgent requests. And I want Van Buskirk and his gang of Valerians, and Grand Fleet with all the trimmings, with an easy striking distance of Dunstan's "'as soon as fast as you can possibly get them there. "'And I want,

"'Why all the excitement, Kim? "'What do you know, son?' "'The two interruptions came almost as one. "'I don't know anything,' Kinnison emphasized the verb very strongly. "'Howeverever, I suspect a lot. "'Everything, in fact, grating downward from Ike. "'But they were all destroyed, weren't they?' "'The girl protested.

"'Far from it.' "'This from Haynes.' would the destruction of Telos do away with all mankind? I am beginning to think that the Ike are to the Bosconium exactly what we are to civilization. So am I, Kinnison agreed. And such being the case, will you please get hold of Nadrick of Palene 7 for me?

I don't know his pattern well enough to lends him from here. Why? Clarissa asked curiously. Because he's a frigid, poison-breathing second-scent. stage gray lensman, Kinnison explained. As such, he is much closer to the Ike in every respect than we are, and may very well have an angle that we haven't. And in a few minutes, the Pallanian lensman became on rapport with the group. An interesting development, truly, his soft thought came in almost wistfully when the status quo have been made clear to him. I fear greatly that I cannot be of any use, but I'm not

doing anything of importance at the moment, and will be very glad indeed to give you whatever slight assistance may be possible to one of my small powers. I come at speed to Lyrain 2. End of Section 11. Section 12 of Second Stage Lensman. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Second Stage Lensman by E. E. Doc Smith. Chapter 11 had not underestimated the power and capacity of his as-yet-unknown opposition. Well, it was for him and for his patrol that he was learning to think, for as has already been made clear, this phase of the conflict was not essentially one of physical combat. Material encounters did occur, it is true, but they were comparatively unimportant.

Basically, fundamentally, it was brain against brain. The preliminary but nevertheless prodigious skirmishing of two minds, or, more accurately, two teams of minds, each trying, even while covering up its own tracks and traces, to get at and to annihilate the other. Each had certain advantages. Bosconia. Although we know now that Boscon was by no means the prime mover in that dark culture, which opposed civilization so bitterly, nevertheless Basconia it was, and still is being called, for a long time had the initiative, forcing the patrol to wage an almost purely defensive fight. Bosconia knew vastly more about civilization than civilization

knew about Bosconia. The latter, almost completely unknown, had all the advantages of stealth and of surprise. Her forces could and did operate from undeterminable points against precisely plotted objectives. Bosconia had the hyperspacial tube long before the conference of scientists solved its mysteries. And even after the patrol could use it, it could do civilization no good unless and until something could be found at which to aim it. Upon the other hand, civilization had the lens.

It had the backing of the Erysians. Madningly incomplete and unsatisfactory, though, that backing seemed at times to be. It had a few entities, notably one Kimball Kinnison, who were learning to think really efficiently. Above all, it had a massed purpose, a loyalty and a spree decor, backboning a morale which the whip-driven ranks of autocracy could never match, and which the whip-wielding drivers could not even dimly understand. Kinnison, then, with all the powers of his own mind and the minds of his friends and coworkers, sought to place and to identify the real key mentality at the destruction of which the mighty Baskonian Empire

must begin to fall apart. That mentality in turn was trying with its every resource to find and to destroy the intellect which pure reason showed was the one factor which had enabled civilization to throw the fast-conquering hordes of Bosconia back into their own galaxy. Now, from our point of vantage in time and in space, through the vistas of years of time and of parsecs of space, we can study at leisure and in detail many things which Kimball Kinnison could only surmise and suspect and deduce. Thus he knew definitely only the fact that the Bosconian organization did not collapse with the destruction of the planet Jarnovan. We know now, however, all about the Thralian solar system and about Elkan of Thrail, its unlamented tyrant.

The planet Thrail, planetographically speaking Theralis II, so much like Tellus, that its natives, including the unspeakable Alcon, were human practically to the limit of classification, and about Onlo, or Thrales Nine, and its monstrous natives. We know now that the duties and the authorities of the Council of Boscon were taken over by Alcon of Thrail. We now know how, by reason of his absolute control over both the humanity of Thrail and the monstrosities of Onlow, he was able to carry on. Unfortunately, like the Ike, the Onlonians simply cannot be described by or to man.

This is, as is already more or less widely known, due to the fact that all such non-aqueous, sub-zero-blooded, non-oxygen-breathing peoples have of necessity a metabolic extension into the hyper-dimension, a fact which makes even their three-dimensional aspect subtly incomprehensible to any strictly three-dimensional mind. Not all such races, it may be said here, belong to Bosconia. Many essentially similar ones, such as the natives of Palain Seven, adhere to our culture from the very first.

Indeed, it is held that sexual equality is the most important criterion of that which we know as civilization. But since this is not a biological treatise, this point is merely mentioned, not discussed. The Onlonians, then, while not precisely describable to man, were very similar to the Ike. As similar, say, as a Poissinian and a Tullurian are to each other in the perception of a Pellanian. That is to say, practically identical. For to the unknown and incomprehensible senses of those frigid beings, the fact that the Pocenaean possesses forearms, eight hands and no eyes at all, as compared with the Tullerian's simply paired members, constitutes a total difference so slight as to be negligible. But to resume the threat of history, we are at liberty to know things that Kinnison

did not. Specifically, we may observe. and hear a conference which tireless research has reconstructed in toto. The place was upon chill, dark Onlo, in a searingly cold room, whose normal condition of utter darkness was barely ameliorated now by a dim blue glow. The time was just after Kinnison had left Lanabar for Lyrain, too. The conferees were Alconov Therail and his Alonian cabinet officers. The armored-clad tyrant, in whose honor the feeble illuminator, was, lay at ease in a reclining chair. The pseudo-reptilian monstrosities were sitting or standing in some obscure and inexplicable

fashion at a long, low bench of stone. The fact is, one of the Onlonians was radiating harshly, that our minions in the other galaxy could not, or would not, or simply did not think. For years, things went so smoothly that no one had to think. The great plan, so carefully worked out, gave every promise of complete success. It was inevitable, it seemed, that that entire galaxy would be brought under our domination,

its patrol destroyed, before any inkling of our purpose could be perceived by the weaklings of humanity. The plan took cognizance of every known factor of any importance. When, however, an unknown, unforeseeable factor, the lens of the patrol became of real importance. That plan, of course, broke down. Instantly, upon the recognition of an unconsidered factor, the plan should have been revised. All action should have ceased until that factor had been evaluated and guarded against.

But no, no one of our commanders in that galaxy or handling its affairs ever thought of such a thing. It is you who are not thinking now. The tyrant of Thrail broke in. If any underling had dared any such suggestion, you yourself would have been among the first to demand his elimination. The plan should have been revised, it is true. But the fault does not lie with the underlings. Instead, it lies squarely with the Council of Boscon.

By the way, I trust that those six of that Council who escaped destruction upon Jarnovan by means, of their hyperspacial tube have been dealt with? They have been liquidated, another officer replied. It is well. They were supposed to think, and the fact that they neither coped with the situation nor called it to your attention until it was too late to men matters rather than any flaw inherent in the plan

is what has brought about the present absolutely intolerable situation. Underlings are not supposed to think. They're supposed to report facts, and, if so, requested, opinions and deductions. Our representatives there were well-trained and skillful. They reported accurately, and that was all that was required of them. Helmuth reported truly, even though Boscone discredited his reports. So did Prelan and Crown-Shield and Jolty. The Ike, however, failed in their duties of supervision and correlation, which is why their leaders have been punished, and their operators have been reduced in rank. Why we have assumed a task, which it might

have been supposed, lesser minds could have and should have performed. Let me caution you now that to underestimate a foe is a fatal error. Land of the Ike prated largely upon this very point, but in the eventuality he did, in fact, underestimate very seriously the resources and the qualities of the patrol. With what disastrous consequences we are all familiar. Instead of thinking, he attempted to subject a purely philosophical concept, the lens to a mathematical analysis. Neither did the heads of our military branch think at all deeply,

or they would not have tried to attack Telas until after this new and enigmatic factor had been resolved. Its expeditionary forces vanished without sign or signal. In spite of its primaries, its negative matter bombs, its supposedly irresistible planets, and a cursed tellus still circles untouched about Saul, its sun. The condition is admittedly not to be born. But I have always said, and I now do and shall insist,

that no further action be taken until the great plan shall have been so revised as reasonably to take into account the lens. What of ERISA? He demanded of a third cabinetier. It is fear that nothing. can be done about ERISA at present, that entity replied. Expeditions have been sent, but they were dealt with as simply and as efficiently as were

land and app of the Ike. Planets have also been sent, but they were detected by the patrol and were knocked out by far-ranging derigible planets of the enemy. However, I have concluded that ERISA, of and by itself, is not of prime immediate importance. It is true that the lens did in all probability originate with the Elysians. It is hence true that the destruction of ERISA and its people would be highly desirable. In that it would ensure that no more lenses would be produced. Such destruction would not do away, however, with the myriads of the instruments which are already in use

and whose wearers are operating so powerfully against us. Our most pressing business, it seems to me, is to hunt down to the world. and exterminate all lensmen. Particularly, the one whom Jalty called the lensman, who, Eichmill was informed by Lensman Morgan, was known to even other Lensman only as Star A Star. In that connection, I am forced to wonder, is Star A Star in reality only one mind?

That question has been considered both by me and by your chief psychologist, Alconn made answer. Frankly, we do not know. We have not enough reliable data upon which to base a finding of fact. Nor does it matter in the least. Whether one or two or a thousand, we must find and we must slay, until it is feasible to resume our orderly conquest of the universe. We must also work unremittingly upon a plan to abate the nuisance, which is ERISA.

Above all, we must see to it were the utmost diligence, that no iota of information concerning us ever reaches any member of the Galactic Patrol. I do not want either of our worlds to become as Jarnovan now is. Here! Bravo! Nor I! came a chorus of thoughts, interrupted by an emanation from one of the sparkling force-ball intergalactic communicators. Yes, Alcon acknowledging, the tyrant took the call. It was as Wilnick upon Far Lanabar, reporting through Lyra, reign ate everything that Cardiff had done. I do not know, I have no idea, whether or not this matter is either unusual or important,

the observer concluded, I would, however, rather report ten unimportant things than miss one which might later prove to have had significance. Right, report received, and discussion raged. Was this affair actually what it appeared upon the surface to be, or was it another subtle piece of the work of that never to be sufficiently damned lensman. The observer was recalled. Orders were given and were carried out. Then, after it had been learned that Bliko's palace and every particle of its contents had been destroyed, that Cardiff had vanished utterly, and that nobody could be found upon the face

of Lanabar who could throw any light whatever upon the manner or time of his going, then after it was too late to do anything about it, it was decided that this, This must have been the work of the lensman. And it was useless to storm or to rage. Such a happening could not have been reported sooner to so high in office. The routine events of a hundred million planets simply could not be reported, nor could they have been considered if they were. And since this lensman never repeated, his acts were always different,

alike only in that they were drably routine acts until their crashing finale, the Baskonian observers never had been and never would be able to report his activities in time. But he got nothing this time, I am certain of that, the chief psychologist exulted. How can you be so sure? Alcon snapped. Because Menjo Bliko of Lanabar knew nothing whatever of our activities or of our organization, except at such times as one of my men was in charge of his mind, The scientist gloated. I, in my assistance, no mental surgery, as those crude hypnotists, the Ike never will know it.

Even our lowest agents are having those clumsy and untrustworthy false teeth removed, as fast as my therapist can operate upon their minds. Nevertheless, you're even now guilty of underestimating. Alcon reproved him sharply, energizing a force-ball communicator. It is quite eminently possible, that he who wrought so upon Lanabar may have been enabled, by pure chance, perhaps, to establish a linkage between that planet and Lyrain.

The cold, crisply incisive thought of an Ike answered the tyrant's call. Have you of Lyraine perceived or encountered any unusual occurrences or indications? Alcon demanded. We have not. Expect them, then. And the Threlian Despa transmitted in detail

all the new developments. "'We always expect new and untoward things.' The Ike more than half sneered. "'We are prepared momently for anything that can happen, "'from a visitation by star A-star, or any or all of his lendsman, "'up to an attack by the massed grand fleet of the Galactic Patrol. "'Is there anything else your supremacy?' "'No.

"'I envy you your self-confidence and your assurance, but I mistrust exceedingly the soundness of your judgment. That is all. Alcon turned his attention to the chief psychologist. Have you operated upon the minds of those Ike and those self-styled overlords as you did upon that of Mendo Bliko? No, the mind-surgeon gasped. Impossible! Not physically, perhaps.

But would not such a procedure interfere so seriously with the work that it, that is your problem? Solve it. Alcon ordered curtly. See to it, however, it is solved, and that no traceable linkage exists between any of those minds and us. Any mind capable of thinking such thoughts as those which we have just received is not to be trusted. As has been said, Kinnison X. Kartif was on route for Lyrene 2 when the foregoing conference

was taking place. Throughout the trip he kept in touch with Mack. At first he tried, with his every artifice of diplomacy, cajolery and downright threats to make her lay off. He finally invoked all his unattached linsman's transcendental authority and ordered her summarily to lay off. No soap. How did he get that way she wanted furiously to know,

to be ordering her round as though she were an uncapped probe? She was a lensman too by Clono's curly whiskers. She had a job to do, and she was going to do it. She was on a definite assignment. His own assignment, too, remember, and she wasn't going to be called off of it just because he had found out all of a sudden that it might not be quite as safe as dunking donuts at a down-river picnic. What kind of a sun-baked, space-tempered crust did he have to pull a crack like that on her? Would he have the bare-faced, unmitigated gall to spring a thing like that on any other Lensman in the whole cock-eyed universe? That stopped him cold.

Lensmen always went in. That was their code. For any Tullorean lensman anywhere to duck or to dodge because of any possible personal danger was sheer, starkly unthinkable. The fact that she was to him the sum total of all the femininity of the galaxy could not be allowed any weight whatever, any more than the converse aspect had ever been permitted to sway him. Fair enough, bitter, but inescapable. This was one, just one. Just one. of the consequences which Mentor had foreseen. He had foreseen it, too, in a dimly unreal sort of way, and now that it was here, he'd simply have to take it. QX. But be careful, Chris, anyway, he surrendered, awfully careful, as careful as I would myself. I could be ever so much more careful than that, and still be pretty reckless. Her low entrancing chuckle came through as though she were present in person.

And, by the way, Kim, did I ever tell you that I am fast getting to be a gray lensman? You always were, Ace. You couldn't very well be anything else. No, I mean actually gray. Did you ever stop to consider what the laundry problem would be upon this heathenish planet? Chris, I'm surprised at you. What do you need of a laundry? He derided her affectionately.

Here you've been blasting me to a cinder about not. not taking your lendsmanship seriously enough, and yet you are violating one of the prime tenets, that of confirmation to planetary customs. Shame on you!' He felt her hot blush across all those parsecs of empty space. "'I tried it at first, Kim, but it was just simply terrible!' "'You've got to learn how to be a lensman, or else quit throwing your weight around like you did a while back. No back-chat either, you insubordinate young jade, or I'll take the that lens away from you and heave you into the clink.

You and what regiment of Valerians? Besides, it didn't make any difference, she explained triumphantly. These matriarchs don't like me one bit better, no matter what I wear or don't wear. Time passed, and in spite of Kinnison's highly disquieting fears, nothing happened. Right on schedule, the patrol ship eased down to a landing at the edge of the Lyranian airport. Mac was waiting. Dress now, not in nurses white, but in startlingly nondescript gray shirt and breeches. Not the gray leather of my station, but merely dirt color, she explained to Kinnison after the first fervent greetings. These women are clean enough physically, but I simply haven't got a thing fit to wear.

Is your laundry working? It was, and very shortly, sector chief nurse Clarissa McGoogle, appeared in her wanted, immaculately white, stiffly-starched uniform. She did not, then, or ever, wear the grey to which she was entitled. Nor did she ever, except when defying Kinnison, lay claims to any of the rights or privileges which were so indubitably hers. She was not, never had been, and never would or could be a real lensman she always did insist. At best she was only a synthetic, or an imitation, or, or or sort of an amateur, or maybe a red lensman, handy to have around perhaps for certain kinds of jobs,

but absolutely and definitely not a regular lensman. And it was this attitude which was to make the red lensman, not merely tolerated, but loved as she was loved by lensmen, patrolmen, and civilians alike throughout the length, breadth, and thickness of civilization's bounds. The ship lifted from the airport and went north into the uninhabited temperate zone. The matriarchs did not have a thing

which the Tullarians either needed or wanted. The Lyrinians disliked the visitor so openly and so intensely that to move away from the populated belt was the only logical and considerate thing to do. The dauntless arrived a day later, bringing Worsal and Tragansi, followed closely by Nydrek in his ultra-refrigerated speedster. Five lensmen then studied intently a globular map of Lyrain 2, which Clarissa had made. Four of them, the oxygen-breatzers,

surrounded it in the flesh, while Nadrek was with them only in essence. Physically, he was far out in the comfortably sub-zero reaches of the stratosphere, but his mind was on rapport with theirs. His sense of perception scanned the markings upon the globe as carefully and as accurately as did theirs. This belt which I have colored pink, Mack explained, corresponding roughly to the Taurid zone, is the inhabited area of Lyrene 2. Nobody lives anywhere else. Upon it I have charted every unexplained disappearance that I have been able to find out about. Each of these black crosses is where one such person lived. The black circle, or circles, for frequently there are more than one, connected to each cross by a black line marks the spot or spots where that person was seen for the last time or times.

If the black circles around the cross, it means that she was last seen at home. I'm sorry that I couldn't get any real information, that this jumble is all that I could discover for you. The crosses were distributed fairly evenly all around the globe and throughout the populated zone. The circles, however, tended markedly to concentrate. upon the northern edge of that zone. And practically all of the encircled crosses were very close to the northern edge of the populated belt. To four of the Lensman present,

the full grisly meaning of the thing was starkly plain. Nadrack was the first to speak. Ah, very well done, Lensman McDougal. He congratulated. Your data are amply sufficient. A right scholarly and highly informative bit of work, A friend Worssel? "'It is so. It is indeed so,' the Valentin agreed,

the while a shudder rippled along the thirty-foot length of his sinuous body. "'I suspected many things, but not this. Certainly not this ever a way out here.' "'Nor I.' Tragonzi's four horn-lipped toothless mouths snapped open and shut. His cabled arms writhed in detestation. "'Nor I,' from Kinnison. "'If I had, I'd have had a hundred Lyranians mob you, Chris, and tie you down. "'It would be just about here, I'd say, from the trend of the lines of vanishment. "'He placed a fingertip near the North Pole of the globe.

"'He thought for a moment, his jaw setting and his eyes growing hard, then spoke aloud to the girl. "'Christ, the next time I tell you to hide and you don't do it, "'I'm going to take that lens away from you and flash it with a dilameter. then you'll go back to tell us and you'll stay there. His voice was grimmer than she'd ever before heard it. You don't mean. Why, it can't be. You're all thinking, Overlords, she gasped. Her face turned white. Both hands flew to her throat. Just that, overlords. Nothing else but.

He pictured in imagination his fiancée's body writhing in torment upon a delft. Elgonian torture screen, until his mind revolted. All unconscious that his thoughts were as clear as telescreen picture to all the others. If they had detected you, you know that they would do anything to get hold of a mind and a vital force like yours, but thank all the gods of space, they didn't. He shook himself and drew a tremendously deep breath of relief. Well, all I've got to say is that if we ever have any kids and they don't ball one when I tell them about this, I'll certainly give them something to ball about.

End of Section 12. Section 13 of Second Stage Lensman. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Second Stage Lensman by E. E. Doc Smith. Chapter 12. But listen, Kim, Clarissa protested. What makes you all so sure that it's overlords? There's nothing on my map there to prove, why, it might be anything.

It might not, too, Kinnison stated. Barring the contingency of the existence of a life-form unknown to any one of the four of us, and which operates exactly as the overlords do operate, that hypothesis is the only one both necessary and sufficient to explain all the facts which you have plotted upon your chart. Think a minute. You know how they work. They tune in on some one mind, the stronger and more vital the better. The fact that the Lyranians have such powerful minds is undoubtedly one big reason why the overlords are here.

In that connection, it's a mystery to me how Helen has lived so long. All the persons who disappeared had high-powered minds, didn't they? She thought for a space. Now that you mention it, I believe that they did. As far as I know anyway. Thought so. That clenches it, if it needed any clinching. But to go on, they tune in and blank out the victim's mind completely, filling it with an overwhelming urge to rush directly to the cavern. How else can you explain the number of these disappearances? And above all,

the fact that the great majority of those lines of yours point directly to that one spot. For your information, I will add that the ones that do not so point, are probably just observational errors. The person was seen before she disappeared instead of afterward. But that's so, so evident, she began. Would they do anything? It wasn't evident to you at first, was it? He countered.

And evident or not, they always have worked that way. And as far as anyone has been able to find out, they never have worked any other way. Quite probably, therefore, they can't. The Ike undoubtedly told them to lay off, just as they did before, but apparently they can't do that either, permanently. This torturing and life-eating of there seems to be a racial vice, like a drug habit, only worse. They can quit it for a while, but after about so long they simply have to go on another bender.

Convinced? Well, I suppose so, she admitted doubtfully, and Kinnison turned to the group at large. There is no doubt I take it, as to what course of action we're to pursue in the matter of this cavern of overlords? He asked superfluously. There was none. The decision was unanimous an instant that it must be wiped out. The two great ships, the incomparable dauntless and the camouflaged warship which had served Kinnison Cardiff so well, lifted themselves into the stratosphere and headed north.

The lensman did not want to advertise. their presence, and there was no great hurry. Therefore, both vessels had their thought screens out, and both rode upon baffled jets. Practically all of the crewmen of the Dauntless had seen overlords in the substance. So far as is known, they were the only human beings who had ever seen an overlord and had lived a tell of it. Twenty-two of their former fellows had seen overlords and had died. Kinnison, Worssel, and Van Buskirk had slain overlords in unscreened hand-to-hand. in the fantastically incredible environment of a hyperspacial tube, that uncanny medium in which man and monster could and did occupy the same space at the same time without being able to touch each other,

in which the air or pseudo-air is thick and viscous, in which the only substance common to both sets of dimensions, and thus available for combat purposes, is a synthetic material so treated and so saturated as to be of enormous mass and inertia. It is easier to imagine, then, than to describe the emotion which see through the crew, as the news flew around that the business next in order was the extirpation of a flock of overlords. How about a couple or three nice duodec torpedoes, Kim, steered right down into the middle of that cavern and touched off.

Pow-ee! Slick, don't you think? Henderson insinuated. "'Ah, let's not, Kim,' protested Van Buskirk, who as one of the three overlord slayers, had been called into the control room. "'This ain't going to be in a tube, Kim. It's in a cavern on a planet, made to order for axework. Let me and the boys put on our screens and bash their ugly damn skulls in for them. How about it, huh?'

"'Not do a deck hen. Not yet, anyway,' Kinnison decided. "'As for axe work, Bus, maybe. Maybe, maybe not. Depends. We want to catch some of them alive, so as to get some information. But you and your boys will be good for that, too, so you might as well go and start getting them ready. He turned his thought to his snakish comrade in arms. What do you think, Worsal? Is this hide out of theirs heavily fortified, or just hidden? Hidden, I would say, from what I know of them. Well, hidden, the Valentian replied promptly. "'unless they have changed markedly, and, like you, I do not believe that a race so old can change that much.

"'I could tune them in, as I have done before, but it might very well do more harm than good.' "'Certain, too, I'm afraid.' Kinnison knew as well as did Worsall, that a Valentian was the tastiest dish which could be served up to any overlord. Both knew also, however, the very real mental ability of the foe. Knew that the overlords would be sure to suspect that any Valentian so temptingly present upon Lyrain, too, must be there specifically for the detriment of the Delgonian race, knew that they would almost certainly refuse the proffered bait. And not only would they refuse to lead Worsal to their cavern,

but in all probability they would cancel even their ordinary activities, thus making it impossible to find them at all, until they had learned definitely that the hook-bearing bait and its accomplices had left the Lyranian solar system entirely. No, what we need right now was a good, strong-willed Lyranian. Shall we go back and grab one? It would take only a few minutes, Henderson suggested, straightening up at his board. Uh-uh, Kinnison demurred.

That might smell a bit on the cheesy side, too, don't you think, fellows? And Worsal and Tragancia agreed that such a move would be ill-advised. "'Might I offer a barely tenable suggestion?' Nedrick asked indifently. "'I'll say you can. Come in.' Judging by the rate at which Lyrannians have been vanishing of late, it would seem that we would not have to wait too long before another one comes hither under their own power, "'Since the despised ones will have captured her themselves, "'and themselves will have forced her to come to them,

"'no suspicion will be or can be aroused.' "'That's a thought, Nadrick. "'That is a thought,' Kinnison applauded. "'Shute us up, will you, hen? "'Way up, and hover over the center of the spread of intersections of those lines. "'Put observers on every plate you've got here. "'You too, Captain Craig, please, all over the ship.' Have half of them search the air all around as far as they can reach for an airplane in flight.

Have the rest comb the terrain below, both on the surface and underground, with spy rays for any sign of a natural or artificial cave. What kind of information do you think they may have, Kinnison? asked Tragansi, the Rigelian. I don't know. Kinnison pondered for minutes. Somebody, around here somewhere, has got some kind of a tie-up with some Bosconian entity or group that is fairly well up the ladder. I'm pretty sure of that.

Bliko sent ships here. One speedster, certainly, and there's no reason to suppose that it was an isolated case. There is nothing to show either that it was not an isolated case, Tragansi commented quietly. And the speedster landed, not up here near the pole, but in the populated zone. Why? To secure some of the women? The Rigelian was not arguing against Kinnison. He was, as they all knew, helping to subject every facet of the matter to scrutiny.

Possibly, but this is a transfer point, Kinnison pointed out. Ilona was to start out from here, remember? And those two ships, coming to meter, or perhaps each other, or—or perhaps. perhaps called there by the Speecher's crew for aid, Traganzi supplied the complete thought. One, but quite possibly, not both, Nadrick suggested. We agreed, I think,

that the probability of a Bosconian connection is sufficiently large to warrant the taking of these overlords alive in order to read their minds? They were. Hence the discussion then turned naturally to the question of how this is, none too easy feat was to be accomplished. The two patrol ships had climbed and were cruising in great slow circles.

The Spy Ray men and the other observers were hard at work. Before they had found anything upon the ground, however, Plain Ho! came the report, and both vessels, with Spy Ray blocks out now as well as thought screens, plunged silently into a flatly slanting dive. Directly over the slow Lyranian craft, high above it, They turned as one to match its course and slowed down to match its pace. "'Come to life, Kim. Don't let them have her,' Clarissa exclaimed.

Being on rapport with them all, she knew that both unhuman Worsal and Monster Nadrick were perfectly willing to let the helpless Lyrenian become a sacrifice. She knew that neither Kinnison nor Trigonsi had as yet given that angle of the affair a single thought. "'Surely, Kim, you don't have to let them kill her, do you? Isn't showing you the gate or whatever it is enough? Can't you rig up something to do something with when she gets almost inside?' "'Why, um, I suppose so.' Kinnison wrenched his attention away from a plate.

"'Oh, sure, Chris. "'Hen, drop us down a bit, and have the boys get ready to spear that crate with a couple of tractors when I give the word. The plane held its course directly toward a range of low, barren, precipitous hills. As it approached them, it dropped, as though to attempt a landing upon a steep and rocky hillside. "'She can't land there,' Kinnison breathed,

and overlords would want her alive, not dead. "'Suppose I've been wrong all the time.' "'Get ready, fellows,' he snapped. "'Take her at the very last possible instant, Before she crashes now. As he yielded the command, the powerful beams leapt out, seizing the disaster-bound vehicle in a gently unbreakable grip. Had they not done so, however, the Lyrrhenian would not have crashed.

For in that last split second, a section of the rugged hillside fell inward. In the very mouth of that dread opening, the little plane hung for an instant, then— "'Grab the woman, quick,' Kinnison ordered, for the Lyraini was going to jump. And such was the awful measure of the overlord's compulsion. She did jump, without a parachute, without knowing or caring what, if anything, was to break her fall.

But before she struck ground, a tractor beam had seized her, and passive plane and wildly struggling pilot were both born rapidly aloft. "'Why, Kim, it's Helen!' Clarissa shrieked and surprise. Then voice and manner became transformed. "'The poor, poor thing!' she crooned. "'Bring her in at number six, Loc. "'I'll meet her there. You fellows keep clear.

"'In the state she's in, a shock, "'especially such a shock as seeing such a monstrous lot of males, "'would knock her off the beam, sure.' "'Helen of Lirane ceased struggling "'in the instant of being drawn through the thought-screen "'surrounding the dauntless. "'She had not been unconscious at any time. "'She had known exactly what she had been doing,

she had wanted intensely. Such was the insidiously devastating power of the Delgonian mind, to do just that and nothing else. The falseness of values, the indefensibility of motivation, simply could not register in her thoroughly suffused, completely blanketed mind. When the screen cut off the overlord's control, however, thus restoring her own, the shock of realization of what she had done, what she had been forced to do, struck her like a physical blow. Worse than a physical blow, for ordinary physical violence she could understand.

This mischance, however, she could not even begin to understand. It was utterly incomprehensible. She knew what had happened. She knew that her mind had been taken over by some monstrously alien, incredibly powerful mentality, for some purpose so obscure

as to be entirely beyond her can. To her narrow philosophy of existence, to her one-planet insularity of viewpoint and outlook, the very existence anywhere of such a mind with such a purpose, was in simple fact impossible. For it actually to exist upon her own planet, Lyrain II, was sheerly, starkly unthinkable. She did not recognize the dauntless, of course. To her all spaceships were alike. They were all invading warships. full of enemies. All things and all beings originating elsewhere than upon Lyrain II were perforce enemies. Those outrageous males, the Tellurian lendsman and his cohorts, had pretended not to be

inimical, as had the peculiar, white-swath Tullerian near-person who had been worming itself into her confidence in order to study the disappearances, but she did not trust even them. She now knew the manner of, if not the reason for, the vanishment of her fellow Lyranians. The tractors of the spaceship had saved her from whatever fate it was that impended. She did not, however, feel any thrill of gratitude. One enemy or another, what difference did it make? Therefore, as she went through the blocking screen and recovered control of her mind, she set herself to fight, to fight with every iota of her mighty mind

and with every fiber of her life, hard-schooled Tigris body. The air-locked doors opened and closed. She faced, not an armed and armored male, all set to slay, but the white-clad person, whom she already knew better than she ever would know any other non-Lyranian.

Oh, Helen! The girl half sobbed, throwing both arms around the still-braced chief person. I'm so glad that we got you in time, and there will be no more disappearing is dear, the boys will see to that." Helen did not know really what disinterested friendship meant. Since the nurse had put her into a wide-open two-way, however, she knew beyond all possibility of doubt that these Tullerians wished her and all her kind well, not ill,

and the shock of that knowledge, superimposed upon the other shocks which she had so recently undergone, was more than she could bear. For the first and only time in her hard, busy purpose life, Helen of Lyrain fainted, fainted dead away in the circle of the Earth girl's arms. The nurse knew that this was nothing serious. In fact, she was professionally quite in favor of it. Hence, instead of resuscitating the Lyranian, she swung the pliant body into a carry. As has been previously intimated, Clarissa McDougal was no more a weakling physically than she was mentally, and without waiting for orderlies and stretcher, she bore it. She bore it easily away to her own quarters.

And there, instead of administering restoratives, she took out her ubiquitous hyperdermic and made sure that her patient would rest quietly for many hours to come. End of Section 13. Section 14 of Second Stage Lensman. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Second Stage Lensman by E. Docksmith. Chapter 13.

In the meantime, the more warlike forces of the Dauntless had not been idle. In the incident of the opening of the caverns doors, Captain Craig erupted orders, and as soon as the Lyranian was out of the line of fire, keen-eyed needle-ray men saw to it that those doors were in no mechanical condition to close. The Dauntless settled downward, landed in front of the entrance to the cavern. The rocky, broken terrain met nothing to her. The hardest, jaggedest boulders crumbled instantly to dust as her enormous mass drove the file-hard, inflexible armor of her mid-zone deep into the ground. Then, while alert beamers watched the entrance, and while spy-ray experts combed the interior for other openings,

which Kinnison and Worsal were already practically certain did not exist, the forces of civilization formed for the attack. Worsle was fairly shivering with eagerness for the fray. He was, and with plenty of reason, the bitterest by far of all the animosities they're present against the overlords. For Delgon and his own native planet, Volantia, were neighboring worlds, circling about the same sun. Since the beginning of Volantian space flights, the overlords of Delgon had preyed upon the Valentians. In fact, the overlords had probably caused the first Volantian spaceship to be built. They had called them, and a never-ending space ship, stream across the empty gulf of space. They had pinned them against their torture screens,

had flayed them and had tweaked them to bits, had done them to death in every one of the numberless, slow and hideous fashions, which had been developed by a race of sadists, who had been specializing in the fine art of torture for thousands upon thousands of years. Then, in the last minutes of the long-drawn-out agony of death, the overlords were wont to feed, with a passionate, greedy, in a radically ingrained lust, utterly inexplicable to any civilized mind, upon the life-forces which the mangled bodies could no longer contain. This horrible parasitism went on for ages. The Valentians fought vainly. Their crude thought screens were almost useless until after the coming of the patrol. Then, with screens that were

of real use, and with ships of power and with weapons of might, Worsal himself had taken the lead in the cleanup of Delgon. He was afraid, of course. Any Valentian was and is frightened to the very center of his being by the mere thought of an overlord. He cannot help it. It is in his heredity, bred into the innermost chemistry of his body. The cold grew of a thousand thousand fiendishly tortured ancestors simply will not be denied or cast aside. Many of the monsters had succeeded and fleeing Elgon, of course. Some departed in the ships which had ferried their victims to the planet. Some were removed to other solar systems by the Ike.

The rest were slain. And as the knowledge that a Valentian could kill an overlord gained headway, the emotions toward the oppressors generated within minds such as the Valentians became literally indescribable. Fear was there yet, and in abundance. It simply could not be eradicated. horror and revulsion, sheer burning hatred, and more powerful than all, amounting almost to an obsession, a clamoring, shrieking, driving urge for revenge which was almost

tangible. All these and more, Worsal felt as he waited twitching. The Valerians wanted to go in because it meant a hand-to-hand fight. Fighting was their business, their sports, and their pleasure. They loved it for its own sweet sake, with a simple, whole-hearted devotion. To die in combat was a Valerian soldier's natural and much-to-be-desired end. To die in any peaceful fashion was a disgrace and a calamity. They did and do go into battle with very much the same joyous abandon, with which a sophomore goes to meet his date in lover's lane.

And now, to make physical combat all the nicer and juicier, they carried semi-portable tractors and pressers, for the actual killing was not to take place until after the battle proper was over. Blasting the overlords out of existence would have been simplicity itself, but they were not to die until after they had been forced to divulge

whatever they might have of knowledge or of information. Nadrick of Plain wanted to go in solely to increase his already vast store of knowledge. His thirst for facts was a purely scientific one, The fashion in which it was to be satisfied was the various, the most immaterial detail. Indeed, it is profoundly impossible to portray to any human intelligence, the serene detachment, the utterly complete indifference to suffering exhibited by practically all of the frigid-blooded races,

even those adherent to civilization, especially when the suffering is being done by an enemy. Nadrick did know, academically and in a philological sense, from his reading the approximate significance of such words as compunction, sympathy, and squeamishness. But he would have been astounded beyond measure at any suggestion that they would apply to any such matter-of-fact business as the extraction of data from the mind of an overlord of Delgon.

No matter what might have to be done to the unfortunate victim in the process. Tragonzi went in simply because Kinnison did, to be there to help out in case the Tullurian should, need him. Kinison went in because he felt that he had to. He knew full well that he was not going to get any kick at all out of what was going to happen. He was not going to like it, any part of it. Nor did he. In fact, he wanted to be sick, violently sick, before the business was well started. And Nadrick perceived his mental and physical distress. Why stay, friend Kinnison, when your presence is not necessary, he asked with a slightly pleased, somewhat surprised, hellishly placid mental

immobility which Kinnison was later to come to know so well. Even though my powers are admittedly small, I feel eminently qualified to cope with such minor matters as the obtainment and the accurate transmittal of that which you wish to know. I cannot understand your emotions, but I realize fully that they are essential components of that which makes you what you fundamentally are. There can be no justification for your submitting yourself needlessly to such stresses, such psychic trauma. And Kinnison and Tragansy, realizing the common sense of the Pallanian statement,

and very glad indeed to have an excuse for leaving the outrageous scene, left it forthwith. There is no need to go into detail as to what actually transpired within that cavern's dark and noisome depths. It took a long time, nor was any of it gentle. The battle itself, before the overlords were downed, was bad enough in any Tullerian's eyes. Clad in armor of proof, although they were, more than one of the Valerians died. Worsal's armor was shattered and rent. His almost steel-hard flesh was slashed, burned, and mangled, before the last of the monstrous forms was pinned down and helpless.

Nadrek alone escaped unscathed. He did so, he explained quite truthfully, because he did not go in there to fight, but only to learn. What followed the battle, however, was infinitely worse. The Delgonians, as has been said, were hard, cold, merciless, even among themselves. They were pitiless and unyielding and refractory in the extreme. It needs scarcely be emphasized then that they did not yield to persuasive, either easily or graciously, that their own apparatus and equipment had to be put to its fullest grisly use before those stubborn minds gave up the secret so grimly and so implacably sought. Worsol, the raging Valentian, used those torture tools with a vengeful savagery and a snarling ferocity, which are at least partially understandable. But Nadrick employed them with a calm capability,

a coldly, emotionally-efficient callousness, the mere contemplation of which made icy shivers chase each other up and down Kinnison's spine. At long last the job was done. The battered patrol forces returned to the dauntless, bringing with them their spoils and they're dead. The cavern and its every molecule of contents were bombed out of existence.

The two ships took off. Cartiff's heavily armed merchantmen to do the long flit back to tell us, the Daughtless, to drop Helen and her plane off at her airport, and then to join her sister Super Dreadnoughts, which were already beginning to assemble in Rift 94. "'Come down here, will you please, Kim?' came Clarissa's thought. "'I have been keeping her pretty well blocked out, but she wants to talk to you. In fact, she insists upon it, before she leaves the ship.' "'Hmph, now that is something,' the Linsman exclaimed, and her.

hurry to the nurse's cabin. There stood the Lyranian queen, a full five inches taller than max five feet six, a good 35 pounds heavier than Max, not inconsiderable, 145. Hard, fine, supple. Erectly poised she stood there, an exquisitely beautiful statue of pale bronze, her flaming hair a gorgeous riot. Head held proudly high, she stared only slightly upward into the earth man's quiet, understanding eyes. "'Thanks, Kinnison, for everything that you and yours have done for me and mine,' she said simply, and held out her right hand in what she knew was the correct Tullerian gesture. "'A-uh, Helen,' Kinnison denied gently, making no motion to grasp the proffered hand,

which was promptly and enthusiastically withdrawn. "'Nice, and it's really big of you, but don't strain yourself.' This was neither slang nor sarcasm. He met precisely in only what he said. Don't overdrive in trying to force yourself to like us men too much or too soon. You must get used to us gradually. We like you a lot, and we respect you even more, but we have been around, and you haven't. You can't be feeling friendly enough yet to enjoy shaking hands with me. You certainly haven't got jets enough to swing that load, so this time we'll take the thought for the deed. Keep trying, though, Toots old girl, and you'll make it yet.

In the meantime, we're all pulling for you, and if you ever need any help, shoot us a beam on the communicator Chris is giving you. Clear ether, ace. Clear ether, McDougal and Kinnison? Helen's eyes were softer than either of the Tullerians had ever seen them before. There is, I think, something of wisdom, of efficiency in what you have said. It may be, That is, there is a possibility. You of civilization are perhaps persons, of a sort that is, after all. Thanks, really thanks I mean this time. Goodbye.

Helen's plane had already been unloaded. She disembarked and stood beside it, watching, with a peculiarly untranslatable expression, the huge cruiser until it was out of sight. It was just like pulling teeth for her to be civil to me. Kinnison grinned at his fiancée. But she finally made the lift. She's a grand girl, that Helen, in her peculiar, poisonous way.

Why, Kim, Mac protested. She's nice, really, when you get to know her, and she's so stunningly, so ravishingly beautiful. Uh-huh, Kinnison agreed, without a trace of enthusiasm. Cast her in chilled stainless steel? She'd just about do as she is without any casting, and she make a mighty fine statue. Kim, shame on you, the girl exclaimed.

Why, she's the most perfectly beautiful thing I ever saw in my whole life. Her voice softened. I wish that I look like that, she added wistfully. She's beautiful enough, in her way, of course, the man admitted entirely unimpressed. But then, so is a Radiligian cat eagle, so is a spire of frozen helium, and so is a six-foot-long armor-piercing punch. As for you wanting to look like her, I'm terrifically glad that you don't.

That sheer tripe, Chris, and you know it. If you want to look at something really beautiful, get a mirror. Beside you, all the Hellens that ever lived, with Cleopatra, Desodes, plains, and Ilona-Potter thrown in, would make a baffled flare. That was, of course, what she wanted him to say, and what followed is of no particular importance here. Shortly after the Dauntless cleared the stratosphere, Nadrick reported that he had finished assembling and arranging the data, and Kinnison called the linsman together in his con-room for an ultra-private conference. Wursell, it appeared, was still in the surgery. Smatter, Doc? Kinnison asked casually. He knew that there was nothing really

serious the matter. Worsal had come out of the cavern under his own power, and a valantean recovers with startling rapidity from any wound which does not kill him outright. Having trouble with your stitching? I'll say we are, the surgeon grunted. Have to bore holes with an electric drill and use linements pliers. Just about done now, though.

He'll be with you in a couple of minutes. And in a very little more than this stipulated time, Valantean joined the other lensman. He was bandaged and taped and did not move at his customary headlong pace, but he fairly radiated self-satisfaction, bliss, and contentment. He felt better, he declared, than he had at any time since he cleaned out the last cavern upon Delgon. Kinnison stopped the interplay of thoughts by starting up his lensman's projector. This mechanism was something like the ordinary three-dimensional color and sound machine, except instead of emitting sounds it radiated thoughts.

Sometimes the thoughts of one or more overlords. At other times, the thoughts of the Ike or other beings, as registered upon the minds of the overlords. At still others, the thoughts of Nadrick or Worsal complaining or amplifying a preceding thought passage, or some detail which was being shown at the moment. The spool of tape now being run, with others, formed the lensman's record of what they had done.

This record would go to prime base under lensman's seal. That is, only a lensman could handle it or see it. Later, after the emergency had passed, copies of it would go to various central libraries and thus become available to properly accredited students. Indeed, it is only from such records, made upon the scene and at the time by keen thinking, logical truth-seeking lensman,

that such a factual, minutely detailed history as this can be compiled. and your historian is supremely proud that he was the first person other than a lensman to be allowed to study a great deal of this priceless data. Worsall knew the gist of the report, Nadrick, the compiler, knew it all, but to Kinnison, Mac, and Tragansy, the unwheeling of the tape brought shocking news. For, as a matter of fact, the overlords had known more, and there was more in the Lyranian solar system to know than Kinnison's wildest imaginings had dared to suppose. That system was one of the main focal points for the Zwilnik business

of an immense volume of space. Lyrain II was the meeting place, the dispatcher's office, the nerve center, from which thousands of invisible, immaterial lines reached out to thousands of planets, peopleed by warm-blooded oxygen-breatzers. Menjol Bliko had sent to Lyrene two, not one expedition, but hundreds of them. The affair of Ilona and her escort have been the various, the most trifling incident. The overlords, however, did not know of any Bosconian in the Second Galaxy. They had no superiors anywhere. The idea of anyone or anything anywhere being superior to an overlord was unthinkable.

They did, however, cooperate with—here came the real stunning fact, certain of the Ike who lived upon eternally dark Lyrain Eight, and who managed things for the frigid-blooded, Poison-breathing Basconians of the region in much the same fashion as the overlords did for the warm-blooded, light-loving races. To make the cooperation easier and more efficient, the two planets were connected by a hyperspacial tube. Just a sec, Kinsen interrupted as he stopped the machine for a moment. The overlords were kidding themselves a bit there, I think. They must have been. If they didn't report to or get orders from the Second Galaxy or some other,

higher-up office, the Ike must have. And since the records and plunder and stuff were not in the cavern, they must be upon eight. Therefore, whether they realized it or not, the overlords must have been inferior to the Ike and under their orders. Check? Check, Nedrick agreed. Warsall and I concluded that they knew the facts, but recovering up even in their own minds to save face. Our conclusions, and the data from which they were derived, are in the introduction, another spool. Shall I get it? By no means. Just glad to have the point cleared up as all. Thanks. And the showing went on. The principal reason why the Lirranian system had been chosen for that important headquarters was that it was the one of the very few outlying solar systems,

completely unknown to the scientists of the patrol, in which both the Ike and the overlords could live in their natural environments. Lyrain 8 was, of course, intensely bitterly cold. This quality is not rare, since all number eight planets are. Its uniqueness lay in the fact that its atmosphere was almost exactly like that of Jarnovan. And Lyraine too suited the overlords perfectly. Not only did it have the correct temperature, gravity, atmosphere, but also it offered that much rarer thing without which no cavern of overlords would

have been content for long, a native life-form possessing strong and highly vital minds upon which they could pray. There was more, much more, but the rest of it was not directly pertinent to the immediate question. The tape ran out, Kinnison snapped off the projector, and the lensman went into a five-way. Why was not Lyrain II defended? Worsol and Kinnison had already answered that one. Secretiveness and power of mind, not armament, had always been the natural defenses of all overlords. Why hadn't the Ike interfered?

That was easy, too. The Ike looked after themselves. If the overlords couldn't, that was just too bad. The two ships that had come to aid and remained to revenge had certainly not come from eight. Their crews have been oxygen-breaters. Probably a rendezvous. Immaterial anyway.

Why wasn't the whole solar system ringed with outposts and screens? Too obvious. Why hadn't the dauntless been detected? Because of her nullifiers. And if she had been spotted by any short-range stuff, she had been mistaken for another Zoolnik ship. They hadn't detected anything out of the way upon eight

because it had not occurred to anybody to swing an analyzer upon that particular planet. They would find that eight was defended plenty. Had the Ike had time to build defenses? They must have had, or they wouldn't be there. They certainly were not taking that kind of chances. And by the way, had they better do a bit of snooping near Lyrain 8 before they went back to join the Z-9M-9Z and the fleet? They had.

Thereupon the Dauntless faced about and retraced her path toward the now highly important system of Lyrain. In their previous approaches, the patrolman had observed the usual precautions to avoid revealing themselves to any Zwillnick vessel which might have been on the prowl. Those precautions were now intensified to the limit, since they knew that Lyrain 8 was the site of a base manned by the Ike themselves. As the big cruiser crept toward her goal, nullifiers full out and every instrument of detection and reception as attentively outstretched as the whiskers of a tomcat slinking along a black alley at midnight, the lensmen again pooled their brains in conference. The Ike. This was going to be no push-over. Even the approach would have to be figured to a because since the Bosconians had decided that it would be poor strategy to screen in their

whole solar system, it was a cold certainty that they would have their own planet guarded and protected by every device which their inhuman ingenuity could devise. The Dauntless would have to stop just outside the range of the electromagnetic detection, for the Bosconians would certainly have a 500% overlap. Their nullifiers would hash up the electrodes somewhat, but there was no use in taking too many chances. Previously, on right-line courses to and from Lyrain too, that had not mattered for two reasons. Not only was the distance extreme for accurate electro-work, but also it would have been assumed that their ship was Aswillnick. Laying a course for eight, though, would be something else entirely. Azwilnick would take the

tube, and they would not, even if they had known where it was. That left the visual. The cruiser was a mighty small target at interplanetary distances, but there were such things as electronic telescopes, and the occultation of even a single star might prove disastrous. Kinnison called the chief pilot. Stars must be thin in certain regions of the sky out here, and here, suppose you can pick us out a line of approach along which we would occult no stars and no bright nebulae? I should think so, chief, just to say,

I'll see. Yes, easily. There's a lot of black background, especially to the Nader. And the conference continued. They would have to go through the screens of electrodes and Kinnison's inherently indetectable black speedster. QX, but she was nobody's fighter.

She didn't have a beam hot enough to light a match. And besides, there were the thought screens and the highly probable other stuff about which the lensman could know nothing. Kinnison quite definitely did not relish the prospect. He remembered all too vividly what had happened when he had scattered the Ike's base upon Jarnovan, when it was only through Worsal's aid that he had barely, just barely, escaped with his life. And Jarnivon's defenders had probably been exerting only routine precautions,

whereas these fellows were undoubtedly cocked and prined for the lensman. He would go in, of course, but he'd probably come out feet first. He didn't know any more about their defenses than he had known before, and that was nothing flat. "'Excuse the interruption, please,' Nadreg's thought apologized. But it would seem to appear more desirable, would it not, to induce the one of them possessing the most information to come out to us?'

"'Ha?' Kinnison demanded. "'It would, of course. but how in all your purple hells do you figure on swinging that load? I am, as you know, a person of small ability, Nadrick replied in his usual circuitous fashion. Also, I am of almost negligible mass and strength. Of what is known as bravery, I have no trace. In fact, I have pondered long over that, to me, incomprehensible quality,

and have decided that it has no place in my scheme of existence. I have found it much more efficient to perform the necessary tasks in the easiest possible manner, which is usually by means of stealth, deceit, indirection, and other cowardly artifices. "'Any of those, or all of them, would be QX with me,' Kinnison assured him. "'Anything goes with gusto and glee as far as the Iker concerned.

What I don't see is how we can put it across. Thought screens interfered so seriously with my methods of procedure, the Pellanian explained, that I was forced to develop a means of puncturing them without upsetting their generators. The device is not generally known, as it is still in a very crude, experimental form, but it does function in a meager, unsatisfactory way. Might I suggest that the four of you put on heated armor and come with me to my vessel in the hold. It will take some little time to transfer my apparatus and equipment to your speedster. Is it non-ferrous, undetectable? Kinnison asked. Of course, Nadrick replied in surprise. I work as I told you by stealth. My vessel is,

except for certain differences necessitated by racial considerations, a duplicate of your own. "'Why didn't you say so?' Kinnison wanted to know. "'Why bother to move the gadget? Why not use your speedster?' "'Because I was not asked. We should not bother. The only reason for using your vessel is so that you will not suffer the discomfort of wearing armor,' Nadrick replied categorically. "'Cancel it then,' Kinnison directed. "'You've been wearing armor all the time you are with us. Turn about for a while, will be QX. Better that way, anyway, as this is very definitely your party, not ours.

Not? As you say, and with your permission, Nadrick agreed. Also, it may very well be that you will be able to suggest improvements in my device, whereby its efficiency may be increased. I doubt it. The Tullorian's already great respect for this retiring, soft-spoken, cowardly Lensman was increasing constantly. But we would like to study it, and perhaps copy it, if you so allow. Gladly. And so it was arranged.

The Dauntless crept among a black, backgrounded pathway, and stopped. Nadrick, Worsal, and Kinnison, three were enough, and neither Mack nor Tragansi insisted upon going, boarded the Pelanian Speedster. Away from the mother ship it sped upon muffled jets, and through the far-flicts, and through the far-flung, heavily-overlapped electromagnetic detector zones, through the outer thought screens. Then, ultra-slow, as space speeds go, the spaster moved forward, feeling for whatever other blocking screens there might be. All three of those lensmen were, in fact, detectors themselves. Their Erysian imparted special senses made ethereal, even sub-etherial vibrations actually visible

or tangible, but they did not depend only upon their bodily senses. That speister carried instruments unknown to space pilotry, and the lensmen used them unremittingly. When they came to a screen, they opened it, so insiduously that its generating mechanisms gave no alarms. Even a meteorite screen, which was supposed to forbid the passage of any material object, yielded without protest to Nadrick's subtle manipulation. Slowly, furtively, a perfectly absorptive black body sinking through blackness so intense as to be almost palpable, the Pellanian Speaster settled downward toward the Bosconian Fortress of Lyrain 8. End of Section 14. Section 15 of Second Stage Lensman.

This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Second Stage Lensman by E. Doc Smith. Chapter 14 This is perhaps as good a place as any to glance in passing at the fashion in which the planet Lanabar was brought under the eegis of civilization. No attempt will or can be made to describe it in any detail, since any adequate treatment of it would fill a volume. Indeed, many volumes have already been written concerning various faces of the matter, and since it is not strictly germane to the subject in hand. However, some knowledge of the modus operandi in

such cases is highly desirable for the full understanding of this history, in view of the vast number of planets which, coordinator Kinnison and his associates, did have to civilize before the second galaxy was made secure. Scarcely had Cardiff Kinnison moved out, then the patrol moved in. If Lonerbar had been heavily fortified, a fleet of appropriate size and power would have cleared the way. As it was, the fleet which landed was one of transports, not of battleships, and all the fighting from then on was purely defensive. Propagantists took the lead. Psychologists, linsmen skilled not only in languages,

but also in every art of human relationships. The case of civilization was stated plainly and repeatedly, the errors and the fallacies of autocracy were pointed out. A nucleus of government was formed, not of civilization's imports, but of solid luna-barian citizens, who had passed the Lensman's tests of a ability and trustworthiness. Under this local government, a pseudo-democracy began

haltingly to function. At first, its progress was painfully slow. But as more and more of the citizens perceived what the patrol actually was doing, it grew up pace. Not only did the invaders allow, yes, Foster, free speech, and statutory liberty, they suppressed ruthlessly any person or any faction seeking to build a new dictatorship, whatever its nature upon the ruins of the old. That news traveled fast, and laboring always and mightily upon civilization's side were the always-present, however deeply buried, urges of all intelligent entities towards self-expression. There was opposition, of course. Practically all of those who had waxed fat upon the old order were very strongly in favor of its continuance. There were hordes of the downtrodden who had

so long and so dumbly endured oppression that they could not understand anything else. in whom the above-mentioned urges had been beaten and tortured almost out of existence. They themselves were not opposed to civilization. For them, it meant at worst only a change of masters, but those who sought by the same old wiles to re-enslave them were foes indeed. Menjoblico sycophants and retainers were told to work or starve. The fat hogs could support the new order, or else.

The thugs had to choose between honest cooperation with their fellow men, and flitting to some Zwillnick planet. Those who tried to prey upon and exploit the dumb masses were extirpated one and all. Little could be done, however, about the dumb themselves, for in them the spark was feeble indeed. The new government nursed that spark along, the while ruling them as definitely, although not as harshly, as had the old. The lendsman backing the struggling young civilization, knowing full well that in the children or in the children's children of these great unfortunates, the spark would flame up into a great white light. It is seen that this government was not and could not for many years become a true democracy.

It was, in fact, a benevolent semi-autocracy, autonomous in a sense, yet controlled by the Galactic Council through its representatives, the Lensman. It was, however, so infinitely more liberal than anything theretofore known by the Lonebarians as to be a political revelation, and since corruption, that Cosmo's wide curse of democracy, was not allowed a first finger-hold, the principles of real democracy and of civilization took deeper root year by year. To get back into the beam of narrative, Nadrick's blackly indetectable speedster settled to ground far from the Bosconian Central Dome, well beyond the far-flung screens. The lensman knew that no life existed outside that dome, and they knew that no possible sense of

perception could pierce those defenses. They did not know, however, what other resources of detection, of offense or of defense, the foe might possess. Hence, the greatest possible distance at which they could work efficiently was the best distance. I realized that it is useless to caution any active mind not to think at all, Nadrick remarked as he began to manipulate various and sundry controls. But you already know from the nature of our problem that,

any extraneous thought will wreak untold harm. For that reason, I beg of you to keep your thought screens up at all times, no matter what happens. It is, however, imperative, that you be kept informed, since I may require aid or advice at any moment. To that end, I ask you to hold these electrodes, which are connected to a receptor. Do not hesitate to speak freely to each other or to me, but please use only a spoken language, as I am averse even to lens thoughts at this juncture. Are we agreed? Are we ready? They were agreed and ready. Nadrick actuated his peculiar drill, a tube of force somewhat analogous to a Q-type helix, except in that it operated within the frequency range of thought, and began to increase

by almost infinitesimal increments its power. Nothing apparently happened. But finally, the instruments upon the Speedsters' board registered the fact that it was through. "'This is none too safe, friends,' the Pallanian announced from one part of his multi-compartmented brain, without distracting any part of his attention from the incredibly delicate operation he was performing. "'Might I suggest, Kinnison, in my cowardly way, that you place yourself at the controls and be ready to take us away from this planet at speed and without notice?' "'I'll say you may.'

And the Tullurian complied, with alacrity. "'I'd rather be a live coward than a dead hero.' But through course after course of screen, the hollow drill gnawed its cautious way without giving alarm, until at length there began to come through the interloping tunnel a vague impression of foreign thought. Nadrick stopped the helix, then advanced it by tiny steps

until the thoughts came in coldly clear. the thoughts of the Ike going about their routine businesses. In the safety of their impregnably shielded dome, the proudly self-confident monsters did not wear their personal thought screens, which, for civilization's sake, was just as well. It had been decided previously that the mind they wanted would be that of a psychologist. Hence the thoughts sent out by the Pellanian was one which would appeal only to such a mind.

In fact, one practically imperceptible to any other. It was extremely faint, wavering uncertainly upon the very threshold of perception. It was so vague, so formless, so inchoate, that it required Kinnison's intensest concentration even to recognize it as a thought. Indeed, so starkly unhuman was Nadrek's mind, that of his proposed quarry that it was all the Tullorian lensman could do to recognize it. It dealt fragmentarily, and in the merest glimmerings with the nature and the mechanisms of the first cause. With a fundamental ego, its raison d'etre, its causation, its motivation, its differentiation, with the stupendously awful concepts of the prime origin of all things ever to be.

Unhurried, monstrously patient, Nadrick neither raised the power of the thought, nor hastened its slow tempo. Stoddily, for minute after long minute, he held it, spraying it throughout the vast dome as mist is sprayed from an atomizer nozzle. And finally he got a bite. A mind seized upon that wistful, homeless, insipient thought, took it for its own. It strengthened it, enlarged upon it, built it up, and Nadrick followed it. He did not force it. He did nothing whatever to cause any suspicion that the thought was or ever had been his. But as the mind of the Ike busied itself with that thought, he all unknowingly let down the bars to Nadrick's invasion. Then, perfectly in tune, the Pelanians suddenly insinuated into the mind of the Ike

the mildly disturbing idea that he had forgotten something, or had neglected to do some trifling thing. This was the first really critical instant, for Nadrick had no idea whatever of what his victim's duties were or what he could have left undone. It had to be something which would take him out of the dome and toward the patrolman's concealed speedster, but what it was the Ike would have to develop for himself. Nadrick could not dare to attempt even a partial control at this stage and at this distance. Kinnison quenched his teeth and held his breath, his big hands clutching fiercely the pilot's bars. Worsall unheedingly coiled his supple body into an ever smaller, ever harder, and more compact bale.

Ah, Kinnison exhaled explosively. It worked. The psychologist, at Nadricks's impalpable suggestion, had finally thought of the thing. It was a thought-screen generator which had been giving a little trouble and which really should have been checked before this. Calmly, with a mild self-satisfaction which comes of having successfully recalled to mind a highly elusive thought,

the Ike opened one of the dome's unforceable doors and made his unconcerned way directly toward the waiting-lensman. And as he approached, Nadrick stepped up by logarithmic increments the power of his hold. "'Get ready, please, to cut your screens and to synchronize with me in case anything slips and he tries to break away,' Nadreck cautioned, but nothing slipped. The eye came up unseen to the Speedster's side and stopped. The drill disappeared. A thought-screen encompassed the group narrowly.

Kinnison and Wersel released their screens and also tuned in to the creature's mind. And Kinnison swore briefly, for what they found was meager enough. It was well, however, that they got what they did when they did, for as has been seen, even that little was very shortly thereafter to be removed. He knew a great deal concerning the Zwillnick doings of the First Galaxy. But so did the Lensman. They were not interested in them. Neither were they interested at the moment in the files or in the records. Regarding the higher-ups, he knew of two and only two personalities. By means of an intergalactic communication, He received orders from, and reported to, a clearly defined, somewhat Ike-like entity known to him as Kandron. And vaguely, from the occasional stray and unintentional thoughts of this Kandron, he had

visualized as being somewhere in the background a human being named Alcon. He supposed that the planets upon which these persons lived were located in the second galaxy, but he was not certain even of that. He had never seen either of them. He was pretty sure that none of his group ever would be allowed to see them. He had no means of tracing them, and no desire whatsoever to do so. The only fact he really knew was that, at irregular intervals, Candron got into communication with this base of the Ike. That was all. Kinnison and Worsall let go, and Nadrick, with a minute attention to detail which would be wearisome here, jockeyed the unsuspecting monster back into the dome. The native knew fully where he had been, and why. He had had to the

inspected the generator and had found it in good order. Every second of elapsed time was accounted for exactly. He had not the slightest inkling that anything out of the ordinary had happened to him or anywhere around him. As carefully as the speedster had approached the planet, she departed from it. She rejoined the Dauntless, in whose control room Kinnison lined out a solid communicator beam to the Z-9-Z and to Port Admiral Haynes. He reported crisply, rapidly everything that had transpired. So, our best bet, chief, is for you and the fleet to get out of here as fast as Clono will let you, he concluded.

Go straight out Rift 94, staying as far away as possible from both the spiral arm and the galaxy proper. Unlimber every spotting swine you've got. Put them to work along the line between Lyrane and the Second Galaxy. Plot all the punctures, extending the line as fast as you can. We'll join you at Max. and transfer to the Z-9M-9-Z. Her tank is just what the doctor's ordered for the job we've got to do. Well, if you say so, I suppose that's the way it's got to be, Haynes grumbled.

He had been growling and snorting under his breath ever since it had become evident what Kinnison's recommendation was to be. I don't like this thing of standing by and letting Zwillnicks thumb their noses at us, like Preland did on Bronsika. That once was once too damned often. "'Well, you got him finally, you know,' "'Kinnison reminded quite cheerfully. "'And you can have these Ike, too, sometime.'

"'I hope,' Haynes acquiesced, something less than sweetly. "'Kew X, then, but put out a few jets. "'The quicker you get out here, "'the sooner we can get back and clean out this Hurrah's nest.' "'Kinnison grinned as he cut his beam. "'He knew that it would be some time before the Port Admiral "'could hurl the medal of the patrol against Lyrain Eight, but even he did not realize just how long a time it was to be.

What occasioned the delay was not the fact that the communicator was in operation only at intervals. So many screens were out, they were spaced so far apart, and the punctures were measured and aligned so accurately that the periods of non-operation caused little or no loss of time. Nor was it the vast distance involved, since, as has already been pointed out, the matter in the intergalactic void is so tenuous that spaceships are capable of enormously greater velocities than any attainable in the far denser medium filling interstellar space. No, what gave the Basconians of Lyrain 8 their greatly lengthened reprieve

was simply the direction of the line established by the communicator beam punctures. Reasoning from analogy, the lensman had supposed that it would lead them into a star cluster, fairly well away from the main body of the galaxy in either the zenith or the nadir direction. Instead of that, however, when the patrol surveyors got close enough to the second galaxy so that their cone of possible error was very small in comparison with the gigantic lens of the island universe which they were approaching, it became clear that their objective lay deep within the galaxy itself. At least the prolongation of their line led well into it, and that fact gave the lensman to pause.

"'I don't like this line a bit, Chief,' Kinnison told the Admiral. then. Maybe it runs into a cluster on this side, but we can't figure on it. It had smelled like Limburger to have a fleet of this size and power nosing into their home territory, along what must be one of the hottest lines of communication they've got. Check, Port Admiral Haynes agreed. Q-O-X-so-far, but it would begin to stink pretty quick now. We've got to assume that they know about spotting screens, whether they really do or not. If they do, they'll have this line trapped from stem to gudgeon, and the minute they detect us,

they'll cut this line out entirely. Then where'll you be? Right back where I started from. That's what I'm yapping about. And to make matters worse, it's a thousand to one that the ape we're looking for is not going to be anywhere near the end of this line. Huh? How do you dope that out?

Haynes demanded. Logic. We're getting up now to where these Wilnix can really think. You have already assumed that they know that we can trace their beam, and we know that they know about our detector nullifiers. Go further. Assume that they have deduced, from things we have already done, that we have ships, one or two at least,

that are inherently indetectable and almost perfectly absorptive. Where does that land you? Hmm, I see. Since they can't change the nature of the beam, they would run it through a series of relays, with each leg trapped with everything they could think of, and at the first sign of interference with any one of them they would switch to another, maybe halfway across the galaxy.

Also, they might very well move it around once in a while anyway, just on general principles. Check. That's why you had better take the fleet back home, leaving Nadrick and me to work the rest of this line with our speedsters. Don't be silly, son. I thought you could think. And Haynes gazed quizzically at the younger man. What else? Where am I overlooking a bet? Kinnison demanded. It is elementary tactics, young man, the Admiral instructed,

to cover up any small, quiet operation with a large and noisy one. Thus, if I want to make an exploratory sortie in one sector, I should always attack in force and another. But what would it get us? Kinnison expostulated. What's the advantage to be? be gained to make up for the unavoidable losses. Don't be dumb. Advantage? Listen. Haynes bushy gray hair fairly bristled in eagerness. We've been on the defense of long enough. They must be weak, after the losses at Tellus, and now, before they can rebuild, is the time to strike.

It's good tactics, as I said, to make a diversion to cover you up, but I want to do more than that. I think that we had better start an actual serious invasion right now. When you can swing it, the best possible defense, even in general, is a powerful offense, and we're all set to go. We will begin it with this fleet, and then, as soon as we are sure that they haven't got enough power to counter-invade, we will bring up everything we have except for some purely defensive stuff, such as sunbeams and so on, around TELUS, and the other most important bases. "'Well, hit them so hard, they won't be able to worry about such a little thing as a communicator line.'

"'Hem. Never thought of it from that angle, but it'd be nice. "'We are coming over here sometime anyway. Why not now? "'I suppose that you'll start on the edge or in a spiral arm, just as though you were going ahead with the conquest of the whole galaxy.' "'Not just as though,' Haynes declared. "'We are going through with it.' Find a planet on the outer edge of a spiral arm, as nearly like Tellis as possible. Make it nearly enough like Tellis, and maybe I can use it for our headquarters on this coordinator thing.

And Kinnison grinned. More truth than poetry in that fellow. We find it and take it over. Come out the Zwillnicks with a fine-tooth comb. Make it the biggest, toughest base the universe ever saw. Like Jarnovan, only more so. Bring in everything we've got and expand from that planet as a center,

cleaning everything out as we go. We'll civilize them. And so, after considerable ultra-range communicator work, it was decided that the Galactic Patrol would forthwith assume the offensive. Haynes assembled the fleet. Then, while the two black speasters

kept unobtrusively on the task of plotting the line, civilization's mighty Armada moved a few thousand parsecs aside, and headed at normal touring blast for the nearest outcropping of the second galaxy. There was nothing of stealth in this maneuver, nothing of finesse, excepting in the arrangements of the units. First, far in the van, flew the prodigious, irregular cone of scout cruisers. They were comparatively small, not heavily armed or armored, but they were ultra-fast, and were provided with the most powerful detectors, spotters, and locators known.

They adhered to no rigid formation, but at the will of their individual commanders, under the direct supervision of Grand Fleet Operations in the Z-9M-9-Z, flashed hither and thither ceaselessly, searching, investigating, mapping, reporting. Backing them up came the light cruisers and the cruising bombers, a new type this latter, designed primarily to bore into close quarters and to hurl bombs of negative matter. Third in order were the heavy defensive. defensive cruisers. These ships have been developed specifically for hunting down Baskonian

commerce raiders within the galaxy. They were practically an impenetrable screen, so that they could lock to and hold even a super dreadnought. They had never been used in Grand Fleet formation, but since they were now equipped with tractor zones and bomb tubes, theoretical strategy found a good use for them in this particular place. Next came the real warhead, a solidly packed phalanx of maulers. All the ships up ahead had, although in varying degrees, freedom of motion and of action. The scouts had practically nothing else. Fighting was not their business. They could fight a little if they had to, but they always ran away if they could in whatever direction was most expedient at the time. The cruising bombers could either take

their fighting or leave it alone depending upon circumstances. In other words, they fought light cruisers, but ran away from big stuff, stinging as they ran. The heavy cruisers would fight anything short of a mauler, but never in formation. They always broke ranks and fought individual dogfights ship to ship. But that terrific spearhead of molars had no freedom of motion whatever. It knew only one direction, straight ahead. It would swerve aside for an inert planet, but for nothing smaller. And when it swerved, it did so as a whole. not by parts. Its function was to blast through,

straight through, any possible opposition, if and when that opposition should have been successful in destroying or dispersing the screens of lesser vessels preceding it. A sunbeam was the only conceivable weapon with which that stolid,

power-packed mass of metal could not cope, and the patrolman devoutly hoped the Zwillnix didn't have any sunbeams yet. A similar formation of equally capable muller, meeting it head on, could break it up, of course. Theoretical results and war-game solutions of this problem did not agree, either with each other or among themselves, and the thing had never been put to the trial of actual battle.

Only one thing was certain. When and if that trial did come, there was bound to be, as in the case of the fabled meeting of the irresistible force with the immovable object, a lot of very interesting by-products. Flanking the mallers, streaming gracefully backward from their massed might in a parabolic cone, were arranged the heavy battleships and the super dreadnoughts, and directly behind the bulwark of flying fortresses, tucked away inside the protecting envelope of big battle wagons, floated the Z-9M9Z, the brains of the whole outfit. There were no free planets, no necospheres of planetary antimass, no sunbeams.

Such things were useful either in the defense. of a prime base or for an all-out ruthlessly destructive attack upon such a base. Though slow, cumbersome, supremely powerful weapons would come later, after the patrol had selected the planet which they intended to hold against everything which the Baskonians could muster. This present expedition had as yet no planet to defend. It sought no planet to destroy. It was the vanguard of civilization, seeking a suitable foothold in the second galaxy, and thoroughly well-eastern, equipped to argue with any force mobile enough to bar its way.

While it has been said that there was nothing of stealth in this approach to the second galaxy, it must not be thought that it was unduly blatant or obvious. Any carelessness or ostentation would have been very poor tactics indeed. Civilization's grand fleet advanced in strict formation, with every routine military precaution. Its nullifiers were full on. Every blocking screen was out. Every plate upon every ship was hot and was being scanned by alert and keen-eyed observers.

But every staff officer from Port Admiral Haynes down, and practically every line officer as well, knew that the enemy would locate the invading fleet long before it reached even the outer fringes of the galaxy toward which it was speeding. That stupendous tonnage of ferrous metal could not be disguised, nor could it by any possible artifice be made to simulate any normal tenet of the space which it occupied. The gigantic flares of the heavy stuff could not be baffled, and the combined grand flare of the grand fleet made a celestial object which would certainly attract the electronic telescopes of

plenty of observatories. And the nearest such scopes, instruments of incredible powers of resolution, would be able to pick them out, almost ship by ship, against the relatively brilliant background of their own flares. The patrolmen, however, did not care. This was, and was intended to be an open, straightforward invasion. The first wave of an attack which would not cease until the Galactic Patrol had crushed Baskonia throughout the entire Second Galaxy. Grand Fleet bored serenely on.

Superbly confident in her awful might, grandly contemptuous of whatever she was to face, she stormed along. Uncaring that at that very moment the foe was massing his every defensive arm to hurl her back or to blast her out of existence. End of Section 15. 16.

Of Second Stage Lensman. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Second Stage Lensman by E.E. Doc Smith. Chapter 15. As Haynes and the Galactic Council had already surmised, Basconia was now entirely upon the defensive. She had made her supreme bid in the effort, which had failed so barely to overcome the defenses of hard-held tellus.

It was, as has been seen, a very near thing indeed. But the Zwillnick chieftains did not and could not know that. Communication through the hyperspacial tube was impossible. No ordinary communicator beam could be driven through the patrol scramblers. No busconian observers could be stationed near enough to the scene of action to perceive or to record anything that had occurred, and no single's Wilnick ship or entity survived at tell of how nearly Tellis had come to extinction. And in fine, it would have made no difference in the mind of Alcon of Thrail if he had known.

A thing which was not a full success was a complete failure. To be almost a success meant nothing. The invasion of Tellus had failed. They had put everything they had into that gigantically climactic enterprise. They had shot the whole wad. and it had not been enough. They had, therefore, abandoned for the nonce humanity's galaxy entirely, to concentrate their every effort upon the rehabilitation of their own depleted forces,

and upon the design and construction of devices of hitherto unattempted capability and power. But they simply had not had enough time to prepare properly to meet the invading grand fleet of civilization. It takes time, lots of time, to build such heavy stuff as mullers and flying fortune. and they had not been allowed to have it. They had plenty of lighter stuff, since the millions of Bosconian planets could furnish upon a few hours' notice more cruisers and even more first-line battleships

than could possibly be used in Grand Fleet formation, but their backbone of brute force and firing power was woefully weak. Since the destruction of a solid center of molars was theoretically improbable to the point of virtual impossibility, neither Bosconia nor the Galactic Patrol had built up any large reserve of such structures.

Both would now build up such a reserve as rapidly as possible, of course, but half-built structures could not fight. The Zwillnics had many dirigible planets, but they were too big. Planets, as has been seen, are too cumbersome and unwieldy for use against a highly mobile and adequately controlled fleet. Conversely, humanity's grand fleet was up to a its maximum strength and perfectly balanced. It had suffered staggering losses in the defense of prime base, it is true, but those

losses were of comparatively light craft, which civilizations and inhabited worlds could replace as easily and as quickly as could Bosconeas. Very few mullers had been lost, and those empty places were filled by substitutes withdrawn from minor bases or other stations at which they were not imperatively necessary. Hence, Bascone's fleet was at a very serious disadvantage, as it formed to defy humanity just outside the rim of its galaxy. At two disadvantages, really, for Basconia had neither lensman nor a Z-9M-9Z. And Haines, canny old master strategist that he was, worked upon them both.

Grand fleet so far had held to one right-line course, and upon this line the Zoolnik defense had been built. Now Haines swung aside, forcing the enemy to reform. They had to engage him. He did not have to engage them. Then, as they shifted, raggedly as he had supposed and had hoped that they would, he swung again. Again and again. The formation of the enemy becoming more and more hopelessly confused with each shift. The scouts have been reporting constantly. In the 700-foot lenticular tank of the directrics that was spread in exact detail the disposition of every unit of the foe. Four Rigelian lensmen, now thoroughly trained and able to perform the task almost as routine,

condensed the picture, summarized it, in Haynes' ten-foot tactical tank. And finally, so close that another swerve could not be made, and with the line of flight of his solid fighting corps pointing straight through the loosely disorganized nucleus of the enemy, Haynes gave the word to engage. The scouts, remaining free, flashed aside into their pre-arranged observing positions. Everything else went inert and bored ahead. The light cruisers and the cruising bombers clashed first, and a chill struck at Haynes-doubt old heart as he learned that the enemy did have

negative matter bombs. Upon that point there had been much discussion. One view was that the Baskonians would have them, since they had seen them in action, and since their scientists were fully as capable as were those of civilization. The other was that, since it had taken all the massed intellect of the conference of scientists, to work out a method of handling and of propelling such bombs, and since the Baskonians were probably not as cooperative as were the civilized races, they could not have them.

Approximately half of the light cruisers of Grand Fleet were bombers. This was deliberate, for in the use of the new arm, there were involved problems which theoretical strategy could not solve definitely. Theoretically, a bomber could defeat a conventional light cruiser of equal tonnage 100% of the time, provided, here was the rub, that the conventional cruiser did not blast her out of the ether before she could get her bombs into the vitals of the foe. In order to accommodate the new equipment, something of the old had to be decreased, something of power, of armament, of primary or secondary or

secondary beams, or of defensive screen. Otherwise, the size and mass must be so increased that the ship would no longer be a light cruiser, but a heavy one. And the patrol psychologists had had ideas, based upon facts which they had gathered from Kinnison and from Ilona and from various and sundry spools of tape, ideas by virtue of which it was eminently possible that the conventional light cruisers of civilization, with their heavier screen and more and hotter beams, could vanquish the light cruisers of the foe, even though they should turn out to be negative matter bombers.

Hence the 50-50 division of types. But since Haynes was not thoroughly sold upon either the psychologists or their ideas, the commanders of his standard light cruisers had received very explicit and definite orders. If the Bosconian should have bombs, and if the high-brow's ideas did not pan out, they were to turn tail and run, at maximum and without stopping to ask questions, or to get additional instructions. Haines had not really believed that the enemy would have negamoms. They were so new and so atrociously difficult to handle. He wanted, but was unable to believe implicitly in the psychologist's findings. Therefore, as soon as he saw what was happening, he abandoned his

tank for a moment to seize a plate and get into full touch with the control room of one of the conventional light cruisers then going into action. He watched it drive boldly toward a Bosconian vessel, which was in the act of throwing bombs. He saw that the agile little vessel's tractor zone was out. He watched the bombs strike that zone and bounce. He watched the tractor-men go to work,

and he saw that the psychologist's idea bear splendid fruit. For what followed was a triumph, not of brute force and striking power, but of morale and manhood. the brainmen had said, and it was now proved, that the Bosconian gunners, low-class as they were and driven to their tasks like the slaves they were, would hesitate long enough before using tractor beams as pressers, so that the patrolmen could take their own bombs away from them. For negative matter, it must be remembered is the exact opposite of ordinary matter. It is

built up of negative mass. In every equation of physics and mechanics where mass appears, a minus sign appears when negative matter is concerned. To it a pull is, or becomes a push. The tractor beam, which pulls ordinary matter toward its projector, actually pushes negative matter away. The boys of the patrol knew that fact thoroughly. They knew all about what they were doing and why. They were there because they wanted to be, as Ilona had so astoundingly found out, and they worked with their officers, not because of them. With the patrol's gun crews, it was a race to see which crew could capture the first bomb and the most.

Abboard the Baskonian, how different it was. There, the dumb cattle had been told what to do, but not why. They did not know the fundamental mechanics of the bomb tubes they operated by rote, did not know that they were essentially tractor-beam projectors. They did know, however, that tractor-beams pulled things toward them. and when they were ordered to swing their ordinary tractors upon the bombs, which the patrolmen were so industriously taking away from them, they hesitated for seconds, even under the lash.

This hesitation was fatal. Haynes gleeful gunners, staring through their special finders, were very much on their toes. Seconds were enough. Their fierce-driven tractor seized the inimical bombs in mid-space, and before the Baskonians could be made to act in the only possible opposition, hurled them directly backward against the ship which had issued them. Ordinary defensive screen did not affect them. Repulsor screen, meteorite, and wall shields only suck them inward the faster.

An ordinary matter and negative matter cannot exist in contact. In the instant of touching, one atom of negative matter and one of normal matter unite and disappear. One negabom was enough to put any cruiser out of action, but here there were usually three or four at once. Sometimes as many as ten. Enough almost to consume the total mass of a ship. A bomb struck, ate in. Through solid armor it melted. Atmosphere rushed out, to disappear en route,

for air is normal matter. Along beams and trusses, the hellish hypersphere traveled freakishly, although usually in the direction of greatest mass. It clung greedily. Down stanchions it flowed, leaving nothing in its wake, flooding all circumambient space with lethal emanations, into and through converters, into pressure tanks which blew up enthusiastically.

Men's bodies it did not seem to favor, not massive enough, perhaps, but even them it did not refuse if offered. A Bosconian, gasping frantically for air which was no longer there, and already half mad, went completely mad as he struck savagely at the thing and saw his hand and his arm to the shoulder, vanish instantaneously as though they had never been. Satisfied, Haynes wrenched his attention back to his tank. Most of his light cruisers were through and in the clear. They were reporting by thousands. Losses were very small.

The conventional-type cruisers had won, either by using the enemy's own bombs, as he had seen them used, or by means of their heavier armor and armament. The bombers had won in almost every case, not by by superior force. For in arms and equipment, they were all too intense and purposes, identical with their opponents, but because of their infinitely higher quality of personnel. To brief it, scarcely a handful of Bosconeus light cruisers were able to flee the fatal scene. The heavy cruisers came up, broke formation, and went doggedly to work. They were the blockers. Each took one ship, a heavy cruiser or a battleship, out of the line, and held

it out. It tried to demolish it with every weapon it could swing, but even if it could not vanquish its foe, it could and did hang on until some big bruiser of a battleship could come up and administer the coup de grace. The battleships and super dreadnots were coming up in the thousands and the myriads. All of them, in fact, but those enough to form a tight globe packed screen-to-screen around the Z9M-9-Z. Slowly, ponderously alert, The warhead of Mollars came crawling up. The Mollars and fortresses of the Basconians were hopelessly outnumbered, and were badly scattered in position.

Hence this meeting of the ultra-heavy's was not really a battle at all, but a slaughter. Ten or more of Haines' gigantic structures could concentrate their entire combined firepower upon any luckless one of the enemy. With what awful effect it would be superfluous to enlarge upon. When the mighty fortresses had done their work, they englobed the directrics, enabling the guarding battleships to join their sister moppers up. But there was very little left to do. Civilization had again triumphed, and this time at very little cost.

Some of the pirates had escaped, of course. Observers from afar might very well have had scanners and recorders upon the entire conflict. But whatever of news was transmitted or how, Alconov Thrail and Baskonia's other masterminds would or could derive little indeed of comfort from the happenings of this important day. Well, that is that, for a while at least, don't you think? Haynes asked his counsel of war. It was decided that it was, that if Basconia could not have mustered a heavier center for her defensive action here, she would be in no position to make any really important attack for months to come. Grand Fleet then was reformed.

this time into a purely defensive and exploratory formation. In the center, of course, was the Z-9M-9-Z. A rounder was a close-packed quadruple globe of mallers. Outside of them, in order, came sphere after sphere of super dreadnots, of battleships, of heavy cruisers, and of light cruisers. Then, not in the globe at all, but ranging far and wide, were the scouts. Into the edge of the nearest spiral arm of the second galaxy, the stupendous formation advanced, and along it it proceeded at dead-slow blast.

Dead slow to enable the questing scouts to survey thoroughly each planet of every solar system as they came to it. And finally, an Earth-like planet was found. Several approximately Tullorian worlds have been previously discovered and listed as possibilities, but this one was so perfect that the search ended then and there. Apart from the shape of the continents and the fact that there was somewhat less land surface and a bit more salt water, it was practically identical with Tellus. As was to be expected, its people were human to the limit of classification. Entirely unexpectedly, however, the people of Klovia, which is as close as English can come to the native name, were not Zwillnix. They had never heard of, nor had they ever been approached by the Baskonians.

space travel was to them only a theoretical possibility, as was atomic energy. They had no planetary organization, being still divided politically into sovereign states, which were all too often at war with each other. In fact, a world war had just burned itself out, a war of such savagery that only a fraction of the world's population remained alive. There had been no victor, of course. All had lost everything. The survivors of each nation, ruined as they were and without either organization or equipment, were trying desperately to rebuild some semblance of what they had once had. Upon learning these facts, the psychologists of the patrol breathed deep sighs of relief.

This kind of thing was made to order. Civilizing this planet would be simplicity itself, and it was. The Clovians did not have to be overawed by a show of superior force. Before this last horribly internecine war, Clovia had been a heavily industrialized world, and as soon as the few remaining inhabitants realized what civilization had to offer, that no one of their neighboring competitive states was to occupy a superior position, and that full worldwide production was to be resumed as soon as was humanly possible,

their relief and joy were immeasurable. Thus the patrol took over without difficulty. But they were the Lensman, knew working against time. As soon as the Zwillnix could get enough heavy stuff built, they would attack, grimly determined to blast Clovia and everything upon it out of space. Even though they had known nothing about the planet previously, it was idle to hope that they were still in ignorance, either of its existence or of what was in general going on there. Hain's first care was to have the heaviest mellery of the Galactic Patrol, loose planets, sunbeams, fortresses, and the like,

rushed across the void to Clovia at maximum. Then, as well as putting every employable of the new world to work, at higher wages than he had ever earned before, the patrol imported millions upon millions of men, with their women and families from hundreds of Earth-like planets in the first galaxy. They did not, however, come blindly. They came knowing that Clovia was to be primarily a military base, the most supremely powerful base that had ever been built.

They knew that it would bear the brunt of the most furious attacks that Boscon could possibly deliver. They knew full well that it might fall. Nevertheless, men and women, they came in their multitudes. They came with high courage and high determination, glorying in that which they were to do. People who could and did so glory were the only ones who came. Which fact accounts in no small part for what Clovia is today? People came and worked and stayed. Ships came and trafficked. Trade and commerce increased tremendously, and further and further abroad, as there came into being upon that formerly almost derelict planet,

some 70-a- gigantic defensive establishments that crept out an ever-widening screen of scout ships, with all their high-powered feelers hotly outstretched. Meanwhile, Kinnison and frigid-blooded Nadrick had worked their line, leg by torturous leg, to on loan and thence to thrale. A full spool should be devoted to that working alone, but, unfortunately, as space here must be limited to the barest essentials, it can scarcely be mentioned. As Kinnison and Haynes had foreseen, that line was heavily trapped.

Luckily, however, it had not been moved so radically that the searchers could not rediscover it. The Zwill-Nicks were, as Haynes had promised, very busily engaged with other and more important matters. All of those traps were deadly, and many of them were ingenious indeed, so ingenious as to test to the utmost the cowardly Pallanian skill and mental scope. All, however, failed. The two lensmen held to the line in spite of the pitfalls, and followed it to the end. Nadrick stayed upon or near Onlow to work in its frightful environment against the monsters to whom he was biologically so closely allied. while the Tullerian went on to Thrail,

to try conclusions with that planet's physically human tyrant Alcon. Again, he had to build up an unimpeachable identity, and here there were no friendly thousands to help him do it. He had to get close, really close to Alcon, without antagonizing him or in any way arousing his hair-trigger suspicions. Kinnison had studied that problem for days. Not one of his previously used artifices would work, even had he dared to repeat a procedure.

Also, time was decidedly of the essence. There was a way. It was not an easy way, but it was fast, and if it worked at all, it would work perfectly. Kinnison would not have risked even a few months back, but now he was pretty sure that he had jets enough to swing it. He needed a soldier of about his own size and shape. Details were unimportant. The man should not be an outcome.

personal troops, but should be in a closely allied battalion, from which promotion into that select body would be logical. He should be relatively inconspicuous, yet with a record of accomplishment, released of initiative which would square up with the rapid promotions which were to come. The details of that man-hunt are interesting, but not of any real importance here, since they did not vary in any essential from other searches which have been described at length. He found him, a lieutenant in the Royal Guard, and the ensuing mind-study as assiduous as it was insidious. In fact, the lensman memorized practically every memory chain in the fellow's brain. Then the officer took his regular furlough and started for home, but he never got there.

Instead, it was Kimball Kinnison who wore the Threlian's gorgeous full-dress uniform, and who greeted in exactly appropriate fashion the Thralian's acquaintances and lifelong friends. A few of these, who chanced to see the guardsman first, wondered briefly at his changed appearance, or thought that he was a stranger. Very few, however, and very briefly. For the Lensman's sense of perception was tensely alert, and his mind was strong. In moments, then, those chance few forgot that they had ever had the slightest doubt concerning the soldier's identity. They knew calmly, and as a matter of fact, that he was the Traskagannal whom they had known so long. living minds presented no difficulty, except for the fact that, of course, he could not get in touch

with everyone who had ever known the real Gannel. However, he did his best. He covered plenty of ground, and he got most of them, all that could really matter. Written records, photographs, and tapes were something else again. He had called Worsal in on that problem long since, and the purely military records of the Royal Guards were QX before Gannel went on leave. Although somewhat tedious, that task had not proved particularly difficult. Upon a certain dark night, a certain light circuit had gone dead, darkening many buildings. Only one or two sentries or guards had put their flashlights upon either Wursel or Kinnison, and they never afterward recalled having done so. And any record that has ever been made

can be remade to order by the experts of the Secret Service of the Patrol. And thus it was also with the earlier records. Gannel had been born in a hospital. QX, that hospital was visited, and thereafter Gannel's baby footprints were actually those of infant Kinnison. He had gone to certain schools. Those school's records also were made to conform to the new facts.

Little could be done, however, about pictures. No man can possibly remember how many times he has had his picture taken, or who has the negatives, or two, whom he had given photographs, or in what papers, books, or other publications, his likeness has appeared. The older pictures, Kinnison decided, did not count. Even if the likenesses were good, he looked enough like Gannel, so that the boy or the callow youth might just about as well have developed into something that would pass for Kinnison in a photograph as into the man which he actually did become. Where was the dividing line? The lensman decided, or rather,

the decision was forced upon him, that it was at his graduation from the military academy. There had been an annual, in which volume appeared an individual picture, fairly large, of each member of the graduating class. About a thousand copies of the book had been issued, and now they were scattered all over space. Since it would be idle even to think of correcting them all, he could not correct any of them. Kinnison studied that picture for a long time. He didn't like it very well. The cub was just about grown up, and this photo looked considerably more like Gannel than it did like Kinnison. However, the expression was self-conscious, the pose strained, and, after all, people hardly ever looked at old annuals. He'd have to take a chance on that.

Later poses, formal portraits, that is, snapshots could not be considered, would have to be fixed up. Thus it came about that certain studios were rated very surreptitius. Certain negatives were abstracted and were deftly retouched. Prints were made therefrom, and in several dozens of places in Gannel's hometown, in albums and in frames, stealthy substitutions were made. The furlough was about to expire. Kinnison had done everything that he could do. There were holes, of course, there couldn't help but be,

but they were mighty small, and if he played his cards right, they would never show up. Just to be on the safe side, however, he'd have Orssel stick around for a couple of weeks or so to watch developments and to patch up any weak spots that might develop. The Valentian's presence upon Therail would not create any suspicion. There were lots of such folks flitting from planet to planet. And if anybody did get just a trifle suspicious of Orssel, it might be all the better. So it was done, and Lieutenant Traskah Gannel of the Royal Guard went back to duty. End of Section 16.

Section 17 of Second Stage Lensman. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Second Stage Lensman by E.E. Doc Smith. Chapter 16. Nadrick, the Fertive Pelanian, had prepared us thoroughly in his own queerly underhanded fashion, as had Kinnison in his bolder one. Nadrick was cowardly, in earthly eyes, There could be no doubt of that, as cowardly as he was lazy, or at least, if not exactly lazy,

highly averse to any unnecessary effort. To his race, however, those traits were eminently sensible, and those qualities did in fact underlie his prodigious record of accomplishment. Being so careful of his personal safety, he had lived long and would live longer. By doing everything in the easiest possible way, he had conserved his research. sources. Why take chances with a highly valuable life? Why be so inefficient as to work hard in the performance of a task when it could always be done in some easy way? Nadrick moved in upon Onmo then, absolutely imperceptibly. His dark, cold, devious mind, so closely akin to those of the Onlonians, reached out, indetectably on rapport with theirs. He studied, dissected, analyzed, and

neutralized their defenses one by one. Then his ultra-black speedster securely hidden from their every prying mechanism and sense, although within easy working distance of the control dome itself, he snuggled down into a softly cushioned resting place and methodically, efficiently, he went to work. Thus, when Alcon of Thrail next visited his monstrous henchman, Nadrick flipped a switch and every thought of the Zwillnix conference

went permanently on record. "'What have you done, Kandron, about the lensman?' The tyrant demanded in harsh tones. "'What have you concluded?' "'We have done very little,' the chief psychologist replied coldly. "'Beyond the liquidation of a few lensmen, "'with nothing whatever to indicate that any of them "'had any leading part in our recent reverses.

"'Our agents have accomplished nothing. "'As to conclusions, "'I have been unable to draw any, "'except the highly negative one, that every Bosconian psychologist, who has ever summed up the situation has, in some respect or other, been seriously in error. "'And only you are right,' Elkhons neared. "'Why?'

"'I am right, only in that I admit my inability to draw any valid conclusions,' "'Kandron replied imperturbably. "'The available data are too meager, too inconclusive, and, above all, too contradictory to justify any positive statements. There is a possibility that there are two linsmen who have been and are mainly responsible for what has happened.

One of these, the lesser maybe, note well that I say, maybe, not is, a Tullurian or an Aldebaranian or some other definitely human being. The other, and by far the more powerful one, is apparently absolutely and entirely unknown,

except by his works. Star A. St. Star, Alcon declared. Call him so, if you like, Candron assented flatly. But this Star A Star is an operator. As the supposed director of Lensman, he is merely a figment of the imagination.

But this information came from the Lensman Morgan, Alcon protested. He was questioned under the drug of truth. He was tortured and all but slain. The overlord of Delgon consumed all his life force, except for the barest possible moiety. How do you know all these things? Kandron asked, unmoved,

merely from the report of the overlord and from the highly questionable testimony of one of the Ike, who was absent from the scene during all of the most important time? You suspect, then, that... Alcon broke off, shaken visibly. I do, the psychologist replied dryly.

I suspect very strongly indeed, that there is working against us a mind of a power and scope, but little inferior to my own, a mind able to overcome that of an overlord. One able, at least if unsuspected and hence unopposed, to deceive even the admittedly capable minds of the Ike. I suspect that the Lensman Morgan was, if he existed at all, merely a puppet. The Ike took him too easily by far. It is therefore eminent possible that he had no physical actuality of existence. "'Oh, come now, don't be ridiculous,' Alcon snapped. "'With all Boscoen there as witnesses?

Why, his hand and lens remained.' "'Improbable, perhaps, I admit, but still eminently possible,' Kandron insisted. "'Admit for the moment that he was actual and that he did lose a hand. But remember also that the hand and the lens may very well have been brought along and left there as reassurances. We cannot be sure even that the lens matched the hand. But admitting all this, I am still of the opinion that Lensman Morgan was not otherwise tortured, that he lost none of his vital force, that he and the unknown I have

already referred to, returned practically unharmed to their own galaxy. And not only did they return, They must have carried with them the information which was later used by the patrol in the destruction of Jarnovan. Utterly preposterous, Alcon snorted. Tell me, if you can, upon what facts you have been able to base such fantastic opinions? Gladly, Candron assented. I have been able to come to no really valid conclusions, and it may very well be that your fresh viewpoint will enable us to succeed where I alone have failed. I will, therefore, summarize very briefly the data which seemed to me most significant.

Attend closely, please. For many years, as you know, everything progressed smoothly. Our first setback came when a Tullurian worship, man by Tullrians and Valerians, succeeded in capturing almost intact one of the most modern and most powerful of our vessels. The Valerians may be excluded from consideration, insofar as, mental ability is concerned. At least one Tullerian escaped in one of our own supposedly derelict vessels. This one, whom Helmuth thought of and reported as the lensman, eluding all pursuers,

went to Valantia. Upon which planet he so wrought as to steal bodily six of our ships sent there especially to hunt him down. In those ships, he won his way back to tell us, in spite of everything Helmuth and his force could do. Then there were the two episodes of the Wheelmen of Aldebaran One. In the first one, a Tullerian lensman was defeated, possibly killed. In the second, our base was destroyed, tracelessly.

Note, however, that the base next above it in order was, so far as we know, not visited or harmed. There was the Boise affair in which the human being Blakesley did various unscheduled things. He was obviously under the control of some far more powerful mind, a mind which did not appear then or ever. We jump then to this our own galaxy, the sudden inexplicable disappearance of the planet Medan. Back to theirs again, the disgraceful and closely connected debacles at Shingvors and Antiguan.

Traceless both, but again, neither was followed up to any higher headquarters. Nadrick grinned at that, if a Pelanian can be said to grin. Those matters were purely his own. He had done what he had been requested to do, thoroughly. No following up had been either necessary or desirable. Then Redelix, Kandron's summary went concisely on. The female agents, Bomenger, the Colonian observers, all wiped out. Was or was not some human linsman to blame?

Everyone, from Chester Q. Fordyce, down to a certain laborer upon the docks, was suspected, but nothing definite could be learned. The senselessly mad crew of the 27L-462P, Yinor Granthia. Again, completely traceless. Reason obscure, and no known advantage gained, as this sequence also was dropped. Nadrick pondered briefly over this material. He knew nothing of any such matters, nor he was pretty sure. sure did Kinnison. The lensman apparently was getting credit for something that must have been

accidental or wrought by some internal enemy. QX. He listened again. After the affair of Bronsica, in which so many lensmen were engaged, that particularization was impossible, and which again was not followed up. We jumped to the asteroid Euphrasiny, Miner's Nest, and Wild Bill Williams of Aldebaran, too. If it was a coincidence that Bill Williams became William Williams and followed our line to Tresilia, it is a truly remarkable one, even though, supposedly, said Williams was so stupefied with drugs as to be incapable either of motion or perception. Jalty's headquarters was apparently missed. However, it must have been invaded, tracelessly, for it was the link between Tresilia and Jarnivon, and Jarnivon was found and was destroyed.

Now, before we analyze the more recent events, what do you yourself deduce from the above facts? Kandron asked. While the tyrant was cogitating, Nadrick indulged in a minor gloat. This psychologist, by means of impeccable logic and reasoning from definitely known facts, had arrived at such erroneous conclusions. However, Nadrick had to admit his own performances and those in which Kinnison had acted indetectibly, when added to those of some person or persons unknown, did make a really

impressive total. "'You may be right,' Alcon admitted finally. "'At least two entirely different personalities and methods of operation. Two lensmen are necessary to satisfy the above requirements, and, as far as we know, sufficient. One of the necessary two is a human being, the other an absolutely unknown. "'Cartive was, of course, the human lensman, "'a masterly piece of work that, "'but with the cooperation of the patrol,

"'both logical and fairly simple. "'This human being is always in evidence, "'yet is so cleverly concealed by his very obviousness "'that nobody ever considers him important enough "'to be worthy of a close scrutiny. "'Or perhaps.' "'That is better,' Kandron commented. "'You are beginning to see

"'why I was so careful in saying that the known to Lurian factor may be, not is of any real importance. But he must be, Alcon protested. It was a human being who tried and executed our agent. Cardiff was a human being, to name only two. Of course, Candron admitted half contemptuously, but we have no proof whatever that any of those human beings actually did, of their own any of the things for which they have been given credit. Thus, it is now almost certain that that widely advertised mine ray machine was simply a battery of spotlights. A man operating them may very well have done nothing else.

Similarly, Cartiff may have been an ordinary gangster controlled by the lensman. We may as well call him Star A. Star as anything else, or a lensman or some other member of the patrol acting as a dummy to distract our attention from Star A. star, who himself did the real work all unperceived. Proof? The tyrant snapped. No proof, merely a probability, the Unlonian stated flatly. We know, however, definitely, and for a fact, visiplates and long-range communicators cannot be hypnotized, that Blakesley was one of Helma's own men. Also, that he was the same man, both as a loyal Bosconian of very ordinary mental talents,

and as an enemy having a mental power which he, as Blakesley, never did and never could possess. I see, Alcon thought deeply, very cogently put. Instead of there being two lendsmen, working sometimes together and sometimes separately, you think that there is only one really important mind, and that this mind at times works with or through some Tullerian? but not necessarily the same Tillerion, exactly. And there is nothing to give us any indication whatever as to Star A. Star's real nature, or race.

We cannot even deduce whether or not he is an oxygen-breather, and that is bad. Very bad, the tyrant assented. Star A-Star, or Cardiff, or both working together, found Lanabar. They learned of the overlords, or at least of Lyrene too. By sheer accident, if they learned, learned it there at all, I am certain of that. Candron insisted.

They did not get any information from Menjo Bliko's mind. There was none there to get. Accident or not, what boots it? Alcon impatiently brushed aside the psychologist's protests. They found Bliko and killed him. A raid upon the cavern of the overlords upon Lyrane II followed immediately. From the reports sent by the overlords to the Ike of Lyrane 8, we know that there were two patrol ships involved.

One, not definitely identified as Cartiffs, took no part in the real assault. The other, the super-dreadnought Dauntless, did that alone. She was manned by Tullarians, Valerians, and at least one Valantian. Since they went to the trouble of taking the overlords alive, we may take it for granted that they obtained from them all the information they possessed before they destroyed them and their cavern. It is at least highly probable that they did so, Kandron admitted.

We have, then, many questions and few answers, and the tyrant strode up and down the dimly blue-lit room. It would be idle indeed, in view of the facts, to postulate that Lyrain too was left, as were the others a dead end. Has Starr A-star attempted Lyraine eight? If not, why has he delayed? If so, did he succeed? or fail in penetrating the defenses of the Ike.

They swear that he did not, that he could not. Of course, Kandron sneered. But while asking questions, why not ask why the patrol chose this particular time to invade our galaxy in such force as to wipe out our grand fleet? To establish themselves so strongly as to make it necessary for us of the high command, to devote our entire attention to the problem of dislodging them,

"'What?' Alcon exclaimed, then sobered quickly and thought for minutes. "'You think then that—' His thoughts died away. "'I do so think,' Kandron thought glumly. "'It is very decidedly possible, yes, perhaps even probable, that the Ike of Lyrain Eight were able to offer no more resistance to the penetration of Star A-Star than was Jolty the Colonian. that this massive thrust was time to cover the insidious tracing of our lines of communication or whatever other leads the linsmen have been able to discover.

But the traps, the alarms, the screens and zones, Alconic exclaimed, manifestly jarred by this new and disquietingly keen thought. No alarm was tripped, as you know. No trap was sprung. Kandron replied quietly. The fact that we... have not as yet been attacked here, may or may not be significant. Not only is On Mo very strongly held, not only is it located in such a central position

that their lines of communication would be untenable, but also, do you mean to admit you may have been invaded and searched, tracelessly? Alcon fairly shrieked the thought. Certainly, the psychologist replied coldly. While I do not believe that it has been done, the possibility must be conceded. What we could do, we have done. But what science can do, science can circumvent. To finish my thought, it is a virtual certainty that it is not Anlo and I who are their prime objectives,

but Thrail and you, especially you. You may be right. You probably are right. But with no data whatever upon who or what star A-star really is, with no tenable theory as to how he could have done what actually has been done, speculation is idle. Upon this highly unsatisfactory note, the interview closed. Alcon the tyrant went back to Thrail, and as he entered his palace grounds,

he passed within forty inches of his nemesis. For Star A-Star, Kinnison Traskagannel was, as Alcon himself so clearly said, rendered invisible and imperceptible by his own obviousness. Although obvious, Kiddison was very busy indeed. As a lieutenant of guardsman, the officer in charge of a platoon whose duties were primarily upon the ground, he had very little choice of action. His immediate superior, the first lieutenant of the same company, was not much better off. The captain had more authority and scope since he commanded aerial as well as ground forces.

Then, disregarding sidelines of comparative seniority, came the Major, the Colonel, and finally the General, who was in charge of all the regular armed forces of Thrae's capital city. Alcon's personal troops were, of course, a separate organization, but Kinnison was not interested in them yet. The Major would be high enough, Kinnison decided, big enough to have considerable authority and freedom of motion, and yet not important enough to attract undesirable attention.

The first lieutenant, a stodgy, strictly rule-of-thum individual, did not count. He could step right over his head into the captaincy. The real gannel had always, in trues-willnick fashion, hated his captain, and had sought in devious ways to undermine him. The pseudo-gannel despised the captain as well as hating him, and to the task of sapping he brought an ability enormously greater than any which the real gannel had ever possessed. Good Busconian technique was to work upward by stealth and treachery, a carefully built-up personal following of spies and agents.

Gannel had already formed such a staff, had already selected the man, who in the natural course of events would assassinate the first lieutenant. Kinnison retained Gannel's following, but changed subtly its methods of operation. He worked almost boldly. He himself criticized the captain severely, within the hearing of two men whom he knew to belong body and soul to his superior.

This brought quick results. He was summoned preemptorily into the captain's office, and knowing that the company commander would not dare to have him assassinated there, he went. In that office there were a dozen people. It was evident that the captain intended this rebuke to be a warning to all upstarts forever. Lieutenant Traskagano, I have had my eye upon you, and your subversive activities for some time, the captain ordered. Now, purely as a matter of form, and in accordance with paragraph 5, Section 724 of general

regulations, you may offer whatever you have of explanation before I reduce you to the ranks for insubordination. I have a lot to say, Kinnison replied coolly. I don't know what your spies have reported, but to whatever it was, I would like to add that having this meeting here as you are having it, proves that you are as fat in the head as you are in the belly. Silence! Seize him, men!

The captain commanded fiercely. He was not really fat. He had only a scant inch of equatorial bulge. But that small surplusage was a sore point indeed. Disarm him! The first man to move dies in his tracks. Kinnis encountered. His coldly venomous tone holding the troopers motion.

He wore two hand-weapons, more or less similar to the laminar's, and now his hands rested lightly upon their butts. I cannot be disarmed until after I have been disrated, as you know very well, and that will never happen. For if you demote me, I will take an appeal, as is my right to the Colonel's court, and there I will prove that you are stupid, inefficient, cowardly, and unfit generally to command. You really are, and you know it. Your discipline is lax and full of favoritism. Your rewards and punishments are assessed, not by logic, but by whim, passion, and personal bias. Any court that can be

named would set you down into the ranks where you belong, and would give me your place. If this is insubordination, and if you want to make something out of it, you pussy-gutted, pusillanimous, brainless tub of lard, cutting your own. jets. The maligned officer half rose, white-knuckled hands gripping the arms of his chair, then sank back craftily. He realized now that he had blundered. He was in no position to face the rigorous investigation which Gannel's accusation would

bring on. But there was a way out. This could now be made a purely personal matter, in which a duel would be de rigour. And in Bosconian dueling, the superior officer, not the challenged, had the choice of weapons. He was a master of the saber. He had outpointed Gano regularly in the regimental games. Therefore, he choked down his wrath and—' These personal insults, gratuitous and false as they are, take the matter out of military channels, he declared smoothly. Meet me then tomorrow, half an hour before sunset, in the place of swords. It will be with sabers.

"'accepted.' "'Kinnison meticulously followed the ritual. "'To first blood or to the death?' "'This question was superfluous. "'The stigma of the Lensman's epithets "'delivered before such a large group "'could not possibly be expunged "'by the mere letting of a little blood.

"'To the death, curtly. "'So be it, O Captain.' "'Kinnison saluted punctiliously, "'executed a snappy about face "'and marched stiffly out of the room. QX. This was fine, strictly according to Hoyle. The captain was a swordsman, surely, but Kinnison was no slouch. He didn't think that he would have to use a thought-beam to help him. He had had five years of intensive training. Quarterstaff, nightstick, club, knife and dagger,

foil, epa, rapier, saber, broadswords, scimitar, bayonet, what have you, with practically any nameable weapon, any lensman had to be as good as he was with fists and feet. The place of swords was in fact a circular arena, surrounded by tears of comfortably padded seats. It was thronged with uniforms, with civilian formal afternoon dress, and with moddish gowns. For such jewels as this were sporting events of the first magnitude. To guard against such trickery as concealed armor, the contestants were almost naked. Each wore only silken trunks and a pair of low shoes, whose cross-ribbed, flexible composition souls could not be made to slip upon the corrugated surface of the cork-like material of the arena's floor.

The colonel himself, as master of ceremonies, asked the usual perfunctory questions. No, reconciliation was impossible. No, that challenged would not apologize. No, that challenger's honor could not be satisfied with anything less than mortal combatants. bet. He then took two sabers from an orderly, measuring them to be sure that they were of precisely the same length. He tested each edge for keenness, from hilt to needlepoint with an expert thumb. He pounded each hilt with a heavy testing club. Lastly, still in view of the spectators, he slipped a guard over each point and put his weight upon the blades. They bent alarmingly, but neither broke and both snapped back truly into shape.

No spy or agent, everyone then knew, had tampered with either one of those beautiful weapons. Removing the point guards, the colonel again inspected those slenderly lethal tips and handed one saber to each of the duelists. He held out a baton, horizontal, and shoulder high. Gannel and the captain crossed their blades upon it. He snapped his stick away, and the duel was on. Kinnison fought in Gannel's fashion exactly. In his characteristic crouch and with his every mannerism. He was, however, a trifle faster than Gannel had ever been, just enough faster, so that by the exertion of everything he had of skill and finesse, he managed to make the Zwillnix blade meet steel instead of flesh during the first long five minutes

of furious engagement. The guy was good, no doubt of that. His saber came writhing in to disarm. Kinnison flicked his massive wrist. Steel slithered along steel, hilt clanged against heavy basket-hilt. Two mighty right arm shot upward, straining to the limit. Breast to hard-ritched breast, left arms pressed against bulgingly corded backs. Every taut muscle from floor-gripping feet up to powerful shoulders thrown into the effort, the battler stood motionlessly on tableau for seconds. The ape wasn't fat at that, Kinnison realized.

then. He was as hard as cordwood underneath. Not fat enough, anyway, to be anybody's push over. Although he was probably not in good enough shape to last very long. He could probably wear him down. He wondered fleetingly, if worse came to worst, whether he would use his mind or not. He didn't want to, but he might have to. Or would he even then? Could he? But he better snap out of it. He couldn't get anywhere with this body-check business. The Zwillnick was fully as strong as he was. They broke, and in the breaking Kinnison learned a brand-new cut. He sensed it coming, but he could not parry or avoid it entirely,

and the crowd shrieked madly as the captain's point slashed into Gannel's trunks and a stream of crimson trickled down Gannel's left leg. Stamp, stamp! Stamp! Cut, thrust, faint, slash and Perry, the grim, game went on. Again, in spite of all he could do, Kinnison was pinked, this time by a straight thrust aimed at his heart. He was falling away from it, though, so got only half an inch or so of the point in the fleshy part of his left shoulder. It bled spectacularly, however, and the throng yelled ragingly for the kill. Another, he never did know exactly how he got that one,

in the calf of his right leg. And the bloodthirsty mob screamed still louder. Then, the fine edge of the captain's terrific attack worn off, Kinnison was able to assume the offensive. He maneuvered his foe into an awkward position, swept his blade aside, and slashed viciously at the neck. But the Thralian was able partially to cover. He ducked frantically, even while his parrying blade was flashing up. Steel clanged, sparks flew.

But the strength of the linsman's arm could not be entirely denied. Instead of the whole head, however, Kinnison's razor-edged weapon snicked off only an ear and a lock of hair. Again, the spectator shrieked frenzied approval. They did not care whose blood was shed, so long as it was shed. And this duel, of two suburb swordsmen so evenly matched, was the best they had seen for years. It was, and promised to keep on being, a splendidly gory show indeed. Again and again the duelists engaged at their flashing top speed. Once again, each drew blood before the colonel's whistle shrilled.

Time out for repairs. To have either of the contestants bleed to death or even to the point of weakness was no part of the code. The captain had outpointed the lieutenant four to two, just as he always did in the tournaments. But he now derived very little comfort from the score. He was weakening and knew it, while Gannels of his own. arm seemed as strong and as rock-steady as it had been at the bouts beginning. Kinnison also knew these facts. Surgeons gave hasty but effective treatment.

New and perfect sabers replaced the badly nicked weapons. The ghastly thing went on. The captain tired slowly but surely. Gannel took more and more openly and more savagely the offensive. When it was over, Kitteson flipped his saber dexterously, so that its point struck deep to the softly resilient floor beside that which had once been his captain. Then, while the hilt swung back and forth in slow arcs, he faced one segment of the now-saciated throng and crisply saluted the Colonel.

"'Sir, I trust that I have won honorably the right to be examined for fitness to become the captain of my company.' He asked formally, and, "'You have, sir,' the Colonel as formally replied. "'End of Section 17.' Section 18 of Second Stage Lensman This Libervox recording is in the public domain Second Stage Lensman by E.E. Doc Smith

Chapter 17 Kinnison's wounds, being superficial, healed rapidly. He passed the examination handily. He should have. Since, although it was rigorous and comprehensive, Trasca Gannel himself could have passed it, and Kinnison, as well as knowing practically everything that the Therlian had ever learned, had his own vast store of knowledge upon which to draw. Also, if necessary, he could have read

the answers from the minds of the examiners. As a captain, the real Gannel would have been a hard and brilliant commander, noticeable even among the select group of tried and fire-polished veterans who officered the guards. Hence Kinnison became so. In fact, considerably more so than most. He was harsh, he was relentless and inflexible, but he was absolutely fair. He did not punish a given breach of discipline with twenty lashes one time, and with a mere reprimand the next. Fifteen honest, scarring strokes it became for each and every time, whoever the offender. Whatever punishment a man deserved by the book he got, promptly and mercilessly. Whatever reward was earned was bestowed with equal celerity, accompanied by a

crisply accurate statement of the facts in each case at the Daily Parade Review. His men hated him, of course. His non-coms and lieutenants, besides hating him, kept on trying to cut him down. All, however, respected him and obeyed him without delay and without question, which was all that any Busconian officer could expect, and which was far more than most of them ever got. Having thus consolidated his position, Kinnissom went blithely to work to undermine and to plant the major. Since Alcon, like all dictators everywhere, was in constant fear of treachery and of revolution, war games were an almost constant form of drill. The general himself planned, and various officers executed the mock attacks by space, air, and land. The Royal Guards and Alcon's personal

troops heavily outnumbered always constituted the defense. An elaborate system of scoring had been worked out long since, by means of which the staff officers could study in detail every weak point that could be demonstrated. Captain Gannel, you will have to hold passes 25, 26, and 27. The obviously worried major told Kinnison the evening before a particularly important sham battle was to take place. The lensman was not surprised. He himself had insinuated the idea into his superior's mind. Moreover, he already knew, from an intensive job of spying, that his major was to be in charge of the defense, and that the colonel, who was to direct the attacking forces,

had decided to root his main column through pass twenty-seven. "'Very well, sir,' Kinnison acknowledged. "'I wish to protest formally, however, against those orders. "'It is manifestly impossible, sir, to hold all three of those passes "'with two platoons of infantry and one squadron of speedsters. "'May I offer a suggestion?' "'You may not,' the Major snapped. "'We have deduced that the real attack is coming from the north

"'and that any activity in your section will be merely a faint. "'Oorders are orders, Captain.' "'Yes, sir,' Kinnison replied, meekly, "'and signed for the thick sheaf of orders, "'which stated in detail exactly what he was to do. "'The next evening, after Kinnison had won the battle "'by disregarding every order he had been given, he was summoned to the meeting of the staff.

He had expected that, too, but he was not at all certain of how it was coming out. It was in some trepidation, therefore, that he entered the lair of the big brass hats. Harumph! he was greeted by the adjutant. You have been called. I know why I was called. Kinnison interrupted brusquely.

Before we go into that, however, I wish to prefer charges before the general against major delios of stupidity, incompetence, and inefficiency. Sheer astonishment resounded throughout the room in a ringing silence, broken finally by the general. Those are serious charges indeed, Captain Gannel, but you may state your case. Thank you, sir. First, stupidity.

He did not perceive, at even as late a time as noon, when he took all my air away from me to meet the faint from the north, that the attack was not to follow, any orthodox pattern. Second, incompetence. The orders he gave me could not possibly have stopped any serious attack through any one of the passes I was supposed to defend. Third, inefficiency. No efficient commander refuses to listen to suggestions from his officers, as he refused to listen to me last night. Your side, Major? And the staff officers listened to a defense based upon blind, dumb obedience to orders. We will take the

matter under advisement, the General announced then. Now, Captain, what made you suspect that the Colonel was coming through pass twenty-seven? I didn't, Kinnison replied mendaciously. To reach any one of those passes, however, he would have to come down this valley, tracing it with his forefinger upon the map. Therefore, I held my whole force back here at Hill 562, knowing that, worn by my air of his approach, I could reach any one of the passes before he could. "'Ah! Then, when your air was sent elsewhere?

"'I commanded a flitter, my own, by the way, and set it up so high as to be indetectable. "'I then ordered motorcycle scouts out, for the enemy to capture, to make the commander of any "'of any possible attacking or reconnaissance force think that I was blind. "'Ah, smart work! And then?' "'As soon as my scout reported troop movements in the valley, I got my men ready to roll. When it became certain that pass twenty-seven was the objective, I rushed everything I had into pre-selected positions commanding every foot of that pass. Then, when the colonel walked into the trap, I wiped out most of his main column.

However, I had a theoretical loss of three-quarters of my men in doing it, bitterly. If I had been directing the defense, I would have wiped out the colonel's entire force, ground and air both with a loss of less than two percent. This was strong talk. "'Do you realize, Captain Gannel, that this is sheer insubordination?' The general demanded. "'That you are in effect accusing me also of stupidity in planning and in ordering such an attack.' "'Not at all, sir,' Kinnison replied instantly.

"'It was quite evident, sir, that you did it deliberately, to show all of us junior officers the importance of thought. To show us that, while unorthodox attacks may possibly be made by unskilled tacticians, any such attack is of necessity fatally weak, if it be opposed by good tactics. In other words, that orthodox strategy is the only really good strategy. Was not that it, sir? Whether it was or not, that viewpoint gave the general an out, and he was not slow in taking advantage of it.

He decided then and there, and the always-southful, subservient staff agreed with him that Major Didios had indeed been stupid, incompetent, and inefficient, and Captain Gannel forthwith became Major Gannel. Then the lintzman took it easy. He wangled and finagled various and sundry promotions and replacements, until he was once more surrounded by a thoroughly subsidized personal staff and in good position to go to work upon the Colonel. Then, however, instead of doing so, he violated another Bosconian president by having a frank talk with the man whom normally he should have been trying to displace. You have found out that you can't kill me, Colonel, he told his

superior, after making sure that the room was really shielded. Also, that I can quite possibly kill you. You know that I know more than you do, that all my life, while you other fellows were helling around, I have been working and learning, and that I can, in a fairly short time, take your job away from you without killing you. However, I don't want it.' "'You don't want it?' The Colonel stared narrow-eyed. "'What do you want, then?' He knew, of course, that Gannel wanted something. "'Your help,' Kinnison admitted candidly. "'I want to get onto Alcon's personal staff as advisor. With my experience and training,

I figure that there's more in it for me there than here in the guards. Here's my proposition. If I help you, by showing you how to work out your field problems and, in general, building you up however I can instead of tearing you down, will you use your great influence with the General and Prime Minister Faustin to have me transferred to the household? Will I? I'll say I will. The Colonel agreed with fervor. He did not add, if I cannot kill you first, that was understood. And Kinnison did build the Colonel up. He taught him things about the military business which that staff officer had never even suspected.

He sounded depths of strategy theretofore completely unknown to the Zwillnick. And the more Kinnison taught him, the more eager the colonel became to get rid of him. He had become suspicious and only reluctantly cooperative at first, but as soon as he realized that he could not kill his tutor, and that if the latter stayed in the guards, it would be only a matter of days, at most of weeks, until Gannel would force himself into the colonelcy by sheer force of merit, he pulled in earnest every wire that he could reach. Before the actual transfer could be affected, however,

Kinnison received a call from Nadrick. "'Excuse me, please, for troubling you,' the Pelanian apologized. But there has been a development in which you may perhaps be interested. This Kandron has been given orders by Alcon to traverse a hyperspacial tube, the terminus of which will appear at coordinates 217, 493-28, at hour eleven of the seventh three-day from the present. Fine business. And you want to chase him, huh?

Kinnison jumped at the conclusion. Sure, go ahead. I'll meet you there. I'll fake some kind of an excuse to get away from here, and we'll run him ragged. I do not, Nadrick interrupted decisively. If I leave my work here, it will all considerate. come undone. Besides, it would be dangerous and foolhardy. Not knowing what lies at the other end of that tube, we could make no plans and could have no assurance of safety or even of success. You should

not go either. That is unthinkable. I am reporting this matter in view of the possibility that you may think it's significant enough to warrant the sending of some observer whose life is of little or no importance. Oh, uh-huh. "'I see. Thanks, Nadrick.' Kinnison did not allow any trace of his real thought to go out before he broke the line. Then—' "'Funny ape, Nadrick,' he cogitated as he called Haynes. "'I don't get his angle at all. I simply can't figure him out.' "'Haines? Kinison.' And he reported in full.

The Dauntless has all the necessary generators and equipment, and the place is far enough out so that she can make the approach without any trouble. The lensman concluded. He'll burn whatever is at the other end of that tube clear out of the ether. Send along as many of the old gang as you can spare. Wish we had time to get Cardinge. He'll howl like a wolf at being left out, but we've got only a week. Cardinge is here, Haynes broke in.

He has been working out some stuff for Thorndyke on the sunbeam. He is finished now, though, and will undoubtedly want to go along. Fine. and explicit arrangements for the rendezvous were made. It was not unduly difficult for Kinnison to make his absence from duty logical, even necessary. Scouts and observers reported inexplicable interferences with certain communication lines. With thoughts of the lensments effusing the minds of the higher-ups, and because of Gannel's already demonstrated prowess and keenness,

he scarcely had to signify a willingness to investigate the phenomena in order to be directed to do so. nor did he pick a crew of his own sycophants. Instead, he chose the five highest-ranking privates of the battalion to accompany him upon this supposedly extremely dangerous mission. Apparently, completely unaware, two of them belonged to the Colonel, two to the General, and one to the Captain who had taken his place. The Colonel wished Major Gannel good luck verbally, even while hoping fervently that the Lensman would make cold meat of him in a hurry.

and Kinnison gravely gave his well-wisher thanks as he set out. He did not, however, go near any communications lines, although his spying crew did not realize the fact. They did not realize anything. They did not know even that they became unconscious within five minutes after leaving Thrail. They remained unconscious, while the speister in which they were

was drawn into the dauntless capacious hold. In the patrol ship's sick bay, under expert care, they remained unconscious during the entire duration of their stay on board. The patrol pilots picked up Kandron's flying vessel with little difficulty, and the nullifiers full out followed it easily. When the Zewilnik ship slowed down to feel for the vortex, the Daughtless slowed also, and baffled her driving jets as she sneaked up to the very edge of the electro-detector range.

When the objective disappeared from the three-dimensional space, the point of vanishment was marked precisely, and up to that point the patrol ship flashed in seconds. The regular driving blasts were cut off, the special generators were cut in. Then, as the force fields of the ship reacted against those of the Bosconian shore station, the patrolman felt again in all their gruesome power the appallingly horrible sensation of interdimensional acceleration.

For that sensation is literally indescribable. A man in good training can overcome seasickness, air-sickness, and space sickness. He can overcome the nausea and accustom himself to the queasily terrifying endless fall sensation of weightlessness. He can and does become so in near to as to regard as perfectly normal the outrages to the sensibilities incident to inertialessness in its crudest forms. No man has, however, been able to get used to interdimensional acceleration. It is best likened to a compression, not as a whole, but atom by atom. A man feels as though he were being twisted, corkscrewed in some monstrously obscure fashion,

which permits him neither to move from his place nor to remain where he is. It is a painless but utterly revolting transformation, progressing in a series of waves, a rearrangement, a writhing, crawling distortion, an incomprehensibly impossible extrusion of each ultimate particle of his substance in an unknowable, ordinarily, non-existent direction. The period of acceleration over, the Dauntless traveled at uniform velocity along whatever course it was that the tube took, and the men, although highly uncomfortable and uneasy, could once more move about and work. Sir Austin Cardinge, in particular, was actually happy and eager, as he flitted from one to another of the automatic recording instruments upon his

special panel. He resembled more closely than ever a lean gray Tomcat, Kinnison thought. He almost expected to see him begin to lick his whiskers and purr. "'You see, my ignorant young friend,' the scientist almost did purr, as one of the recording-pens swung widely across the rule paper, it is, as I told you, the lack of exact data upon even one tiny factor of this extremely complex phenomenon is calamitous. While my notes were apparently complete and were certainly accurate, our experimental tubes did not function perfectly. The time factor was irreconcilable, completely so in every respect, even that of departure from and return to normal space, and it is unthinkable that time,

one of the fundamental units, is or can be intrinsically variable. You think so? Kinnison broke in. Look at that, pointing to the ultimate of timepieces, Cardinge's own triplex chronometer. Number one says that we have been in this two for an hour. Number two says a little over nine minutes, and according to number three, we won't be starting for twenty minutes yet. It must be running backward. Let's see you comb that out of your whiskers. Oh, ah, um...

But only momentarily was Sir Austin taken aback. Ah, I was right all the time, he cackled gleefully. I thought it practically impossible for me to commit a bit. an error or to overlook any possibilities, and I have now proved that I did not. Time, in this hyperspacial region or condition, is intrinsically variable in major degree. And what does that get you?' Kinnison asked pointedly. "'Much, my impetuous youngster, much,' Cardinge replied. "'We observe, we note facts.

From the observation and facts we theorize, and we deduce, thus arriving very short at the true inwardness of time. You hope, the ladsman snorted dubiously, and in his skepticism he was right, and Sir Austin was wrong. For the actual nature and mechanism of time remained and still constitute a mystery, or at least an unsolved problem.

The Elysians, perhaps, understand time. No other race does. To some of the men, then, and to some of the clocks and other time measuring devices, the time seemed, or actually was, very long. To other and similar beings and mechanisms, it seemed, or was short. Short or long, however, the Dauntless did not reach the Bosconian end of the hyperspacial tube.

In mid-flight there came a crunching, twisting clunk, and an abrupt reversal of the inexplicably horrible interdimensional acceleration, a deceleration as sickeningly disturbing, both physically and mentally, as the acceleration had been. While within the confines of the hyperspacial tube, every eye of the dautus had been blind. To every beam upon every frequency, visible or invisible, ether-borne or carried upon the infinitely faster waves of the sub-ether,

the murk was impenetrable. Every plate showed the same mind-numbing blankness, a vague, eerily shifting, quasi-solid blanket of formless, texturless grayness. No lightness or darkness, no stars or constellations or nebula, no friendly deep space blackness, nothing. Decelerations ceased. The men felt again the wanted homeliness and comfort of normal pseudo-inertia.

Simultaneously, the gray smear of the visiplates faded away into commonplace areas of jetty black pierced the brilliantly dimensionless very colored points of light, which were the familiar stars of their own familiar space. But were they familiar? Was that our galaxy, or anything like it? They were not. It was not. Kinnison stared into his plate aghast.

He would not have been surprised to have emerged into three-dimensional space anywhere within the second galaxy. In that case, he would have seen a milky way, and from its shape, apparent size and texture, he could have oriented himself fairly closely in a few minutes. But the Dauntless was not within any lenticular galaxy. Nowhere was there any sign of a milky way.

He would not have been really surprised to have found himself and his ship out in the open intergalactic space. In that case, he would have seen a great deal of dead black emptiness, blushed with a hundred or so lenticular bodies which were in fact galaxies. Orientation would then have been more difficult, but with the aid of the patrol charts it could have been accomplished. But here, there were no galaxies, no nebulae of any kind.

End of Section 18. Section 19 of Second Stage Lensman. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Second Stage Lensman by E.E. Doc Smith. Chapter 18. Here, upon the background of a blackness so intense as to be obviously barren of nebular material, there lay a multitude of blazingly resplendent stars,

and nothing 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 of greater than about plus four. "'What do you make of this, Sir Austin?' Kinnison asked quietly. "'It's got me stop like a traffic light.'

The mathematician ran toward him, and the lensman stared. He had never known Cardinge to hurry. In fact, he was not really running now. He was walking, even though his legs were fairly twinkling in the rapidity of motion. As he approached Kinnison, his mad 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. Here's certainly something to tie to, Ace, do you know it? He asked admiringly. Then as Kardinge gazed at him questioningly, incomprehendingly, Skip it. Can you hear me, Henderson? Yes, just barely.

Shoot us across to one of those nearest 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 blank. The thousands of stars studying 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, Cardinge reached out and snapped the place receiver over from visual to ultra, whereupon the stars reappeared as suddenly as they had vanished.

"'Something 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 Cardinge'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 the figments of personal prejudices.

But... QX. Skip it. Nine-tenths of the Dauntus crew would have gone out of control at the impact of the knowledge of what had happened. Even Kinnison's powerful mind was shaken. Cardinge, however, was, not seem 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 hypercontinuum. 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, Cardinge snapped.

Two very evident possibilities should all raise. 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 Candron.

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-in-complete study of our own hyperspacial 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. Vern, break out some personal neutralizers. We've got a job of building to do, inertialists. And he explained to both men in this. flashing thoughts what had happened and what they had to do. You grasp the basic idea, Kinnison, Kardinjeech 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. Ha? 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,' Cartage 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. I am correcting you in the admittedly faint hope of teaching you scientific accuracy of thought and of statement. Wow, what a man, 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 had you thought of that? Which would be faster, cutting down an intrinsic velocity of 15 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 spaceship. The actual work was simple enough. Cardinge 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 X-Sachynexed. 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 in a inertialist 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 Bergenholmes and the small units of the personal neutralizers 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 rechecking 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 Cardinge, 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, say, by the sheerest accident, return to their own space. And as Cardinge grew more in more tensely, unsocially immersed in this 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 mind. "'Mentor!' he exclaimed, and at the sheer shock of relief, he came very near indeed to fainting. Thank Clono and Noshab-Kamming you found us. How did you do it? How do we get ourselves out of here?'

Finding you was elementary, the Erysian replied calmly. "'Since you were not in your own environment, you must be elsewhere. If my mind had been really competent, I would have foreseen this event in detail. Even though I did not so foresee it, however, it required but little thought. to perceive that it 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 knowledge, but it is rather technically specialized and not negligible in amount. And since your brain is a very limited capacity, it is better not to fill any part of it with mathematics for which you will have no subsequent use. Put yourself on rapport, therefore, with Sir Austin Cardinge. I will follow. He did so, and as the mind met mine, there ensued a conversation whose barest essentials Kinnison could not even dimly grasp. For Cardinge, 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 lansman did not get it, nor any part of it. He knew only that, in that to him completely meaningless gibberish, the Erysian was describing to the physicist, exactly and fully, the distinguishing characteristics of a vast number of parallel and simultaneously coexistent spaces. If that was rather tactical stuff, the odd 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 Elysian 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, cardage through in the switches, and everything belonging to the Dauntless was rushed aboard. 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 interdimensional 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 Clonoh'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 wine-guard 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 lendsman's abullient praise. But not for anything conceivable would he have so admitted. Well, the first thing you 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 him the year, too, Henderson put in pessimistically. He had missed Ilona poignantly, But it was not 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 Kyneson 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 Threlian speedster were adjusted to fit the actual elapsed time, and Worsal 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 Thrail. 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-chained had to be broken at any point. The Dauntless blasted off for Clovia. The speister started for Thrail.

Kinnison's crew woke up, without having any inkling that they'd ever been unconscious, or that their knowledge of recent events did not jive 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 sneakboat near Line 11. 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 as men would make to their real bosses. The Colonel made good. Hence, with due pomp and ceremony,

Major Trasca 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. Kinison 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 advice, 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 that 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 hypnosis 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? Kewa. Kew and he let Alconn 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, Fauston, 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 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 torrent, that busted it wide open. What did all the nine 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. mind shields like that didn't grow naturally unhuman or near human beings.

Maybe the Ike, or the race of Super-Ike, to which Kandron belonged, could give mental treatments of that kind. Faustin, though, was worse. Elkhon'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 Ike, 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 probably he was smaller than a man and was actually inside the dummy that everybody thought was the 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.

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 opinion should be given too much weight. Kinnison said, said, and thought, slowly, with 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 Tellis, the Prime Minister asked, Why? I do, definitely. It seems to me that, sure, cited, 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 millennia. And it seems 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 lansman 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 bombshell. Descensions waxed rife and raucous,

but amidst the turmoil the linsman received from the Prime Minister a flash of coldly congratulatory approval. And as Major Traskaghanel 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 Thrail. It was unthinkable to attack or to destroy this planet. It had too many 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 detector 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. End of Section 19. Section 20. Of Second Stage Lensman. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Second Stage Lensman

by E. Doc Smith Chapter 19 Nadrick, the Palanian 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, Nadrick 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 at 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-sealed, tersely factual report. He was investigating Onmo. That was all that anybody knew. Onno was at that time perhaps the most heavily fortified planet in the universe. Compared to its mast might, Jarnavan was weak. Tellus, except for its sunbeams and its other open-space safeguards, a joke. Ono'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 blasted 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. Antinadrach, the cowardly, the self-effacing, the apologetic, had tackled Onlow alone. Using the technique, which has already been described in connection with his highly successful raid upon the Ike's stronghold of Lyrain Eight, he made his 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 symbol of each entity and analyzed everyone psychologically, mentally, intellectually, and emotionally. He tabulated his results upon the Pallonian equivalent of index cards, then very carefully arranged the cards into groups. In the same fashion, he visited, and took the senses 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 lensman. and the Alonians, with their heredity and environment of Bosconianism, were in no sense material from which Lensman could be made. Subtally, then, and coldly and callously, Nadrick 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 horribly stimulating thoughts. Jealousy, always rife, assumed fantastic proportions. Mohills became mountains overnight. A passing word became a studied insult. No one erred 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. Nadrick 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's 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 the attacks of those below. On the whole, therefore, the headquarters dome was relatively easy, since every mind in it already hated, or feared, or distrusted, or was suspicious of, or jealous of some other.

And while Nadrick labored thus deviously his wonders to perform, Kinnison went ahead in his much more conventional and straightforward fashion upon Thrail. 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 mine 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 ground 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 lendsman did not want them to know. Building up a strong personal organization was now easy, for at last Kinnison was a real Baskoni in Big Shot. As a major of the household, he was a power to be toadie to and fond upon. As a personal advisor 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 coattails it would be wise to cling. In short, Kinison made good in a big, it might almost be said in a stupend, his way. With such powers at work, the time of reckoning could not be delayed for long.

Alcon knew that Gannel 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 which he could use. For Kinnison, instead 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 had 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 are trying to do, Alcon. He informed his superior stiffly, but whatever it is, I do not like it. I think that you are trying to hypnotize me. If you are, know now that you cannot do it, that 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 necessities. necessity of that, do you not? Kinnison did. He saw as well that Alcon was being superhumanly forbearing. Moreover, he knew what the tyrant was covering up so carefully, the real reason for this highly unusual tolerance. I suppose you are right, but I still don't like it, Gannel grumbled.

Then, without either denying or exceeding to Alcon's right of mental surge, he went to his own quarters. And there, or thereabouts, Kinnison 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 on 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 Lanabar, decidedly pervious in that it had an open slit. Unlike Blecos, however, which had their slit set upon a fixed frequency, the open channel of this one could be varied, both in width and in wavelength, to any setting which Kinnison desired. Thus equipped, Kinnison attended the meeting of the Council of Advisors, and to say that he disrupted the meeting is no exaggeration. The other advisors 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 born. 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 that I will let you off that easily, fool? Alcon sneered.

Don't you realize what I am going to do to you? That, were it not for the fact that I'm 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, turned, and walked out. Now, the Prime Minister, as has been intimated, was considerably more than he appeared upon the surface to be. He was, in fact, the power behind the throne.

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, than a figurehead. 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 Thraelians did not have. This open defiance of the tyrant of Thrail 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, Faustin's knowledge?

If Major Gannel were bona fide, all well and good, Bascone and good, Baskonian 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 the Prime Minister, after a quizzical, searching, more than half-contemptuous inspection of the furiously discomfited tyrant, followed the rebellious, the contumacious, the enigmatic Gannel to his rooms. He knocked and was admitted. A preliminary and entirely meaningless conversation occurred. Then—' "'Just when did you leave, Ador?' the visitor demanded.

"'What do you want to know for?' Kinnison shot back. The 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 30 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 Fauston, 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 prince agreed exactly with those he himself had secured from the subject not 24 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 the experts of the patrol would make no such crass errors as those. 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 Thrail, where there should have been only one. He knew how Alcon's had been treated. Could Gannels possibly be a natural phenomenon?

if not who had treated it and why? 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 Traskagannel, who was now Traskagannel, was in fact the real Traskagannel, 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 further, delve into unimportant but perhaps highly revealing sight,

issues? It would be useless, he decided. The mind or minds 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 they. Who then and why? This was no ordinary plot, no part of any ordinary scheme to overthrow Elkhon. It was bigger, deeper, far more sinister. Nothing so elaborate and efficient originating upon Thrail could possibly have been developed and executed without his knowledge,

and at least his tacit consent. Was there behind this thing someone who knew who and what he was and who was seeking his life and his place? Highly improbable. No, it must be, it was the patrol. His mind flashed to star A. Star A. Star. Star. reviewing everything that had been ascribed to that mysterious personage. Then something clicked. In fact, it stuck out.

Blake'sley. This was much finer than the Blake'sly 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 psychologist off the trail. But he, Faustin, was not to be deceived by even such clever tactics. Gannel was then really Gannel, just as Blakesley had really been Blakesley. Blakesley 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 here-to-for 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 Gantle act as he could not normally have acted.

Somewhere hereabouts in either case, there actually was lurking Baskoni's nemesis. the mentality whom above all others Basconia was raving to destroy, the one lensman who had never been seen or heard or perceived, the feared and detested linsmen about whom nothing whatever had ever been learned. That lendsman, 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, Fost and 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. Elkhons guns and hands disappeared, and the sickened Tullerian slugged him into unconsciousness. Then grimly, relentlessly, he took every item of interest from the Thraelian's mind, slew him, and assumed forthwith the title and the full authority of the tyrant of Thrail. Unlike most such revolutions, this one was accomplished with very little bloodshed and with scarcely any interference with the business of the realm. Indeed, of 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 had 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 Basconia, and in a rather faint hope of persuading them to stay that way, without developing any queer ideas an end in turn overthrowing him, the linsman 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 or 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 more 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 those things. I do not threaten. I do not warn. I do not warn. I do not torture.

Above all, I give no snake a second chance to strike 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 that I have uttered.

They slunk out, but Bosconian habit was too strong. Thus, within three days, three of Kinnison's newly appointed headman 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. End of Section 20. Section 21 of Second Stage Lensman. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Second Stage Lensman by E.E. Doc Smith. Chapter 20. 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 at first invaded the stronghold of the wheelmen of Alder Baron One, he had acted without thinking at all. Lensman always went in, regardless of consequences. When he had scouted Jarnivon, he had thought but little more. True, and fortunately, he took Worsal along, but he did not stop to consider whether or not there were mines 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 Tullerian Lensman's code. It griped him to admit it, but Nadrick was right. It was not enough to give his life in an attempt to conquer a halfway 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 Kinnisans sat unharmed upon the throne of the tyrant of Thrail, and thus the Prime Minister returned to the palace to find a fait accompli awaiting him. That worthy studied with care every aspect of a situation, then obtained, 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 espree decor among the rank and file, 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 hereupon Thrail? I know who was, the Tullerian corrected, with the fate as perceptible accent upon the verb. In part only, however, for if you had concerned yourself wholly, the late Elkhon would not have made so many, nor so serious mistakes. I thank you. That is, as of course you know, because I have only recently taken over.

I want the tyrant of Thrail to be the strongest man of Thrail, 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 Threl, 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 so 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, and 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 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. The Prime Minister 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-tirant Elkhon 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 a 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, Foston 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 so strangely,

and their Premier's hand strayed almost imperceptibly toward an inconspicuous button. Don't touch that switch. Kinnison snapped. He did not quite see why Faustin was letting him see the maneuver, but he would bite anyway. Why not, may I ask, it's merely a, I know what it is, and I do not like thought screens. I prefer that my mind be left free to roam. Fauston'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 Bosconia. I think now more than ever that yours is the strongest Thraelian mind, and as such the logical one to yield 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 Clobia and all the patrol forces based upon it. "'Right.' If Fauston 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 patrols plenty of time to make Clovia utterly impregnable. Fawston knew 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-yot. 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 grand fleet, which all the ability of their pooled brains could divide. Once or twice he offered criticisms and suggestions, which, while defensible according to one theory, would actually have weakened Grand Fleet's striking power. These offerings Gano 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 more. and stronger battleships and super dreadnots, more in 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. Fauston was a real thinker of

as was Kinnison, and between them they worked out a system. It was crudeness and inefficiency incarnate in comparison with the Z-9M-9-Z, but it was so much better than anything previously known to Baskoni's high command, that everyone was delighted. Even the suspicious and cynical Faustin began to entertain some doubts as to the infallibility of his own judgment. 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 bidingly 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, "'Kill X-Kim, come ahead, we're ready,' Haynes leansed 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 Busconian. Then Kinnison called Fauston, and was staring glumly at nothing when the latter entered the room. Well, it would seem that we are 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.

Un-gall 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 in 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 only 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 hyperspacial 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 premiere was flabbergasted. This was incredible. Gannel must really be working for Bosconia, 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 of via tube 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 of 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-committal agreement. "'Having you the slightest bias one way or the other?' Fauston 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. Each 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 Bosconia, the mightiest fleet ever assembled anywhere, according to the speeches of the politicians, remade its stupendous formation and set out for Clovia. 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 cannot 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,' Foster,' Foster declared. "'Have you not steadily refused to bear 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,' the Prime Minister stated. "'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. 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 disquitingly 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 Bosconia 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 Bosconia? Everything, Foston summarized. I have been able to find no flaw 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've 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 be entirely useless. Would you believe anything that I could possibly say,

that I would swear to by everything I hold sacred, whether it was that I am wholeheartedly loyal to Bosconia, 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. was, instead of being just another Bosconian big-shot, must be the clear quill, the real McCoy, Boscone 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 Tullorian 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 Thrail, 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? Roof! The monster! Kinnison could no longer think of him as Fauston, or as the prime, Prime Minister, or as anything even remotely human, snorted with such utter, such searing contempt that even the Linsman's burly spirit quailed. As well you might attempt to pit your vaunted physical strength against that of the heaviest forging ram ever built. Now, youth, have done.

The time for temporizing is past. As I have said, I desire to spare you, as I wish you to rule this part of Bosconia as my Viceroy. No, 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 must certainly die. At the grim finality, the calmly assured certainty of the pronouncement, a quick chill struck into the grey lensman's vitals. This thing who called himself Faustin, 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 Elysian, possibly. That wouldn't make sense. But then it didn't make any kind of a 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 showdown that long by crawling a bit, much as it griped him to let this Wilnik think that he was licking his boots. Your forbearance 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 means softened appreciably. It is, however, passing 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, really, 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 Bergenholmes and thus inert the flagship. Could it be that the real reason for your otherwise inexplicable forbearance, as 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 for a moment,

and which he knew starkly would be worse than useless in what was coming, 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 ray gun. "'Dy 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 great 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 weapon leapt out of its scabbard, flaming destruction as it came, a ravening tongue of incandescent fury which licked out of existence in the twinkling of an eye the Bergenholm's control panels,

and the operators clustered before it. The vessel went inert. Much work would have to be done before the Bosconian 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 Lensman, 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 Wilnik was and what he had. No fear, no doubt of the outcome entered his mind. He had suffered such punishment as few minds had ever endured in learning to ward off everything that mentor, one of the mightest intellects of this or 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 thwart. think that he could rub him out. So thinking, the linsman hurled a bolt of his own, a blast of power sufficient to have slain a dozen men, and amazingly 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 sought to summon health. He sought to summon health. by ordering 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 monstrous attack against Kinnison Shield,

had wrought grievously among the mentalities of the innocent bison. standards. 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, instance 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 guns, 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. This revealed 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 Basconians 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 through all of his prodigious willpower, 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 Subby there 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 spruce spread throughout the confines of the vast spaceship. Indominably, 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. It seemed as though his lens, of its own volition in this time of ultimate need, reached out into unguessable continuum, and drew therefrom and 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 to go down. Then, sketchily, patchily, there was revealed to Kinnison's sight and sense of perception, a... A brain! There was a body of sorts, of course, a peculiarly necklace body designed solely,

to support that gigantic, thin-skulled head. There were certain appendages or limbs, and such like a pertinences 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 Erysian. It looked enough like old mentor to be his twin brother.

He would have been stunned, except for the fact that he was far to 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. The monster's wall of illusion went down completely, and then, 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 as 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 man so thickly strewn about. And thus, while the two immense grand flound, met in battle, Bascone's flagship hung inert and silent in space afar, manned by

fifteen hundred corpses, one unconscious brain, and one utterly exhausted gray lensman. End of Section 21. Section 22 of Second Stage Lensman. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Second Stage Lensman by E. E. Doc Smith. Chapter 21 Bosconi's Grand Fleet was, as has been said, enormous. It was not as large as 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-mullers, which made itself evidently irresistible. In his training of his Grand Fleet operation staff, Kinnison had not overlooked a single bet, had not made a single move which, by its falsity, might have excited Premier Faustons, 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 Baskonians, even to Faustin, 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 inglobe 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 Z9M-9-Z. And in that exact operation, a closed book to the Zwillnix, lay supposedly and tactically the patrol's overwhelming advantage. For Haynes, through his forily highly specialized Rijelian menzeman, and thence through the two hundred Rijelian 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 Haines can be blamed, however, for the fact that their suppositions were somewhat in error. It would have taken an Erysian to deduce that this battle was not to be fought exactly as they had planned it. Haines 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 Clovis 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 lighten heavy cruisers and the battleships. The whole vast center of the Bosconians 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 admirals. 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 Clovia and to destroy it. Thus, however, wondering, they kept on. They were on the line, they would hold to it. They would blast out of it, existence anything and everything which might attempt to bar their way. They would reach Clovia,

and they would reduce it to its component atoms. Unresisted, then, the Bosconian center bore ahead into nothing, until Haynes, through his Rigelians, perceived that it had come far enough. Then, Clovia's brilliantly shining sun darkened almost to the point of going out entirely. 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 have 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 dreadnots the same. Even the solid warhead of fortresses and malors were 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 armored and armored planets did not disappear. They contained too much sheer mass for even that inconceivably powerful beam to volatize 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 Clovey as well-being. The Nicosphirs 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 volatized away, they became more of menace to the Bosconian forces than to those of civilization. Indeed, several of the terrible things were drawn into contact with ruined planets. Then, Negosphere and planet consumed each other, flooding all nearby space with intensely hard and horribly lethal radiation. The beam winked out. Clovia'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 Clovia, it was and still is called that, as though it were the only battle

which that warlike planet has ever been, 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 such ever will be. It is studied by strategists, who have so far 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 mathematics and of science, the massing of superior firepower against a well-chosen succession of weaker opponents. When the screens of a spaceship 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 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 Z-9M-9Z 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, man-to-man affair. The result was the most gigantic dogfight in the annals of military science. Ships, civilizations perhaps as eagerly as Baskonias, 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 swore fulminately.

The Rigelians hurled out orders, but those orders simply could not be. obeyed. The dog-fighted spread until it filled a good sixth of Clovia's entire solar system. Bored and storm. Armor, delameters, axes! The mad bloodlust of hand-to-hand

combat, the insensately horrible savagery of our pirate forebears, 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, Le Bascone's great flagship, and in her control room Kinnison began to recover his strength. He sat up grogly. 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 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 linsman 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 air, and brewed a pot of the coffee-like beverage affected by the Thralians, 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 his 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 Faustin as far as he could spit, he hurled a thought to far-distant ERISA and to mentor his ancient sage. What's an Elysian doing in this? second galaxy, working against the patrol. Just what is somebody trying to pull off?' He demanded heedily, and in a second of flashing thought, reported what had happened. "'Truly, Kinnison of Tellis, my mind is far from capable.' The deeply resonant, slow simulacrum of a voice resounded within the Lensman's brain. The Elysian 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 cosmos 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 Erysian? 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 Elysian was studying every external and internal detail, part and organ of the erstwhile Prime Minister of Thrail. Ah, it would appear to be an ERISian at that youth, Mentor finally agreed. I do not know him, however, and I am quite confident that I am acquainted with each member

of my race. He is old, as you said, as old perhaps as I am. This will require some little thought. Allow me, therefore, please, a moment of contemplation. The ERISian 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 ERISA. 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, for at the time of vanishment no permanent pattern had as yet been formed. "'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 moaning about his own mind and his own philosophy,

and acting as though knocking off an Erysian 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 concentratable power, a mental and psychological drive that no mind in the macrocosmic universe can break. I perceive 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 can get him back there to Ariscia. 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 condoneable place in the all-inclusive scheme of things? He has served his purpose.

Destroy him, therefore, forthwith, before he so much. much as recoverous consciousness, lest much and grievous harm befall you. I believe you, Chief. You chirped it, then, if anybody ever did. Thanks, and communication ceased. The Lansman's ray gun flamed briefly, and what was mortal of Fauston, the Prime Minister, became a smoking, shapeless heap. Kinnison noticed, then, that a call light was shining brightly on 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 Bosconia have? No, that was unthinkable. The patrol must have won. This must be Haynes calling him. It was. The frightful battle of Clovia was over, while many of the patrol ships had yielded, either by choice or by necessity, to the Basconians' challenge, most of them had been.

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 readied 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 patrols mullers, 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, Baskoni's mighty fleet vanished from the skies. The all-pervading interference was cut off, and Port Admiral Haynes, brushing aside a communications officer, sat down at his board and punched a call. Time after time he punched it. Finally, he shoved it in and left it. And as he stared, minute after minute, into the coldly unresponsive plate,

his face grew gray and old. With a long, slightly tremulous sigh, he was turning away from the the plate, when suddenly it lighted up to show the smiling, deeply spaced-tanned face of the one for whom he had just about given up hope. "'Thank God!' The Commander-in-chief's exclamation was wholly reverent. His strained old face lost twenty years and half that many seconds. "'Thank God you are safe.

You did it, then?' "'I managed it, Pop, but just by the skin of my teeth. I didn't have half a jet to spare. It was old man Boscon himself in person. And you? Clean up 100.000-O-O-O-O-O-Prescent. Fine business, Kinnison exulted. Everything's on the exact center of the green, then.

Come on. And Civilization's Grand Fleet went. The Z-9M-9Z flashed up to visibility, inerted, and with furious driving blast full ablaze, matched her intrinsic velocity to that of the Bosconian Flats. ship, the only Baskonian vessel remaining in that whole vast volume of space. Tractors and presses 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

Theralian uniform, strode through those tubes and into the Theralian ship. The directrix unhooked and a battleship took her place. Time after time, the maneuver was repeated, until it deemed 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 their aliens under a casual inspection. More peculiarly, that army contained an astounding number of linsmen. So many lendsmen, it is certain, had never before been gathered together into so small as space. But the fact that they were linsmen 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 heavy sleeves of their tunics. Then the captured flagship, her Bergen-Homes again at work, the Z-9-Z, and the battleships which had already assumed the intrinsic velocity possessed originally by the Busconians, spread up 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

and by the ever-watchful observers of the directrics, matched in one prodigious and beautiful maneuver its intrinsic velocity to theirs. Finally, all the intrinsics and exact agreement Grand Fleet formation was remade. The term remade is used advisedly, since this was not to be a battle formation. For Trasca 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 Thrail and Onlow 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 to its prime base to receive, as it's 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 Thrail, and having been built specifically for a flagship, would be recognized at sight. Back of her came in gigantic coaxial 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 pretty, poor technique, indeed, to have had Baskonia's grand fleet, come back to home ether, forty percent larger than it had set out.

Besides, the directrix simply could not be allowed to come within detector range of any Basconean lookout. 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 Thrail or of Basconia. Z-9M-9-Z 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 Thrail could land without any trouble, without arousing any suspicion. Bosconian 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. Theralian hour ten arrived. Kinnison, after a long, minutely searching inspection of the entire room, became again in every millimeter Trasca Gannel, the tyrant of Thrail. 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 was not even 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 Les' majesty of the most intolerable for any face, however inconspicuous, to share the limelight with that of the tyrant of Thrail while his supremacy was addressing

his subjects. Serenie and assuredly enough then, Kinnison as Tyrant Gantle spoke. "'My people! As you have already been told, my forces have 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, as extension and a continuation of the carefully considered procedure by virtue of which I shall see to it that my great plan succeeds. As one item in that scheduled procedure, I have removed the weakling alcon. and in the stead of his rule of oppression, short-sightedness, corruption, favoritism, and greed,

I substituted my beneficent regime of fair play, of mutual cooperation for the good of all. I have 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 ultimately, 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 Thrail. Those of you who do so cooperate will live and will prosper. You who do not will die in the slowest, most hideous fashions

which hundreds of generations of Thralian tortures have been able to devise. End of Section 22. Section 23 of Second Stage Lensman. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Second Stage Lensman by E. E. Doc Smith. Chapter 22. 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 Bosconi and Nettiquet. 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 usurper 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 overconfident, and that would be the end of Gannel. They were, however, loyal in their way to Baskonia. 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 enforced brutally and even more degrading slavishness from those over whom they held in practice, if not at law, power of life and death. Thus Kinison knew that he could handle his cabinet easily enough

as long as he could make them believe that he was a Bosconian. 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 wholehearted 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, they 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 Trasca Gannel was in fact a traitor to Bosconia, an upheaval would ensue,

which would throw into the shade the bloodiest revolutions of all history. Everything would be destroyed. Nor could the lendsman hurled the medal of the patrol against Thrail 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 psychologist 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 Capitol'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 attempt to 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 or all of you to render this planet inertialis. I have brought back with me a negasphere of planetary antimass, which no power at your disposal can affect. 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 Baskonia quite as effectively as from Thrail, 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 believe 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 acesely, of Trump's they knew starkly that Gannel could.

For they had found out, individually, that the tyrant had so effectively sabotaged Thrails Bergenhomes 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 outguessing and outmaneuvering 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 boss 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 ground will be for the common people, first come, first served. But one word of caution. You may wear your sidearms 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, for my private sanctum, ordered 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 Baskoni in generalship. The welcoming arrangements were therefore made precisely as the tyrant 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 birth of the flagship dock number one. 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 number one

and somewhat more than that distance from the palace gates were the stands of ceremony. That made the lendsman 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 masked 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 Thrail might choose to do? But to Gannel's Council of Advisors, they were extremely disquieting departures from the norm. There was, however, nothing that they could do about them, a way 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 rode 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 outthrust, 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 advisors would have to

leave their bodyguards and ride alone with the tyrant. Even had there been room, it was unthinkable that anyone 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 healers, then at the ranks of the heavily armed and armored troopers. and finally, 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 Bosconians. That is why I know that all twelve of you tried while I was gone to cut me down, in spite of all that I told you and all that you have seen me do.

If it were still necessary for me to pose as Traskagannel, I would have to kill you here and now for your treachery. That phase is, however, passed. I am one of the Lensmen, whose collective activities you have ascribed to the Lensman or to Star A Star. All those who came with me into the palace are Lensman. All those outside are either Lensman or tried and seasoned veterans of the Galactic Patrol. The fleet surrounding this world is the grand fleet of that patrol. The Basconean force was destroyed in toto.

Every man and every ship except your flagship, before it reached Clovia. In short, the power of Bosconia 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 Bosconian Empire, or will you die? The Ther aliens 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 defiance near. "'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 therapist can fit us into the pattern of your civilization? The Bosconian spokesman demanded bidingly. "'I don't have to think, Lanyon. I know,' Kiddison assured him. "'Take them away, fellows, and lock them up. You know where. Everything will go ahead as scheduled.' And it did. And while the mighty vessels of war landed upon the space field,

and while the thronging linsman took over post after post in an ever-widening downward course, Kinnison led Worsal and Tragansi to the cell in which the outspoken Theraly and chieftain was confined. I do not know whether I can prevent you from operating upon me or not. Lannin of Thraeus spoke harshly, but I will certainly 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 Lanyan 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 as 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 Bosconia, the equivalent or corresponding knowledgees of civilization. They did so. It was not a short undertaking, nor an easy one, but it was thorough, and it was finally done. Then Kinnison spoke. You now have completely detailed knowledge both of Bosconia 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 on 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, Lanyon 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. Kinison 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, Lanyon, 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 sissy-ish 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 Lanyan's bronzed face. So was the direction in which it was going. "'Well, I'll be damned. You wind-lensman.' And the ex-Bosconian Big Shot held out his hand. Those were not his words, of course, but as nearly as Tullerian 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 Thrail, and who were later to be of such signal service throughout the Second Galaxy. For they knew Baskonia 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 have been gained, they began to attack the stupendous files of the Hall of Records, Kinnison finally yielded to Haines' insistences and moved out to the Z-9M-9-Z. "'It's about time, young fellow,' the Admiral snapped. "'I've gnawed my fingernails off just about to the elbow, and I still haven't figured out

how to crack on, though. Have you got any ideas? Thrail first, Kinnison suggested. Everything QX here, you sure? Absolutely, Haynes grunted. As strongly held as tellus our clovia. Primaries, helices, super tractors, Bergenholm, 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 has not as yet succeeded in making it hold together that far. I don't suppose that 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 Nadrick works out. He's a wise old owl, that bird. What does he tell you? Nothing, nothing flat. Haynes's smile was grimly amused. The fact that he is still investigating, whatever that means, is all that he will tell me. 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, Nadrick. I'd tie fourteen of his arms into lover's knots if it'd make him give, but it wouldn't. He's a plenty tough number. Nevertheless, he sent out a call which was acknowledged instantly. Ah, Kinnison, greetings! I am even now on my way to Thrail and the directrix to report on the investigation. 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. Nadrex submitted, while the Tullerian's mind felt very strongly the Pellonian equivalent, of a painful blush of shame. My report of the affair will be put and will forever remain under Lensman's seal. But what did you do? Both Tullorians demanded as one. I scarcely know how to confess to such blundering, and Nadrack actually squirmed.

Will you not permit me to leave my shame to the spool of record? They would not, they informed him definitely. If you must have it, then. I yield. The plan was to make all of the armed forces upon Onlo 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 them 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 Pelanian broke the connection. Haynes and Kinnisand stared at each other, for moments completely at a loss for words. The Admiral first broke the silence. "'Hell's jingling bells!' he wrenched out finally, and waved a hand at the points of light crowding so thirdly. his tactical tank.

A thing that the whole 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, Kinneson breathed in awe. What a brain!

What a man! Nadrex's black speester arrived, and a three-way conference was held. Both Haynes and Kinnison pressed him for the detail, 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 Tullerians 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 to lay 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, I shall forthwith go home. I will not discuss it. The record of it shall remain permanently under Lensman's seal. That is my last word. And it was. Neither of the two Tullerians 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 Onmo. No human mind can understand why Nadrick 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 Nadrat penetrated the defensive screens of Onlos and Battle domes, nor in what fashion 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 Nadrick relents, and he apparently never does,

this is the starkly tragic fact. Other linsmen were called in then, and admirals and generals and other personages. It was decided to man the fortifications of Onlow immediately, from the several fleets of frigid-blooded poison-breatzers, which made up a certain percentage of civilization's forces. This decision was influenced markedly by Nadrick, who said in part, Onla was a beautiful planet. Its atmosphere is perfect, its climate is ideal, not only for us of Palane Seven, 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 many who are, and while those of a more warlike disposition men on those 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-breatzers are doing upon Thrail and similar planets. This was such an eminently sensible suggestion that it was adopted at once. The conference broke up. The selected sub-fleet sailed. Kinnison sought out the commander-in-chief. 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.' "'A-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 Chris 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 fiancé. From the time of leaving Lyrain until the taking over of Thrail, 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 that you'll have to take over as President of the Galactic Council? I suppose so, after we clean Lyrene 8, 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, clumily. By Clono, I hate to put my graze away. I'm not going to do it either, until after we're married. and 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 settled down into a routine one will take a long, long time. It will take years even to find out what it is 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. End of Section 23.

Section 24 of Second Stage Lensman This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Second Stage Lensman by E.E. Doc Smith. Chapter 23 At Bay's Hospital, it was midnight. The two largest of Thrae'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. Fountain 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 Threlian thornflower at midnight will ever forget it. It is as though the poignant sweetness of the mountain syringa

has been blended harmoniously with a 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 bowl and of tremendous spread and thickness of foliage, cast shadows of impenetrable black. QX, Chris.

Kinnison lends the thought as he has, arrived on the grounds. She had known that he was coming. Kind of late, I know, but I wanted to see you, and I know that 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 lancman 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 each an arm around the other, strolled wordless down a walk. Across the resilient swore they made their way, and to a bench beneath one of the spreading trees. Kinison swept her into both arms, hers went eagerly around his neck.

How long, how unutterably long had it been since they had stood thus, nurses white crushed against Lensman's gray. Chris, my Chris, how I love you, he whispered tense. And now that I've got you again by Clonos' crimson cause, I'll never let you go. Oh, Oh, Kim, dear. I've missed you so terribly, Kim.

If they separate us again, it will simply break my heart. She breathed, her low, rich voice, pure music. Then, womanlike, 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 we can't, that's all. They sat down upon the bench, arms still around each other. They had no need, these lendsmen of sight.

No need of language either, although upon this page the thoughts must be put into words. They did, however, have need, a profound need of physical contact. I do not, the man declared vigorously. We've got a right to some happiness, Chris, 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 gone ahead before, leaving these horrible thrallings free to ruin civilization? But Mentor stopped us then, Kinnison argued. Deep down, he knew that if the Elysian called, he would have to answer, but he argued nevertheless. If the job wasn't done, he would have stopped us before we go. 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? Clarissa pursued. But the job must be done, Kinnison insisted, avoiding the question.

The Prime Minister, that Faustin, must have been the top. You know very well that there couldn't possibly be any bigger than a Norissian to be back of Boscon. 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,' Chris 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 will 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 that you're just blasting off.

She giggled suddenly and snuggle 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 intense, solemn. We're Lensman, Kim, you and I. We both realize to the full just what that means. We'll have to muster just 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 came hard and seldom to such a woman as Clarissa McDougal, 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 you,

No, I'll tell him to go hunt up an asteroid out on the rim and take a swan-dife off into intergalactic space. She linked her mind with his, thinking in affectionate half-reproach. I'd like to, too, Kim, but that's pure baloney. You couldn't. She broke off as he hurled their joint thaw to ERISA the old, going on frantically. You think at him, Kim. I'll just listen.

He scares me into a shrinking, quivering pulp. "'QX-Ase,' he said again. "'Then, "'is it permissible that we do what we are about to do?' He asked crisply of Elysia's ancient sage. "'Ah, Tiskinneson and McDougal, "'onceforth of Clovia!' 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 of thought. 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 sort of a sinister connotation in that somewhere? What did he mean? Nothing. Exactly nothing, Kitteson assured her comfortably. He's got a complete picture of the macrocosmic universe in his mind, his visualization of the cosmic all 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 when to have even the tiniest thing not to conform to his visualization, our marriage is necessary, in capital letters, "'See?' "'A-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.

Clarissa McDougal 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 linsman, 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 the patrol following the fall of Jarnovon. 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 the bank upon Tellus. She could undoubtedly get it through the dispersing 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 upon her wrist, pausing as she did so, to admire the monarchan star-drop flashing pale fire from the third finger of her left hand. Of all his gems, Cardiff had retained only this one, the loveliest. It was a beauty. It was not far through the dispersing 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 McDougal.' He went on briskly. "'Sign here, please, and press your right thumb in this box here, after peeling off this place, plastic strip, so. She wrote in her boldly flowing script and peeled and pressed, and watched fascinately as her thumbprint developed itself sharply black against the bluish off-white of the patrol stationery. That transfers your balance upon tell us 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 McDougal. Come in again whenever you happen to be upon Thrail. And he escorted her to the street as briskly as he had ushered her in. Clarissa 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 thumbprint. 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 paper. pair of half-credit stockings, up to and beyond a hundred million-credit spaceship. 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. I'll 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, Chris. When you get to be a lendsman, 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, too. Where do you want to begin? Brenner'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 Branlear himself did the honors. "'Cloose,' the girl said succinctly, with an all-inclusive wave of her hand. All kinds of clothes, except nurses' uniforms. They were ushered into a private room, and Kinnison wriggled as mannequins began to appear before them in various degrees of enclothment. "'This is no place for me,' he declared. "'I'll see you later, Chris. 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 Couturier 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—' much of the patrol's money I'm spending. You may think that you're spending money, but you aren't. He informed her cryptically. 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 have seen me in civvies only a couple of times, and 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 finite 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 Brenlier. "'I would like to ask you to do me a tremendous favor,' the merchant said hesitantly, without filling any of the blanks upon the credits that 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 Brenlier of Thrail?' 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 Brinleer. Never thought of that angle, of what a terrific draw she would be. I suppose that this business of yours is worth fifty thousand credits more right now than it was before she cut loose here, and that it'll be worth twice that much

when you have this chit unobtrusively displayed in a golden platinum frame four feet square. The man nodded. Twice that already, but there isn't enough money upon Thrail to buy it. I'm not surprised, Kinnison grinned understandingly. But you might as well give him a break, Chris. What torrent was you're buying the stuff here, not admitting the fact over your signature and thumbprint?

She did so, and they went out. Do you mean to tell me that I'm so—so— "'Famous? Notorious?' he helped out. "'A-huh. Or words to that effect.' "'A touch of fear darkened her glorious eyes. "'All of that, and then some,' he declared. "'I never thought of what you're buying so much plunder in one store would do, but it had had the pulling power of a planetary tractor.

It's bad enough with us regulars. Half the chits we sign 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 on route to Clovia. 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 spaces of all types and sizes, which formed a turbulent and demonstrative escort of honor. The seething crowd at the spaceport could scarcely be kept

out of range of the dreadnought searing landing blasts. Half the bruceing, brass bands of the world, it seemed, burst into our patrol as the lendsmen disembarked, and their ground car and the street along which it slowly rolled were decorated lavishly with deep blue flowers. Thorn flowers! Clarissa choked. Threly and thornflowers, Kim! How could they? They grow here as well as there.

And when they found out that you like them so well, they imported them by the shipload. And Kinnison himself swallowed a lump. Their brief stay upon Clovia was a hectic one indeed. Parties and balls, informal and formal, and at least a dozen Telanus 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 Lensman, to make or to renew acquaintance with the Galactic Coordinator,

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 Manarch and Valantia and Chicladoria and Alcikan and Vandemar, from the worlds of Canopus and Vega and Tarees, from all over the galaxy. Human, near-human, non-human, monstrous. There even appear 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 linsman 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 intensity of their adoption of his Chris as their own. He had been afraid that some of them would think that he was throwing his weight around when he violated precedent by making her a lensman. He had been afraid of animosity an 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 lensman literally mobbed her as, on mass, they took her to their collective bosom. No party, wherever or for whatever 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 goldfish, and she loved every tumultuous second of it.

She had wanted, as she had told Haynes and Lacey 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 Clovia would not hold even half of the lendsmen, to say nothing of the notables and dignitaries who had come so far. It would simply have to be the stadium, a bowl so vast that no previous crowd had filled one-tenth of its seats.

Seeing and hearing there were excellent, however, as the spectators did not look at the scene itself, but into visiplates comfortably close. Even the stadium could not accommodate that throng, 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 Tele-Newsman had already arranged the hook-up which was to carry it to every planet of civilization. The number of entities who thus 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. No levity is possible within a radius of miles. The whole vast bowl was gay with flowers. It seemed as though a state must be been stripped of blooms to furnace so many, and ferns and white ribbons were everywhere.

There was a mighty organ which peeled out triumphal melody as the bridal parties marched down the aisles, subsiding into a lelting accompaniment as the patrols couple ascended the white-brocated stairway and faced the Lensman chaplain in the heavily garlanded little open-air chapel. The minister raised both hands. The mass 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 flowing lenses, the wedding party made its way up to the locked and guarded gate of the space field,

upon which lay the dauntless. The super-dreadnought yacht in which the Kinnisans were to take a honeymoon voyage to distance tell us. The gate opened. The couple, accompanied by the Port Admiral and the Surgeon General, 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 shouted to Haynes, You've been griping so long about Lyrain A, chief. I forgot to say that you can go mop up on it now. End of Section 24

The End of Second Stage Lensman by E.E. Doc Smith