After the Rally there were a few days during which neither Samms nor
Kinnison was on Earth. That the Cosmocrats' presidential candidate and
the First Lensman were both with the Fleet was not a secret; in fact,
it was advertised. Everyone was told why they were out there, and
almost everyone approved.
Nor was their absence felt. Developments, fast and terrific, were
slammed home. Cosmocratic spellbinders in every state of North America
waved the flag, pointed with pride, and viewed with alarm, in the
very best tradition of North American politics. But above all, there
appeared upon every news-stand and in every book-shop of the Continent,
at opening time of the day following Rally Day, a book of over eighteen
hundred pages of fine print; a book the publication of which had given
Samms himself no little concern.
"But I'm afraid of it!" he had protested. "_We_ know it's true; but
there's material on almost every page for the biggest libel and slander
suits in history!"
"I know it," the bald and paunchy Lensman-attorney had replied. "Fully.
I hope they _do_ take action against us, but I'm absolutely certain
they won't."
"You hope they do?"
"Yes. If they take the initiative they can't prevent us from presenting
our evidence in full; and there is no court in existence, however
corrupt, before which we could not win. What they want and must have is
delay; avoidance of any issue until after the election."
"I see." Samms was convinced.
The location of the Patrol's Grand Fleet had been concealed from all
inhabitants of the Solarian system, friends and foes alike; but the
climactic battle--liberating as it did energies sufficient to distort
the very warp and woof of the fabric of space itself--could not be
hidden or denied, or even belittled. It was not, however, advertised or
blazoned abroad. Then as now the newshawks wanted to know, instantly
and via long-range communicators, vastly more than those responsible
for security cared to tell; then as now the latter said as little as it
was humanly possible to say.
Everyone knew that the Patrol had won a magnificent victory; but nobody
knew who or what the enemy had been. Since the rank and file knew it,
everyone knew that only a fraction of the Black fleet had actually been
destroyed; but nobody knew where the remaining vessels went or what
they did. Everyone knew that about ninety five percent of the Patrol's
astonishingly huge Grand Fleet had come from, and was on its way back
to, the planet Bennett, and knew--since Bennettans would in a few weeks
be scampering gaily all over space--in general _what_ Bennett was; but
nobody knew _why_ it was.
Thus, when the North American Contingent landed at New York Spaceport,
everyone whom the newsmen could reach was literally mobbed. However,
in accordance with the aphorism ascribed to the wise old owl, those
who knew the least said the most. But the Telenews ace who had once
interviewed both Kinnison and Samms wasted no time upon small fry. He
insisted on seeing the two top Lensmen, and kept on insisting until he
did see them.
"Nothing to say," Kinnison said curtly, leaving no doubt whatever that
he meant it. "All talking--if any--will be done by First Lensman Samms."
"Now, all you millions of Telenews listeners, I am interviewing First
Lensman Samms himself. A little closer to the mike, please, First
Lensman. Now, sir, what everybody wants to know is--who are the Blacks?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know? On the Lens, sir?"
"On the Lens. I still don't know."
"I see. But you have suspicions or ideas? You can guess?"
"I can guess; but that's all it would be--a guess."
"And my guess, folks, is that his guess would be a very highly informed
guess. Will you tell the public, First Lensman Samms, what your guess
is?"
"I will." If this reply astonished the newshawk, it staggered
Kinnison and the others who knew Samms best. It was, however, a
coldly calculated political move. "While it will probably be several
weeks before we can furnish detailed and unassailable proof, it is my
considered opinion that the Black fleet was built and controlled by the
Morgan-Towne-Isaacson machine. That they, all unknown to any of us,
enticed, corrupted, and seduced a world, or several worlds, to their
program of domination and enslavement. That they intended by armed
force to take over the Continent of North America and through it the
whole earth and all the other planets adherent to Civilization. That
they intended to hunt down and kill every Lensman, and to subvert the
Galactic Council to their own ends. This is what you wanted?"
"That's fine, sir--_just_ what we wanted. But just one more thing,
sir." The newsman had obtained infinitely more than he had expected to
get; yet, good newsmanlike, he wanted more. "Just a word, if you will,
Mr. Samms, as to these trials and the White Book?"
"I can add very little, I'm afraid, to what I have already said and
what is in the book; and that little can be classed as 'I told you so'.
We are trying, and will continue to try, to force those criminals to
trial; to break up, to prohibit, an unending series of hair-splitting
delays. We want, and are determined to get, legal action; to make each
of those we have accused defend himself in court and under oath. Morgan
and his crew, however, are working desperately to avoid any action at
all, because they know that we can and will prove every allegation we
have made."
The Telenews ace signed off, Samms and Kinnison went to their
respective offices, and Cosmocratic orators throughout the nation held
a field-day. They glowed and scintillated with triumph. They yelled
themselves hoarse, leather-lunged tub-thumpers though they were, in
pointing out the unsullied purity, the spotless perfection of their
own party and its every candidate for office; in shuddering revulsion
at the never-to-be-sufficiently-condemned, proved and demonstrated
villainy and blackguardy of the opposition.
And the Nationalists, although they had been dealt a terrific and
entirely unexpected blow, worked near-miracles of politics with what
they had. Morgan and his minions ranted and raved. They were being
jobbed. They were being crucified by the Monied Powers. All those
allegations and charges were sheerest fabrications--false, utterly
vicious, containing nothing whatever of truth. They, not the Patrol,
were trying to force a show-down; to vindicate themselves and to
confute those unspeakably unscrupulous Lensmen before Election Day.
And they were succeeding! Why, otherwise, had not a single one of the
thousands of accused even been arrested? Ask that lying First Lensman,
Virgil Samms! Ask that rock-hearted, iron-headed, conscienceless
murderer, Roderick Kinnison! But do not, at peril of your sanity,
submit your minds to their Lenses!
And why, the reader asks, were not at least some of those named persons
arrested before Election Day? And your historian must answer frankly
that he does not know. He is not a lawyer. It would be of interest--to
some few of us--to follow in detail at least one of those days of legal
battling in one of the high courts of the land; to quote verbatim at
least a few of the many thousands of pages of transcript: but to most
of us the technicalities involved would be boring in the extreme.
But couldn't the voters tell easily enough which side was on the
offensive and which on the defensive? Which pressed for action and
which insisted on postponement and delay? They could have, easily
enough, if they had cared enough about the basic issues involved to
make the necessary mental effort, but almost everyone was too busy
doing something else. And it was so much easier to take somebody else's
word for it. And finally, _thinking_ is an exercise to which all too
few brains are accustomed.
But Morgan neither ranted nor raved nor blustered when he sat in
conference with his faintly-blue superior, who had come storming in as
soon as he had learned of the crushing defeat of the Black fleet. The
Kalonian was very highly concerned; so much so that the undertone of
his peculiar complexion was turning slowly to a delicate shade of green.
"How did _that_ happen? How _could_ it happen? Why was I not informed
of the Patrol's real power--how could you be guilty of such stupidity?
Now I'll have to report to Scrwan of the Eich. He's pure, undiluted
poison--and if word of this catastrophe ever gets up to Ploor...!!!"
"Come down out of the stratosphere, Fernald," Morgan countered,
bitingly. "Don't try to make _me_ the goat--I won't sit still for it.
It happened because they could build a bigger fleet than we could. You
were in on that--all of it. You knew what we were doing, and approved
it--all of it. You were as badly fooled as I was. You were not informed
because I could find out nothing--I could learn no more of their
Bennett than they could of our Petrine. As to reporting, you will of
course do as you please; but I would advise you not to cry too much
before you're really hurt. This battle isn't over yet, my friend."
The Kalonian had been a badly shaken entity; it was a measure of his
state of mind that he did not liquidate the temerarious Tellurian then
and there. But since Morgan was as undisturbed as ever, and as sure of
himself, he began to regain his wonted aplomb. His color became again
its normal pale blue.
"I will forgive your insubordination this time, since there were no
witnesses, but use no more such language to me," he said, stiffly.
"I fail to perceive any basis for your optimism. The only chance now
remaining is for you to win the election, and how can you do that? You
are--must be--losing ground steadily and rapidly."
"Not as much as you might think." Morgan pulled down a large,
carefully-drawn chart. "This line represents the hide-bound
Nationalists, whom nothing we can do will alienate from the party; this
one the equally hide-bound Cosmocrats. The balance of power lies, as
always, with the independents--these here. And many of them are not
as independent as is supposed. We can buy or bring pressure to bear
on half of them--that cuts them down to this size here. So, no matter
what the Patrol does, it can affect only this relatively small block
here, and it is this block we are fighting for. We are losing a little
ground, and steadily, yes; since we can't conceal from anybody with
half a brain the fact that we're doing our best to keep the cases from
ever coming to trial. But here's the actual observed line of sentiment,
as determined from psychological indices up to yesterday; here is the
extrapolation of that line to Election Day. It forecasts us to get just
under forty nine percent of the total vote."
"And is there anything cheerful about that?" Fernald asked frostily.
"I'll say there is!" Morgan's big face assumed a sneering smile, an
expression never seen by any voter. "This chart deals only with living,
legally registered, bona-fide voters. Now if we can come that close
to winning an absolutely honest election, how do you figure we can
possibly lose the kind this one is going to be? We're in power, you
know. We've got this machine and we know how to use it."
"Oh, yes, I remember--vaguely. You told me about North American
politics once, a few years ago. Dead men, ringers, repeaters,
ballot-box stuffing, and so on, you said?"
"'And so on' is right, Chief!" Morgan assured him, heartily.
"Everything goes, this time. It'll be one of the biggest landslides in
North American history."
"I will, then, defer any action until after the election."
"That will be the smart thing to do, Chief; then you won't have to take
any, or make any report at all," and upon this highly satisfactory note
the conference closed.
And Morgan was actually as confident as he had appeared. His
charts were actual and factual. He knew the power of money and the
effectiveness of pressure; he knew the capabilities of the various
units of his machine. He did not, however, know two things: Jill Samms'
insidious, deeply-hidden Voters' Protective League and the bright
flame of loyalty pervading the Galactic Patrol. Thus, between times
of bellowing and screaming his carefully-prepared, rabble-rousing
speeches, he watched calmly and contentedly the devious workings of his
smooth and efficient organization.
Until the day before election, that is. Then hordes of young men and
young women went suddenly and briefly to work; at least four in every
precinct of the entire nation. They visited, it seemed, every residence
and every dwelling unit, everywhere. They asked questions, and took
notes, and vanished; and the machine's operatives, after the alarm
was given, could not find man or girl or notebook. And the Galactic
Patrol, which had never before paid any attention to elections, had
given leave and ample time to its every North American citizen. Vessels
of the North American Contingent were grounded and practically emptied
of personnel; bases and stations were depopulated; and even from every
distant world every Patrolman registered in any North American precinct
came to spend the day at home.
Morgan began then to worry, but there was nothing he could do about the
situation--or was there? If the civilian boys and girls were checking
the registration books--and they were--it was as legally-appointed
checkers. If the uniformed boys and girls were all coming home to
vote--and they were--that, too, was their inalienable right. But boys
and girls were notoriously prone to accident and to debauchery ...
but again Morgan was surprised; and, this time, taken heavily aback.
The web which had protected Grand Rally so efficiently, but greatly
enlarged now, was functioning again; and Morgan and his minions spent a
sleepless and thoroughly uncomfortable night.
Election Day dawned clear, bright, and cool; auguring a record
turn-out. Voting was early and extraordinarily heavy; the polls were
crowded. There was, however, very little disorder. Surprisingly little,
in view of the fact that the Cosmocratic watchers, instead of being
the venal wights of custom, were cold-eyed, unreachable men and women
who seemed to know by sight every voter in the precinct. At least they
spotted on sight and challenged without hesitation every ringer, every
dead one, every repeater, and every imposter who claimed the right
to vote. And those challenges, being borne out in every case by the
carefully-checked registration lists, were in every case upheld.
Not all of the policemen on duty, especially in the big cities, were
above suspicion, of course. But whenever any one of those officers
began to show a willingness to play ball with the machine a calm,
quiet-eyed Patrolman would remark, casually:
"Better see that this election stays straight, bud, and strictly
according to the lists and signatures--or you're apt to find yourself
listed in the big book along with the rest of the rats."
It was not that the machine liked the way things were going, or that it
did not have goon squads on the job. It was that there were, everywhere
and always, more Patrolmen than there were goons. And those Patrolmen,
however young in years some of them might have appeared to be, were
space-bronzed veterans, space-hardened fighting men, armed with the
last word in blasters--Lewiston, Mark Seventeen.
To the boy's friends and neighbors, of course, his Lewiston was
practically invisible. It was merely an article of clothing, the same
as his pants. It carried no more of significance, of threat or of
menace, than did the pistol and the club of the friendly Irish cop on
the beat. But the goon did not see the Patrolman as a friend. He saw
the keen, clear, sharply discerning eyes; the long, strong fingers;
the smoothly flowing muscles, so eloquent of speed and of power. He
saw the Lewiston for what it was; the deadliest, most destructive
hand-weapon known to man. Above all he saw the difference in numbers:
six or seven or eight Patrolmen to four or five or six of his own kind.
If more hoods arrived, so did more spacemen; if some departed, so did a
corresponding number of the wearers of the space-black and silver.
"Ain't you getting tired of sticking around here, George?" One mobster
asked confidentially of one Patrolman. "I am. What say we and some of
you fellows round up some girls and go have us a party?"
"Uh-uh," George denied. His voice was gay and careless, but his eyes
were icy cold. "My uncle's cousin's stepson is running for second
assistant dog-catcher, and I can't leave until I find out whether he
wins or not."
Thus nothing happened; thus the invisible but nevertheless terrific
tension did not erupt into open battle; and thus, for the first time in
North America's long history, a presidential election was ninety nine
and ninety nine one-hundredths percent pure!
Evening came. The polls closed. The Cosmocrats' headquarters for the
day, the Grand Ballroom of the Hotel van der Voort, became the goal
of every Patrolman who thought he stood any chance at all of getting
in. Kinnison had been there all day, of course. So had Joy, his wife,
who for lack of space has been sadly neglected in these annals.
Betty, their daughter, had come in early, accompanied by a husky and
personable young lieutenant, who has no other place in this story. Jack
Kinnison arrived, with Dimples Maynard--dazzlingly blonde, wearing a
screamingly red wisp of silk. She, too, has been shamefully slighted
here, although she was never slighted anywhere else.
"The first time I ever saw her," Jack was wont to say, "I went right
into a flat spin, running around in circles and biting myself in the
small of the back, and couldn't pull out of it for four hours!"
That Miss Maynard should be a very special item is not at all
surprising, in view of the fact that she was to become the wife of one
of THE Kinnisons and the mother of another.
The First Lensman, who had been in and out, came in to stay. So did
Jill and her inseparable, Mason Northrop. And so did others, singly or
by twos or threes. Lensmen and their wives. Conway and Clio Costigan,
Dr. and Mrs. Rodebush, and Cleveland, Admiral and Mrs. Clayton, ditto
Schweikert, and Dr. Nels Bergenholm. And others. Nor were they all
North Americans, or even human. Rularion was there; and so was blocky,
stocky Dronvire of Rigel Four. No outsider could tell, ever, what any
Lensman was thinking, to say nothing of such a monstrous Lensman as
Dronvire--but that hotel was being covered as no political headquarters
had ever been covered before.
The returns came in, see-sawing maddeningly back and forth. Faster and
faster. The Maritime Provinces split fifty-fifty. Maine, New Hampshire,
and Vermont, Cosmocrat. New York, upstate, Cosmocrat. New York City,
on the basis of incomplete but highly significant returns, was piling
up a huge Nationalist majority. Pennsylvania--labor--Nationalist.
Ohio--farmers--Cosmocrat. Twelve southern states went six and six.
Chicago, as usual, solidly for the machine; likewise Quebec and Ottawa
and Montreal and Toronto and Detroit and Kansas City and St. Louis and
New Orleans and Denver.
Then northern and western and far southern states came in and evened
the score. Saskatchewan, Alberta, Britcol, and Alaska, all went
Cosmocrat. So did Washington, Idaho, Montana, Oregon, Nevada, Utah,
Arizona, Newmex, and most of the states of Mexico.
At three o'clock in the morning the Cosmocrats had a slight but
definite lead and were, finally, holding it. At four o'clock the lead
was larger, but California was still an unknown quantity--California
could wreck everything. _How_ would California go? Especially, how
would California's two metropolitan districts--the two most independent
and free-thinking and least predictable big cities of the nation--how
_would_ they go?
At five o'clock California seemed safe. Except for Los Angeles and
San Francisco, the Cosmocrats had swept the state, and in those two
great cities they held a commanding lead. It was still mathematically
possible, however, for the Nationalists to win.
"It's in the bag! Let's start the celebration!" someone shouted, and
others took up the cry.
"Stop it! No!" Kinnison's parade-ground voice cut through the noise.
"No celebration is in order or will be held until the result becomes
certain or Witherspoon concedes!"
The two events came practically together: Witherspoon conceded a couple
of minutes before it became mathematically impossible for him to win.
Then came the celebration, which went on and on interminably. At the
first opportunity, however, Kinnison took Samms by the arm, led him
without a word into a small office, and shut the door. Samms, also
saying nothing, sat down in the swivel chair, put both feet up on the
desk, lit a cigarette, and inhaled deeply.
"Well, Virge--satisfied?" Kinnison broke the silence at last. His Lens
was off. "We're on our way."
"Yes, Rod. Fully. At last." No more than his friend did he dare to
use his Lens; to plumb the depths he knew so well were there. "Now it
will roll--under its own power--no one man now is or ever will be
indispensable to the Galactic Patrol--_nothing_ can stop it now!"
EPILOGUE
The murder of Senator Morgan, in his own private office, was never
solved. If it had occurred before the election, suspicion would
certainly have fallen upon Roderick Kinnison, but as it was it did not.
By no stretch of the imagination could anyone conceive of "Rod the
Rock" kicking a man after he had knocked him down. Not that Morgan did
not have powerful and vindictive enemies in the underworld: he had so
many that it proved impossible to fasten the crime to any one of them.
Officially, Kinnison was on a five-year leave of absence from the
Galactic Patrol, the office of Port Admiral had been detached entirely
from the fleet and assigned to the Office of the President of North
America. Actually, however, in every respect that counted, Roderick
Kinnison was still Port Admiral, and would remain so until he died or
until the Council retired him by force.
Officially, Kinnison was taking a short, well-earned vacation from the
job in which he had been so outstandingly successful. Actually, he was
doing a quick flit to Petrine, to get personally acquainted with the
new Lensmen and to see what kind of a job they were doing. Besides,
Virgil Samms was already there.
He arrived. He got acquainted. He saw. He approved.
"How about coming back to Tellus with me, Virge?" he asked, when the
visiting was done. "I've got to make a speech, and it'd be nice to have
you hold my head."
"I'd be glad to," and the _Chicago_ took off.
Half of North America was dark when they neared Tellus; all of it,
apparently, was obscured by clouds. Only the navigating officers of the
vessel knew where they were, nor did either of the two Lensmen care.
They were having too much fun arguing about the talents and abilities
of their respective grandsons.
The _Chicago_ landed. A bug was waiting. The two Lensmen, without an
order being given, were whisked away. Samms had not asked where the
speech was to be given, and Kinnison simply did not realize that he
had not told him all about it. Thus Samms had no idea that he was just
leaving Spokane Spaceport, Washington.
After a few miles of fast, open-country driving the bug reached the
city. It slowed down, swung into brightly-lighted Maple Street, and
passed a sign reading "Cannon Hill" something-or-other--neither of
which names meant anything to either Lensman.
Kinnison looked at his friend's red-thatched head and glanced at his
watch.
"Looking at you reminds me--I need a haircut," he remarked. "Should
have got one aboard, but didn't think of it Joy told me if I come home
without it she'll braid it in pigtails and tie it up with pink ribbons,
and you're shaggier than I am. You've got to get one or else buy
yourself a violin. What say we do it now?"
"Have we got time enough?"
"Plenty." Then, to the driver: "Stop at the first barber shop you see,
please."
"Yes, sir. There's a good one a few blocks further along."
The bug sped down Maple Street, turned sharply into plainly-marked
Twelfth Avenue. Neither Lensman saw the sign.
"Here you are, sir."
"Thanks."
There were two barbers and two chairs, both empty. The Lensmen,
noticing that the place was neatly kept and meticulously clean, sat
down and resumed their discussion of two extremely unusual infants. The
barbers went busily to work.
"Just as well, though--better, really--that the kids didn't marry each
other, at that," Kinnison concluded finally. "The way it is, we've each
got a grandson--it'd be tough to have to share one with _you_."
Samms made no reply to this sally, for something was happening. The
fact that this fair-skinned, yellow-haired blue-eyed barber was
left-handed had not rung any bells--there were lots of left-handed
barbers. He had neither seen nor heard the cat--a less-than-half-grown,
gray, tiger-striped kitten--which, after standing up on its hind legs
to sniff ecstatically at his nylon-clad ankles, had uttered a couple
of almost inaudible "meows" and had begun to purr happily. Crouching,
tensing its strong little legs, it leaped almost vertically upward. Its
tail struck the barber's elbow.
Hastily brushing the kitten aside, and beginning profuse apologies both
for his awkwardness and for the presence of the cat--he had never
done such a thing before and he would drown him forthwith--the barber
applied a styptic pencil and recollection hit Samms a pile-driver blow.
"Well, I'm a...!" He voiced three highly un-Samms-like, highly specific
expletives which, as Mentor had foretold so long before, were both
self-derogatory and profane. Then, as full realization dawned, he bit a
word squarely in two.
"Excuse me, please, Mr. Carbonero, for this outrageous display. It was
not the scratch, nor was any of it your fault. Nothing you could have
done would have...."
"You know my name?" the astonished barber interrupted.
"Yes. You were ... ah ... recommended to me by a ... a friend...."
Whatever Samms could say would make things worse. The truth, wild as it
was, would have to be told, at least in part. "You do not look like an
Italian, but perhaps you have enough of that racial heritage to believe
in prophecy?"
"Of course, sir. There have always been prophets--_true_ prophets."
"Good. This event was foretold in detail; in such complete detail that
I was deeply, terribly shocked. Even to the kitten. You call it Thomas."
"Yes, sir. Thomas Aquinas."
"It is actually a female. In here, Thomasina!" The kitten had been
climbing enthusiastically up his leg; now, as he held a pocket
invitingly open, she sprang into it, settled down, and began to purr
blissfully. While the barbers and Kinnison stared pop-eyed Samms went
on:
"She is determined to adopt me, and it would be a shame not to requite
such affection. Would you part with her--for, say, ten credits?"
"_Ten credits!_ I'll be glad to give her to you for nothing!"
"Ten it is, then. One more thing. Rod, you always carry a pocket rule.
Measure this scratch, will you? You'll find it's mighty close to three
millimeters long."
"Not 'close', Virge--it's _exactly_ three millimeters, as near as this
vernier can scale it."
"And just above and parallel to the cheek-bone."
"Check. Just above and as parallel as though it had been ruled there by
a draftsman."
"Well, that's that. Let's get finished with the haircuts, before you're
late for your speech," and the barbers, with thoughts which will be
left to the imagination, resumed their interrupted tasks.
"Spill it, Virge!" Kinnison Lensed the pent-up thought. If Carbonero,
who did not know Samms at all, had been amazed at what had been
happening, Kinnison, who had known him so long and so well, had been
literally and completely dumbfounded. "What in hell's behind this?
What's the story? GIVE!"
Samms told him, and a mental silence fell; a silence too deep for
intelligible thought. Each was beginning to realize that he never
would and never could know what Mentor of Arisia really was.
* * * * *
The Secret Planet
No human had ever landed on the hidden planet of Arisia. A mysterious
space barrier turned back both men and ships.
Then the word came to Earth; "Go to Arisia!" Samms of the Galactic
Patrol went--and came back with the Lens, the strange device that gave
its wearer powers no man had ever possessed before.
Samms knew the price of that power would be high. But even he had no
idea of the ultimate cost, and the weird destiny waiting for the
First Lensman
A PYRAMID BOOK 60¢ Cover: Jack Gaughan Printed in U.S.A.
* * * * *
NOVELS OF SCIENCE-FICTION
by
"DOC" SMITH
_The Skylark Series_
THE SKYLARK OF SPACE
SKYLARK THREE
SKYLARK OF VALERON
SKYLARK DUQUESNE
_The Lensman Series_
TRIPLANETARY
FIRST LENSMAN
GALACTIC PATROL
GRAY LENSMAN
SECOND STAGE LENSMAN
CHILDREN OF THE LENS
* * * * *