XXII.

Up to the present, Kinnison's revolution, his self-advancement into

the dictatorship, had been perfectly normal; in perfect accordance

with the best tenets of Boskonian etiquette. While it would be idle to

contend that any of the others of the High Command really approved of

it--each wanted intensely that high place for himself--none of them had

been strong enough at the moment to challenge the usurper effectively

and all of them knew that an ineffective challenge would mean certain

death. Wherefore each perforce bided his time. Gannel would slip,

Gannel would become lax or overconfident--and that would be the end of

Gannel.

They were, however, loyal in their way to Boskonia. They were very much

in favor of the rule of the strong and the ruthless. They believed

implicitly that might made right. They themselves bowed the knee to

anyone strong enough to command such servility from them; in turn they

enforced brutally an even more degrading slavishness from those over

whom they held in practice, if not at law, the power of life and death.

Thus Kinnison knew that he could handle his cabinet easily enough as

long as he could make them believe that he was a Boskonian. There

was, there could be, no real unity among them under those conditions;

each would be fighting his fellows as well as working to overthrow

His Supremacy the Tyrant. But they all hated the Patrol and all that

it stood for with a whole-hearted fervor which no one adherent to

Civilization can really appreciate. Hence at the first sign that Gannel

might be in league with the Patrol they would combine forces instantly

against him; automatically there would go into effect a tacit agreement

to kill him first and then, later, to fight it out among themselves for

the prize of the Tyrantcy.

And that combined opposition would be a formidable one indeed. Those

men were really able. They were as clever and as shrewd and as smart

and as subtle as they were hard. They were masters of intrigue; they

simply could not be fooled. And if their united word went down the line

that Traska Gannel was in fact a traitor to Boskonia, an upheaval would

ensue which would throw into the shade the bloodiest revolutions of all

history. Everything would be destroyed.

Nor could the Lensman hurl the metal of the Patrol against Thrale in

direct frontal attack. Not only was it immensely strong, but also there

were those priceless records, without which it might very well be the

work of generations for the Patrol to secure the information which it

must, for its own security, have.

No. Kinnison, having started near the bottom and worked up, must now

begin all over again at the top and work down; and he must be very,

_very_ sure that no alarm was given until at too late a time for

the alarmed ones to do anything of harm to the Lensman's cause. He

didn't know whether he had jets enough to swing the load or not--a lot

depended on whether or not he could civilize those twelve devils of

his--but the scheme that the psychologists had worked out was a honey

and he would certainly give it the good old college try.

* * * * *

Thus Grand Fleet slowed down, and, with the flagship just out of range

of the capital's terrific offensive weapons, it stopped. Half a dozen

maulers, towing a blackly indetectable, imperceptible object, came up

and stopped. The Tyrant called, from the safety of his control room, a

conference of his cabinet in the council chamber.

"While I have not been gone very long in point of days," he addressed

them smoothly, via plate, "and while I, of course, trust each and every

one of you, there are certain matters which must be made clear before

I attempt to land. None of you has, by any possible chance, made any

effort to lay a trap for me, or anything of the kind?" There may have

been a trace of irony in the speaker's voice.

They assured him, one and all, that they had not had the slightest idea

of even considering such a thing.

"It is well. None of you have discovered, then, that by changing locks

and combinations, and by destroying or removing certain inconspicuous

but essential mechanisms of an extremely complicated nature--and

perhaps substituting others--I made it quite definitely impossible for

any one or all of you to render this planet inertialess, I have brought

back with me a negasphere of planetary antimass, which no power at your

disposal can affect. It is here beside me in space; please study it

attentively. It should not be necessary for me to inform you that there

are countless other planets from which I can rule Boskonia quite as

effectively as from Thrale; or that, while I do not relish the idea of

destroying my home planet and everything upon it, I would not hesitate

to do so if it became a matter of choice between that action and the

loss of my life and my position."

They believed the statement. That was the eminently sensible thing to

do. Any one of them would have done the same; hence they knew that

Gannel would do exactly what he threatened--if he could. And as they

studied Gannel's abysmally black ace of trumps they knew starkly that

Gannel could. For they had found out, individually, that the Tyrant

had so effectively sabotaged Thrale's Bergenholms that they could not

possibly be made operative until after his return. Consequently repairs

had not been started--any such activity, they knew, would be a fatal

mistake.

By outguessing and outmaneuvering the members of his cabinet Gannel

had once more shown his fitness to rule. They accepted that fact with

a good enough grace; indeed, they admired him all the more for the

ability thus shown. No one of them had given himself away by any overt

moves; they could wait. Gannel would slip yet--quite possibly even

before he got back into his palace. So they thought, not knowing that

the Tyrant could read at will their most deeply hidden plans; and, so

thinking, each one pledged anew in unreserved terms his fealty and his

loyalty.

"I thank you, gentlemen." The boss did not, and the officers were

pretty sure that he did not, believe a word of their protestations.

"As loyal cabinet members, I will give you the honor of sitting in the

front of those who welcome me home. You men and your guards will occupy

the front boxes in the Royal Stand. With you and around you will be the

entire palace personnel--I want no person, except the usual guards,

inside the buildings or even within the grounds when I land. Back of

these you will have arranged the Personal Troops and the Royal Guards.

The remaining stands and all of the usual open ground will be for the

common people--first come, first served.

"But one word of caution. You may wear your side arms, as usual. Bear

in mind, however, that armor is neither usual nor a part of your

full-dress uniform, and that any armored man or men in or near the

concourse will be blasted by a needle ray before I land. Be advised

also that I myself shall be wearing full armor. Furthermore, no vessel

of the fleet will land until I, personally, from my private sanctum,

order them to do so."

This situation was another poser; but it, too, they had to take. There

was no way out of it, and it was still perfect Boskonian generalship.

The welcoming arrangements were therefore made precisely as the Tyrant

had directed.

* * * * *

The flagship settled toward ground, her under jets blasting unusually

viciously because of her tremendous load; and as she descended Kinnison

glanced briefly down at the familiar terrain. There was the immense

space field, a dock-studded expanse of burned, scarred, pock-marked

concrete and steel. Midway of its extreme northern end, that nearest

the palace, was the berth of the flagship, Dock No. 1. An eighth of

a mile straight north from the dock--the minimum distance possible

because of the terrific fury of the under jets--was the entrance to the

palace grounds. At the northern end of the western side of the field,

a good three-quarters of a mile from Dock No. 1 and somewhat more than

that distance from the palace gates, were the Stands of Ceremony. That

made the Lensman completely the master of the situation.

The flagship landed, her madly blasting jets died out. A car of state

rolled grandly up. Air locks opened. Kinnison and his bodyguards seated

themselves in the car. Helicopters appeared above the stands and above

the massed crowds thronging the western approaches to the field;

hovering, flitting slowly and watchfully about.

Then from the flagship there emerged an incredible number of armed and

armored soldiers. One small column of these marched behind the slowly

moving car of state, but by far the greater number went directly to

and through the imposing portals of the palace grounds. The people

in general, gathered there to see a major spectacle, thought nothing

of these circumstances--who were they to wonder at what the Tyrant

of Thrale might choose to do?--but to Gannel's Council of Advisers

they were extremely disquieting departures from the norm. There was,

however, nothing that they could do about them, away out there in the

grandstand; and they knew with a stark certainty what those helicopters

had orders to do in case of any uprising or commotion anywhere in the

crowd.

The car rolled slowly along before the fenced-back, wildly cheering

multitudes, with blaring bands and the columns of armored spacemen

marching crisply, swingingly behind it. There was nothing to indicate

that those selected men were not Thralians; nothing whatever to hint

that over a thousand of them were in fact Lensmen of the Galactic

Patrol. And Kinnison, standing stiffly erect in his car, acknowledged

gravely, with upraised right arm, the plaudits of his subjects.

The triumphal bus stopped in front of the most outthrust, the most

ornate stand, and through loud-voiced amplifiers the Tyrant invited,

as a signal honor, the twelve members of his Advisory Cabinet to ride

with him in state to the palace. There were exactly twelve vacant seats

in the great coach. The advisers would have to leave their bodyguards

and ride alone with the Tyrant: even had there been room, it was

unthinkable that any one else's personal killers could ride with the

Presence. This was no honor, they knew chillingly, no matter what the

mob might think--it looked much more like a death sentence. But what

could they do? They glanced at their unarmored henchmen; then at the

armor and the semiportables of Gannel's own heelers; then at the ranks

of heavily armed and armored troopers; and finally at the 'copters

now clustering thickly overhead, with the narrow snouts of needle-ray

projectors very much in evidence.

They accepted.

* * * * *

It was in no quiet frame of mind, then, that they rode into the

pretentious grounds of the palace. They felt no better when, as they

entered the council chamber, they were seized and disarmed without a

word having been spoken. And the world fairly dropped out from beneath

them when Tyrant Gannel emerged from his armor with a Lens glowing upon

his wrist.

"Yes, I am a Lensman," he gravely informed the stupefied but

unshrinking Boskonians. "That is why I know that all twelve of you

tried while I was gone to cut me down, in spite of all that I told you

and all that you have seen me do. If it were still necessary for me to

pose as Traska Gannel, I would have to kill you here and now for your

treachery. That phase is, however, past.

"I am one of the Lensmen whose collective activities you have ascribed

to 'the' Lensman or to Star A Star. All those others who came

with me into the palace are Lensmen. All those outside are either

Lensmen or tried and seasoned veterans of the Galactic Patrol. The

Fleet surrounding this world is the Grand Fleet of that Patrol. The

Boskonian force was destroyed _in toto_--every man and every ship

except your flagship--before it reached Klovia. In short, the power

of Boskonia is broken forever; Civilization is to rule henceforth

throughout both galaxies.

"You are the twelve strongest, the twelve ablest men of the planet,

perhaps of your whole dark culture. Will you help us to rule according

to the principles of Civilization that which has been the Boskonian

Empire, or will you die?"

The Thralians stiffened themselves rigidly against the expected blasts

of death, but only one spoke. "We are fortunate at least, Lensman, in

that you do not torture," he said coldly, his lips twisted into a hard,

defiant sneer.

"Good!" and the Lensman actually smiled. "I expected no less. With

that solid bottom, all that is necessary is to wipe away a few of your

misconceptions and misunderstandings, correct your viewpoints, and--"

"Do you think for a second that your therapists can fit us into the

pattern of your Civilization?" the Boskonian spokesman demanded

bitingly.

"I don't have to think, Lanion--I know," Kinnison assured him. "Take

them away, fellows, and lock them up--you know where. Everything will

go ahead as scheduled."

And it did.

* * * * *

And while the mighty vessels of war landed upon the space-field

and while the thronging Lensmen took over post after post in an

ever-widening downward course, Kinnison led Worsel and Tregonsee to the

cell in which the outspoken Thralian chieftain was confined.

"I do not know whether I can prevent you from operating upon me or

not," Lanion of Thrale spoke harshly, "but I will certainly try. I have

seen the pitiful, distorted wrecks left after such operations and I do

not like them. Furthermore, I do not believe that any possible science

can eradicate from my subconscious the fixed determination to kill

myself the instant you release me. Therefore you had better kill me

now, Lensman, and save your time and trouble."

"You are right, and wrong," Kinnison replied quietly. "It may very well

be impossible to remove such a fixation." He knew that he could remove

any such, but Lanion must not know it. Civilization needed those twelve

hard, shrewd minds and he had no intention of allowing an inferiority

complex to weaken their powers. "We do not, however, intend to operate,

but only and simply to educate. You will not be unconscious at any

time. You will be in full control of your own mind and you will know

beyond peradventure that you are so in control. We shall engrave, in

parallel with your own present knowledges of the culture of Boskonia,

the equivalent or corresponding knowledges of Civilization."

They did so. It was not a short undertaking, nor an easy one; but it

was thorough and it was finally done. Then Kinnison spoke.

"You now have completely detailed knowledge both of Boskonia and of

Civilization, a combination possessed by but few intelligences indeed.

You know that we did not alter, did not even touch, any track of your

original mind. Being fully _en rapport_ with us, you know that

we gave you as unprejudiced a concept of Civilization as we possibly

could. Also, you have assimilated completely the new knowledge."

"That is all true," Lanion conceded. "Remarkable, but true. I was, and

remained throughout, myself; I checked constantly to be sure of that. I

can still kill myself at any moment I choose."

"Right." Kinnison did not smile, even mentally, at the unconscious

alteration of intent. "The whole proposition can now be boiled down

into one clear-cut question, to which you can formulate an equally

clear-cut reply. Would you, Lanion, personally, prefer to keep on as

you have been, working for personal power, or would you rather team up

with others to work for the good of all?"

The Thralian thought for moments, and as he pondered an expression

of consternation spread over his hard hewn face. "You mean

actually--personally--apart from all consideration of your so-called

altruism and your other sissyish weaknesses?" he demanded resistantly.

"Exactly," Kinnison assured him. "Which would you _rather_ do?

Which would you, personally, get the most good--the most fun--out of?"

The bitter conflict was plainly visible in Lanion's bronzed face; so

was the direction in which it was going.

"Well ... I'll ... be ... damned! You win, Lensman!" and the

ex-Boskonian big shot held out his hand. Those were not his words, of

course; but as nearly as Tellurian English can come to it, that is the

exact sense of his final decision. And the same, or approximately the

same, was the decision of each of his eleven fellows, each in his turn.

* * * * *

Thus it was, then, that Civilization won over the twelve recruits who

were so potently instrumental in the bloodless conquest of Thrale,

and who were later to be of such signal service throughout the Second

Galaxy. For they knew Boskonia with a sure knowledge, from top to

bottom and from side to side, in every aspect and ramification; they

knew precisely where and when and how to work to secure the desired

ends. And they worked--_how_ they worked!--but space is lacking to

go into any of their labors here.

Specialists gathered, of a hundred different sorts; and when, after

peace and security had been gained, they began to attack the stupendous

files of the Hall of Records, Kinnison finally yielded to Haynes'

insistences and moved out to the _Z9M9Z_.

"It's about time, young fellow!" the admiral snapped. "I've gnawed my

fingernails off just about to the elbow and I still haven't figured out

how to crack Onlo. Have you got any ideas?"

"Thrale first," Kinnison suggested. "Everything QX here, you sure?"

"Absolutely," Haynes grunted. "As strongly held as Tellus or Klovia.

Primaries, helices, supertractors, Bergenholms, sunbeam--everything.

They don't need us here any longer, any more than a hen needs teeth.

Grand Fleet is all set to go, but we haven't been able to work out a

feasible plan of campaign. The best way would be not to use the Fleet

at all, but a sunbeam--but we can't move the Sun and Thorndyke has not

as yet succeeded in making it hold together that far. I don't suppose

that we could use a negasphere?"

"I don't see how," Kinnison pondered. "Ever since we used it first

they've been ready for it. I'd be inclined to wait and see what Nadreck

works out. He's a wise old owl, that bird--what does he tell you?"

"Nothing. Nothing, flat." Haynes' smile was grimly amused. "The fact

that he is still 'investigating'--whatever that means--is all that he

will tell me. Why don't you try him--you know him better than I do or

ever will."

"It wouldn't do any harm," Kinnison agreed. "Nor good, either,

probably. Funny egg, Nadreck. I'd tie fourteen of his arms into

lover's knots if it'd make him give, but it wouldn't--he's a plenty

tough number." Nevertheless he sent out a call, which was acknowledged

instantly.

"Ah, Kinnison, greetings. I am even now on my way to Thrale and the

_Directrix_ to report upon the investigation."

"You are? Fine!" Kinnison exclaimed. "How did you come out?"

"I did not--exactly--fail, but the work was very incompletely and very

poorly done," Nadreck submitted, the while the Tellurian's mind felt

very strongly the Palainian equivalent of a painful blush of shame.

"My report of the affair will be put and will forever remain under

Lensman's Seal."

"But what did you _do_?" both Tellurians demanded as one.

"I scarcely know how to confess to such blundering," and Nadreck

actually squirmed. "Will you not permit me to leave my shame to the

spool of record?"

They would not, they informed him definitely.

"If you must have it, then, I yield. The plan was to make all of the

armed forces upon Onlo destroy themselves. In theory it was sound and

simple, but my execution was pitifully imperfect. My work was so poorly

done that the commanding officer in each one of three of the domes

remained alive, making it necessary for me to slay them personally,

by the use of crude force. I regret exceedingly the lack of finish

of this undertaking, and I apologize profoundly for it. I trust that

you will not allow this information to become a matter of public

knowledge"--and the apologetic, mentally sweating, really humiliated

Palainian broke the connection.

* * * * *

Haynes and Kinnison stared at each other, for moments completely at a

loss for words. The admiral first broke the silence.

"Hell's--jingling--bells!" he wrenched out, finally, and waved a hand

at the points of light crowding so thickly his tactical tank. "A thing

that the whole Grand Fleet couldn't do, and he does it alone, and then

he _apologizes_ for it as though he ought to be stood up in a

corner or sent to bed without any supper!"

"Uh-huh, that's the way he is," Kinnison breathed, in awe. "What a

brain!--what a man!"

Nadreck's black speedster arrived and a three-way conference was held.

Both Haynes and Kinnison pressed him for the details of his really

stupendous achievement, but he refused positively even to mention any

phase of it.

"The matter is closed--finished," he declared, in a mood of anger and

self-reproach which neither of the Tellurians had ever supposed that

the gently scientific monster could assume. "I practically failed. It

is the poorest piece of work of which I have been guilty since cubhood,

and I desire and I insist that it shall not be mentioned again. If you

wish to lay plans for the future, I will be very glad indeed to place

at your disposal my small ability--which has now been shown to be even

smaller than I had supposed--but if you insist upon discussing my

fiasco, I shall forthwith go home. I will _not_ discuss it. The

record of it will remain permanently under Lensman's Seal. That is my

last word."

And it was. Neither of the two Tellurians mentioned the subject, of

course, either then or ever, but many other persons--including your

historian--have done so, with no trace whatever of success. It is a

shame, it is positively outrageous, that no details are available of

the actual fall of Onlo. No human mind can understand why Nadreck will

not release his Seal, but the bitter fact of his refusal to do so has

been made all too plain.

Thus, in all probability, it never will become publicly known how those

monstrous Onlonians destroyed each other, nor how Nadreck penetrated

the defensive screens of Onlo's embattled domes, nor in what fashion

he warred upon the three surviving commanders. These matters, and many

others of perhaps equal interest and value, must have been of such an

epic nature that it is a cosmic crime that they cannot be recorded

here; that this, one of the most important incidents of the campaign,

must be mentioned merely and baldly as having happened. But, unless

Nadreck relents--and he apparently never does--that is the starkly

tragic fact.

* * * * *

Other Lensmen were called in then, and admirals and generals and

other personages. It was decided to man the fortifications of Onlo

immediately, from the several fleets of frigid-blooded poison breathers

which made up a certain percentage of Civilization's forces. This

decision was influenced markedly by Nadreck, who said in part:

"Onlo is a beautiful planet. Its atmosphere is perfect, its climate

is ideal; not only for us of Palain VII, but also for the inhabitants

of many other planets, such as--" and he mentioned some twenty names.

"While I personally am not a fighter, there are many who are; and while

those of a more warlike disposition man Onlo's defenses and weapons, my

fellow researchers and I might very well be carrying on with the same

type of work, which you fire-blooded oxygen breathers are doing upon

Thrale and similar planets."

That was such an eminently sensible suggestion that it was adopted at

once. The conference broke up. The selected subfleets sailed. Kinnison

sought out the commander in chief.

"Well, sir, that's it--I hope. What do you think? Am I, or am I not,

due for a spot of free time?" The Gray Lensman's face was drawn and

grim.

"I wish I knew, son--but I don't." Eyes and voice were deeply troubled.

"You ought to be ... I hope you are ... but you're the only judge of

that, you know."

"Uh-huh ... that is, I know how to find out ... but I'm afraid

to--afraid he'll say no. However, I'm going to see Chris first--talk it

over with her. How about having a gig drop me down to the hospital?"

For he did not have to travel very far to find his fiancée. From the

time of leaving Lyrane until the taking over of Thrale she had as a

matter of course been chief nurse of the hospital ship _Pasteur_,

and with the civilizing of that planet she had as automatically become

chief nurse of the Patrol's Base Hospital there.

"Certainly, Kim--anything you want, whenever you please."

"Thanks, chief. Now that this fracas is finally over--if it is--I

suppose that you'll have to take over as president of the Galactic

Council?"

"I suppose so--after we clean Lyrane VIII, that you've been holding

me away from so long--but I don't relish the thought. And you'll be

Co-ordinator Kinnison."

"Uh-huh"--gloomily. "By Klono, I hate to put my Grays away! I'm not

going to do it, either, until after we're married and really settled

down onto the job."

"Of course not. You'll be wearing them for some time yet, I'm

thinking." Haynes' tone was distinctly envious. "Getting _your_

job settled down into a routine one will take a long, long time. It

will take years even to find out what it is really going to be."

"That's so, too," Kinnison brightened visibly. "Well, clear ether,

President Haynes!" and he turned away, whistling unmelodiously--in

fact, somewhat raucously--through his teeth.