As long as they were commodores, Clayton of North America and
Schweikert of Europe had stayed fairly close to the home planet except
for infrequent vacation trips. With the formation of the Galactic
Patrol, however, and their becoming Admiral and Lieutenant-Admiral of
the First Galactic Region, and their acquisition of Lenses, the radius
of their sphere of action was tremendously increased. One or the other
of them was always to be found in Grand Fleet Headquarters at New
York Spaceport, but only very seldom were both of them there at once.
And if the absentee were not to be found on Earth, what of it? The
First Galactic Region included all of the solar systems and all of the
planets adherent to Civilization, and the absentee could, as a matter
of business and duty, be practically anywhere.
Usually, however, he was not upon any of the generally-known planets,
but upon Bennett--getting acquainted with the officers, supervising
the drilling of Grand Fleet in new maneuvers, teaching classes in
advanced strategy, and holding skull-practice generally. It was hard
work, and not too inspiring, but in the end it paid off big. They knew
their men; their men knew them. They could work together with a snap, a
smoothness, a precision otherwise impossible; for imported top brass,
unknown to and unacquainted with the body of command, can not have and
does not expect the deep regard and the earned respect so necessary to
high morale.
Clayton and Schweikert had both. They started early enough, worked
hard enough, and had enough stuff, to earn both. Thus it came about
that when, upon a scheduled day, the two admirals came to Bennett
together, they were greeted as enthusiastically as though they had
been Bennettans born and bred; and their welcome became a planet-wide
celebration when Clayton issued the orders which all Bennett had been
waiting so long and so impatiently to hear. Bennettans were at last to
leave Bennett!
Group after group, sub-fleet after sub-fleet, the component units of
the Galactic Patrol's Grand Fleet took off. They assembled in space;
they maneuvered enough to shake themselves down into some semblance of
unity; they practiced the new maneuvers; they blasted off in formation
for Sol. And as the tremendous armada neared the Solar System it
met--or, rather, was joined by--the Patrol ships about which Morgan
and his minions already knew; each of which fitted itself into its
long-assigned place. Every planet of Civilization had sent its every
vessel capable of putting out a screen or of throwing a beam, but so
immense was the number of warships in Grand Fleet that this increment,
great as it intrinsically was, made no perceptible difference in its
size.
On Rally Day Grand Fleet lay poised near Earth. As soon as he had
introduced Samms to the intensely interested listeners at the Rally,
Roderick Kinnison disappeared. Actually, he drove a bug to a distant
corner of the spaceport and left the Earth in a light cruiser, but to
all intents and purposes, so engrossed was everyone in what Samms was
saying, Kinnison simply vanished. Samms was already in the _Boise_; the
Port Admiral went out to his old flagship, the _Chicago_. Nor, in case
any observer of the Enemy should be trying to keep track of him, could
his course be traced. Cleveland and Northrop and Rularion and all they
needed of the vast resources of the Patrol saw to that.
Neither Samms nor Kinnison had any business being with Grand Fleet in
person, of course, and both knew it; but everyone knew why they were
there and were glad that the two top Lensmen had decided to live or
die with their Fleet. If Grand Fleet won, they would probably live; if
Grand Fleet lost they would certainly die--if not in the pyrotechnic
dissolution of their ships, then in a matter of days upon the ground.
With the Fleet their presence would contribute markedly to morale. It
was a chance very much worth taking.
Nor were Clayton and Schweikert together, or even near each other.
Samms, Kinnison, and the two admirals were as far away from each other
as they could get and still remain in Grand Fleet's fighting cylinder.
Cylinder? Yes. The Patrol's Board of Strategy, assuming that the enemy
would attack in conventional cone formation and knowing that one cone
could defeat another only after a long and costly engagement, had long
since spent months and months at war-games in their tactical tanks,
in search of a better formation. They had found it. Theoretically,
a cylinder of proper composition could defeat, with negligible loss
and in a very short time, the best cones they were able to devise.
The drawback was that the ships composing a theoretically efficient
cylinder would have to be highly specialized and vastly greater in
number than any one power had ever been able to put into the ether.
However, with all the resources of Bennett devoted to construction,
this difficulty would not be insuperable.
This, of course, brought up the question of what would happen if
cylinder met cylinder--if the Black strategists should also have
arrived at the same solution--and this question remained unanswered.
Or, rather, there were too many answers, no two of which agreed; like
those to the classical one of what would happen if an irresistible
force should strike an immovable object. There would be a lot of
intensely interesting by-products!
Even Rularion of Jove did not come up with a definite solution.
Nor did Bergenholm; who, although a comparatively obscure young
Lensman-scientist and not a member of the Galactic Council, was
frequently called into consultation because of his unique ability to
arrive at correct conclusions via some obscurely short-circuiting
process of thought.
"Well," Port Admiral Kinnison had concluded, finally, "_If_ they've got
one, too, we'll just have to shorten ours up, widen it out, and pray."
"Clayton to Port Admiral Kinnison," came a communication through
channels. "Have you any additional orders or instructions?"
"Kinnison to Admiral Clayton. None," the Port Admiral replied, as
formally, then went on via Lens: "No comment or criticism to make,
Alex. You fellows have done a job so far and you'll keep on doing one.
How much detection have you got out?"
"Twelve detets--three globes of diesels. If we sit here and do nothing
the boys will get edgy and go stale, so if you and Virge agree we'll
give 'em some practice. Lord knows they need it, and it'll keep 'em on
their toes. But about the Blacks--they may be figuring on delaying any
action until we've had time to crack from boredom. What's your idea on
that?"
"I've been worried about the same thing. Practice will help, but
whether enough or not I don't know. What do you think, Virge? Will they
hold it up deliberately or strike fast?"
"Fast," the First Lensman replied, promptly and definitely. "As soon
as they possibly can, for several reasons. They don't know our real
strength, any more than we know theirs. They undoubtedly believe,
however, the same as we do, that they are more efficient than we are
and have the larger force. By their own need of practice they will know
ours. They do not attach nearly as much importance to morale as we do;
by the very nature of their regime they can't. Also, our open challenge
will tend very definitely to force their hands, since face-saving is
even more important to them than it is to us. They will strike as soon
as they can and as hard as they can."
Grand Fleet maneuvers were begun, but in a day or so the alarms came
blasting in. The enemy had been detected; coming in, as the previous
Black Fleet had come, from the direction of Coma Berenices. Calculating
machines clicked and whirred; orders were flashed, and a brief string
of numbers; ships by the hundreds and the thousands flashed into their
assigned positions.
Or, more precisely, _almost_ into them. Most of the navigators and
pilots had not had enough practice yet to hit their assigned positions
exactly on the first try, since a radical change in axial direction
was involved, but they did pretty well; a few minutes of juggling and
jockeying were enough. Clayton and Schweikert used a little caustic
language--via Lens and to their fellow Lensmen only, of course--but
Samms and Kinnison were well enough pleased. The time of formation had
been very satisfactorily short and the cone was smooth, symmetrical,
and of beautifully uniform density.
The preliminary formation was a cone, not a cylinder. It was not a
conventional Cone of Battle in that it was not of standard composition,
was too big, and had altogether too many ships for its size. It was,
however, of the conventional shape, and it was believed that by the
time the enemy could perceive any significant differences it would be
too late for him to do anything about it. The cylinder would be forming
about that time, anyway, and it was almost believed--at least it was
strongly hoped--that the enemy would not have the time or the knowledge
or the equipment to do anything about that, either.
Kinnison grinned to himself as his mind, en rapport with Clayton's,
watched the enemy's Cone of Battle enlarge upon the Admiral's conning
plate. It was big, and powerful; the Galactic Patrol's publicly-known
forces would have stood exactly the chance of the proverbial snowball
in the nether regions. It was not, however, the Port Admiral thought,
big enough to form an efficient cylinder, or to handle the Patrol's
real force in any fashion--and unless they shifted within the next
second or two it would be too late for the enemy to do anything at all.
As though by magic about ninety-five percent of the Patrol's tremendous
cone changed into a tightly-packed double cylinder. This maneuver
was much simpler than the previous one, and had been practiced to
perfection. The mouth of the cone closed in and lengthened; the closed
end opened out and shortened. Tractors and pressors leaped from ship to
ship, binding the whole myriad of hitherto discrete units into a single
structure as solid, even comparatively as to size, as a cantilever
bridge. And instead of remaining quiescent, waiting to be attacked, the
cylinder flashed forward, inertialess, at maximum blast.
Throughout the years the violence, intensity, and sheer brute power of
offensive weapons had increased steadily. Defensive armament had kept
step. One fundamental fact, however, had not changed throughout the
ages and has not changed yet. Three or more units of given power have
always been able to conquer one unit of the same power, if engagement
could be forced and no assistance could be given; and two units could
practically always do so. Fundamentally, therefore, strategy always
has been and still is the development of new artifices and techniques
by virtue of which two or more of our units may attack one of theirs;
the while affording the minimum of opportunity for them to retaliate in
kind.
The Patrol's Grand Fleet flashed forward, almost exactly along the axis
of the Black cone; right where the enemy wanted it--or so he thought.
Straight into the yawning mouth, erupting now a blast of flame beside
which the wildest imaginings of Inferno must pale into insignificance;
straight along that raging axis toward the apex, at the terrific speed
of the two directly opposed velocities of flight. But, to the complete
consternation of the Black High Command, nothing much happened. For,
as has been pointed out, that cylinder was not of even approximately
normal composition. In fact, there was not a normal war-vessel in it.
The outer skin and both ends of the cylinder were purely defensive.
Those vessels, packed so closely that their repellor fields actually
touched, were all screen; none of them had a beam hot enough to light a
match. Conversely, the inner layer, or "Liner", was composed of vessels
that were practically all offense. They had to be protected at every
point--but how they could ladle it out!
The leading and trailing edges of the formation--the ends of the
gigantic pipe, so to speak--would of course bear the brunt of the
Black attack, and it was this factor that had given the Patrol's
strategists the most serious concern. Wherefore the first ten and
the last six double rings of ships were special indeed. They were
_all_ screen--nothing else. They were drones, operated by remote
control, carrying no living thing. If the Patrol losses could be held
to eight double rings of ships at the first pass and four at the
second--theoretical computations indicated losses of six and two--Samms
and his fellows would be well content.
All of the Patrol ships had, of course, the standard equipment
of so-called "violet", "green", and "red" fields, as well as
duodecaplylatomate and ordinary atomic bombs, dirigible torpedoes
and transporters, slicers, polycyclic drills, and so on; but in this
battle the principal reliance was to be placed upon the sheer, brutal,
overwhelming power of what had been called the "macro beam"--now
simply the "beam". Furthermore, in the incredibly incandescent frenzy
of the chosen field of action--the cylinder was to attack the cone
at its very strongest part--no conceivable material projectile could
have lasted a single microsecond after leaving the screens of force
of its parent vessel. It could have flown fast enough; ultra-beam
trackers could have steered it rapidly enough and accurately enough;
but before it could have traveled a foot, even at ultra-light speed,
it would have ceased utterly to be. It would have been resolved into
its sub-atomic constituent particles and waves. Nothing material could
exist, except instantaneously, in the field of force filling the axis
of the Black's Cone of Battle; a field beside which the exact center of
a multi-billion-volt flash of lightning would constitute a dead area.
That field, however, encountered no material object. The Patrol's
"screeners", packed so closely as to have a four hundred percent
overlap, had been designed to withstand precisely that inconceivable
environment. Practically all of them withstood it. And in a fraction of
a second the hollow forward end of the cylinder engulfed, pipe-wise,
the entire apex of the enemy's war-cone, and the hitherto idle
"sluggers" of the cylinder's liner went to work.
Each of those vessels had one heavy pressor beam, each having the same
push as every other, directed inward, toward the cylinder's axis, and
backward at an angle of fifteen degrees from the perpendicular line
between ship and axis. Therefore, wherever any Black ship entered the
Patrol's cylinder or however, it was driven to and held at the axis and
forced backward along that axis. None of them, however, got very far.
They were perforce in single file; one ship opposing at least one solid
ring of giant sluggers who did not have to concern themselves with
defense, but could pour every iota of their tremendous resources into
offensive beams. Thus the odds were not merely two or three to one; but
never less than eighty, and very frequently over two hundred to one.
Under the impact of those unimaginable torrents of force the screens of
the engulfed vessels flashed once, practically instantaneously through
the spectrum, and went down. Whether they had two or three or four
courses made no difference--in fact, even the ultra-speed analyzers of
the observers could not tell. Then, a couple of microseconds later,
the wall-shields--the strongest fabrics of force developed by man up
to that time--also failed. Then those ravenous fields of force struck
bare, unprotected metal, and every molecule, inorganic and organic, of
ships and contents alike, disappeared in a bursting flare of energy so
raw and so violent as to stagger even those who had brought it into
existence. It was certainly vastly more than a mere volatilization; it
was deduced later that the detonating unstable isotopes of the Black's
own bombs, in the frightful temperatures already existing in the
Patrol's quasi-solid beams, had initiated a chain reaction which had
resulted in the fissioning of a considerable proportion of the atomic
nuclei of usually completely stable elements!
The cylinder stopped; the Lensmen took stock. The depth of erosion
of the leading edge had averaged almost exactly six double rings of
drones. In places the sixth ring was still intact; in others, which had
encountered unusually concentrated beaming, the seventh was gone. Also,
a fraction of one percent of the manned war-vessels had disappeared.
Brief though the time of engagement had been, the enemy had been able
to concentrate enough beams to burn a few holes through the walls of
the attacking cylinder.
It had not been hoped that more than a few hundreds of Black vessels
could be blown out of the ether at this first pass. General Staff
had been sure, however, that the heaviest and most dangerous ships,
including those carrying the enemy's High Command, would be among them.
The mid-section of the apex of the conventional Cone of Battle had
always been the safest place to be; therefore that was where the Black
admirals had been and therefore they no longer lived.
In a few seconds it became clear that if any Black High Command
existed, it was not in shape to function efficiently. Some of the
enemy ships were still blasting, with little or no concerted effort,
at the regulation cone which the cylinder had left behind; a few were
attempting to get into some kind of a formation, possibly to attack the
Patrol's cylinder. Indecision was visible and rampant.
To turn that tremendous cylindrical engine of destruction around would
have been a task of hours, but it was not necessary. Instead, each
vessel cut its tractors and pressors, spun end for end, reconnected,
and retraced almost exactly its previous course; cutting out and
blasting into nothingness another "plug" of Black warships. Another
reversal, another dash; and this time, so disorganized were the foes
and so feeble the beaming, not a single Patrol vessel was lost. The
Black fleet, so proud and so conquering of mien a few minutes before,
had fallen completely apart.
"That's enough, Rod, don't you think?" Samms thought then. "Please
order Clayton to cease action, so that we can hold a parley with their
senior officers."
"Parley, hell!" Kinnison's answering thought was a snarl. "We've got
'em going--mop 'em up before they can pull themselves together! Parley
be damned!"
"Beyond a certain point military action becomes indefensible butchery,
of which our Galactic Patrol will never be guilty. That point has now
been reached. If you do not agree with me, I'll be glad to call a
Council meeting to decide which of us is right."
"That isn't necessary. You're right--that's one reason I'm not First
Lensman." The Port Admiral, fury and fire ebbing from his mind, issued
orders; the Patrol forces hung motionless in space. "As President of
the Galactic Council, Virge, take over."
Spy-rays probed and searched; a communicator beam was sent. Virgil
Samms spoke aloud, in the lingua franca of deep space.
"Connect me, please, with the senior officer of your fleet."
There appeared upon Samms' plate a strong, not unhandsome face;
deep-stamped with the bitter hopelessness of a strong man facing
certain death.
"You've got us. Come on and finish us."
"Some such indoctrination was to be expected, but I anticipate no
trouble in convincing you that you have been grossly misinformed in
everything you have been told concerning us; our aims, our ethics,
our morals, and our standards of conduct. There are, I assume, other
surviving officers of your rank, although of lesser seniority?"
"There are ten other vice-admirals, but I am in command. They will obey
my orders or die."
"Nevertheless, they shall be heard. Please go inert, match our
intrinsic velocity, and come aboard, all eleven of you. We wish to
explore with all of you the possibilities of a lasting peace between
our worlds."
"Peace? Bah! Why lie?" The Black commander's expression did not change.
"I know what you are and what you do to conquered races. We prefer
a clean, quick death in your beams to the kind you deal out in your
torture rooms and experimental laboratories. Come ahead--I intend to
attack you as soon as I can make a formation."
"I repeat, you have been grossly, terribly, _shockingly_ misinformed."
Samms' voice was quiet and steady; his eyes held those of the other.
"We are civilized men, not barbarians or savages. Does not the fact
that we ceased hostilities so soon mean anything to you?"
For the first time the stranger's face changed subtly, and Samms
pressed the slight advantage.
"I see it does. Now if you will converse with me mind to mind...." The
First Lensman felt for the man's ego and began to tune to it, but this
was too much.
"I will not!" The Black put up a solid block. "I will have nothing to
do with your cursed Lens. I know what it is and will have none of it!"
"Oh, what's the use, Virge!" Kinnison snapped. "Let's get on with it!"
"A great deal of use, Rod," Samms replied, quietly. "This is a
turning-point. I _must_ be right--I _can't_ be that far wrong," and he
again turned his attention to the enemy commander.
"Very well, sir, we will continue to use spoken language. I repeat,
please come aboard with your ten fellow vice-admirals. You will not be
asked to surrender. You will retain your side-arms--as long as you make
no attempt to use them. Whether or not we come to any agreement, you
will be allowed to return unharmed to your vessels before the battle is
resumed."
"What? Side-arms? Returned? You swear it?"
"As President of the Galactic Council, in the presence of the highest
officers of the Galactic Patrol as witnesses, I swear it."
"We will come aboard."
"Very well. I will have ten other Lensmen and officers here with me."
The _Boise_, of course, inerted first; followed by the _Chicago_ and
nine of the tremendous tear-drops from Bennett. Port Admiral Kinnison
and nine other Lensmen joined Samms in the _Boise's_ con room; the
tight formation of eleven Patrol ships blasted in unison in the
space-courtesy of meeting the equally tight formation of Black warships
half-way in the matter of intrinsic velocity.
Soon the two little sub-fleets were motionless in respect to each
other. Eleven Black gigs were launched. Eleven Black vice-admirals came
aboard, to the accompaniment of the full military honors customarily
granted to visiting admirals of friendly powers. Each was armed with
what seemed to be an exact duplicate of the Patrol's own current
blaster; Lewiston, Mark Seventeen. In the lead strode the tall, heavy,
gray-haired man with whom Samms had been dealing; still defiant, still
sullen, still concealing sternly his sheer desperation. His block was
still on, full strength.
The man next in line was much younger than the leader, much less
wrought up, much more intent. Samms felt for this man's ego, tuned to
it, and got the shock of his life. This Black vice-admiral's mind was
not at all what he had expected to encounter--it was, in every respect,
of Lensman grade!
"Oh ... how? You are not speaking, and ... I see ... the Lens ... THE
LENS!" The stranger's mind was for seconds an utterly indescribable
turmoil in which relief, gladness, and high anticipation struggled for
supremacy.
In the next few seconds, even before the visitors had reached their
places at the conference table, Virgil Samms and Corander of Petrine
exchanged thoughts which would require many thousands of words to
express; only a few of which are necessary here.
"The LENS ... I have dreamed of such a thing, without hope of
realization or possibility. _How_ we have been misled! They are, then,
actually available upon your world, Samms of Tellus?"
"Not exactly, and not at all generally," and Samms explained as he had
explained so many times before. "You will wear one sooner than you
think. But as to ending this warfare. You survivors are practically all
natives of your own world. Petrine?"
"Not 'practically', we are Petrinos all. The 'teachers' were all in the
Center. Many remain upon Petrine and its neighboring worlds, but none
remain alive here."
"Ohlanser, then, who assumed command, is also a Petrino? So
hard-headed, I had assumed otherwise. He will be a stumbling-block. Is
he actually in supreme command?"
"Only by and with our consent, under such astounding circumstances
as these. He is a reactionary, of the old, die-hard, war-dog school.
He would ordinarily be in supreme command and would be supported by
the teachers if any were here; but I will challenge his authority and
theirs; standing upon my right to command my own fleet as I see fit. So
will, I think, several others. So go ahead with your meeting."
"Be seated, Gentlemen." All saluted punctiliously and sat down. "Now,
Vice-Admiral Ohlanser...."
"How do you, a stranger, know my name?"
"I know many things. We have a suggestion to offer which, if you
Petrinos will follow it, will end this warfare. First, please believe
that we have no designs upon your planet, nor any quarrel with any of
its people who are not hopelessly contaminated by the ideas and the
culture of the entities who are back of this whole movement; quite
possibly those whom you refer to as the 'teachers'. You did not know
whom you were to fight, or why." This was a statement, with no hint of
question about it.
"I see now that we did not know all the truth," Ohlanser admitted,
stiffly. "We were informed, and given proof sufficient to make
us believe, that you were monsters from outer space--rapacious,
insatiable, senselessly and callously destructive to all other forms of
intelligent life."
"We suspected something of the kind. Do you others agree? Vice-Admiral
Corander?"
"Yes. We were shown detailed and documented proofs; stereos of battles,
in which no quarter was given. We saw system after system conquered,
world after world laid waste. We were made to believe that our only
hope of continued existence was to meet you and destroy you in space;
for if you were allowed to reach Petrine every man, woman, and child on
the planet would either be killed outright or tortured to death. I see
now that those proofs were entirely false; completely vicious."
"They were. Those who spread that lying propaganda and all who support
their organization must be and shall be weeded out. Petrine must be
and shall be given her rightful place in the galactic fellowship of
free, independent, and cooperative worlds. So must any and all planets
whose peoples wish to adhere to Civilization instead of to tyranny and
despotism. To further these ends, we Lensmen suggest that you re-form
your fleet and proceed to Arisia...."
"Arisia!" Ohlanser did not like the idea.
"Arisia," Samms insisted. "Upon leaving Arisia, knowing vastly more
than you do now, you will return to your home planet, where you will
take whatever steps you will then know to be necessary."
"We were told that your Lenses are hypnotic devices," Ohlanser sneered,
"designed to steal away and destroy the minds of any who listen to you.
I believe _that_, fully. I will not go to Arisia, nor will any part of
Petrine's Grand Fleet. I will not attack my home planet. I will not do
battle against my own people. This is final."
"I am not saying or implying that you should. But you continue to close
your mind to reason. How about you, Vice-Admiral Corander? And you
others?"
In the momentary silence Samms put himself en rapport with the other
officers, and was overjoyed at what he learned.
"I do not agree with Vice-Admiral Ohlanser," Corander said, flatly. "He
commands, not Grand Fleet, but his sub-fleet merely, as do we all. I
will lead my sub-fleet to Arisia."
"Traitor!" Ohlanser shouted. He leaped to his feet and drew his
blaster, but a tractor beam snatched it from his grasp before he could
fire.
"You were allowed to wear side-arms, not to use them," Samms said,
quietly. "How many of you others agree with Corander; how many with
Ohlanser?"
All nine voted with the younger man.
"Very well. Ohlanser, you may either accept Corander's leadership
or leave this meeting now and take your sub-fleet directly back to
Petrine. Decide now which you prefer to do."
"You mean you aren't going to kill me, even now? Or even degrade me, or
put me under arrest?"
"I mean exactly that. What is your decision?"
"In that case ... I was--must have been--wrong. I will follow Corander."
"A wise choice. Corander, you already know what to expect; except that
four or five other Petrinos now in this room will help you, not only in
deciding what must be done upon Petrine, but also in the doing of it.
This meeting will adjourn."
"But ... no reprisals?" Corander, in spite of his newly acquired
knowledge, was dubious, almost dumbfounded. "No invasion or occupation?
No indemnities to your Patrol, or reparations? No punishment of us, our
men, or our families?"
"None."
"That does not square up even with ordinary military usage."
"I know it. It does conform, however, to the policy of the Galactic
Patrol which is to spread throughout our island universe."
"You are not even sending your fleet, or heavy units of it, with us, to
see to it that we follow your instructions?"
"It is not necessary. If you need any form of help you will inform us
of your requirements via Lens, as I am conversing with you now, and
whatever you want will be supplied. However, I do not expect any such
call. You and your fellows are capable of handling the situation.
You will soon know the truth, and know that you know it; and when
your house-cleaning is done we will consider your application for
representation upon the Galactic Council. Good-bye."
Thus the Lensmen--particularly First Lensman Virgil Samms--brought
another sector of the galaxy under the aegis of Civilization.