A powerful fleet had been sent to rescue those of the _Brittania's_
crew who might have managed to stay out of the clutches of the pirates.
The wildly enthusiastic celebration inside Prime Base was over. Outside
the force walls of the reservation, however, it was just beginning.
Thorndyke, VanBuskirk, and the Velantians were in the thick of it. No
one on Earth, except a few planetographers, had ever heard of Velantia,
and those highly intelligent reptilian beings knew even less of Tellus.
Nevertheless, simply because they had aided the patrolmen, the visitors
were practically given the keys to the planet, and they were enjoying
the experience tremendously.
"We want Kinnison! We want Kinnison!" the festive crowd, led by
Universal Telenews men, had been yelling; and finally the Lensman
came out. But after one pose before a lens and a few words into a
microphone, he pleaded, "There's my call, now--urgent!" and fled back
inside Reservation. Then the milling tide of celebrants rolled back
toward the city, taking with it every patrolman who could get leave.
Engineers and designers were swarming through and over the pirate
ship Kinnison had driven home, each armed with a sheaf of blue prints
already prepared from the long-cherished data spool, each directing a
corps of mechanics in dismantling some mechanism of the great space
rover. It was to this hive of bustling activity that Kinnison had been
called. He stood there, answering as best he could the multitude of
questions being fired at him from all sides, until he was rescued by no
less a personage than Port Admiral Haynes.
"You gentlemen can get your information from the data sheets better
than you can from Kinnison," he remarked with a smile, "and I want to
take his report without any more delay."
Hand under arm, the old Lensman led the young one away. But once inside
his private office he summoned neither secretary nor recorder. Instead,
he pushed the buttons which set up a complete-coverage shield and spoke.
"Now, son, open up. Out with it--everything that you have been holding
back ever since you landed. I got your signal."
"Well, yes, I have been holding back," Kinnison admitted. "I haven't
got enough jets to be sticking my neck out in fast company, even if it
were something to be discussed in public, which it is not. I'm glad you
could give me this time so soon. I want to go over an idea with you,
and with _no one else_. It may be as cockeyed as Trenco's ether--you
are to be the sole judge as to that--but you will know, no matter how
goofy it is, that I mean well."
"That certainly is not an overstatement," Haynes replied, dryly. "Go
ahead."
"The great peculiarity of space combat is that we fly free, but fight
inert," Kinnison began, apparently irrelevantly, but choosing his
phraseology with care. "To force an engagement one ship locks to the
other first with tracers, then with tractors, and goes inert. Thus,
relative speed determines the ability to force or to avoid engagement;
but it is relative power that determines the outcome. Heretofore, the
pirates----
* * * * *
"And by the way, we are belittling our opponents and building up a
disastrous overconfidence in ourselves by calling them pirates. It
has been thought before that they were not pirates, and now we know
definitely that they are not. It is more than a race or a system. It is
actually a galaxy-wide culture. It is an absolute despotism, holding
its authority by means of a rigid system of rewards and punishments. In
our eyes it is fundamentally wrong, but it works. _How_ it works! It is
organized just as we are, and is apparently as strong in bases, vessels
and personnel. In my own mind I have been calling the whole culture
'Boskonia,' since no one seems to know who or what Boskone really is.
Perhaps Boskone really _is_ the name of the entire organization?
"But to get on with the thought. Boskonia has had all the best of it,
both in speed--except for the _Brittania's_ momentary advantage--and
in power. That advantage is now lost to them. We will have, then, two
immense powers, each galactic in scope, each tremendously powerful in
arms, equipment, and personnel; each having exactly the same weapons
and defenses, and each determined to wipe out the other. A stalemate
is inevitable; an absolute deadlock; a sheerly destructive war of
attrition which will go on for centuries and which must end in the
annihilation of both Boskonia and civilization."
"But our new shears and screens!" protested the older man. "They give
us an overwhelming advantage. We can force or avoid engagement, as we
please. You know the plan to crush them. You helped to develop it."
"Yes, I know the plan. I also know that we will not crush them. So do
you. We both know that our advantage will be only temporary." The
young Lensman, unimpressed, was in deadly earnest.
* * * * *
The admiral did not reply for a time. Deep down, he himself had
felt the doubt; but neither he nor any other of his school had
ever mentioned the thing that Kinnison had now so boldly put into
words. He knew that whatever one side had, of weapon or armor or of
equipment, would sooner or later become the property of the other--as
was witnessed by the desperate venture which Kinnison himself had
so recently and so successfully concluded. He knew that the devices
installed in the vessels captured upon Velantia had been destroyed
before falling into the hands of the enemy, but he also knew that
with entire fleets so equipped the new arms could not be kept secret
indefinitely.
Therefore, he finally replied: "That may be true." He paused, then went
on like the indomitable veteran that he was, "But we have the advantage
now and we'll drive it while we've got it. After all, we _may_ be able
to hold it long enough."
"I've just thought of one more thing that would help: communication."
Kinnison did not argue the previous point, but went ahead. "It seems
to be impossible to drive any kind of a communicator beam through the
double interference----"
"_Seems_ to be!" barked Haynes. "It _is_ impossible! Nothing but a
thought----"
"That's it exactly--_thought_!" interrupted Kinnison in turn. "The
Velantians can do things with a Lens that nobody would believe
possible. Why not examine some of them for Lensmen? I'm sure
that Worsel could pass, and probably many others. They can drive
thoughts through anything except their own thought-screens--and what
communicators they would make!"
"That idea has distinct possibilities and will be followed up. However,
it is not what you wanted to discuss. G.A.!"
"QX," Kinnison went into Lens-to-Lens communication. "I want some kind
of a shield or screen that will neutralize or nullify a detector. I
asked Hotchkiss, the communications expert, about it--under seal. He
said that it had never been investigated, even as an academic problem
in research, but that it was theoretically possible."
"This room is shielded, you know." Haynes was surprised at the use of
the Lenses. "Is it _that_ important?"
"I don't know. As I said before, I may be cockeyed; but if my idea
is any good at all that nullifier is the most important thing in the
universe, and if word of it gets out it will be absolutely useless. You
see, sir, over the long route, the only really permanent advantage that
we have over Boskonia, the one thing that they cannot get, is the Lens.
There must be some way to use it. If that nullifier is possible, and
if we can keep it a secret, I believe that I have found it. At least,
I want to try something. It may not work--probably it won't; it's a
mighty slim chance--but if it does, we may be able to wipe out Boskonia
in a few months, instead of carrying on forever a war of attrition.
First, I want to go to----"
"Hold on!" Haynes snapped. "I've been thinking, too. I can't see any
possible relation between such a device and any real military weapon,
or the Lens, either. If I can't, not many others can, and that's a
point in your favor. If there is anything at all in your idea, it is
too big to share with any one, even me. Keep it yourself."
"But it's a peculiar hook-up, and may not be any good at all,"
protested Kinnison. "You might want to cancel it."
"No danger of that," came the positive statement. "You know more about
the pirates--pardon me, about Boskonia--than any other patrolman.
You believe that your idea has some slight chance of success. Very
well--that fact is enough to put every resource of the patrol back of
you. Put your idea on a tape and seal the spool in your private box in
the vault, so that it will not be lost in case of your death. Then go
ahead. If it is possible to develop that nullifier, you shall have it.
Hotchkiss will take charge of it, and have any other Lensmen he wants.
No one except Lensmen will work on it or know anything about it. Only
one will be made and no records will be kept. It will not even exist
until you yourself release it to us."
"Thanks, sir." And Kinnison left the room.
* * * * *
Then for weeks Prime Base was the scene of an activity furious indeed.
New apparatus was designed and tested; shears for tracers and tractors,
generators of screens against cosmic-energy intake, scramblers for
the communicators of the enemy, and many other things. Each item was
designed and tested, redesigned and retested, until even the most
skeptical of the patrol's engineers could no longer find in it anything
to criticize. Then, throughout the galaxy, the ships of the patrol were
called into their sector bases to be rebuilt.
There were to be two great classes of vessels. Those of the first were
to have speed and defense--nothing else. They were to be the fastest
things in space, and able to defend themselves against attack. That
was all. Vessels of the second class had to be built from the keel
upward, since nothing even remotely like them had theretofore been
conceived. They were to be huge, ungainly, slow--simply storehouses of
incomprehensibly vast powers of offense. They carried projectors of
a size and power never before set upon movable foundations, nor were
they dependent upon cosmic energy. They carried their own, in bank upon
stupendous bank of Gargantuan accumulators. In fact, each of these
monstrous floating fortresses was to be able to generate screens of
such design and power that no vessel anywhere near them could receive
cosmic energy!
This, then, was the bolt which civilization was preparing to hurl
against Boskonia. In theory the thing was simplicity itself. The
ultra-fast cruisers would catch the enemy, lock on with tractors,
and go inert, thus anchoring in space. Then, while absorbing and
dissipating everything that the opposition could send, they would put
out a peculiarly patterned interference, the center of which could
easily be located. The mobile fortresses would then come up, cut off
the Boskonians' power intake, and finish up the job.
Not soon was that bolt forged; but in time civilization was ready
to launch its stupendous and, it was generally hoped and believed,
conclusive attack upon Boskonia. Every sector base and sub-base was
ready; the zero hour had been set.
At Prime Base Kimball Kinnison, the youngest Tellurian ever to wear the
four silver stripes of captain, sat at the conning plate of the cruiser
_Brittania II_, so named at his own request. He thrilled inwardly as
he thought of her speed. Such was her force of drive that, streamlined
to the ultimate degree although she was, she had special wall shields,
and special dissipators to radiate into space the heat of friction of
the medium through which she tore so madly. Otherwise she would have
destroyed herself in an hour of full blast, even in the hard vacuum of
interstellar space!
And in his office Port Admiral Haynes watched a chronometer. Minutes to
go--then seconds.
"Clear ether and light landings." His deep voice was gruff with
unexpressed emotion. "Five seconds.... QX.... Lift!" And the fleet shot
into the air.
* * * * *
The first objective of this solarian fleet was twofold, and this first
hop was to be a short one indeed. For the Boskonians had established
bases upon both Pluto and Neptune, right here in the solarian system.
So close to Prime Base were these bases that only intensive screening
and constant vigilance had kept their spy rays out; so powerful were
they that the ordinary battleships of the patrol had been impotent
against them. Now they were to be removed. Therefore the fleet,
cruisers and "maulers" alike, divided into two parts; one part flashing
toward Neptune, the other toward slightly more distant Pluto.
Short as was the time necessary to traverse any interplanetary
distance, the solarians were detected and were met in force by the
ships of Boskone. But scarcely had battle been joined when the enemy
began to realize that this was to be a battle the like of which they
had never before seen; and when they began to understand it, it was too
late. They could not run, and all space was so full of interference
that they could not even report to Helmuth what was going on. These
first, peculiarly teardrop-shaped vessels of the patrol did not fight
at all. They simply held on like bulldogs, taking without response
everything that the white-hot projectors could hurl into them.
Their defensive screens radiated fiercely, high into the violet, under
the appalling punishment being dealt out to them by the batteries
of ship and shore, but they did not go down. Nor did the grip of
a single tractor loosen from its anchorage. And in minutes the
squat and monstrous maulers came up. Out went their cosmic-energy
blocking screens, out shot their tractor beams, and out from the
refractory throats of their stupendous projectors there raved the most
terrifically destructive forces generable by man.
Boskonian outer screens scarcely even flickered as they went down
before the immeasurable, the incredible violence of that thrust. The
second course offered a briefly brilliant burst of violet radiance
as it gave way. The inner screen resisted stubbornly as it ran the
spectrum in a wildly coruscant display of pyrotechnic splendor; but it,
too, went through the ultra-violet and into the black.
Now the wall shield itself--that inconceivably rigid fabrication of
pure force, which only the instantaneous detonation of twenty metric
tons of "duodec" had ever been known to rupture--was all that barred
from the base metal of Boskonian walls the utterly indescribable fury
of the maulers' beams. Now force was streaming from that shield in
veritable torrents.
So terrible were the conflicting energies there at grips that their
neutralization was actually visible and tangible. In sheets and masses,
in terrific, ether-racking vortices, and in miles-long, pillaring
streamers and flashes, those energies were being hurled away--hurled to
all the points of the sphere's full compass, filling and suffusing all
near-by space.
The Boskonian commanders stared at their instruments, first in
bewildered amazement and then in sheer, stark, unbelieving horror as
their power intake dropped to zero and their wall shields began to
fail--and still the attack continued in never-lessening power. Surely
that beaming _must_ slacken down soon. No conceivable mobile plant
could throw such a load for long!
But those mobile plants could--and did. The attack kept up, at the
extremely high level upon which it had begun. No ordinary storage cells
fed those mighty projectors; along no ordinary busbars were their
Titanic amperages borne. Those maulers were designed to do just one
thing--to _maul_--and that one thing they did well, relentlessly and
thoroughly.
* * * * *
Higher and higher into the spectrum the defending wall shields began to
radiate. At the first blast they had leaped almost through the visible
spectrum, in one unbearably fierce succession of red, orange, yellow,
green, blue, and indigo, up to a sultry, coruscating, blindingly
hard violet. Now the doomed shields began leaping erratically into
the ultra-violet. To the eye they were already invisible; upon the
recorders they were showing momentary flashes of black.
Soon they went down; and in the instant of each failure one vessel
of Boskonia was no more. For, that last defense gone, nothing
save unresisting metal was left to withstand the ardor of those
ultra-powerful, ravening beams. As has already been said, no substance,
however refractory or resistant or inert, can endure even momentarily
in such a field of force. Therefore, every atom, alike of vessel and
of contents, went to make up the searing, seething burst of brilliant,
incandescently luminous vapor which suffused all circumambient space.
Thus passed out of the scheme of things the vessels of the solarian
detachment of Boskonia. Not a single vessel escaped; the cruisers saw
to that. And then the attack thundered on to the bases themselves. Here
the cruisers were useless; they merely formed an observant fringe, the
while continuing to so blanket all channels of communication that the
doomed bases could send out no word of what was happening to them. The
maulers moved up and grimly, doggedly, methodically went to work.
Since a base is always much more powerfully armored than is a
battleship, the reduction of these fortresses took longer than had the
destruction of the fleet. But the bases could no longer draw power from
the Sun or from any other heavenly body, and their other sources of
power were comparatively weak. Therefore, their defenses also failed
under that never-ceasing assault. Course after course their screens
went down, and with the last one went the base. The maulers' beams went
through metal and masonry as effortlessly as steel-jacketed bullets go
through butter, and bored on, deep into the planet's bedrock, before
their frightful force was spent.
Then around and around they spiraled, until nothing whatever was left
of the Boskonian works; until only a seething, white-hot lake of molten
lava in the midst of the planet's frigid waste was all that remained to
show that anything had ever been built there.
Surrender had not been thought of. Quarter or clemency had not been
asked, nor offered. Victory, of itself, was not enough. This was, and
of stern necessity had to be, a war of utter, complete, and merciless
extinction.