It has been said that the basic drive of the Eddorians was a lust
for power; a thought which should be elucidated and perhaps slightly
modified. Their warrings, their strifes, their internecine intrigues
and connivings were inevitable because of the tremendousness and
capability--and the limitations--of their minds. Not enough _could_
occur upon any one planet to keep such minds as theirs even partially
occupied; and, unlike the Arisians, they could not satiate themselves
in a static philosophical study of the infinite possibilities of the
Cosmic All. They had to be _doing_ something; or, better yet, making
other and lesser beings do things to make the physical universe conform
to their idea of what a universe should be.
Their first care was to set up the various echelons of control. The
second echelon, immediately below the Masters, was of course the most
important, and after a survey of both galaxies they decided to give
this high honor to the Ploorans. Ploor, as is now well known, was
a planet of a sun so variable that all Plooran life had to undergo
radical cyclical changes in physical form in order to live through the
tremendous climatic changes involved in its every year. Physical form,
however, meant nothing to the Eddorians. Since no other planet even
remotely like theirs existed in this, our normal plenum, physiques like
theirs would be impossible; and the Plooran mentality left very little
to be desired.
In the third echelon there were many different races, among which the
frigid-blooded, poison-breathing Eich were perhaps the most efficient
and most callous; and in the fourth there were millions upon millions
of entities representing thousands upon thousands of widely-variant
races.
Thus, at the pinpoint in history represented by the time of Virgil
Samms and Roderick Kinnison, the Eddorians were busy; and if such
a word can be used, happy. Gharlane of Eddore, second in authority
only to the All-Highest, His Ultimate Supremacy himself, paid little
attention to any one planet or to any one race. Even such a mind as
his, when directing the affairs of twenty million and then sixty
million and then a hundred million worlds, can do so only in broad, and
not in fine.
And thus the reports which were now flooding in to Gharlane in a
constantly increasing stream concerned classes and groups of worlds,
and solar systems, and galactic regions. A planet might perhaps be
mentioned as representative of a class, but no individual entity
lower than a Plooran was named or discussed. Gharlane analyzed those
tremendous reports; collated, digested, compared, and reconciled them;
determined trends and tendencies and most probable resultants. Gharlane
issued orders, the carrying out of which would make an entire galactic
region fit more and ever more exactly into the Great Plan.
But, as has been pointed out, there was one flaw inherent in the
Boskonian system. Underlings, then as now, were prone to gloss over
their own mistakes, to cover up their own incompetences. Thus, since
he had no reason to inquire specifically, Gharlane did not know that
anything whatever had gone amiss on Sol Three, the pestiferous planet
which had formerly caused him more trouble than all the rest of his
worlds combined.
After the fact, it is easy to say that he should have continued
his personal supervision of Earth, but can that view be defended?
Egotistical, self-confident, arrogant, Gharlane _knew_ that he had
finally whipped Tellus into line. It was the same now as any other
planet of its class. And even had he thought it worth while to make
such a glaring exception, would not the fused Elders of Arisia have
intervened?
Be those things as they may, Gharlane did not know that the new-born
Galactic Patrol had been successful in defending Triplanetary's Hill
against the Black Fleet. Nor did the Plooran Assistant Director in
charge. Nor did any member of that dreadful group of Eich which was
even then calling itself the Council of Boskone. The highest-ranking
Boskonian who knew of the fiasco, calmly confident of his own ability,
had not considered this minor reverse of sufficient importance to
report to his immediate superior. He had already taken steps to
correct the condition. In fact, as matters now stood, the thing was
more fortunate than otherwise, in that it would lull the Patrol into
believing themselves in a position of superiority--a belief which
would, at election time, prove fatal.
This being, human to the limit of classification except for a faint but
unmistakable blue coloration, had been closeted with Senator Morgan for
a matter of two hours.
"In the matters covered, your reports have been complete and
conclusive," the visitor said finally, "but you have not reported on
the Lens."
"Purposely. We are investigating it, but any report based upon our
present knowledge would be partial and inconclusive."
"I see. Commendable enough, usually. News of this phenomenon has,
however, gone farther and higher than you think and I have been ordered
to take cognizance of it; to decide whether or not to handle it myself."
"I am thoroughly capable of...."
"I will decide that, not you." Morgan subsided. "A partial report is
therefore in order. Go ahead."
"According to the procedure submitted and approved, a Lensman was
taken alive. Since the Lens has telepathic properties, and hence is
presumably operative at great distances, the operation was carried out
in the shortest possible time. The Lens, immediately upon removal from
the Patrolman's arm, ceased to radiate and the operative who held the
thing died. It was then applied by force to four other men--workers,
these, of no importance. All four died, thus obviating all possibility
of coincidence. An attempt was made to analyze a fragment of the active
material, without success. It seemed to be completely inert. Neither
was it affected by electrical discharges or by sub-atomic bombardment,
nor by any temperatures available. Meanwhile, the man was of course
being questioned, under truth-drug and beams. His mind denied any
knowledge of the nature of the Lens; a thing which I am rather inclined
to believe. His mind adhered to the belief that he obtained the Lens
upon the planet Arisia. I am offering for your consideration my opinion
that the high-ranking officers of the Patrol are using hypnotism to
conceal the real source of the Lens."
"Your opinion is accepted for consideration."
"The man died during examination. Two minutes after his death his Lens
disappeared."
"Disappeared? What do you mean? Flew away? Vanished? Was stolen?
Disintegrated? Or what?"
"No. More like evaporation or sublimation, except that there was no
gradual diminution in volume, and there was no detectable residue,
either solid, liquid, or gaseous. The platinum-alloy bracelet remained
intact."
"And then?"
"The Patrol attacked in force and our expedition was destroyed."
"You are sure of these observational facts?"
"I have the detailed records. Would you like to see them?"
"Send them to my office. I hereby relieve you of all responsibility
in the matter of the Lens. In fact, even I may decide to refer it to
a higher echelon. Have you any other material, not necessarily facts,
which may have bearing?"
"None," Morgan replied; and it was just as well for Virgilia Samms'
continued well-being that the Senator did not think it worth while to
mention the traceless disappearance of his Number One secretary and a
few members of a certain unsavory gang. To his way of thinking, the
Lens was not involved, except perhaps very incidentally. Herkimer, in
spite of advice and orders, had probably got rough with the girl, and
Samms' mob had rubbed him out. Served him right.
"I have no criticism of any phase of your work. You are doing a
particularly nice job on thionite. You are of course observing all
specified precautions as to key personnel?"
"Certainly. Thorough testing and unremitting watchfulness. Our Mr.
Isaacson is about to promote a man who has proved very capable. Would
you like to observe the proceedings?"
"No. I have no time for minor matters. Your results have been
satisfactory. Keep them that way. Good-bye." The visitor strode out.
Morgan reached for a switch, then drew his hand back. No. He would
like to sit in on the forthcoming interview, but he did not have the
time. He had tested Olmstead repeatedly and personally; he knew what
the man was. It was Isaacson's department; let Isaacson handle it. He
himself must work full time at the job which only he could handle; the
Nationalists must and would win this forthcoming election.
And in the office of the president of Interstellar Spaceways, Isaacson
got up and shook hands with George Olmstead.
"I called you in for two reasons. First, in reply to your message that
you were ready for a bigger job. What makes you think that any such are
available?"
"Do I need to answer that?"
"Perhaps not ... no." The magnate smiled quietly. Morgan was right;
this man could not be accused of being dumb. "There is such a job,
you are ready for it, and you have your successor trained in the work
of harvesting. Second, why did you cut down, instead of increasing as
ordered, the weight of broadleaf per trip? This, Olmstead, is really
serious."
"I explained why. It would have been more serious the other way. Didn't
you believe I knew what I was talking about?"
"Your reasoning may have been distorted in transmittal. I want it
straight from you."
"Very well. It isn't smart to be greedy. There's a point at which
something that has been merely a nuisance becomes a thing that _has_ to
be wiped out. Since I didn't want to be in that ferry when the Patrol
blows it out of the ether, I cut down the take, and I advise you to
keep it down. What you're getting now is a lot more than you ever got
before, and a _hell_ of a lot more than none at all. Think it over."
"I see. Upon what basis did you arrive at the figure you established?"
"Pure guesswork, nothing else. I guessed that about three hundred
percent of the previous average per month ought to satisfy anybody who
wasn't too greedy to have good sense, and that more than that would
ring a loud, clear bell right where we don't want any noise made. So I
cut it down to three, and advised Ferdy either to keep it at three or
quit while he was still all in one piece."
"You exceeded your authority ... and were insubordinate ... but it
wouldn't surprise me if you were right. You are certainly right in
principle, and the poundage can be determined by statistical and
psychological analysis. But in the meantime, there is tremendous
pressure for increased production."
"I know it. Pressure be damned. My dear cousin Virgil is, as you
already know, a crackpot. He is visionary, idealistic, full of sweet
and beautiful concepts of what the universe would be like if there
weren't so many people like you and me in it; but don't ever make the
mistake of writing him off as anybody's fool. And you know, probably
better than I do, what Rod Kinnison is like. If I were you I'd tell
whoever is doing the screaming to shut their damn mouths before they
get their teeth kicked down their throats."
"I'm very much inclined to take your advice. And now as to this
proposed promotion. You are of course familiar in a general way with
our operation at Northport?"
"I could scarcely help knowing _something_ about the biggest uranium
works on Earth. However, I am not well enough qualified in detail to
make a good technical executive."
"Nor is it necessary. Our thought is to make you a key man in a new and
increasingly important branch of the business, known as Department Q.
It is concerned neither with production nor with uranium."
"Q as in 'quiet', eh? I'm listening with both ears. What duties would
be connected with this ... er ... position? What would I really do?"
Two pairs of hard eyes locked and held, staring yieldlessly into each
other's depths.
"You would not be unduly surprised to learn that substances other than
uranium occasionally reach Northport?"
"Not _too_ surprised, no," Olmstead replied dryly. "What would I do
with it?"
"We need not go into that here or now. I offer you the position."
"I accept it."
"Very well. I will take you to Northport, and we will continue our talk
en route."
And in a spy-ray-proof, sound-proof compartment of a Spaceways-owned
stratoliner they did so.
"Just for my information, Mr. Isaacson, how many predecessors have I
had on this particular job, and what happened to them? The Patrol get
them?"
"Two. No; we have not been able to find any evidence that the Samms
crowd has any suspicion of us. Both were too small for the job; neither
could handle personnel. One got funny ideas, the other couldn't stand
the strain. If you don't get funny ideas, and don't crack up, you will
make out in a big--and I mean _really_ big--way."
"If I do either I'll be more than somewhat surprised." Olmstead's
features set themselves into a mirthless, uncompromising, somehow
bitter grin.
"So will I." Isaacson agreed.
He knew what this man was, and just how case-hardened he was. He knew
that he had fought Morgan himself to a scoreless tie after twisting
Herkimer--and he was no soft touch--into a pretzel in nothing flat. At
the thought of the secretary, so recently and so mysteriously vanished,
the magnate's mind left for a moment the matter in hand. What was
at the bottom of that affair--the Lens or the woman? Or both? If he
were in Morgan's shoes ... but he wasn't. He had enough grief of his
own, without worrying about any of Morgan's stinkeroos. He studied
Olmstead's inscrutable, subtly sneering smile and knew that he had made
a wise decision.
"I gather that I am going to be one of the main links in the primary
chain of deliveries. What's the technique, and how do I cover up?"
"Technique first. You go fishing. You are an expert at that, I believe?"
"You might say so. I won't have to do any faking there."
"Some week-end soon, and _every_ week-end later on, we hope, you will
indulge in your favorite sport at some lake or other. You will take the
customary solid and liquid refreshments along in a lunch-box. When you
have finished eating you will toss the lunch-box overboard."
"That all?"
"That's all."
"The lunch-box, then, will be slightly special?"
"More or less, although it will look ordinary enough. Now as to the
cover-up. How would 'Director of Research' sound?"
"I don't know. Depends on what the researchers are doing. Before I
became an engineer I was a pure scientist of sorts; but that was quite
a while ago and I was never a specialist."
"That is one reason why I think you will do. We have plenty of
specialists--too many, I often think. They dash off in all directions,
without rhyme or reason. What we want is a man with enough scientific
training to know in general what is going on, but what he will need
mostly is hard common sense, and enough ability--mental force, you
might call it--to hold the specialists down to earth and make them pull
together. If you can do it--and if I didn't think you could I wouldn't
be talking to you--the whole force will know that you are earning your
pay; just as we could not hide the fact that your two predecessors
weren't."
"Put that way it sounds good. I wouldn't wonder if I could handle it."
The conversation went on, but the rest of it is of little importance
here. The plane landed. Isaacson introduced the new Director of
Research to Works Manager Rand, who in turn introduced him to a few of
his scientists and to the svelte and spectacular red-head who was to be
his private secretary.
It was clear from the first that the Research Department was not going
to be an easy one to manage. The top men were defiant, the middle ranks
were sullen, the smaller fry were apprehensive as well as sullen. The
secretary flaunted chips on both shapely shoulders. Men and women alike
expected the application of the old wheeze "a new broom sweeps clean"
for the third time in scarcely twice that many months, and they were
defying him to do his worst. Wherefore they were very much surprised
when the new boss did nothing whatever for two solid weeks except read
reports and get acquainted with his department.
"How d'ya like your new boss, May?" another secretary asked, during a
break.
"Oh, not too bad ... I guess." May's tone was full of reservations.
"He's quiet--sort of reserved--no passes or anything like that--it'd be
funny if I finally got a boss that had something on the ball, wouldn't
it? But you know what, Molly?" The red-head giggled suddenly. "I had
a camera-fiend first, you know, with a million credits' worth of
stereo-cams and such stuff, and then a golf-nut. I wonder what this Dr.
Olmstead does with his spare cash?"
"You'll find out, dearie, no doubt." Molly's tone gave the words a
meaning slightly different from the semantic one of their arrangement.
"I intend to, Molly--I _fully_ intend to." May's meaning, too, was not
expressed exactly by the sequence of words used. "It must be tough, a
boss's life. Having to sit at a desk or be in conference six or seven
hours a day--when he isn't playing around somewhere--for a measly
thousand credits or so a month. How do they get that way?"
"You said it, May. You _really_ said it. But we'll get ours, huh?"
Time went on. George Olmstead studied reports, and more reports. He
read one, and re-read it, frowning. He compared it minutely with
another; then sent red-headed May to hunt up one which had been turned
in a couple of weeks before. He took them home that evening, and in the
morning he punched three buttons. Three stiffly polite young men obeyed
his summons.
"Good morning, Doctor Olmstead."
"Morning, boys. I'm not up on the fundamental theory of any one of
these three reports, but if you combine this, and this, and this,"
indicating heavily-penciled sections of the three documents, "would
you, or would you not, be able to work out a process that would do away
with about three-quarters of the final purification and separation
processes?"
They did not know. It had not been the business of any one of them, or
of all them collectively, to find out.
"I'm making it your business as of now. Drop whatever you're doing, put
your heads together, and find out. Theory first, then a small-scale
laboratory experiment. Then come back here on the double."
"Yes, sir," and in a few days they were back.
"Does it work?"
"In theory it should, sir, and on a laboratory scale it does." The
three young men were, if possible, even stiffer than before. It was not
the first time, nor would it be the last, that a Director of Research
would seize credit for work which he was not capable of doing.
"Good. Miss Reed, get me Rand ... Rand? Olmstead. Three of my boys
have just hatched out something that may be worth quite a few million
credits a year to us.... Me? Hell, no! Talk to them. I can't understand
any one of the three parts of it, to say nothing of inventing it. I
want you to give 'em a class AAA priority on the pilot plant, as of
right now. If they can develop it, and I'm betting they can, I'm going
to put their pictures in the Northport News and give 'em a couple of
thousand credits apiece and a couple of weeks vacation to spend it
in.... Yeah, I'll send 'em in." He turned to the flabbergasted three.
"Take your dope in to Rand--now. Show him what you've got; then tear
into that pilot plant."
And, a little later, Molly and May again met in the powder room.
"So your new boss is a _fisherman_!" Molly snickered. "And they say he
paid over _two hundred credits_ for a _reel_! You were right, May; a
boss's life must be mighty hard to take. And he sits around more and
does less, they say, than any other exec in the plant."
"_Who_ says so, the dirty, sneaking liars?" the red-head blazed,
completely unaware that she had reversed her former position. "And even
if it _was_ so, which it isn't, he can do more work sitting perfectly
still than any other boss in the whole Works can do tearing around at
forty parsecs a minute, so there!"
George Olmstead was earning his salary.
His position was fully consolidated when, a few days later, a tremor of
excitement ran through the Research Department. "Heads up, everybody!
Mr. Isaacson--himself--is coming--_here_! What for, I wonder? Y'don't
s'pose he's going to take the Old Man away from us already, do you?"
He came. He went through, for the first time, the entire department. He
observed minutely, and he understood what he saw.
Olmstead led the Big Boss into his private office and flipped the
switch which supposedly rendered that sanctum proof against any and all
forms of spying, eavesdropping, intrusion, and communication. It did
not, however, close the deeper, subtler channels which the Lensmen used.
"Good work, George. So _damned_ good that I'm going to have to take
you out of Department Q entirely and make you Works Manager of our new
plant on Vegia. Have you got a man you can break in to take your place
here?"
"Including Department Q? No." Although Olmstead did not show it, he
was disappointed at hearing the word "Vegia". He had been aiming much
higher than that--at the secret planet of the Boskonian Armed Forces,
no less--but there might still be enough time to win a transfer there.
"Excluding. I've got another good man here now for that. Jones. Not
heavy enough, though, for Vegia."
"In that case, yes. Dr. Whitworth, one of the boys who worked out the
new process. It'll take a little time, though. Three weeks minimum."
"Three weeks it is. Today's Friday. You've got things in shape, haven't
you, so that you can take the week-end off?"
"I was figuring on it. I'm not going where I thought I was, though, I
imagine."
"Probably not. Lake Chesuncook, on Route 273. Rough country, and the
hotel is something less than fourth rate, but the fishing can't be
beat."
"I'm glad of that. When I fish, I like to catch something."
"It would smell if you didn't. They stock lunch-boxes in the cafeteria,
you know. Have your girl get you one, full of sandwiches and stuff.
Start early this afternoon, as soon as you can after I leave. Be sure
and see Jones, with your lunch-box, before you leave. Good-bye."
"Miss Reed, please send Whitworth in. Then skip down to the cafeteria
and get me a lunch-box. Sandwiches and a thermos of coffee. Provender
suitable for a wet and hungry fisherman."
"Yes, _sir_!" There were no chips now; the red-head's boss was the top
ace of the whole plant.
"Hi, Ned. Take the throne." Olmstead waved his hand at the now vacant
chair behind the big desk. "Hold it down 'til I get back. Monday,
maybe."
"Going fishing, huh?" Gone was all trace of stiffness, of reserve, of
unfriendliness. "You big, lucky stiff!"
"Well, my brilliant young squirt, maybe you'll get old and fat enough
to go fishing yourself some day. Who knows? 'Bye."
Lunch-box in hand and encumbered with tackle, Olmstead walked blithely
along the corridor to the office of Assistant Works Manager Jones.
While he had not known just what to expect, he was not surprised to see
a lunch-box exactly like his own upon the side-table. He placed his box
beside it.
"Hi, Olmstead." By no slightest flicker of expression did either
Lensman step out of character. "Shoving off early?"
"Yeah. Dropped by to let the Head Office know I won't be in 'til
Monday."
"O.K. So'm I, but more speed for me. Chemquassabamticook Lake."
"Do you pronounce that or sneeze it? But have fun, my boy. I'm
combining business with pleasure, though--breaking in Whitworth on my
job. That Fairplay thing is going to break in about an hour, and it'll
scare the pants off of him. But it'll keep until Monday, anyway, and if
he handles it right he's just about in."
Jones grinned. "A bit brutal, perhaps, but a sure way to find out.
'Bye."
"So long." Olmstead strolled out, nonchalantly picking up the wrong
lunch box on the way, and left the building.
He ordered his Dillingham, and tossed the lunch-box aboard as
carelessly as though it did not contain an unknown number of millions
of credits' worth of clear-quill, uncut thionite.
"I hope you have a nice week-end, sir," the yard-man said, as he helped
stow baggage and tackle.
"Thanks, Otto. I'll bring you a couple of fish Monday, if I catch that
many," and it should be said in passing that he brought them. Lensmen
keep their promises, under whatever circumstances or however lightly
given.
It being mid-afternoon of Friday, the traffic was already heavy.
Northport was not a metropolis, of course; but on the other hand it did
not have metropolitan multi-tiered, one-way, non-intersecting streets.
But Olmstead was in no hurry. He inched his spectacular mount--it was
a violently iridescent chrome green in color, with highly polished
chromium gingerbread wherever there was any excuse for gingerbread to
be--across the city and into the north-bound side of the superhighway.
Even then, he did not hurry. He wanted to hit the inspection station at
the edge of the Preserve at dusk. Ninety miles an hour would do it. He
worked his way into the ninety-mile lane and became motionless relative
to the other vehicles on the strip.
It was a peculiar sensation; it seemed as though the cars themselves
were stationary, with the pavement flowing backward beneath them. There
was no passing, no weaving, no cutting in and out. Only occasionally
would the formation be broken as a car would shift almost imperceptibly
to one side or the other; speeding up or slowing down to match the
assigned speed of the neighboring way.
The afternoon was bright and clear, neither too hot nor too cold.
Olmstead enjoyed his drive thoroughly, and arrived at the turn-off
right on schedule. Leaving the wide, smooth way, he slowed down
abruptly; even a Dillingham Super-Sporter could not make speed on the
narrow, rough, and hilly road to Chesuncook Lake.
At dusk he reached the Post. Instead of stopping on the pavement
he pulled off the road, got out, stretched hugely, and took a few
drum-major's steps to take the kinks out of his legs.
"A lot of road, eh?" the smartly-uniformed trooper remarked. "No guns?"
"No guns." Olmstead opened up for inspection. "From Northport.
Funny, isn't it, how hard it is to stop, even when you aren't in any
particular hurry? Guess I'll eat now--join me in a sandwich and some
hot coffee or a cold lemon sour or cherry soda?"
"I've got my own supper, thanks; I was just going to eat. But did you
say a _cold_ lemon sour?"
"Uh-huh. Ice-cold. Zero degrees Centigrade."
"I _will_ join you, in that case. Thanks."
Olmstead opened a frost-lined compartment; took out two half-liter
bottles; placed them and his open lunch-box invitingly on the low stone
wall.
"Hm ... m ... m. Quite a zipper you got there, mister." The trooper
gazed admiringly at the luxurious, two-wheeled monster; listened
appreciatively to its almost inaudible hum. "I've heard about those new
supers, but that is the first one I ever saw. Nice. All the comforts of
home, eh?"
"Just about. Sure you won't help me clean up on those sandwiches,
before they get stale?"
Seated on the wall, the two men ate and talked. If that trooper had
known what was in the box beside his leg he probably would have fallen
over backward; but how was he even to suspect? There was nothing crass
or rough or coarse about any of the work of any of Boskone's high-level
operators.
Olmstead drove on to the lake and took up his reservation at the
ramshackle hotel. He slept, and bright and early the next morning he
was up and fishing--and this part of the performance he really enjoyed.
He knew his stuff and the fish were there; big, wary, and game. He
loved it.
At noon he ate, and quite openly and brazenly consigned the "empty"
box to the watery deep. Even if he had not had so many fish to carry,
he was not the type to lug a cheap lunch-box back to town. He fished
joyously all afternoon, without getting quite the limit, and as the sun
grazed the horizon he started his putt-putt and skimmed back to the
dock.
The thing hadn't sent out any radiation yet, Northrop informed him
tensely, but it certainly would, and when it did they'd be ready. There
were Lensmen and Patrolmen all over the place, thicker than hair on a
dog.
And George Olmstead, sighing wearily and yet blissfully anticipatory of
one more day of enthralling sport, gathered up his equipment and his
fish and strolled toward the hotel.