When Kimball Kinnison received his son's call he was in Ultra Prime,
the Patrol's stupendous Klovian base, about to enter his ship. He
stopped for a moment; practically in mid-stride. While nothing was to
be read in his expression or in his eyes, the lieutenant to whom he had
been talking had been an interested, if completely uninformed, witness
to many such Lensed conferences, and knew that they were usually
important. He was, therefore, not surprised when the Lensman turned
around and headed for an exit.
"Put her back, please. I won't be going out for a while, after all,"
Kinnison explained, briefly. "Don't know exactly how long."
A fast flitter took him to the hundred-story pile of stainless steel
and glass which was the Co-ordinator's office. He strode along a
corridor, through an unmarked door.
"Hi, Phyllis--the boss in?"
"Good morning, Chief. Yes, sir ... no, I mean...." His startled
secretary touched a button and a door opened; the door of his private
office.
"Hi, Kim--back so soon?" Vice Co-ordinator Maitland also showed
surprise as he got up from the massive desk and shook hands cordially.
"Good! Taking over?"
"Emphatically no. Hardly started yet. Just dropped in to use your
plate, if you've got a free high-power wave. QX?"
"Certainly. If not, you can free one fast enough."
"Communications." Kinnison touched a stud. "Will you please get me
Thrale? Library One; Principal Librarian Nadine Ernley. Plate-to-plate."
This request was surprising enough to the informed. Since the
Co-ordinator practically never dealt personally with anyone except
Lensmen, and usually Unattached Lensmen at that, it was a rare event
indeed for him to use any ordinary channels of communication. And as
the linkage was completed, subdued murmurs and sundry squeals gave
evidence that intense excitement prevailed at the other end of the line.
"Mrs. Ernley will be on in one moment, sir." The operator's business
was done. Her crisp, clear-cut voice ceased, but the background noise
increased markedly.
"Sh ... sh ... sh! It's the Gray Lensman, himself!" Everywhere upon
Klovia, Tellus, and Thrale, and in many localities of many other
planets, the words "Gray Lensman", without surname, had only one
meaning.
"Not the _Gray Lensman_!"
"It can't be!"
"It _is_, really ... I know him ... I actually _met_ him
once!"
"Let _me_ look ... just a peek!"
"Sh ... sh! He'll _hear_ you!"
"Switch on the vision. If we've got a moment, let's get acquainted,"
Kinnison suggested, and upon his plate there burst into view a bevy of
excitedly embarrassed blondes, brunettes, and redheads. "Hi, Madge!
Sorry that I don't know the rest of you, but I'll make it a point to
get acquainted--before long, I think. Don't go away." The principal
librarian was coming on the run. "You're all in on this. Hi, Nadine!
Long time no see. Remember that bunch of squirrel food you rounded up
for me?"
* * * * *
"I remember, sir." What a question! As though Nadine Ernley, nee
Hostetter, could ever forget her share in that famous meeting of
the fifty-three greatest--and least stable--scientific minds of all
Civilization. "I'm sorry that I was out in the stacks when you called."
"QX--we all have to work sometimes, I suppose. What I'm calling about
is that I've got a mighty big job for you and those smart girls of
yours. Something like that other one, only a lot more so. I want all
the information you can dig up about a planet named Kalonia, just as
fast as you can possibly get it. What makes it extra tough is that I
have never even heard of the planet itself and don't know of anyone
who has. There may be a million other names for it, on a million
other planets, but we don't know any of them. Here's all I know." He
summarized; concluding: "If you can get it for me in less than four
point nine five G-P days from now I'll bring you, Nadine, a Manarkan
star-drop; and you can have each of your girls go down to Brenleer's
and pick out a wrist watch or whatever she likes, and I'll have it
engraved to her 'In appreciation, Kimball Kinnison'. This job is
important--my son Kit has bet me ten millos that we can't do it that
fast."
"Ten _millos_!" Four or five of the girls gasped as one.
"Fact," he assured them, gravely. "So whenever you get the dope,
tell Communications ... no, you listen while I tell them myself.
Communications, all along the line, come in!" They came. "I expect one
of these librarians to call me, plate-to-plate, within the next few
days. When she does, no matter what time of the day or night it is, and
no matter what I or anyone else happen to be doing, that call will have
the right-of-way over any other business in the Universe. Cut!" The
plates went dead and in Library One:
"But he was joking, surely!"
"Ten _millos_--one cento--and a star-drop--why, there aren't more
than a dozen of them on all Thrale!"
"Wrist watches--or something--from the Gray Lensman!"
"Be quiet, everybody!" Madge exclaimed. "I see now. That's the
way Nadine got _her_ watch, that she always brags about so
insufferably and that makes everybody's eyes turn green. But I don't
understand that silly ten-millo bet ... do you, Nadine?"
"I think so. He does the nicest things--things that nobody else would
think of. You have seen Red Lensman's Chit, in Brenleer's." This was
a statement, not a question. They all had, with what emotions they
all knew. "How would you like to have that one-cento piece, in a
thousand-credit frame, here in our main hall, with the legend 'won from
Christopher Kinnison for Kimball Kinnison by ...' and our names? He's
got something like that in mind, I'm sure."
The ensuing clamor indicated that they liked the idea.
"He knew we would; and he knew that doing it this way would make us
dig like we never dug before. He'll give us the watches and things
anyway, of course, but we won't get that one-cento piece unless we
win it. So let's get to work. Take everything out of the machines,
finished or not. Madge, you might start by interviewing Lanion and the
other--no, I'd better do that myself, since you are more familiar with
the encyclopedia than I am. Run the whole English block, starting with
K, and follow up any leads, however slight, that you can find. Betty,
you can analyze for synonyms, starting with the Thralian equivalent of
Kalonia and spreading out to the other Boskonian planets. Put half a
dozen techs on it, with transformers. Frances, you can study Prellin
and Bronseca. Joan, Leona, Edna--Jalte, Helmuth, and Crowninshield.
Beth, as our best linguist, you can do us the most good by sensitizing
a tech to the sound of Kalonia in each of all the languages you know
or that the rest of us can find, and running and rerunning all the
transcripts we have of Boskonian meetings. How many of us are left? Not
enough--we'll have to spread ourselves thin on this list of Boskonian
planets."
Thus Principal Librarian Ernley organized a search beside which the
proverbial one of finding a needle in a haystack would have been as
simple as locating a football in a bushel basket. And she and her girls
worked. _How_ they worked! And thus, in four days and three hours,
Kinnison's top-priority person-to-person call came through. Kalonia was
no longer a planet of mystery.
"Fine work, girls! Put it on a tape and I'll pick it up."
He then left Klovia--precipitately. Since Kit was not within rendezvous
distance, he instructed his son--after giving him the high points
of what he had learned--to forward one one-cento piece to Brenleer
of Thrale, personal delivery. He told Brenleer what to do with it
upon arrival. He landed. He bestowed the star-drop; one of Cartiff's
collection of fine gems. He met the girls, and gave each one her
self-chosen reward. He departed.
* * * * *
Out in open space, he ran the tape once--Second-Stage Lensmen do not
forget any detail of anything they have ever learned--and sat still,
scowling blackly. It was no wonder that Kalonia had remained unknown
to Civilization for over twenty years. There was a lot of information
on that tape--and all of it stunk--but it had been assembled, one
unimportant bit at a time, from the more than eight hundred million
cards of Thrale's Boskonian Archives; and all of the really significant
items had been found on vocal transcriptions which had never before
been played.
Civilization in general had assumed that Thrale had housed the top
echelons of the Boskonian Empire, and that the continuing inimical
activity had been due solely to momentum. Kinnison and his friends
had had their doubts, but they had not been able to find any iota
of evidence that any higher authority had ever issued any orders to
Thrale. The Gray Lensman now knew, however, that Thrale had never
been the top. Nor was Kalonia. The information on this tape, by its
paucity, its brevity, its incidental and casual nature, made that fact
startlingly clear. Thrale and Kalonia were _equals_. Neither gave
the other any orders--in fact, they had surprisingly little to do
with each other. While Thrale formerly directed the activities of a
half-million or so planets--and Kalonia apparently still did much the
same--their field of action had not overlapped at any point.
His conquest of Thrale, hailed so widely as such a triumph, had got
him precisely nowhere in the solution of the real problem. It might
be possible for him to conquer Kalonia in a similar fashion, but what
would it get him? Nothing. There would be no more leads upward from
Kalonia than there had been from Thrale. How in all of Noshabkeming's
variegated and iridescent hells was he going to work this out?
A complete analysis revealed only one possible method of procedure. In
one of the transcriptions--made twenty-one years ago and unsealed for
the first time by Beth, the librarian-linguist--one of the speakers had
mentioned casually that the new Kalonian Lensmen seemed to be doing a
good job, and a couple of the others had agreed with him. That was all.
It might, however, be enough; since it made it highly probable that
Eddie's Lensman was in fact a Kalonian, and since even a Black Lensman
would certainly know where he got his Lens. At the thought of trying
to visit the Boskonian equivalent of Arisia he flinched, but only
momentarily. Invasion, or even physical approach, would, of course, be
impossible; but any planet, even Arisia itself, could be destroyed. If
it could be found, that planet would be destroyed. He _had_ to
find it--that was probably what Mentor had been wanting him to do all
the time! But how?
In his various previous enterprises against Boskonia he had been a
gentleman of leisure, a dock-walloper, a meteor miner, and many other
things. None of his already established aliases would fit on Kalonia;
and besides, it was very poor technique to repeat himself, especially
at this high level of opposition. To warrant appearance on Kalonia at
all, he would have to be an operator of some kind--not too small, but
not big enough so that an adequate background could not be synthesized
in a hurry. A zwilnik--an actual drug-runner with a really worth-while
cargo--would be the best bet.
His course of action decided, the Gray Lensman started making calls.
He first called Kit, with whom he held a long conversation. He called
the captain of his battleship-yacht, the _Dauntless_, and gave him
many and explicit orders. He called Vice Co-ordinator Maitland, and
various other Unattached Lensmen who had plenty of weight in Narcotics,
Public Relations, Criminal Investigation, Navigation, Homicide, and
many other apparently totally unrelated establishments of the Galactic
Patrol. Finally, after ten solid hours of mind-wracking labor, he ate a
tremendous meal and told Clarrissa--he called her last of all--that he
was going to go to bed and sleep for one whole G-P week.
* * * * *
Thus it was that the name of Bradlow Thyron began to obtrude itself
above the threshold of Galactic consciousness. For seven or eight years
that name had been below the middle of the Patrol's long, black list of
the wanted; now it was well up toward the top. That notorious zwilnik
and his villainous crew had been chased from one side of the First
Galaxy to the other. For a few months it had been supposed that they
had been blown out of the ether. Now, however, it was known definitely
that he was operating in the Second Galaxy, and he and every one of his
cutthroat gang--fiends who had blasted thousands of lives with the
noxious wares--were wanted for piracy, drug-mongering, and first-degree
murder. From the Patrol's standpoint, the hunting was very poor. G-P
planetographers have charted only a small percentage of the planets of
the Second Galaxy; and only a few of those are peopled by the adherents
of Civilization.
Therefore it required some time, but finally there came the message for
which Kinnison was so impatiently waiting. A Boskonian pretty-big-shot
drug-master named Harkleroy, on the planet Phlestyn II, city,
Nelto, co-ordinates so-and-so, fitted his specifications to a "T";
a middle-sized operator neither too close to nor too far away from
Kalonia. And Kinnison, having long since learned the lingua franca of
the region from a local meteor miner, was ready to act.
First, he made sure that the mighty _Dauntless_ would be where
he wanted her when he needed her. Then, seated at his speedster's
communicator, he put through regular channels a call to the Boskonian.
"Harkleroy? I've got a proposition you'll be interested in. Where and
when do you want to see me?"
"What makes you think I want to see you at all?" a voice snarled, and
the plate showed a gross, vicious face. "Who are you, scum?"
"Who I am is nobody's business--and if you don't clamp a baffle on that
mouth of yours I'll come down there and shove a glop-skinner's glove so
far down your throat you can sit on it."
At the first defiant word the zwilnik began visibly to swell; but in
a matter of seconds he recognized Bradlow Thyron, and Kinnison knew
that he did. That pirate could, and would be expected to, talk back to
anybody.
"I didn't recognize you at first," Harkleroy almost apologized. "We
might do some business, at that. What have you got?"
"Cocaine, heroin, bentlam, hashish, nitrolabe--most anything a
warm-blooded oxygen-breather would want. The prize package, though, is
two kilograms of clear-quill thionite."
"Thionite--two kilograms!" The Phlestan's eyes gleamed. "Where and how
did you get it?"
"I asked the Lensman on Trenco to make it for me, special, and he did."
"So you won't talk, huh?" Kinnison could see Harkleroy's brain work.
Thyron could be made to talk, later. "We can maybe do business at that.
Come down here right away."
"I'll do that, but listen!" and the Lensman's eyes burned into the
zwilnik's. "I know what you're figuring on, and I'm telling you right
now not to try it if you want to keep on living. You know that this
ain't the first planet I ever landed on, and if you've got a brain you
know that a lot of guys smarter than you are have tried monkey business
on me--and I'm still here. So watch your step!"
* * * * *
The Lensman landed, and made his way to Harkleroy's inner office in
what seemed to be an ordinary enough, if somewhat oversize, suit of
light space-armor. But it was no more ordinary than it was light. It
was a powerhouse, built of dureum a quarter of an inch thick. Kinnison
was not walking in it; he was merely the engineer of a battery of
two-thousand-horsepower motors. Unaided, he could not have lifted one
leg of that armor off the ground.
As he had expected, everyone he encountered wore a thought-screen; nor
was he surprised at being halted by a blaring loud-speaker in the hall,
since the zwilnik's search-beams were being stopped four feet away from
his armor.
"Halt! Cut your screens or we'll blast you where you stand!"
"Yeah? Act your age, Harkleroy. I told you I had a lot of stuff up my
sleeve besides my arm, and I meant it. Either I come as I am or I flit
somewhere else, to do business with somebody who wants this stuff bad
enough to act like half a man. 'Smatter--afraid you ain't got blasters
enough in there to handle me?"
This taunt bit deep, and the visitor was allowed to proceed. As he
entered the private office, however, he saw that Harkleroy's hand was
poised near a switch, whose closing would signal a score or more of
concealed gunners to burn him down. They supposed that the stuff was
either on his person or in his speedster just outside. Time was short.
"I abase myself--that's the formula you insist on, ain't it?" Kinnison
sneered, without bending his head a millimeter.
Harkleroy's finger touched the stud.
"_Dauntless!_ Come down!" Kinnison snapped out the order.
Hand, stud, and a part of the desk disappeared in the flare of
Kinnison's beam. Wall-ports opened; projectors and machine rifles
erupted vibratory and solid destruction. Kinnison leaped toward the
desk; the attack slowing down and stopping as he neared and seized the
big shot. One fierce, short blast reduced the thought-screen generator
to blobs of fused metal. Harkleroy screamed to his gunners to resume
fire, but before bullet or beam took the zwilnik's life, Kinnison
learned what he most wanted to know.
The ape did know something about Black Lensmen. He didn't know where
the Lenses came from, but he did know how the men were chosen. More,
he knew a Lensman personally--one Melasnikov, who had his office in
Cadsil, on Kalonia III itself.
Kinnison turned and ran--the alarm had been given and they were
bringing up stuff too heavy for even his armor to handle. But the
_Dauntless_ was landing already; smashing to rubble five city
blocks in the process. She settled; and as the dureum-clad Gray Lensman
began to fight his way out of Harkleroy's fortress, Major Peter
VanBuskirk and a full battalion of Valerians, armed with space-axes and
semiportables, began to hew and to blast their way in.