The Ambassadors' Ball, one of the most ultra-ultra functions of the
year, was well under way. It was not that everyone who was anyone was
there; but everyone who was there was, in one way or another, very
emphatically someone. Thus, there were affairs at which there were more
young and beautiful women, and more young and handsome men; but none
exhibiting newer or more expensive gowns, more ribbons and decorations,
more or costlier or more refined jewelry, or a larger acreage of
powdered and perfumed epidermis.
And even so, the younger set was well enough represented. Since
pioneering appeals more to youth than to age, the men representing the
colonies were young; and their wives, together with the daughters and
the second (or third or fourth, or occasionally the fifth) wives of the
human personages practically balanced the account.
Nor was the throng entirely human. The time had not yet come, of
course, when warm-blooded, oxygen-breathing monstrosities from hundreds
of other solar systems would vie in numbers with the humanity present.
There were, however, a few Martians on the floor, wearing their light
"robes du convention" and dancing with meticulously mathematical
precision. A few Venerians, who did not dance, sat in state or waddled
importantly about. Many worlds of the Solarian System, and not a few
other systems, were represented.
One couple stood out, even against that opulent and magnificent
background. Eyes followed them wherever they went.
The girl was tall, trim, supple; built like a symphony. Her Callistan
vexto-silk gown, of the newest and most violent shade of "radio-active"
green, was phosphorescently luminous; fluorescent; gleaming and
glowing. Its hem swept the floor, but above the waist it vanished
mysteriously except for wisps which clung to strategic areas here and
there with no support, apparently, except the personal magnetism of the
wearer. She, almost alone of all the women there, wore no flowers. Her
only jewelry was a rosette of huge, perfectly-matched emeralds, perched
precariously upon her bare left shoulder. Her hair, unlike the other
women's flawless coiffures, was a flamboyant, artistically-disarranged,
red-bronze-auburn mop. Her soft and dewy eyes--Virgilia Samms could
control her eyes as perfectly as she could her highly educated
hands--were at the moment gold-flecked, tawny wells of girlish
innocence and trust.
"But I _can't_ give you this next dance, too, Herkimer--_Honestly_ I
can't!" she pleaded, snuggling just a trifle closer into the embrace of
the young man who was just as much man, physically, as she was woman.
"I'd just _love_ to, really, but I just simply _can't_, and you know
why, too."
"You've got some duty-dances, of course ..."
"_Some?_ I've got a list as long as from here to there! Senator
Morgan first, of course, then Mr. Isaacson, then I sat one out with
Mr. Ossmen--I can't _stand_ Venerians, they're so slimy and fat and
repulsive!--and that leathery horned toad from Mars and that Jovian
hippopotamus ..."
She went down the list, and as she named or characterized each entity
another finger of her left hand pressed down upon the back of her
partner's right, to emphasize the count of her social obligations. But
those talented fingers were doing more--far, far more--than that.
Herkimer Third, although no little of a Don Juan, was a highly
polished, smoothly finished, thoroughly seasoned diplomat. As such, his
eyes and his other features--particularly his eyes--had been schooled
for years to reveal no trace of whatever might be going on inside his
brain. If he had entertained any suspicion of the beautiful girl in
his arms, if anyone had suggested that she was trying her best to pump
him, he would have smiled the sort of smile which only the top-drawer
diplomat can achieve. He was not suspicious of Virgilia Samms. However,
simply because she was Virgil Samms' daughter, he took an extra bit of
pain to betray no undue interest in any one of the names she recited.
And besides, she was not looking at his eyes, nor even at his face. Her
glance, demurely downcast, was all too rarely raised above the level of
his chin.
There were some things, however, that Herkimer Herkimer Third did not
know. That Virgilia Samms was the most accomplished muscle-reader of
her times. That she was so close to him, not because of his manly
charm, but because only in that position could she do her prodigious
best. That she could work with her eyes alone, but in emergencies,
when fullest possible results were imperative, she had to use her
exquisitely sensitive fingers and her exquisitely tactile skin. That
she had studied intensively, and had tabulated the reactions of, each
of the entities on her list. That she was now, with his help, fitting
those reactions into a pattern. And finally, that that pattern was
beginning to assume the grim shape of MURDER!
And Virgilia Samms, working now for something far more urgent and
vastly more important than a figmental Galactic Patrol, hoped
desperately that this Herkimer was not a muscle-reader too; for she
knew that she was revealing her secrets even more completely than was
he. In fact, if things got much worse, he could not help but feel the
pounding of her heart ... but she could explain that easily enough, by
a few appropriate wiggles ... No, he wasn't a reader, definitely not.
He wasn't watching the right places; he was looking where that gown had
been designed to make him look, and nowhere else ... and no tell-tale
muscles lay beneath any part of either of his hands.
As her eyes and her fingers and her lovely torso sent more and more
information to her keen brain, Jill grew more and more anxious. She
was sure that murder was intended, but who was to be the victim? Her
father? Probably. Pops Kinnison? Possibly. Somebody else? Barely
possibly. And when? And where? And how? She _didn't know_! And she
would have to be _sure_ ... Mentioning names hadn't been enough, but a
personal appearance ... Why _didn't_ dad show up--or did she wish he
wouldn't come at all...?
Virgil Samms entered the ball-room.
"And dad told me, Herkimer," she cooed sweetly, gazing up into his eyes
for the first time in over a minute, "that I must dance with every one
of them. So you see ... Oh, there he is now, over there! I've been
wondering where he's been keeping himself." She nodded toward the
entrance and prattled on artlessly. "He's almost _never_ late, you
know, and I've ..."
He looked, and as his eyes met those of the First Lensman, Jill learned
three of the facts she needed so badly to know. Her father. Here. Soon.
She never knew how she managed to keep herself under control; but, some
way and just barely, she did.
Although nothing showed, she was seething inwardly: wrought up as
she had never before been. What could she do? She _knew_, but she did
not have a scrap or an iota of visible or tangible evidence; and if
she made one single slip, however slight, the consequences could be
immediate and disastrous.
After this dance might be too late. She could make an excuse to leave
the floor, but that would look very bad, later ... and none of them
would Lens her, she knew, while she was with Herkimer--_damn_ such
chivalry!... She _could_ take the chance of waving at her father, since
she hadn't seen him for so long ... no, the smallest risk would be with
Mase. He looked at her every chance he got, and she'd _make_ him use
his Lens ...
Northrop looked at her; and over Herkimer's shoulder, for one fleeting
instant, she allowed her face to reveal the terrified appeal she so
keenly felt.
"Want me, Jill?" His Lensed thought touched only the outer fringes of
her mind. Full rapport is more intimate than a kiss: no one except her
father had ever really put a Lens on Virgilia Samms. Nevertheless:
"_Want_ you! I never wanted anybody so much in my life! Come in,
Mase--quick--_please_!"
Diffidently enough, he came; but at the first inkling of the girl's
news all thought of diffidence or of privacy vanished.
"Jack! Spud! Mr. Kinnison! Mr. Samms!" he Lensed sharp, imperative,
almost frantic thoughts. "Listen in!"
"Steady, Mase, I'll take over," came Roderick Kinnison's deeper,
quieter mental voice. "First, the matter of guns. Anybody except me
wearing a pistol? You are, Spud?"
"Yes, sir."
"You would be. But you and Mase, Jack?"
"We've got our Lewistons!"
"You would have. Blasters, my sometimes-not-quite-so-bright son, are
fine weapons indeed for certain kinds of work. In emergencies, it is
of course permissible to kill a few dozen innocent bystanders. In such
a crowd as this, though, it is much better technique to kill only the
one you are aiming at. So skip out to my car, you two, right now, and
change--and make it _fast_." Everyone knew that Roderick Kinnison's car
was at all times an arsenal on wheels. "Wish you were in uniform, too,
Virge, but it can't be helped now. Work your way--_slowly_--around to
the northwest corner. Spud, do the same."
"It's impossible--starkly unthinkable!" and "I'm not _sure_ of
anything, really ..." Samms and his daughter began simultaneously to
protest.
"Virgil, you talk like a man with a paper nose. Keep still until after
you've used your brain. And I'm sure enough of what you know, Jill, to
take plenty of steps. You can relax now--take it easy. We're covering
Virgil and I called up support in force. You _can_ relax a little,
I see. Good! I'm not trying to hide from anybody that the next few
minutes may be critical. Are you pretty sure, Jill, that Herkimer is a
key man?"
"Pretty sure, Pops." _How_ much better she felt, now that the Lensmen
were on guard! "In this one case, at least."
"Good! Then let him talk you into giving him every dance, right
straight through until something breaks. Watch him. He must know the
signal and who is going to operate, and if you can give us a fraction
of a second of warning it will help no end. Can do?"
"I'll say I can--and I would love to, the big, slimy, stinking
skinker!" As transliterated into words, the girl's thought may seem a
trifle confused, but Kinnison knew exactly what she meant.
"One more thing, Jill; a detail. The boys are coming back in and are
working their partners over this way. See if Herkimer notices that they
have changed their holsters."
"No, he didn't notice," Jill reported, after a moment. "But I don't
notice any difference, either, and I'm looking for it."
"Nevertheless, it's there, and the difference between a Mark Seventeen
and a Mark Five is something more than that between Tweedledum and
Tweedledee," Kinnison returned, dryly. "However, it may not be as
obvious to non-military personnel as it is to us. That's far enough,
boys, don't get too close. Now, Virge, keep solidly en rapport with
Jill on one side and with us on the other, so that she won't have to
give herself and the show away by yelling and pointing, and ..."
"But this is preposterous!" Samms stormed.
"Preposterous, hell," Roderick Kinnison's thought was still coldly
level; only the fact that he was beginning to use non-ballroom language
revealed any sign of the strain he was under. "Stop being so goddam
heroic and start using your brain. You turned down fifty billion
credits. Why do you suppose they offered that much, when they can get
anybody killed for a hundred? And what would they do about it?"
"But they couldn't get away with it, Rod, at an Ambassadors' Ball. They
_couldn't_, possibly."
"Formerly, no. That was my first thought, too. But it was you who
pointed out to me, not so long ago, that the techniques of crime have
changed of late. In the new light, the swankier the brawl the greater
the confusion and the better the chance of getting away clean. Comb
_that_ out of your whiskers, you red-headed mule!"
"Well ... there might be something in it, after all ..." Samms' thought
showed apprehension at last.
"You know damn well there is. But you boys--Jack and Mase
especially--loosen up. You can't do good shooting while you're strung
up like a couple of cocoons. Do something--talk to your partners or
think at Jill ..."
"That won't be hard, sir." Mason Northrop grinned feebly. "And that
reminds me of something, Jill. Mentor certainly bracketed the target
when he--or she, or it, maybe--said that you would never need a Lens."
"Huh?" Jill demanded, inelegantly. "I don't see the connection, if any."
"No? Everybody else does, I'll bet. How about it?" The other Lensmen,
even Samms, agreed enthusiastically. "Well, do you think that any of
those characters, particularly Herkimer Herkimer Third, would let a
harness bull in harness--even such a beautiful one as you--get close
enough to him to do such a Davey the Dip act on his mind?"
"Oh ... I never thought of that, but it's right, and I'm glad ... but
Pops, you said something about 'support in force.' Have you any idea
how long it will be? I _hope_ I can hold out, with you all supporting
me, but ..."
"You can, Jill. Two or three minutes more, at most."
"Support? In force? What do you mean?" Samms snapped.
"Just that. The whole damned army," Kinnison replied. "I sent Two-Star
Commodore Alexander Clayton a thought that lifted him right out of his
chair. Everything he's got, at full emergency blast. Armor--mark eighty
fours--six by six extra heavies--a ninety sixty for an ambulance--full
escort, upstairs and down--way-friskers--'copters--cruisers and big
stuff--in short, the works. I would have run with you before this, if I
dared; but the minute the relief party shows up, we do a flit."
"If you _dared_?" Jill asked, shaken by the thought.
"Exactly, my dear. I don't dare. If they start anything we'll do our
damnedest, but I'm praying they won't."
But Kinnison's prayers--if he made any--were ignored. Jill heard a
sharp, but very usual and insignificant sound; someone had dropped a
pencil. She felt an inconspicuous muscle twitch slightly. She saw the
almost imperceptible tensing of a neck-muscle which would have turned
Herkimer's head in a certain direction if it had been allowed to act.
Her eyes flashed along that line, searched busily for milli-seconds. A
man was reaching unobtrusively, as though for a handkerchief. But men
at Ambassadors' Balls do not carry blue handkerchiefs; nor does any
fabric, however dyed, resemble at all closely the blued steel of an
automatic pistol.
Jill would have screamed, then, and pointed; but she had time to do
neither. Through her rapport with her father the Lensmen saw everything
that she saw, in the instant of her seeing it. Hence five shots blasted
out, practically as one, before the girl could scream, or point, or
even move. She did scream, then; but since dozens of other women were
screaming, too, it made no difference--then.
Conway Costigan, trigger-nerved spacehound that he was and with years
of gun-fighting and of hand-to-hand brawling in his log, shot first;
even before the gunman did. It was Costigan's blinding speed that saved
Virgil Samms' life that day; for the would-be assassin was dying, with
a heavy slug crashing through his brain, before he finished pulling the
trigger. The dying hand twitched upward. The bullet intended for Samms'
heart went high; through the fleshy part of the shoulder.
Roderick Kinnison, because of his age, and his son and Northrop,
because of their inexperience, were a few milli-seconds slow. They,
however, were aiming for the body, not for the head; and any of those
three resulting wounds would have been satisfactorily fatal. The man
went down, and stayed down.
Samms staggered, but did not go down until the elder Kinnison, as
gently as was consistent with the maximum of speed, threw him down.
"Stand back! Get back! Give him air!" Men began to shout, the while
pressing closer themselves.
"You men, stand back. Some of you go get a stretcher. You women, come
here." Kinnison's heavy, parade-ground voice smashed down all lesser
noises. "Is there a doctor here?"
There was; and, after being "frisked" for weapons, he went busily to
work.
"Joy--Betty--Jill--Clio," Kinnison called his own wife and their
daughter, Virgilia Samms, and Mrs. Costigan. "You four first. Now
you--and you--and you--and you...." he went on, pointing out large,
heavy women wearing extremely extreme gowns, "Stand here, right over
him. Cover him up, so that nobody else can get a shot at him. You other
women, stand behind and between these--closer yet--fill those spaces
up solid--there! Jack, stand there. Mase, there. Costigan, the other
end; I'll take this one. Now, everybody, listen. I know damn well that
none of you women are wearing guns above the waist, and you've all got
long skirts--thank God for ballgowns! Now, fellows, if any one of these
women makes a move to lift her skirt, blow her brains out, right then,
without waiting to ask questions."
"Sir, I protest! This is outrageous!" one of the dowagers exclaimed.
"Madam, I agree with you fully. It is." Kinnison smiled as genuinely
as he could under the circumstances. "It is, however, _necessary_. I
will apologize to all you ladies, and to you, doctor--in writing if you
like--after we have Virgil Samms aboard the _Chicago_; but until then I
would not trust my own grandmother."
The doctor looked up. "The _Chicago_? This wound does not appear to be
a very serious one, but this man is going to a hospital at once. Ah,
the stretcher. So ... please ... easy ... there, that is excellent.
Call an ambulance, please, immediately."
"I did. Long ago. But no hospital, doctor. All those windows--open
to the public--or the whole place bombed--by no means. I'm taking no
chances whatever."
"Except with your own life!" Jill put in sharply, looking up from her
place at her father's side. Assured that the First Lensman was in no
danger of dying, she had begun to take interest in other things. "You
are important, too, you know, and you're standing right out there in
the open. Get another stretcher, lie down on it, and we'll guard you,
too ... and don't be too stiff-necked to take your own advice!" she
flared, as he hesitated.
"I'm not, if it were necessary, but it isn't. If they had killed him,
yes. I'd probably be next in line. But since he got only a scratch,
there'd be no point at all in killing even a _good_ Number Two."
"A _scratch_!" Jill fairly seethed. "Do you call that horrible wound a
_scratch_?"
"Huh? Why, certainly--that's all it is--thanks to you," he returned,
in honest and complete surprise. "No bones shattered--no main arteries
cut--missed the lung--he'll be as good as new in a couple of weeks."
"And now," he went on aloud, "if you ladies will please pick up this
stretcher we will move en masse, and _slowly_, toward the door."
The women, no longer indignant but apparently enjoying the sensation of
being the center of interest, complied with the request.
"Now, boys," Kinnison Lensed a thought. "Did any of you--Costigan?--see
any signs of a concerted rush, such as there would have been to get the
killer away if we hadn't interfered?"
"No, sir," came Costigan's brisk reply. "None within sight of me."
"Jack and Mase--I don't suppose you looked?"
They hadn't--had not thought of it in time.
"You'll learn. It takes a few things like this to make it automatic.
But I couldn't see any, either, so I'm fairly certain there wasn't any.
Smart operators--quick on the uptake."
"I'd better get at this, sir, don't you think, and let Operation
Boskone go for a while?" Costigan asked.
"I don't think so." Kinnison frowned in thought. "This operation was
_planned_, son, by people with brains. Any clues you could find now
would undoubtedly be plants. No, we'll let the regulars look; we'll
stick to our own ..."
Sirens wailed and screamed outside. Kinnison sent out an exploring
thought.
"Alex?"
"Yes. Where do you want this ninety-sixty with the doctors and nurses?
It's too wide for the gates."
"Go through the wall. Across the lawn. Right up to the door, and never
mind the frippery they've got all over the place--have your adjutant
tell them to bill us for damage. Samms is shot in the shoulder. Not too
serious, but I'm taking him to the Hill, where I know he'll be safe.
What have you got on top of the umbrella, the _Boise_ or the _Chicago_?
I haven't had time to look up yet."
"Both."
"Good man."
Jack Kinnison started at the monstrous tank, which was smashing
statues, fountains, and ornamental trees flat into the earth as it
moved ponderously across the grounds, and licked his lips. He looked
at the companies of soldiers "frisking" the route, the grounds, and
the crowd--higher up, at the hovering helicopters--still higher,
at the eight light cruisers so evidently and so viciously ready to
blast--higher still, at the long streamers of fire which, he now knew,
marked the locations of the two most powerful engines of destruction
ever built by man--and his face turned slowly white.
"Good Lord, Dad!" he swallowed twice. "I had no idea ... but they
might, at that."
"Not 'might', son. They damn well would, if they could get here soon
enough with heavy enough stuff." The elder Kinnison's jaw-muscles
did not loosen, his darting eyes did not relax their vigilance for
a fraction of a second as he Lensed the thought. "You boys can't be
expected to know it all, but right now you're learning fast. Get
this--paste it in your iron hats. _Virgil Samms' life is the most
important thing in this whole damned universe!_ If they had got him
then it would not, strictly speaking, have been my fault, but if they
get him now, it will be."
The land cruiser crunched to a stop against the very entrance, and a
white-clad man leaped out.
"Let me look at him, please..."
"Not yet!" Kinnison denied, sharply. "Not until he's got four inches
of solid steel between him and whoever wants to finish the job they
started. Get your men around him, and get him aboard--fast!"
Samms, protected at every point at every instant, was lifted into the
maw of the ninety-sixty; and as the massive door clanged shut Kinnison
heaved a tremendous sigh of relief. The cavalcade moved away.
"Coming with us, Rod?" Commodore Clayton shouted.
"Yes, but got a couple minutes' work here yet. Have a staff car wait
for me, and I'll join you." He turned to the three young Lensmen and
the girl. "This fouls up our plans a little, but not too much--I
hope. No change in Mateese or Boskone; you and Costigan, Jill, can go
ahead as planned. Northrop, you'll have to brief Jill on Zwilnik and
find out what she knows. Virgil was going to do it tonight, after the
brawl here, but you know as much about it now as any of us. Check with
Knobos, DalNalten, and Fletcher--while Virgil is laid up you and Jack
may have to work on both Zabriska and Zwilnik--he'll Lens you. Get the
dope, then do as you think best. Get going!" He strode away toward the
waiting staff-car.
"Boskone? Zwilnik?" Jill demanded. "What gives? What are they, Jack?"
"We don't know yet--maybe we're going to name a couple of planets..."
"Piffle!" she scoffed. "Can _you_ talk sense, Mase? What's Boskone?"
"A simple, distinctive, pronounceable coined word; suggested, I
believe, by Dr. Bergenholm ..." he began.
"You know what I mean, you ..." she broke in, but was silenced by a
sharply Lensed thought from Jack. His touch was very light, barely
sufficient to make conversation possible; but even so, she flinched.
"Use your brain, Jill; you aren't thinking a lick--not that you can be
blamed for it. Stop talking; there may be lip-readers or high-powered
listeners around. This feels funny, doesn't it?" He twitched mentally
and went on: "You already know what Operation Mateese is, since it's
your own dish--politics. Operation Zwilnik is drugs, vice, and so on.
Operation Boskone is pirates; Spud is running that. Operation Zabriska
is Mase and me checking some peculiar disturbances in the sub-ether.
Come in, Mase, and do your stuff--I'll see you later, aboard. Clear
ether, Jill!"
Young Kinnison vanished from the fringes of her mind and Northrop
appeared. And what a difference! His mind touched hers as gingerly as
Jack's had done; as skittishly, as instantaneously ready to bolt away
from anything in the least degree private. However, Jack's mind had
rubbed hers the wrong way, right from the start--and Mase's didn't!
"Now, about this Operation Zwilnik," Jill began.
"Something else first. I couldn't help noticing, back there, that you
and Jack ... well, not out of phase, exactly, or really out of sync,
but sort of ... well, as though ..."
"'Hunting'?" she suggested.
"Not exactly ... 'forcing' might be better--like holding a tight beam
together when it wants to fall apart. So you noticed it yourself?"
"Of course, but I thought Jack and I were the only ones who did. Like
scratching a blackboard with your finger-nails--you _can_ do it, but
you're awfully glad to stop ... and I _like_ Jack, too, darn it--at a
distance."
"And you and I fit like precisely tuned circuits. Jack really meant it,
then, when he said that you ... that is, he ... I didn't quite believe
it until now, but if ... you know, of course, what you've already done
to me."
Jill's block went on, full strength. She arched her eyebrows and spoke
aloud--"why, I haven't the _faintest_ idea!"
"Of course not. That's why you're using voice. I've found out, too,
that I can't lie with my mind. I feel like a heel and a louse, with
so much job ahead, but you've simply got to tell me something.
Then--whatever you say--I'll hit the job with everything I've got. Do I
get heaved out between planets without a space-suit, or not?"
"I don't think so." Jill blushed vividly, but her voice was steady.
"You would rate a space-suit, and enough oxygen to reach another
plan--another goal. And now we'd better get to work, don't you think?"
"Yes. Thanks, Jill, a million. I know as well as you do that I was
talking out of turn, and how much--but I had to know." He breathed
deep. "And that's all I ask--for now. Cut your screens."
She lowered her mental barriers, finding it surprisingly easy to do so
in this case; let them down almost as far as she was in the habit of
doing with her father. He explained in flashing thoughts everything he
knew of the four Operations, concluding:
"I'm not assigned to Zabriska permanently; I'll probably work with you
on Mateese after your father gets back into circulation. I'm to act
more as a liaison man--neither Knobos nor DalNalten knows you well
enough to Lens you. Right?"
"Yes, I've met Mr. Knobos only once, and have never even seen Dr.
DalNalten."
"Ready to visit them, via Lens?"
"Yes. Go ahead."
The two Lensmen came in. They came into his mind, not hers.
Nevertheless their thoughts, superimposed upon Northrop's, came to the
girl as clearly as though all four were speaking to each other face to
face.
"What a _weird_ sensation!" Jill exclaimed. "Why, I never _imagined_
anything like it!"
"We are sorry to trouble you, Miss Samms...." Jill was surprised anew.
The silent voice deep within her mind was of characteristically Martian
timber, but instead of the harshly guttural consonants and the hissing
sibilants of any Martian's best efforts at English, pronunciation and
enunciation were flawless.
"Oh, I didn't mean that. It's no trouble at all, really, I just haven't
got used to this telepathy yet."
"None of us has, to any noticeable degree. But the reason for this call
is to ask you if you have anything new, however slight, to add to our
very small knowledge of Zwilnik?"
"Very little, I'm afraid; and that little is mostly guesses,
deductions, and jumpings at conclusions. Father told you about the way
I work, I suppose?"
"Yes. Exact data is not to be expected. Hints, suggestions, possible
leads, will be of inestimable value."
"Well, I met a very short, very fat Venerian, named Ossmen, at a party
at the European Embassy. Do either of you know him?"
"I know of him," DalNalten replied. "A highly reputable merchant, with
such large interests on Tellus that he has to spend most of his time
here. He is not in any one of our books ... although there is nothing
at all surprising in that fact. Go on, please, Miss Samms."
"He didn't come to the party with Senator Morgan; but he came to some
kind of an agreement with him that night, and I am pretty sure that it
was about thionite. That's the only new item I have."
"_Thionite!_" The three Lensmen were equally surprised.
"Yes. Thionite. Definitely."
"How _sure_ are you of this, Miss Samms?" Knobos asked, in deadly
earnest.
"I am not _sure_ that this particular agreement was about thionite,
no; but the probability is roughly nine-tenths. I _am_ sure, however,
that both Senator Morgan and Ossmen know a lot about thionite that they
want to hide. Both gave very high positive reactions--well beyond the
six-sigma point of virtual certainty."
There was a pause, broken by the Martian, but not by a thought directed
at any one of the three.
"Sid!" he called, and even Jill could feel the Lensed thought speed.
"Yes, Knobos? Fletcher."
"That haul-in you made, out in the asteroids. Heroin, hadive, and
ladolian, wasn't it? No thionite involved anywhere?"
"No thionite. However, you must remember that part of the gang got
away, so all I can say positively is that we didn't see, or hear about,
any thionite. There was some gossip, of course: but you know there
always is."
"Of course. Thanks, Sid." Jill could feel the brilliant Martian's
mental gears whirl and click. Then he went into such a flashing
exchange of thought with the Venerian that the girl lost track in
seconds.
"One more question, Miss Samms?" DalNalten asked. "Have you detected
any indications that there may be some connection between either Ossmen
or Morgan and any officer or executive of Interstellar Spaceways?"
"_Spaceways!_ Isaacson?" Jill caught her breath. "Why ... nobody even
thought of such a thing--at least, nobody ever mentioned it to me--I
never thought of making any such tests."
"The possibility occurred to me only a moment ago, at your mention of
thionite. The connection, if any exists, will be exceedingly difficult
to trace. But since most, if not all, of the parties involved will
probably be included in your Operation Mateese, and since a finding,
either positive or negative, would be tremendously significant, we feel
emboldened to ask you to keep this point in mind."
"Why, of course I will. I'll be very glad to."
"We thank you for your courtesy and your help. One or both of us will
get in touch with you from time to time, now that we know the pattern
of your personality. May immortal Grolossen speed the healing of your
father's wound."