The "Big Brass"--socially the _Directrix_, technically the
_Z9M9Z_--floated through space at the center of a hollow sphere
of maulers packed almost screen to screen. She carried the Brains. She
had been built around the seventeen million cubic feet of unobstructed
space which comprised her "tank"--the three-dimensional chart in which
vari-colored lights, stationary and moving, represented the positions
and motions of solar systems, ships, loose planets, negaspheres, and
all other objects and items in which Grand Fleet Operations was,
or might become, interested. Completely encircling the tank's more
than two thousand feet of circumference was the Rigellian-manned,
multimillion-plug board; a crew and a board capable of handling
efficiently more than a million combat units.
In the "reducer," the comparatively tiny ten-foot tank set into an
alcove, there were condensed the continuously-changing major features
of the main chart, so that one man could comprehend and direct the
broad strategy of the engagement.
Instead of Port Admiral Haynes, who had conned that reducer and issued
general orders during the only previous experience of the _Z9M9Z_
in serious warfare, Kimball Kinnison was now in supreme command.
Instead of Kinnison and Worsel, who had formerly handled the big tank
and the board, there were Clarrissa, Worsel, Tregonsee, and the
Children of the Lens. There also, in a built-in, thoroughly competent
refrigerator, was Nadreck. Port Admiral Raoul LaForge and Vice
Co-ordinator Clifford Maitland were just coming aboard.
Might he need anybody else, Kinnison wondered. Couldn't think of
anybody--he had just about the whole top echelon of Civilization.
Cliff and Laf weren't L2's, of course, but they were mighty good
men--besides, he _liked_ them! Too bad that the fourth officer of
their class couldn't be there, too--gallant Wiedel Holmberg, killed in
action. At that, three out of four was a high average--mighty high.
"Hi, Cliff--Hi, Laf!"
"Hi, Kim!"
The three old friends shook hands cordially, then the two newcomers
stared for minutes into the maze of lights flashing and winking in the
tremendous space chart.
"Glad I don't have to try to make sense out of that," LaForge
commented, finally. "Looks a lot different in battle harness than on
practice cruises. You want me on that forward wall there, you said?"
"Yes. You can see it plainer down here in the reducer. The white star
is Arisia. The yellows, all marked, are suns and other fixed points,
such as the markers along the arbitrary rim of the Galaxy, running from
there to there. Reds will be Boskonians when they get close enough to
show. Greens are ours. Up in the big tank everything is identified,
but down here there's no room for details--each green light marks
the location of a whole operating fleet. That block of green circles,
there, is your command. It's about eighty parsecs deep and covers
everything within two hours--say a hundred and fifty parsecs--of the
line between Arisia and the Second Galaxy. Pretty loose now, of course,
but you can tighten it up and shift it as you please as soon as some
reds show up. You'll have a Rigellian talker--here he is now--when you
want anything done, think at him and he'll give it to the right panel
on the board. QX?"
"I think so. I'll practice a bit."
"Now you, Cliff. These green crosses, halfway between the forward wall
and Arisia, are yours. You won't have quite as much depth as Laf, but a
wider coverage. The green tetrahedrons are mine. They blanket Arisia,
you notice, and fill the space out to the second wall."
"Do you think that you and I will have anything to do?" Maitland asked,
waving a hand at LaForge's tremendous barrier.
"I wish I could hope that we won't, but I can't. I have it from a
usually reliable source that they're going to throw the book. That
means hyperspatial tubes as well as open space--they'll probably strike
everywhere at once."
* * * * *
Then for weeks Grand Fleet drilled, maneuvered, and practiced. All
space within ten parsecs of Arisia was divided into minute cubes, each
of which was given a reference number. Fleets were so placed that any
point in that space could be reached by at least one fleet in thirty
seconds or less of elapsed time.
Drill went on until, finally, it happened. Constance, on guard at the
moment, perceived the slight "curdling" of space which presages the
appearance of the terminus of a hyperspatial tube and gave the alarm.
Kit, the girls, and all the Arisians responded instantly--all knew that
this was to be a thing which not even the Five could handle unaided.
Not one, or a hundred, or a thousand, but at least two hundred thousand
of those tubes erupted, practically at once. Kit could alert and
instruct ten Rigellian operators every second, and so could each of his
sisters; but since every tube within striking distance of Arisia had
to be guarded or plugged within thirty seconds of its appearance, and
since all of the work was done out in space and not in the tank, it is
seen that the Arisians did practically all of the spotting and placing
during those first literally incredible two or three minutes.
If the Boskonians could have emerged from a tube's terminus in the
moment of its appearance, it is quite probable that nothing could
have saved Arisia. As it was, however, the enemy required seconds, or
sometimes even whole minutes, to traverse their tubes, which gave the
defenders much valuable time.
One of the observers--an Arisian or a Third-Stage Lensman--at first
perception of a terminus erupting, noted the number of the threatened
space-cubicle, informed the Rigellian operator upon whose panel the
number was, and flashed a message to all other observers that that
number had been "handled." The observer flashed the number to the
Communications board of the flagship of the fleet covering that space;
a flash which was automatically relayed to every Communications and
Navigations officer of that fleet, and which also automatically called
upon Reserve for another fleet to take the place being vacated. Without
further orders, the fleet drove toward its target cube. En route,
tube-locators mapped the terminus and marked its exact location upon
each vessel's tube plates.
Upon arriving, the fleet englobed the terminus and laced itself, by
means of tractors and pressors, into a rigid although inertialess
structure. Then, if there was time, and because the theory was that
the pirates would probably send a negasphere through first, with an
intrinsic velocity aimed at Arisia, a suitably equipped loose planet
was tossed into "this end" of the tube. Since they might send a loose
or an armed planet through first, however, the Fleet Admiral usually
threw a negasphere in, too.
What happened when planet met negasphere, in the unknown medium which
makes up the "interior" of a hyperspatial tube, is not and probably
never will be surely known. Several highly abstruse mathematical
treatises and many volumes of rather gruesome fiction have been written
upon the subject--none of which, however, has any bearing here.
If the Patrol fleet did not get there first, the succession of events
was different; the degree of difference depending upon how much time
the enemy had had. If, as sometimes happened, a fleet was coming
through it was met by superatomic bombs and by the concentrated fire of
every primary projector that the englobing task force could bring to
bear; with consequences upon which it is neither necessary or desirable
to dwell. If a planet had emerged, it was met by a negasphere--
Have you ever seen a negasphere strike a planet?
The negasphere is built of negative matter. This material--or, rather,
antimaterial--is in every respect the exact opposite of the everyday
matter of normal space. Instead of electrons, its ultimate units are
positrons--the "Dirac Holes" in an infinity of negative energy. To it
a push, however violent, is a pull; a pull is a push. When negative
matter strikes positive, then, there is no collision in the usual sense
of the word. One electron and one positron neutralize each other and
disappear; giving rise to two quanta of extremely hard radiation.
Thus, when the spherical hyper-plane which was the aspect of
negasphere tended to occupy the same three-dimensional space in
which the loose planet already was, there was no actual collision.
Instead, the materials of both simply vanished, along the surface of
what should have been a contact, in a gigantically crescendo burst
of pure, raw energy. The atoms and the molecules of the planet's
substance disappeared; the physically incomprehensible texture of
the negasphere's antimass changed into that of normal space. And all
circumambient space was flooded with inconceivably lethal radiation; so
intensely lethal that any being not adequately shielded from it died
before he had time to realize that he was being burned.
Gravitation, of course, was unaffected; and the rapid disappearance
of the planet's mass set up unbalanced forces of tremendous
magnitude. The hot, dense, pseudoliquid magma tended to erupt
as the sphere of nothingness devoured so rapidly the planet's
substance, but not a particle of it could move. Instead, it vanished.
Mountains fell, crashingly. Oceans poured. Earth-cracks appeared;
miles wide, tens of miles deep, hundreds of miles long. The world
heaved--shuddered--disintegrated--vanished.
* * * * *
The shock attack upon Arisia itself, which in the Eddorian mind had
been mathematically certain to succeed, was over in approximately six
minutes. Kinnison, Maitland, and LaForge, fuming at their stations,
had done nothing at all. The Boskonians had probably thrown everything
they could; the probability was vanishingly small that that particular
attack was to be or could be resumed. Nevertheless a host of Kinnison's
task forces remained on guard and a detail of Arisians still scanned
all nearby space.
"What shall I do next, Kit?" Camilla asked. "Help Connie crack that
screen?"
Kit glanced at his youngest sister, who was stretched out flat, every
muscle rigidly tense in an extremity of effort.
"No," he decided. "If she can't crack it alone, all four of us couldn't
help her much. Besides, I don't believe that she can break through
it. That's a mechanical screen, you know, powered by atomic-motored
generators. My guess is that it'll have to be _solved_, not
cracked, and the solution will take time. When she comes down off of
that peak, Kay, you might tell her so, and both of you start solving
it. The rest of us have another job. The moppers-up are coming in
force, and there isn't a chance that either we or the Arisians can
derive the counter-formula of that screen in less than a week.
Therefore the rest of this battle will have to be fought out on
conventional lines. We can do the most good, I think, by spotting the
Boskonians into the big tank--our scouts aren't locating five per cent
of them--for the L2's to pass on to Dad and the rest of the heavy brass
so that they can run this battle the way it should be run. You'll do
the spotting, Cam, of course; Kat and I will do the pushing. And if you
thought that Tregonsee took you for a wild ride--It'll work, don't you
think?"
"Of _course_ it will work--and I like wild rides--the faster the
better!"
Thus, apparently as though by magic, red lights winked into being
throughout a third of the volume of the immense tank; and the three
master strategists, informed of what was being done, heaved tremendous
sighs of relief. They now had real control. They knew, not only the
positions of their own task forces, but also, and exactly, the position
of _every_ task force of the enemy. More, by merely forming in his
mind the desire for the information, any one of the three could know,
with no appreciable lapse of time, the exact composition and the exact
strength of any individual one of the horde of Boskonian fleets!
* * * * *
Kit and his two sisters stood close-grouped, motionless; heads bent
and almost touching, arms interlocked. Kinnison perceived with
surprise that Lenses, as big and as bright as Kit's own, flamed upon
his daughters' wrists; a surprise which changed to awe as the very
air around those three red-bronze-auburn heads began to thicken, to
pulsate, and to glow with that indefinable, indescribable polychromatic
effulgence which is so uniquely characteristic of the Lens of the
Galactic Patrol. But there was work to do, and Kinnison did it.
Since the _Z9M9Z_ was now working as not even the most optimistic
of her planners and designers had dared to hope that she ever could
work, the war could now be, and was now being fought strategically;
that is, with the object of doing the enemy as much harm as possible
with the irreducible minimum of risk. It was not sporting. It was
not clubby. There was nothing whatever of chivalry. There was no
thought whatever of giving the enemy a break. It was massacre--it was
murder--it was war.
It was not ship to ship. No, nor fleet to fleet. Instead, ten or twenty
Patrol task forces, under sure pilotage, dashed out to englobe at
extreme range one fleet of the Boskonians. Then, before the opposing
admiral could assemble a picture of what was going on, his entire
command became the center of impact of hundreds or even thousands of
detonating superatomic bombs, as well as the focus of an immensely
greater number of scarcely less ravaging primary beams. Not a ship nor
a scout nor a lifeboat of the englobed fleet escaped, ever. In fact,
few indeed were the blobs, or even droplets, of hard alloy or of dureum
which remained merely liquefied or which, later, were able to condense.
Fleet by fleet the Boskonians were blown out of the ether; one by one
the red lights in the tank and in the reducer winked out. And finally
the slaughter was done.
Kit and his two now Lensless sisters unlaced themselves. Karen and
Constance came up for air, announcing that they knew how to work the
problem Kit had handed them, but that they would need more time on
it. Clarrissa, white and shaken by what she had driven herself to do,
looked and felt sick. So did Kinnison; nor had either of the other two
commanders derived any pleasure from the engagement. Tregonsee deplored
it. Of all the Lensed personnel, only Worsel had enjoyed himself.
He liked to kill enemies, at close range or far, and he could not
understand or sympathize with squeamishness. Nadreck, of course, had
neither liked nor disliked any part of the whole affair. To him his
part had been merely another task, to be performed with the smallest
outlay of physical and mental effort consistent with good workmanship.
"What next?" Kinnison asked then, of the group at large. "I say the
Ploorans. They're not like these poor devils were--they probably sent
them in. _They've_ got it coming!"
"They certainly have!"
"Ploor!"
"By all means Ploor!"
"But how about Arisia here?" Maitland asked.
"Under control," Kinnison replied. "We'll leave a heavy guard and a
spare tank--the Arisians will do the rest."
* * * * *
As soon as the tremendous fleet had shaken itself down into the course
for Ploor, all seven of the Kinnisons retired to a small dining room
and ate a festive meal. They drank after-dinner coffee. Most of them
smoked. They discussed, for a long time and not very quietly, the
matter of the Hell Hole in Space. Finally:
"I know it's a trap, as well as you do." Kinnison got up from the
table, rammed his hands into his breeches pockets, and paced the floor.
"It's got T-R-A-P painted all over it, in bill-poster letters seventeen
meters high. So what? Since I'm the only one who can, I've got to go
in, if it's still there after we knock Ploor off. And it'll still be
there, for all the tea in China. All the Ploorans aren't on Ploor."
Four young Kinnisons flashed thoughts at Kathryn, who frowned and bit
her lip. She had hit that hole with everything she had, and had simply
bounced. She had been able to block the radiation, of course, but such
solid barriers had been necessary that she had blinded herself by her
own screens. That it was Eddorian there could be no doubt--warned by
her own activities in the other tube--Plooran, of course--and Dad would
be worth taking, in more ways than one.
"I can't say that I'm any keener about going in than any of you are
about having me to do it," the big Lensman went on, "but unless some
of you can figure out a reason for my _not_ going in that isn't
fuller of holes than a sponge-rubber cushion, I'm going to tackle it
just as soon after we blow Ploor apart as I can possibly get there."
And Kathryn, his self-appointed guardian, knew that nothing could stop
him. Nor did anyone there, even Clarrissa, try to stop him. Lensmen
all, they knew that he had to go in; and why.
To the Five, the situation was not too serious. Kinnison would
probably come through unhurt. The Eddorians could take him, of course.
But whether or not they could do anything to him after they got him
would depend no little on what the Kinnison kids would be doing in
the meantime--and that would be plenty. They couldn't delay Dad's
entry into the tube very much without making a smell, but they could
and would hurry Arisia up. And even if, as seemed probable, Dad
was already in the tube when Arisia was ready for the big business
with Eddore, a lot could be done at the other end. Those amoeboid
monstrosities would be fighting for their own precious lives, this
time, not for the lives of slaves; and the Five promised each other
grimly that the Eddorians would have too much else to worry about to
waste any time on Kimball Kinnison.
* * * * *
Clarrissa Kinnison, however, fought the hardest and bitterest battle of
her life. She loved Kim with a depth and a fervor which very few women,
anywhere, have ever been able to feel. She knew with a sick, cold
certainty, knew with every fiber of her mind and with every cell of her
brain, that if he went into that trap he would die in it. Nevertheless,
she would have to let him go in. More, and worse, she would have to
send him in--to his death--with a smile. She could not ask him not to
go in. She could not even suggest again that there was any possibility
that he need not go in. He had to go in. He _had_ to.
And if Lensman's Load was heavy on him, on her it was almost
unbearable. His part was vastly the easier. He would only have to die;
she would have to live. She would have to keep on living--without
Kim--living a lifetime of deaths, one after another. And she would have
to hold her block and smile, not only with her face, but with her whole
mind. She could be scared, of course, apprehensive, as he himself was;
she could wish with all her strength for his safe return: but if he
suspected the thousandth part of what she really felt it would break
his heart. Nor would it do a bit of good. However brokenhearted at her
rebellion against the inflexible Code of the Lens, he would still go
in. Being Kimball Kinnison, he could not do anything else.
As soon as she could, Clarrissa went to a distant room and turned on
a full-coverage block. She lay down, buried her face in the pillow,
clenched her fists, and fought.
Was there any way--any _possible_ way--that she could die instead?
None. It was not that simple.
She would have to let him go.
Not gladly, but proudly and willingly--for the good of the Patrol.
Clarrissa Kinnison gritted her teeth and writhed.
She would simply _have_ to let him go into that ghastly trap--go
to his absolutely sure and certain death--without showing one white
feather, either to her husband or to her children. Her husband, her
KIM, would have to die ... and she--would--_have_--to--live.
She got up, smiled experimentally, and snapped off the block. Then,
actually smiling and serenely confident, she strolled down the corridor.
Such is Lensman's Load.