Through the ether the mighty _Dauntless_ bored her serene way
homeward, at the easy touring blast--for her--of some eighty parsecs
an hour. The engineers inspected and checked their equipment, from
instrument needles to blast nozzles; re-lining, 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 lolled 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 twenty-seven hundred instead of
at the Tellurian normal of nine hundred eighty, there the atmospheric
pressure was forty pounds to the square inch, there the temperature was
ninety-six degrees Fahrenheit, and there Van Buskirk 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 thought 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 Bleeko was the man he wanted. On Lonabar. 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
skillions and whillions of planets in the Galaxy, a random search was
quite definitely out. Bleeko was a zwilnik, or tied in with zwilniks,
of course; but he could read a million zwilnik minds without finding,
except by merest chance, one having any contact with or knowledge of
the Lonabarian.
The Patrol had already scoured--fruitlessly--Aldebaran II for any
sign, however slight, pointing toward Lonabar. The planetographers had
searched the files, the charts, the libraries thoroughly. No Lonabar.
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 had as yet been found
who could recognize or identify any of the items he had described.
Whatever avenue or alley of thought Kinnison started along, he always
ended up at the jewels and the girl. Illona, 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 Palain's purple hells couldn't
she have had 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 Mac's.
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 were 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 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!" Illona 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?"
"Clothes," 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--"
"'Smatter? What bit you?" Kinnison asked, then got it. "Oh ... the 'Old
Man,' huh? QX, 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 had
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 Menjo
Bleeko--" 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 pseudoinertia 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 Lonabar; 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 co-operate 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."
Illona did not like it at first, there was no question of that. And
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 want 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 a
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 Kinnison had
already obtained from her, but she was a mine 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, Illona." 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." Illona 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 she did
not quite like. And this last thing, this mind-searching interview, did
not operate to quiet her fears. It gave her the screaming meamies, 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?
"_Whew!_" 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 tune to your frequency. Since everybody will
be _en rapport_ with you, we will all be _en 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 Aldebaranian 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
twosome 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 Illona, the
Aldebaranian zwilnik, I suppose."
"Don't Kim," Henderson flinched. "She isn't a zwilnik, really--I'd bet
my last millo on that?"
"Are you telling me, or asking me?" the Lensman 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 ... er ... 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."
"Damnation, Kim! That isn't what I meant, and you know it!"
"Think clearly, then; for your own sake and Illona'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 Illona Potter, if I've got jets enough to
swing it?"
Mighty clever, the Lensman thought. Since all the men of the
Patrol were notoriously averse to going sloppy or maudlin
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," Kinnison 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 Illona will probably blast
you to a cinder."
"Huh? 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 Lensman 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 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 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
Tellus. It will help greatly in locating the head of the Boskonian
culture if I can find a certain planet, known to me only by the name of
Lonabar. Its people are human beings to the last decimal; its rarest
jewels are these," and he spread in the collective mind a perfect,
exactly detailed and pictured 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 heartbreakingly long pause. Then a faint, soft, diffident
thought appeared; appeared as though seeping slowly from a single cell
of that incredibly linked, million-fold-composite Lensmen's BRAIN.
"I waited to be sure that no one else would speak, as my information is
very meager, and unsatisfactory, and old," the thought apologized.
"Whatever its nature, any information at all is very welcome," Kinnison
replied. "Who is speaking, please?"
"Nadreck of Palain VII, Unattached. Many cycles ago I secured, and
still have in my possession, a crystal--or rather, fragment of a
supercooled 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, oh, oh."
"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 Nadreck of Palain VII says that he is certain of anything,"
another thought appeared, "nothing in the macrocosmic universe is more
certain."
"I thank you, Twenty-four of Six, for the expression of confidence."
"And I thank both of you particularly, 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
Nadreck:
"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. They'll
be harder to get now, and it might tip our hand too much. I'll get them
myself, later. Will you inform me, through Haynes, when to expect you
upon Tellus?"
"I will so inform you. I will proceed at once, with speed."
"Thanks a million, Nadreck--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
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, Illona Potter
danced. For Lonabarian acrobatic dancing is not like the Tellurian 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 Lonabar, and Illona
was a Lonabarian expert. She had been training, intensively, all her
life, and even in Lonabar'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 spacehounds 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, Illona 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 terrific 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 Illona'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 Illona's
case, upon an improvised throne--off for refreshments.
Back in his quarters, Kinnison tackled his problem again. He could
work out something on Lonabar now, but what about Lyrane? 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-co-operative! A man couldn't get a millo's worth of real
information--he could read any one mind by force, but he'd never get
the right one. Neither could Worsel or Tregonsee or any other nonhuman
Lensman; the Lyranians 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 un-Lensed 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 Lensmen 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 Arisia 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 decision and the matter is
grave. I ask, therefore--is it wise?"
"You do not ask as 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 learn 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 Arisian had pinned his ears back;
he certainly did not expect either the compliment 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 Arisian _would_ aid him in matters which were
absolutely, intrinsically, beyond his reach.
Recovering, he flashed a call to Surgeon General Lacy.
"Lacy? Kinnison. I would like to have Sector Chief Nurse Clarrissa
MacDougall detached at once. Please have her 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 Lensman 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."
Lacy exploded then, but Kinnison had expected that.
"Seal it!" he counseled, sharply. "I am not doing it entirely on my
own--Mentor of Arisia made the final decision. Prefer charges against
me if you like, but in the meantime please do as I request."
And that was that.