XX.

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 first invaded the stronghold of the Wheelmen of Aldebaran

I, he had acted without thinking at all. Lensmen always went in,

regardless of consequences. When he had scouted Jarnevon he had thought

but little more. True--and fortunately--he took Worsel along; but he

did not stop to consider whether or not there were minds 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 Tellurian

Lensmen's Code. It griped him to admit it, but Nadreck 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 Kinnison sat unharmed upon the throne of the Tyrant of Thrale,

and thus the prime minister returned to the palace to find a _fait

accompli_ awaiting him. That worthy studied with care every aspect

of the situation then obtaining 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 _esprit de corps_ 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 here

upon Thrale?"

"I know who was," the Tellurian corrected, with the faintest

perceptible accent upon the verb. "In part only, however, for if you

had concerned yourself wholly, the late Alcon 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 Thrale to be the strongest

man of Thrale, 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 Thrale, 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 in 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 Tyrant Alcon

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 the 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, Fossten 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 the premier's hand strayed

almost imperceptibly toward an inconspicuous button.

"Don't touch that switch!" Kinnison snapped. He did not quite see why

Fossten was letting him see the maneuver, but he would bite, anyway.

"Why not, may I ask? It is merely a--"

"I know what it is, and I do not like thought-screens. I prefer that my

mind be left free to roam."

Fossten'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 Boskonia. I think now more than ever that yours is the strongest

Thralian mind, and as such, the logical one to wield 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 Klovia and all

the Patrol forces based upon it."

"Right." If Fossten 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 Patrol plenty of time to make Klovia utterly impregnable.

Fossten 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 yacht.

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 devise. 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 Gannel 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

stronger battleships and superdreadnoughts, more and 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. Fossten was a real thinker, as was Kinnison, and between

them they worked out a system. It was crudeness and inefficiency

incarnate in comparison with the _Z9M9Z_, but it was so much

better than anything previously known to Boskonia's High Command that

everyone was delighted. Even the suspicious and cynical Fossten 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 bitingly 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:

"QX, Kim, come ahead--we're ready," Haynes Lensed 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

Boskonians.

Then Kinnison called Fossten, 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."

"Unnhh," Gannel 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 hyperspatial 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 premier was flabbergasted. This was incredible. Gannel must really

be working for Boskonia 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 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 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 noncommittal agreement.

"Haven't you the slightest bias, one way or the other?" Fossten

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. Every 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 Boskonia--the

mightiest fleet ever assembled anywhere, according to the speeches

of the politicians--remade its stupendous formation and set out for

Klovia. 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!" Fossten declared. "Have you not

steadily refused to bare 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 disquietingly 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 co-operate with me willingly you will

be the strongest, ablest leader that Boskonia 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 Boskonia?"

"Everything." Fossten 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 have explained over and over as an over-mastering

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 have been 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 whole-heartedly loyal to Boskonia 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--instead

of being just another Boskonian big shot, must be the clear quill--the

real McCoy--BOSKONE 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 Tellurian 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 Thrale 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?"

"_Hrrummphhh!_" the monster--Kinnison could no longer think of

him as Fossten, or as the prime minister, or as anything even remotely

human--snorted with such utter, such searing contempt that even the

Lensman's burly spirit quailed. "As well might you 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 Boskonia as my viceroy. Know, 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 most certainly

die." At the grim finality, the calmly assured certainty of the

pronouncement, a quick chill struck into the Gray Lensman's vitals.

This thing who called himself Fossten--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 Arisian, possibly--that wouldn't

make sense. But then, it didn't make any kind of 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 zwilnik 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 mien 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 Bergenholms and thus inert

the flagship. "Could it be that the real reason for your otherwise

inexplicable forbearance is that 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 blowoff. 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.

"Die, 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 Gray

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 leaped 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 Bergenholms' control panels

and the operators clustered before it. The vessel went inert--much work

would have to be done before the Boskonian 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

Lensmen, 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 zwilnik was and what he had. No fear,

no doubt of the outcome, entered his mind. He had suffered such

punishment as few minds have ever endured in learning to ward off

everything that Mentor, one of the mightiest intellects of this or

of 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 think that he could rub _him_

out!

So thinking, the Lensman hurled a bolt of his own, a blast of power

sufficient to have slain a dozen men--and, amazedly, 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 help 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

monster's attack against Kinnison's shield had wrought grievously

among the mentalities of the innocent bystanders. 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, instants 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

Boskonians 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 asprawl. They could not scream or

shriek, but only mouthed and mumbled meaningless burblings.

And ever higher, ever more brilliant flamed the Lens as Kinnison threw

all of his prodigious will power, 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 sub-ether 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 spread

throughout the confines of the vast spaceship.

Indomitably, 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 continua and drew

therefrom an 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 ... a BRAIN!

* * * * *

There was a body, of sorts, of course--a peculiarly neckless body

designed solely to support that gigantic, thin-skulled head. There

were certain appendages or limbs, and suchlike appurtenances 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 Arisian--it looked enough like

old Mentor to be his twin brother. He would have been stunned,

except for the fact that he was far too 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, pendulumlike, 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 men so thickly strewn

about.

And thus, while the two immense Grand Fleets met in battle, Boskonia's

flagship hung inert and silent in space afar; manned by fifteen hundred

corpses, one unconscious Brain, and one utterly exhausted Gray Lensman.