Nadreck, the furtive Palainian, had prepared as thoroughly in his
own queerly underhanded fashion as had Kinnison in his bolder one.
Nadreck was cowardly, in Earthly eyes, there can 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 resources. 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?
Nadreck moved in upon Onlo, then, absolutely imperceptibly. His dark,
cold, devious mind, so closely akin to those of the Onlonians, reached
out, indetectably _en 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 his softly cushioned resting place and
methodically, efficiently, he went to work.
Thus, when Alcon of Thrale next visited his monstrous henchmen, Nadreck
flipped a switch and every thought of the zwilnik's 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 Boskonian psychologist who has ever summed up
the situation has, in some respect or other, been seriously in error."
"And only _you_ are right!" Alcon sneered. "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 Lensmen who have been and are mainly responsible for what has
happened. One of these, the lesser, may be--note well that I say 'may
be,' not 'is'--a Tellurian 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 Star," Alcon declared.
"Call him so if you like," Kandron assented, flatly. "But this Star A
Star is an operator. As the supposed Director of Lensmen 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 Eich, 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 Eich. I suspect that
the Lensman Morgan was, if he existed at all, merely a puppet. The Eich
took him too easily by far. It is, therefore, eminently possible that
he had no physical actuality of existence--"
"Oh, come, now! Don't be ridiculous!" Alcon snapped. "With all Boskone
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
Jarnevon."
"Utterly preposterous!" Alcon snorted. "Tell me, if you can, upon what
facts you have been able to base such fantastic opinions."
"Gladly," Kandron 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 seem to me most significant.
Attend closely, please:
* * * * *
"For many years, as you know, everything progressed smoothly. Our
first setback came when a Tellurian warship, manned by Tellurians 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, in so far as mental ability is concerned. At least one
Tellurian 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 Velantia; 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 Tellus in spite of
everything Helmuth and his force could do.
"Then there were the two episodes of the Wheelmen of Aldebaran I. In
the first one a Tellurian 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 Boyssia affair, in which the human being Blakeslee 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 Medon.
"Back to theirs again--the disgraceful and closely connected debacles
at Shingvors and Antigan. Traceless both, but again neither was
followed up to any higher headquarters."
Nadreck grinned at that, if a Palainian 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 Radelix," Kandron's summary went concisely on. "The female
agents, Bominger, the Kalonian observers--all wiped out. Was or was not
some human Lensman 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 _27L462P_--Wynor--Grantlia. Again
completely traceless. Reason obscure, and no known advantage gained, as
this sequence also was dropped."
Nadreck pondered briefly over this material. He knew nothing of any
such matters nor, he was pretty 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 Bronseca, in which so many Lensmen were engaged
that particularization was impossible, and which again was not
followed up, we jump to the Asteroid Euphrosyne, Miners' Nest, and
Wild Bill Williams of Aldebaran II. If it was a coincidence that Bill
Williams became William Williams and followed our line to Tressilia,
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.
"Jalte's headquarters was, apparently, missed. However, it must have
been invaded--tracelessly--for it was the link between Tressilia and
Jarnevon, and Jarnevon 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, Nadreck 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, Nadreck had to admit, his own performances and
those in which Kinnison had acted indetectably, 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. Cartiff was, of course, the human Lensman. A
masterly piece of work, that--but, with the co-operation 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 Tellurian 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; Cartiff was a human being--to name only
two."
"Of course," Kandron admitted half contemptuously. "But we have no
proof whatever that any of those human beings actually did, of their
own volition, any of the things for which they have been given credit.
Thus, it is now almost certain that that widely advertised 'mind-ray
machine' was simply a battery of spotlights--the 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 Onlonian stated flatly. "We
_know_, however, definitely and for a fact--visiplates and
long-range communicators cannot be hypnotized--that Blakeslee was one
of Helmuth's own men. Also that he was the same man, both as a loyal
Boskonian of very ordinary mental talents and as an enemy having a
mental power which he as Blakeslee never did and never could possess."
"I see," Alcon thought deeply. "Very cogently put. Instead of there
being two Lensmen, 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 Tellurian?"
"But not necessarily the same Tellurian--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 Cartiff or both
working together, found Lonabar. They learned of the Overlords, or at
least of Lyrane II--"
"By sheer accident, if they learned it there at all, I am certain of
that," Kandron insisted. "They did not get any information from Menjo
Bleeko's mind; there was none there to get."
* * * * *
"Accident or not, what boots it?" Alcon impatiently brushed aside the
psychologist's protests. "They found Bleeko 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 Eich of Lyrane VIII we
know that there were two Patrol ships involved. One, not definitely
identified as Cartiff's, took no part in the real assault. The other,
the superdreadnought _Dauntless_, did that alone. She was manned
by Tellurians, Valerians, and at least one Velantian. 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 Lyrane II was left, as were some
others, a dead end. Has Star A Star attempted Lyrane VIII? If not,
why has he delayed? If so, did he succeed or fail in penetrating the
defenses of the Eich? 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 Eich of Lyrane VIII were
able to offer no more resistance to the penetration of Star A Star than
was Jalte the Kalonian. That this massive thrust was timed to cover the
insidious tracing of our lines of communication or whatever other leads
the Lensman had been able to discover."
"But the traps--the alarms--the screens and zones!" Alcon 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 Onlo 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 Onlo and I
who are their prime objectives, but Thrale 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 Thrale; and as he entered his palace
grounds he passed within forty inches of his Nemesis. For Star A
Star-Kinnison-Traska Gannel was, as Alcon himself so clearly said,
rendered invisible and imperceptible by his own obviousness.
* * * * *
Although obvious, Kinnison was very busy indeed. As a lieutenant
of Guardsmen, 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 aërial as well as ground forces. Then, disregarding side
lines of comparative seniority, came the major, the colonel, and
finally the general, who was in charge of all the regular armed forces
of Thrale'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-thumb individual, did
not count. He could step right over his head into the captaincy. The
real Gannel had always, in true zwilnik 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 Boskonian technique was to work upward by stealth and treachery,
aided by 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 pre-emptorily to 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 Traska Gannel, 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," Kinnison countered; his
coldly venomous tone holding the troopers motionless. He wore two hand
weapons more or less similar to DeLameters, 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, cut in your 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 rigueur_. And in Boskonian dueling the superior officer,
not the challenged, had the choice of weapons. He was a master of the
saber; he had outpointed Gannel 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, _épée_, rapier, saber, broadsword, 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 tiers
of comfortably padded seats. It was thronged with uniforms, with
civilian formal afternoon dress, and with modish gowns; for such duels
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 soles could not be made
to slip upon the corrugated surface of the corklike material of the
arena's floor.
The colonel himself, as master of ceremonies, asked the usual
perfunctory questions. No, reconciliation was impossible. No, the
challenged would not apologize. No, the challenger's honor could not
be satisfied with anything less than mortal combat. 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 needle point, 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
zwilnik's 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 arms shot upward, straining to the limit. Breast
to hard-ridged breast, left arms pressed against bulgingly corded
backs, every taut muscle from floor-gripping feet up to powerful
shoulders thrown into the effort, the battlers stood motionlessly _en
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'd better
snap out of it. He couldn't get anywhere with this body-check business;
the zwilnik 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!_ Cut, thrust, feint, slash and parry, 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 Lensman'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 spectators shrieked frenzied approval. They did not care
whose blood was shed, so long as it _was_ shed; and this duel, of
two superb 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 Gannel's arm seemed as strong and
as rock-steady as it had been at the bout's 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 and more savagely, the offensive.
When it was over Kinnison flipped his saber dexterously, so that its
point struck deep into 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 satiated 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.