That murderous attack upon Virgil Samms, and its countering by those
new super-lawmen, the Lensmen, and by an entire task force of the
North American Armed Forces, was news of Civilization-wide importance.
As such, it filled every channel of Universal Telenews for an hour.
Then, in stunning and crescendo succession, came the staccato reports
of the creation of the Galactic Patrol, the mobilization--allegedly
for maneuvers--of Galactic Patrol's Grand Fleet, and the ultimately
desperate and all-too-nearly successful attack upon The Hill.
"Just a second, folks; we'll have it very shortly. You'll see something
that nobody ever saw before and that nobody will ever see again. We're
getting in as close as the Law will let us." The eyes of Telenews' ace
reporter and the telephoto lens of his cameraman stared down from a
scooter at the furiously smoking, sputteringly incandescent surface of
Triplanetary's ancient citadel; while upon dozens of worlds thousands
of millions of people packed themselves tighter and tighter around tens
of millions of visiplates and loud-speakers in order to see and to hear
the tremendous news.
"There it is, folks, look at it--the only really impregnable fortress
ever built by man! A good many of our experts had it written off as
obsolete, long ago, but it seems these Lensmen had something up their
sleeves besides their arms, heh-heh! And speaking of Lensmen, they
haven't been throwing their weight around, so most of us haven't
noticed them very much, but this reporter wants to go on record right
now as saying there must be a lot more to the Lens than any of us has
thought, because otherwise nobody would have gone to all that trouble
and expense, to say nothing of the tremendous loss of life, just to
kill the Chief Lensman, which seems to have been what they were after.
"We told you a few minutes ago, you know, that every Continent of
Civilization sent official messages denying most emphatically any
connection with this outrage. It's still a mystery, folks; in fact,
it is getting more and more mysterious all the time. _Not one single
man of the Black Fleet was taken alive!_ Not even in the ships that
were only holed--they blew themselves up! And there were no uniforms
or books or anything of the kind to be found in any of the wrecks--no
identification whatever!
"And now for the scoop of all time! Universal Telenews has obtained
permission to interview the two top Lensmen, both of whom you all
know--Virgil Samms and 'Rod the Rock' Kinnison--personally for this
beam. We are now going down, by remote control, of course, right into
the Galactic patrol office, right in The Hill itself. Here we are. Now
if you will step just a little closer to the mike, please, Mr. Samms,
or should I say...?"
"You should say 'First Lensman Samms'," Kinnison said bruskly.
"Oh, yes, First Lensman Samms. Thank you, Mr. Kinnison. Now, First
Lensman Samms, our clients all want to know all about the Lens. We all
know what it _does_, but what, really, _is_ it? Who invented it? How
does it work?"
Kinnison started to say something, but Samms silenced him with a
thought.
"I will answer those questions by asking you one." Samms smiled
disarmingly. "Do you remember what happened because the pirates learned
to duplicate the golden meteor of the Triplanetary Service?"
"Oh, I see." The Telenews ace, although brash and not at all
thin-skinned, was quick on the uptake. "Hush-hush? T. S.?"
"Top Secret. Very much so," Samms confirmed, "and we are going to keep
some things about the Lens secret as long as we possibly can."
"Fair enough. Sorry folks, but you will agree that they're right on
that. Well, then, Mr. Samms, who do you think it was that tried to kill
you, and where do you think the Black Fleet came from?"
"I have no idea," Samms said, slowly and thoughtfully. "No. No idea
whatever."
"What? Are you _sure_ of that? Aren't you holding back maybe just a
little bit of a suspicion, for diplomatic reasons?"
"I am holding nothing back; and through my Lens I can make you certain
of the fact. Lensed thoughts come from the mind itself, direct, not
through such voluntary muscles as the tongue. The mind does not
lie--even such lies as you call 'diplomacy'."
The Lensman demonstrated and the reporter went on:
"He is _sure_, folks, which fact knocked me speechless for a second
or two--which is quite a feat in itself. Now, Mr. Samms, one last
question. What is all this Lens stuff really about? What are all
you Lensmen--the Galactic Council and so on--really up to? What do
you expect to get out of it? And why would anybody want to make
such an all-out effort to get rid of you? And give it to me on the
Lens, please, if you can do it and talk at the same time--that was a
wonderful sensation, folks, of getting the dope straight and _knowing_
that it was straight."
"I can and will answer both by voice and by Lens. Our basic purpose
is ..." and he quoted verbatim the resounding sentences which Mentor
had impressed so ineradicably upon his mind. "You know how little
happiness, how little real well-being, there is upon any world today.
We propose to increase both. What we expect to get out of it is
happiness and well-being for ourselves, the satisfaction felt by any
good workman doing the job for which he is best fitted and in which
he takes pride. As to why anyone should want to kill me, the logical
explanation would seem to be that some group or organization or race,
opposed to that for which we Lensmen stand, decided to do away with us
and started with me."
"Thank you, Mr. Samms. I am sure that we all enjoyed this interview
very much. Now, folks, you all know 'Rocky Rod', 'Rod the Rock',
Kinnison ... just a little closer, please ... thank you. I don't
suppose you have any suspicions, either, any more than...."
"I certainly have!" Kinnison barked, so savagely that five hundred
million people jumped as one. "How do you want it; voice, or Lens,
or both?" Then on the Lens: "Think it over, son, because _I suspect
everybody_!"
"Bub-both, please, Mr. Kinnison." Even Universal's star reporter was
shaken by the quiet but deadly fury of the big Lensman's thought, but
he rallied so quickly that his hesitation was barely noticeable. "Your
Lensed thought to me was that you suspect _everybody_, Mr. Kinnison?"
"Just that. Everybody. I suspect every continental government of every
world we know, including that of North America of Tellus. I suspect
political parties and organized minorities. I suspect pressure groups.
I suspect capital and I suspect labor. I suspect an organization of
criminals. I suspect nations and races and worlds that no one of us
has as yet heard of--not even you, the top-drawer newshawk of the
universe."
"But you have nothing concrete to go on, I take it?"
"If I did have, do you think I'd be standing here talking to you?"
* * * * *
First Lensman Samms sat in his private quarters and thought.
Lensman Dronvire of Rigel Four stood behind him and helped him think.
Port Admiral Kinnison, with all his force and drive, began a
comprehensive program of investigation, consolidation, expansion,
redesigning, and rebuilding.
Virgilia Samms went to a party practically every night. She danced, she
flirted, she talked. _How_ she talked! Meaningless small talk for the
most part--but interspersed with artless questions and comments which,
while they perhaps did not put her partner of the moment completely at
ease, nevertheless did not quite excite suspicion.
Conway Costigan, Lens under sleeve, undisguised but inconspicuous, rode
the ether-lanes; observing minutely and reporting fully.
Jack Kinnison piloted and navigated and computed for his friend and
boat-mate:
Mason Northrop; who, completely surrounded by breadboard hookups of new
and ever-more-fantastic complexity, listened and looked; listened and
tuned; listened and rebuilt; listened and--finally--took bearings and
bearings and bearings with his ultra-sensitive loops.
DalNalten and Knobos, with dozens of able helpers, combed the records
of three worlds in a search which produced as a by-product a monumental
"who's who" of crime.
Skilled technicians fed millions of cards, stack by stack, into
the most versatile and most accomplished machines known to the
statisticians of the age.
And Dr. Nels Bergenholm, abandoning temporarily his regular line of
work, devoted his peculiar talents to a highly abstruse research in the
closely allied field of organic chemistry.
The walls of Virgil Samms' quarters became covered with charts,
diagrams, and figures. Tabulations and condensations piled up on his
desk and overflowed into baskets upon the floor. Until:
"Lensman Olmstead, of Alphacent, sir," his secretary announced.
"Good! Send him in, please."
The stranger entered. The two men, after staring intently at each
other for half a minute, smiled and shook hands vigorously. Except for
the fact that the newcomer's hair was brown, they were practically
identical!
"I'm certainly glad to see you, George. Bergenholm passed you, of
course?"
"Yes. He says that he can match your hair to mine, even the individual
white ones. And he has made me a wig-maker's dream of a wig."
"Married?" Samms' mind leaped ahead to possible complications.
"Widower, same as you. And...."
"Just a minute--going over this once will be enough." He Lensed call
after call. Lensmen in various parts of space became en rapport with
him and thus with each other.
"Lensmen--especially you, Rod--George Olmstead is here, and his brother
Ray is available. I am going to work."
"I _still_ don't like it!" Kinnison protested. "It's too dangerous. I
told the Universe I was going to keep you covered, and I _meant_ it!"
"That's what makes it perfectly safe. That is, if Bergenholm is _sure_
that the duplication is close enough ..."
"I am sure." Bergenholm's deeply resonant pseudo-voice left no doubt
at all in any one of the linked minds. "The substitution will not be
detected."
"... and that nobody knows, George, or even suspects, that you got your
Lens."
"I am sure of that." Olmstead laughed quietly. "Also, nobody except us
and your secretary knows that I am here. For a good many years I have
made a specialty of that sort of thing. Photos, fingerprints, and so on
have all been taken care of."
"Good. I simply can not work efficiently here," Samms expressed
what all knew to be the simple truth. "Dronvire is a much better
analyst-synthesist than I am; as soon as any significant correlation
is possible he will know it. We have learned that the Towne-Morgan
crowd, Mackenzie Power, Ossmen Industries, and Interstellar
Spaceways are all tied in together, and that thionite is involved,
but we have not been able to get any further. There is a slight
correlation--barely significant--between deaths from thionite and
the arrival in the Solarian System of certain Spaceways liners. The
fact that certain officials of the Earth-Screen Service have been and
are spending considerably more than they earn sets up a slight but
definite probability that they are allowing space-ships or boats from
space-ships to land illegally. These smugglers carry contraband, which
may or may not be thionite. In short, we lack fundamental data in every
department, and it is high time for me to begin doing my share in
getting it."
"I don't check you, Virge." None of the Kinnisons ever did give
up without a struggle. "Olmstead is a mighty smooth worker,
and you are our prime coordinator. Why not let him keep up the
counter-espionage--do the job you were figuring on doing yourself--and
you stay here and boss it?"
"I have thought of that, a great deal, and have...."
"Because Olmstead can not do it," a hitherto silent mind cut in,
decisively. "I, Rularion of North Polar Jupiter, say so. There are
psychological factors involved. The ability to separate and to evaluate
the constituent elements of a complex situation; the ability to make
correct decisions without hesitation; as well as many others not
as susceptible to concise statement, but which collectively could
be called power of mind. How say you, Bergenholm of Tellus? For I
have perceived in you a mind approximating in some respects the
philosophical and psychological depth of my own." This outrageously
egotistical declaration was, to the Jovian, a simple statement of an
equally simple truth, and Bergenholm accepted it as such.
"I agree. Olmstead probably could not succeed."
"Well, then, can Samms?" Kinnison demanded.
"Who knows?" came Bergenholm's mental shrug, and simultaneously:
"Nobody knows whether I can or not, but I am going to try," and Samms
ended--almost--the argument by asking Bergenholm and a couple of other
Lensmen to come into his office and by taking off his Lens.
"And that's another thing I don't like." Kinnison offered one last
objection. "Without your Lens, _anything_ can happen to you."
"Oh, I won't have to be without it very long. And besides,
Virgilia isn't the only one in the Samms family who can work
better--sometimes--without a Lens."
The Lensmen came in and, in a surprisingly short time, went out. A few
minutes later, two Lensmen strolled out of Samms' inner office into
the outer one.
"Good-bye, George," the red-headed man said aloud, "and good luck."
"Same to you, Chief," and the brown-haired one strode out.
Norma the secretary was a smart girl, and observant. In her position,
she had to be. Her eyes followed the man out, then scanned the Lensman
from toe to crown.
"I've never seen anything like it, Mr. Samms," she remarked then.
"Except for the difference in coloring, and a sort of ... well,
stoopiness ... he could be your identical twin. You two must have had a
common ancestor--or several--not too far back, didn't you?"
"We certainly did. Quadruple second cousins, you might call it. We have
known of each other for years, but this is the first time we have met."
"Quadruple second cousins? What does that mean? How come?"
"Well, say that once upon a time there were two men named Albert and
Chester...."
"What? Not two Irishmen named Pat and Mike? You're slipping, boss." The
girl smiled roguishly. During rush hours she was always the fast, cool,
efficient secretary, but in moments of ease such persiflage as this was
the usual thing in the First Lensman's private office. "Not at all up
to your usual form."
"Merely because I am speaking now as a genealogist, not as a raconteur.
But to continue, we will say that Chester and Albert had four children
apiece, two boys and two girls, two pairs of identical twins, each. And
when they grew up--half way up, that is...."
"Don't tell me that we are going to suppose that all those identical
twins married each other?"
"Exactly. Why not?"
"Well, it would be stretching the laws of probability all out of shape.
But go ahead--I can see what's coming, I think."
"Each of those couples had one, and only one, child. We will call those
children Jim Samms and Sally Olmstead; John Olmstead and Irene Samms."
The girl's levity disappeared. "James Alexander Samms and Sarah
Olmstead Samms. Your parents. I didn't see what was coming, after all.
This George Olmstead; then, is your...."
"Whatever it is, yes. I can't name it, either--maybe you had better
call Genealogy some day and find out. But it's no wonder we look alike.
And there are three of us, not two--George has an identical twin
brother."
The red-haired Lensman stepped back into the inner office, shut the
door, and Lensed a thought at Virgil Samms.
"It worked, Virgil! I talked to her for five solid minutes, practically
leaning on her desk, and she didn't tumble! And if this wig of
Bergenholm's fooled _her_ so completely, the job he did on you would
fool _anybody_!"
"Fine! I've done a little testing myself, on the keenest men I know,
without a trace of recognition so far."
His last lingering doubt resolved, Samms boarded the ponderous,
radiation-proof, neutron-proof shuttle-scow which was the only possible
means of entering or leaving the Hill. A fast cruiser whisked him
to Nampa, where Olmstead's "accidentally" damaged transcontinental
transport was being repaired, and from which city Olmstead had been
gone so briefly that no one had missed him. He occupied Olmstead's
space; he surrendered the remainder of Olmstead's ticket. He reached
New York. He took a 'copter to Senator Morgan's office. He was escorted
into the private office of Herkimer Herkimer Third.
"Olmstead. Of Alphacent."
"Yes?" Herkimer's hand moved, ever so little, upon his desk's top.
"Here." The Lensman dropped an envelope upon the desk in such fashion
that it came to rest within an inch of the hand.
"Prints. Here." Samms made prints. "Wash your hands, over there."
Herkimer pressed a button. "Check all these prints, against each other
and the files. Check the two halves of the torn sheet, fiber to fiber."
He turned to the Lensless Lensman, now standing quietly before his
desk. "Routine; a formality, in your case, but necessary."
"Of course."
Then for long seconds the two hard men stared into the hard depths of
each other's eyes.
"You may do, Olmstead. We have had very good reports of you. But you
have never been in thionite?"
"No. I have never even seen any."
"What do you want to get into it for?"
"Your scouts sounded me out; what did they tell you? The usual
thing--promotion from the ranks into the brass--to get to where I can
do myself and the organization some good."
"Yourself first, the organization second?"
"What else? Why should I be different from the rest of you?"
This time the locked eyes held longer; one pair smoldering, the other
gold-flecked, tawny ice.
"Why, indeed?" Herkimer smiled thinly. "We do not advertise it,
however."
"Outside, I wouldn't, either; but here I'm laying my cards flat on the
table."
"I see. You _will_ do, Olmstead, if you live. There's a test, you know."
"They told me there would be."
"Well, aren't you curious to know what it is?"
"Not particularly. _You_ passed it, didn't you?"
"What do you mean by _that_ crack?" Herkimer leaped to his feet; his
eyes, smoldering before, now ablaze.
"Exactly what I said, no more and no less. You may read into it
anything you please." Samms' voice was as cold as were his eyes. "You
picked me out because of what I am. Did you think that moving upstairs
would make a boot-licker out of me?"
"Not at all." Herkimer sat down and took from a drawer two small,
transparent, vaguely capsule-like tubes, each containing a few
particles of purple dust. "You know what this is?"
"I can guess."
"Each of these is a good, heavy jolt; about all that a strong man with
a strong heart can stand. Sit down. Here is one dose. Pull the cover,
stick the capsule up one nostril, squeeze the ejector, and sniff. If
you can leave this other dose sitting here on the desk you will live,
and thus pass the test. If you can't, you die."
Samms sat, and pulled, and squeezed, and sniffed.
His forearms hit the desk with a thud. His hands clenched themselves
into fists, the tight-stretched tendons standing boldly out. His face
turned white. His eyes jammed themselves shut; his jaw-muscles sprang
into bands and lumps as they clamped his teeth hard together. Every
voluntary muscle in his body went into a rigor as extreme as that of
death itself. His heart pounded; his breathing became stertorous.
This was the dreadful "muscle-lock" so uniquely characteristic of
thionite; the frenzied immobility of the ultimately passionate
satisfaction of every desire.
The Galactic Patrol became for him an actuality; a force for good
pervading all the worlds of all the galaxies of all the universes of
all existing space-time continual. He knew what the Lens was, and why.
He understood time and space. He knew the absolute beginning and the
ultimate end.
He also saw things and did things over which it is best to draw a
kindly veil, for _every_ desire--mental or physical, open or sternly
suppressed, noble or base--that Virgil Samms had ever had was being
_completely satisfied_. EVERY DESIRE.
As Samms sat there, straining motionlessly upon the verge of death
through sheer ecstasy, a door opened and Senator Morgan entered the
room. Herkimer started, almost imperceptibly, as he turned--had there
been, or not, an instantaneously-suppressed flash of guilt in those now
completely clear and frank brown eyes?
"Hi, Chief; come in and sit down. Glad to see you--this is not exactly
my idea of fun."
"No? When did you stop being a sadist?" The senator sat down beside
his minion's desk, the fingertips of his left hand began soundlessly
to drum. "You wouldn't have, by any chance, been considering the idea
of...?" He paused significantly.
"What an idea." Herkimer's act--if it was an act--was flawless. "He's
too good a man to waste."
"I know it, but you didn't act as though you did. I've never seen you
come out such a poor second in an interview ... and it wasn't because
you didn't know to start with just what kind of a tiger he was--that's
why he was selected for this job. And it would have been so easy to
give him just a wee bit more."
"That's preposterous, Chief, and you know it."
"Do I? However, it couldn't have been jealousy, because he isn't being
considered for your job. He won't be over you, and there's plenty of
room for everybody. What was the matter? Your bloodthirstiness wouldn't
have taken you _that_ far, under these circumstances. Come clean,
Herkimer."
"Okay--I hate the whole damned family!" Herkimer burst out, viciously.
"I see. That adds up." Morgan's face cleared, his fingers became
motionless. "You can't make the Samms wench and aren't in position to
skin her alive, so you get allergic to all her relatives. That adds
up, but let me tell you something." His quiet, level voice carried
more of menace than most men's loudest threats. "Keep your love life
out of business and keep that sadistic streak under control. Don't let
anything like this happen again."
"I won't, Chief. I got off the beam--but he made me so _damn_ mad!"
"Certainly. That's exactly what he was trying to do. Elementary. If he
could make you look small it would make him look big, and he just about
did. But watch now, he's coming to."
Samms' muscles relaxed. He opened his eyes groggily; then, as a wave
of humiliated realization swept over his consciousness, he closed them
again and shuddered. He had always thought himself pretty much of a
man; how could he _possibly_ have descended to such nauseous depths
of depravity, of turpitude, of sheer moral degradation? And yet every
cell of his being was shrieking its demand for more; his mind and
his substance alike were permeated by an over-mastering craving to
experience again the ultimate thrills which they had so tremendously,
so outrageously enjoyed.
There was another good jolt lying right there on the desk in front of
him, even though thionite-sniffers always saw to it that no more of the
drug could be obtained without considerable physical exertion; which
exertion would bring them to their senses. If he took that jolt it
would kill him. What of it? What was death? What good was life, except
to enjoy such thrills as he had just had and was about to have again?
And besides, thionite couldn't kill _him_. He was a super-man; he had
just proved it!
He straightened up and reached for the capsule; and that effort, small
as it was, was enough to bring First Lensman Virgil Samms back under
control. The craving, however, did not decrease. Rather, it increased.
Months were to pass before he could think of thionite, or even of
the color purple, without a spasmodic catching of the breath and a
tightening of every muscle. Years were to pass before he could forget,
even partially, the theretofore unsuspected dwellers in the dark
recesses of his own mind. Nevertheless, from the store of whatever it
was that made him what he was, Virgil Samms drew strength. Thumb and
forefinger touched the capsule, but instead of picking it up, he pushed
it across the desk toward Herkimer.
"Put it away, bub. One whiff of that stuff will last me for life." He
stared unfathomably at the secretary, then turned to Morgan and nodded.
"After all, he did not _say_ that he ever passed this or any other
test. He just didn't contradict me when I said it."
With a visible effort Herkimer remained silent, but Morgan did not.
"You talk too much, Olmstead. Can you stand up yet?"
Gripping the desk with both hands, Samms heaved himself to his feet.
The room was spinning and gyrating; every individual thing in it was
moving in a different and impossible orbit; his already splintered
skull threatened more and more violently to emulate a fragmentation
bomb; black and white spots and vari-colored flashes filled his cone of
vision. He wrenched one hand free, then the other--and collapsed back
into the chair.
"Not yet--quite," he admitted, through stiff lips.
Although he was careful not to show it, Morgan was amazed--not that
the man had collapsed, but that he had been able so soon to lift
himself even an inch. "Tiger" was not the word; this Olmstead must be
seven-eighths dinosaur.
"It takes a few minutes; longer for some, not so long for others,"
Morgan said, blandly. "But what makes you think Herkimer here never
took one of the same?"
"Huh?" Again two pairs of eyes locked and held; and this time the duel
was longer and more pregnant. "What do _you_ think? How do you suppose
I lived to get as old as I am now? By being dumb?"
Morgan unwrapped a Venerian cigar, settled it comfortably between his
teeth, lit it, and drew three slow puffs before replying.
"Ah, a student. An analytical mind," he said, evenly,
and--apparently--irrelevantly. "Let's skip Herkimer for the moment. Try
your hand on me."
"Why not? From what we hear out in the field, you have always been in
the upper brackets, so you probably never had to prove that you could
take it or let it alone. My guess would be, though, that you could."
"The good old oil, eh?" Morgan allowed his face and voice to register
a modicum, precisely metered, of contempt. "How to get along in the
world; Lesson One: Butter up the Boss."
"Nice try, Senator, but I'll have to score you a clean miss." Samms,
now back almost to normal, grinned companionably. "We both know that if
I were still in the kindergarten I wouldn't be here now."
"I'll let that one pass--this time." Under that look and tone Morgan's
underlings were wont to cringe, but this Olmstead was not the cringing
type. "Don't do it again. It might not be safe."
"Oh, it would be safe enough--for today, at least. There are two
factors which you are very carefully ignoring. First, I haven't
accepted the job yet."
"Are you innocent enough to think you'll get out of this building
alive if I don't accept you?"
"If you want to call it innocence, yes. Oh, I know you've got gunnies
all over the place, but they don't mean a thing."
"No?" Morgan's voice was silkily venomous.
"No." Olmstead was completely unimpressed. "Put yourself in my place.
You know I've been around a long time; and not just around my mother. I
was weaned quite a number of years ago."
"I see. You don't scare worth a damn. A point. And you are testing me,
just as I am testing you. Another point. I'm beginning to like you,
George. I think I know what your second point is, but let's have it,
just for the record."
"I'm sure you do. Any man, to be my boss, has got to be at least as
good a man as I am. Otherwise I take his job away from him."
"Fair enough. By God, I _do_ like you, Olmstead!" Morgan, his big face
wreathed in smiles, got up, strode over, and shook hands vigorously;
and Samms, scan as he would, could not even hazard a guess as to how
much--if any--of this enthusiasm was real. "Do you want the job? And
when can you go to work?"
"Yes, sir. Two hours ago, sir."
"That's fine!" Morgan boomed. Although he did not comment upon it, he
noticed and understood the change in the form of address. "Without
knowing what the job is or how much it pays?"
"Neither is important, sir, at the moment." Samms, who had got up
easily enough to shake hands, now shook his head experimentally.
Nothing rattled. Good--he was in pretty good shape already. "As to the
job, I can either do it or find out why it can't be done. As to pay,
I've heard you called a lot of things, but 'piker' was never one of
them."
"Very well. I predict that you will go far." Morgan again shook the
Lensman's hand; and again Samms could not evaluate the Senator's
sincerity. "Tuesday afternoon. New York Spaceport. Space-ship _Virgin
Queen_. Report to Captain Willoughby in the dock office at fourteen
hundred hours. Stop at the cashier's office on your way out. Good-bye."