completely and permanently shielded. There he borrowed the detector and
asked the lieutenant in charge to get a special report from the Patrol
upon the alleged gems and what it knew about either the cruiser or the
pirates. To justify his request he had to explain his suspicions.
After the messages had been sent the young officer drummed thoughtfully
upon his desk. “I wish I could do something, Dr. Cloud, but I don’t see
how I can,” he decided finally. “Without a shred of evidence, I _can’t_
act.”
“I know. I’m not accusing anybody, yet. It may be anybody between here
and Andromeda. Just call me, please, as soon as you get that report.”
The report came, and the Patrolman was round-eyed as he imparted the
information, that, as far as Prime Base could discover, there had been
no Lonabarian gems and the rescuing vessel had not been a Patrol ship at
all. Cloud was not surprised.
“I thought so,” he said, flatly. “This is a hell of a thing to say, but
it now becomes a virtual certainty—six sigmas out on the probability
curve—that this whole fantastic procedure was designed solely to keep
me from analyzing and blowing out that new vortex. As to where the
vortex fits in, I haven’t got even the dimmest possible idea, but one
thing is clear. Graves represents TPI—on this planet he _is_ TPI. Now
what kind of monkey-business would TPI—or, more likely, somebody
working under cover _in_ TPI, because undoubtedly the head office
doesn’t know anything about it—be doing? I ask you.”
“Dope, you mean? Cocaine—heroin—that kind of stuff?”
“Exactly; and here’s what I’m going to do about it.” Bending over the
desk, even in that ultra-shielded office, Cloud whispered busily for
minutes. “Pass this along to Prime Base immediately, have them alert
Narcotics, and have your men ready in case I strike something hot.”
“But listen, man!” the Patrolman protested. “Wait—let a Lensman do it.
They’ll almost certainly catch you at it, and if they’re clean _nothing_
can keep you from doing ninety days in the clink.”
“But if we wait, the chances are it’ll be too late; they’ll have had
time to cover up. What I’m asking you is, will you back my play if I
catch them with the goods?”
“Yes. We’ll be here, armored and ready. But I still think you’re nuts.”
“Maybe so, but even if my mathematics is wrong, it’s still a fact that
my arm will grow back on just as fast in the clink as anywhere else.
Clear ether, lieutenant—until tonight!”
Cloud made an engagement with Graves for luncheon. Arriving a few
minutes early, he was of course shown into the private office. Since the
manager was busily signing papers, Cloud strolled to the side window and
seemed to gaze appreciatively at the masses of gorgeous blooms just
outside. What he really saw, however, was the detector upon his wrist.
Nobody knew that he had in his sleeve a couple of small, but highly
efficient, tools. Nobody knew that he was left-handed. Nobody saw what
he did, nor was any signal given that he did anything at all.
That night, however, that window opened alarmlessly to his deft touch.
He climbed in, noiselessly. He might be walking straight into trouble,
but he had to take that chance. One thing was in his favor; no matter
how crooked they were, they couldn’t keep armored troops on duty as
night-watchmen, and the Patrolmen could get there as fast as their thugs
could.
He had brought no weapons. If he was wrong, he would not need any and
being armed would only aggravate his offense. If right, there would be
plenty of weapons available. There were. A whole drawer full of
DeLameters—fully charged—belts and everything. He leaped across the
room to Graves’ desk; turned on a spy-ray. The sub-basement—“private
laboratories,” Graves had said—was blocked. He threw switch after
switch—no soap. Communicators—ah, he was getting somewhere now—a
steel-lined room, a girl and a boy.
“Eureka! Good evening, folks.”
“Eureka? I hope you rot in hell, Graves. . . .”
“This isn’t Graves. Cloud. Storm Cloud, the Vortex Blaster,
investigating. . . .”
“Oh, Bob, the Patrol!” the girl screamed.
“Quiet! This is a zwilnik outfit, isn’t it?”
“I’ll say it is!” Ryder gasped in relief. “Thionite. . . .”
“Thionite! How could it be? How could they bring it in here?”
“They don’t. They’re growing broadleaf and _making_ the stuff. That’s
why they’re going to kill us.”
“Just a minute.” Cloud threw in another switch. “Lieutenant? Worse than
I thought. _Thionite!_ Get over here fast with everything you got. Armor
and semi-portables. Blast down the Mayner Street door. Stairway to
right, two floors down, corridor to left, half-way along left side. Room
B-Twelve. Snap it up, but keep your eyes peeled!”
“But wait, Cloud!” the lieutenant protested. “Wait ’til we get
there—you can’t do anything alone!”
“Can’t wait—got to get these kids out—evidence!” Cloud broke the
circuit and, as rapidly as he could, one-handed, buckled on gun-belts.
Graves would _have_ to kill these two youngsters, if he possibly could.
“For God’s sake save Jackie, anyway!” Ryder prayed. He knew just how
high the stakes were. “And watch out for gas, radiation, and traps—you
must have sprung a dozen alarms already.”
“What kind of traps?” Cloud demanded.
“Beams, deadfalls, sliding doors—I don’t know what they haven’t got.
Graves said he could kill us in here with rays or gas or. . . .”
“Take Graves’ private elevator, Dr. Cloud,” the girl broke in.
“Where is it—which one?”
“It’s in the blank wall—the yellow button on his desk opens it. Down as
far as it will go.”
Cloud jumped up listening with half an ear to the babblings from below
as he searched for air-helmets. Radiations, in that metal-lined room,
were out—except possibly for a few beam-projectors, which he could deal
with easily enough. Gas, though, would be bad; but every drug-house had
air-helmets. Ah! Here they were!
He put one on, made shift to hang two more around his neck—he had to
keep his one hand free. He punched the yellow button; rode the elevator
down until it stopped of itself. He ran along the corridor and drove the
narrowest, hottest possible beam of a DeLameter into the lock of B-12.
It took time to cut even that small semi-circle in that refractory and
conductive alloy—altogether too much time—but the kids would know who
it was. Zwilniks would open the cell with a key, not a torch.
They knew. When Cloud kicked the door open they fell upon him eagerly.
“A helmet and a DeLameter apiece. Get them on quick! Now help me buckle
this. Thanks. Jackie, you stay back there, out of the way of our feet.
Bob, you lie down here in the doorway. Keep your gun outside and stick
your head out just far enough so you can see. No farther. I’ll join you
after I see what they’ve got in the line of radiation.”
A spot of light appeared in a semi-concealed port, then another. Cloud’s
weapon flamed briefly.
“Projectors like those aren’t much good when the prisoners have
DeLameters,” he commented, “but I imagine our air right now is pretty
foul. It won’t be long now. Do you hear anything?”
“Somebody’s coming, but suppose it’s the Patrol?”
“If so, a few blasts won’t hurt ’em—they’ll be in G P armor.” Cloud did
not add that Graves would probably rush his nearest thugs in just as
they were; to kill the two witnesses before help could arrive.
The first detachment to round the corner was in fact unarmored. Cloud’s
weapon flamed white, followed quickly by Ryder’s, and those zwilniks
died. Against the next to arrive, however, the DeLameters raved in vain.
But only for a second.
“Back!” Cloud ordered, and swung the heavy door shut as the attackers’
beams swept past. It could not be locked, but it could be, and was,
welded to the jamb with dispatch, if not with neatness. “We’ll cut that
trap-door off, and stick it onto the door, too—and any more loose metal
we can find.”
“I hope they come in time,” the girl’s low voice carried a prayer. Was
this brief flare of hope false? Would not only she and her Bob, but also
their would-be rescuer, die? “Oh! That noise—s’pose it’s the Patrol?”
It was not really a noise—the cell was sound-proof—it was an
occasional jarring of the whole immense structure.
“I wouldn’t wonder. Heavy stuff—probably semi-portables. You might grab
that bucket, Bob, and throw some of that water that’s trickling in.
Every little bit helps.”
The heavy metal of the door was glowing bright-to-dull red over half its
area and that area was spreading rapidly. The air of the room grew hot
and hotter. Bursts of live steam billowed out and, condensing, fogged
the helmets.
The glowing metal dulled, brightened, dulled. The prisoners could only
guess at the intensity of the battle being waged. They could follow its
progress only by the ever-shifting temperature of the barrier which the
zwilniks were so suicidally determined to burn down. For hours, it
seemed, the conflict raged. The thuddings and jarrings grew worse. The
water, which had been a trickle, was now a stream and scalding hot.
Then a blast of bitterly cold air roared from the ventilator, clearing
away the gas and steam, and the speaker came to life.
“Good work, Cloud and you other two,” it said, chattily. “Glad to see
you’re all on deck. Get into this corner over here, so the Zwilniks
won’t hit you when they hole through. They won’t have time to locate
you—we’ve got a semi right at the corner now.”
The door grew hotter, flamed fiercely white. A narrow pencil sizzled
through, burning steel sparkling away in all directions—but only for a
second. It expired. Through the hole there flared the reflection of a
beam brilliant enough to pale the noon-day sun. The portal cooled; heavy
streams of water hissed and steamed. Hot water began to spurt into the
cell. An atomic-hydrogen cutting torch sliced away the upper two-thirds
of the fused and battered door. The grotesquely-armored lieutenant
peered in.
“They tell me all three of you are QX. Check?”
“Check.”
“Good. We’ll have to carry you out. Step up here where we can get hold
of you.”
“I’ll walk and I’ll carry Jackie myself,” Ryder protested, while two of
the armored warriors were draping Cloud tastefully around the helmet of
a third.
“You’d get boiled to the hips—this water is deep and hot. Come on!”
The slowly rising water was steaming; the walls and ceiling of the
corridor gave mute but eloquent testimony of the appalling forces that
had been unleashed. Tile, concrete, plastic, metal—nothing was as it
had been. Cavities yawned. Plates and pilasters were warped, crumbled,
fused into hellish stalactites; bare girders hung awry. In places
complete collapse had necessitated the blasting out of detours.
Through the wreckage of what had been a magnificent building the
cavalcade made its way, but when the open air was reached the three
rescued ones were not released. Instead, they were escorted by a full
platoon of soldiery to an armored car, which was in turn escorted to the
Patrol station.
“I’m afraid to take chances with you until we find out who’s who and
what’s what around here,” the young commander explained. “The Lensmen
will be here in the morning, with half an army, so I think you’d better
spend the rest of the night here, don’t you?”
“Protective custody, eh?” Cloud grinned. “I’ve never been arrested in
such a polite way before, but it’s QX with me. You, too, I take it?”
“Us, too, decidedly,” Ryder assented. “This is a very nice jail-house,
especially in comparison with where we’ve. . . .”
“I’ll say so!” Jackie broke in, giggling almost hysterically. “I never
thought I’d be tickled to death at getting arrested, but I am!”
Lensmen came, and companies of Patrolmen equipped in various fashions,
but it was several weeks before the situation was completely clarified.
Then Ellington—Councillor Ellington, the Unattached Lensman in charge
of all Narcotics—called the three into the office.
“How about Graves and Fairchild?” Cloud demanded before the councillor
could speak.
“Both dead,” Ellington said. “Graves was shot down just as he took off,
but he blasted Fairchild first, just as he intimated he would. There
wasn’t enough of Fairchild left for positive identification, but it
couldn’t very well have been anyone else. Nobody left alive seems to
know much of anything of the real scope of the thing, so we can release
you three now. Thanks, from me as well as the Patrol. There is some talk
that you two youngsters have been contemplating a honeymoon out
Chickladoria way?”
“Oh, no, sir—that is. . . .” Both spoke at once. “That was just talk,
sir.”
“I realize that the report may have been exaggerated, or premature, or
both. However, not as a reward, but simply in appreciation, the Patrol
would be very glad to have you as its guests throughout such a trip—all
expense—if you like.”
They liked.
“Thank you. Lieutenant, please take Miss Cochran and Mr. Ryder to the
disbursing office. Dr. Cloud, the Patrol will take cognizance of what
you have done. In the meantime, however, I would like to say that in
uncovering this thing you have been of immense assistance to us.”
“Nothing much sir, I’m afraid. I shudder to think of what’s coming. If
zwilniks can grow Trenconian broadleaf anywhere. . . .”
“Not at all, not at all,” Ellington interrupted. “If such an entirely
unsuspected firm as Tellurian Pharmaceuticals, with all their elaborate
preparations and precautions, could not do much more than start, it is
highly improbable that any other attempt will be a success. You have
given us a very potent weapon against zwilnik operations—not only
thionite, but heroin, ladolian, nitrolabe, and the rest.”
“What weapon?” Cloud was puzzled.
“Statistical analysis and correlation of apparently unrelated indices.”
“But they’ve been used for years!”
“Not the way you used them, my friend. Thus, while we cannot count upon
any more such extraordinary help as you gave us, we should not need any.
Can I give you a lift back to Tellus?”
“I don’t think so, thanks. My stuff is en route now. I’ll have to blow
out this vortex anyway. Not that I think there’s anything unusual about
it—those were undoubtedly murders, not vortex casualties at all—but
for the record. Also, since I can’t do any more extinguishing until my
arm finishes itself up, I may as well stay here and keep on practising.”
“Practising? Practising what?”
“Gun-slinging—the lightning draw. I intend to get at least a lunch
while the next pirate who pulls a DeLameter on me is getting a square
meal.”
* * * * *
And Councillor Ellington conferred with another Gray Lensman; one who
was not even vaguely humanoid.
“Did you take him apart?”
“Practically cell by cell.”
“What do you think the chances are of finding and developing another
like him?”
“With a quarter of a million Lensmen working on it now, and the number
doubling every day, and with a hundred thousand million planets, with
almost that many different cultures, it is my considered opinion that it
is merely a matter of time.”
_Chapter 5_
▂▂▂▂▂▂THE BONEHEADS
SINCE BECOMING the Vortex Blaster, Neal Cloud lived alone. Whenever he
decently could, he traveled alone and worked alone. He was alone now,
hurtling through a barren region of space toward Rift Seventy One and
the vortex next upon his list. In the interests of solitude,
convenience, and efficiency he was now driving a scout-class ship which
had been converted to one-man and automatic operation. In one hold was
his vortex-blasting flitter; in the others his duodec bombs and other
supplies.
During such periods of inaction as this, he was wont to think
flagellantly of Jo and the three kids; especially of Jo. Now, however,
and much to his surprise and chagrin, the pictures which had been so
vividly clear were beginning to fade. Unless he concentrated
consciously, his thoughts strayed elsewhere: to the last meeting of the
Society; to the new speculations as to the why and how of supernovae; to
food; to bowling—maybe he’d better start that again, to see if he
couldn’t make his hook roll smoothly into the one-two pocket instead of
getting so many seven-ten splits. Back to food—for the first time in
the Vortex Blaster’s career he was really hungry.
Which buttons would he push for supper? Steak and Venerian mushrooms
would be mighty good. So would fried ham and eggs, or high-pressured
gameliope. . . .
An alarm bell jangled, rupturing the silence; a warm-blooded
oxygen-breather’s distress call, pitifully weak, was coming in. It would
have to be weak, Cloud reflected, as he tuned it in as sharply as he
could; he was a good eighty five parsecs—at least an hour at maximum
blast—away from the nearest charted traffic lane. It was getting
stronger. It hadn’t just started, then; he had just gotten into its
range. He acknowledged, swung his little ship’s needle nose into the
line and slammed on full drive. He had not gone far on the new course,
however, when a tiny but brilliant flash of light showed on his plate
and the distress-call stopped. Whatever had occurred was history.
Cloud had to investigate, of course. Both written and unwritten laws are
adamant that every such call must be heeded by any warm-blooded
oxygen-breather receiving it, of whatever race or class or tonnage or
upon whatever mission bound. He broadcast call after call of his own. No
reply. He was probably the only being in space who had been within
range.
Still driving at max, he went to the rack and pulled down a chart. He
had never been in on a space emergency before, but he knew the routine.
No use to investigate the wreckage; the brilliance of the flare was
evidence enough that the vessel and everything near it had ceased to
exist. It was lifeboats he was after. They were supposed to stick around
to be rescued, but out here they wouldn’t. They’d have to head for the
nearest planet, to be sure of air. Air was far more important than
either food or water; and lifeboats, by the very nature of things, could
not carry enough air.
Thus he steered more toward the nearest T-T (Tellus-Type) planet than
toward the scene of disaster. He put his communicators, both sending and
receiving, on automatic, then sat down at the detector panel. There
might not be anything on the visuals or the audio. There had been many
cases of boats, jammed with women and children, being launched into
space with no one aboard able to operate even a communicator. If any
lifeboats had gotten away from the catastrophe, his detectors would find
them.
There was one; one only. It was close to the planet, almost into
atmosphere. Cloud aimed a solid communicator beam. Still no answer.
Either the boat’s communicator was smashed or nobody aboard could run
it. He’d have to follow them down to the ground.
But what was that? Another boat on the plate? Not a lifeboat—too
big—but not big enough to be a ship. Coming out from the planet,
apparently . . . to rescue? No—what the hell? The lug was _beaming_ the
lifeboat!
“Let’s go, you sheet-iron lummox!” the Blaster yelled aloud, kicking in
his every remaining dyne of drive. Then, very shortly, his plate came
suddenly to life. To semi-life, rather, for the video was blurred and
blotchy; the audio full of breaks and noise. The lifeboat’s pilot was a
Chickladorian; characteristically pink except for red-matted hair and
red-streamed face. He was in bad shape.
“Whoever it is that’s been trying to raise me, snap it up!” the pink man
said in “Spaceal,” the lingua franca of deep space. “I couldn’t answer
until I faked up this jury rig. The ape’s aboard and he means business.
I’m going to black out, I think, but I’ve undogged the locks. Take over,
pal!”
The picture blurred, vanished. The voice stopped. Cloud swore,
viciously.
* * * * *
The planet Dhil and its enormous satellite Lune are almost twin worlds,
revolving around their common center of gravity and traversing as one
the second orbit of their sun. In the third orbit revolves Nhal, a
planet strikingly similar to Dhil in every respect of gravity,
atmosphere, and climate. Thus Dhilians and Nhalians are, to intents and
purposes, identical.[1]
The two races had been at war with each other, most of the time, for
centuries; and practically all of that warfare had been waged upon
luckless Lune. Each race was well advanced in science. Each had atomic
power, offensive beams, and defensive screens. Neither had any degree of
inertialessness. Neither had ever heard of Civilization or of Boskonia.
At this particular time peace existed, but only on the surface. Any
discovery or development giving either side an advantage would rekindle
the conflagration without hesitation or warning.
Such was the condition obtaining when Darjeeb of Nhal blasted his little
space-ship upward from Lune. He was glowing with pride of
accomplishment, suffused with self-esteem. Not only had he touched off
an inextinguishable atomic flame exactly where it would do the most
good, but also, as a crowning achievement, he had captured Luda of Dhil.
Luda herself; the coldest, hardest, most efficient Minister of War that
Dhil had ever had!
As soon as they could extract certain data from Luda’s mind, they could
take Lune in short order. With Lune solidly theirs, they could bomb Dhil
into submission in two years. The goal of many generations would have
been reached. He, Darjeeb of Nhal, would have wealth, fame, and—best of
all—power!
Gazing gloatingly at his captive with every eye he could bring to bear,
Darjeeb strolled over to inspect again her chains and manacles. Let her
radiate! No mentality in existence could break _his_ blocks. Physically,
however, she had to be watched. The irons were strong; but so was Luda.
If she could break free he’d probably have to shoot her, which would be
a very bad thing indeed. She hadn’t caved in yet, but she would. When he
got her to Nhal, where proper measures could be taken, she’d give up
every scrap of knowledge she had ever had!
The chains were holding, all eight of them, and Darjeeb kept on gloating
as he backed toward his control station. To him Luda’s shape was normal
enough, since his own was the same, but in the sight of any Tellurian
she would have been more than a little queer.
The lower part of her body was somewhat like that of a small elephant;
one weighing perhaps four hundred pounds. The skin, however, was clear
and fine and delicately tanned; there were no ears or tusks; the neck
was longer. The trunk was shorter, divided at the tip to form a highly
capable hand; and between the somewhat protuberant eyes of this
“feeding” head there thrust out a boldly Roman, startlingly human nose.
The brain in this head was very small, being concerned only with matters
of food.
Above this not-too-unbelievable body, however, there was nothing
familiar to us of Tellus. Instead of a back there were two pairs of
mighty shoulders, from which sprang four tremendous arms, each like the
trunk except longer and much stronger. Surmounting those massive
shoulders there was an armored, slightly retractile neck which bore the
heavily-armored “thinking” head. In this head there were no mouths, no
nostrils. The four equally-spaced _pairs_ of eyes were protected by
heavy ridges and plates; the entire head, except for its junction with
the neck, was solidly sheathed with bare, hard, thick, tough bone.
Darjeeb’s amazing head shone a clean-scrubbed white. But Luda’s—the
eternal feminine!—was really something to look at. It had been sanded,
buffed, and polished. It had been inlaid with bars and strips and
scrolls of variously-colored metals; then decorated tastefully in red
and green and blue and black enamel; then, to cap the climax,
_lacquered_!
But that was old stuff to Darjeeb; all he cared about was the tightness
of the chains immobilizing Luda’s hands and feet. Seeing that they were
all tight, he returned his attention to his visiplates; for he was not
yet in the clear. Enemies might be blasting off after him any minute.
A light flashed upon his detector panel. Behind him everything was
clear. Nothing was coming from Dhil. Ah, there it was, coming in from
open space. But nothing _could_ move that fast! A space-ship of some
kind . . . Gods of the Ancients, _how_ it was coming!