For a moment all eyes were fixed apprehensively upon meters and
recorders, but there was no immediate cause for alarm. The builders of
the _Dauntless_ had builded well; her outer screen, the lightest of
her series of four, was carrying the attackers' load with no sign of
distress.
"Strap down, everybody," the expedition's commander ordered then.
"Inert her, Hen. Match velocity with that base," and as Master Pilot
Henry Henderson cut his Bergenholm, the vessel lurched wildly aside as
its intrinsic velocity was restored.
Henderson's fingers swept over his board as rapidly and as surely as
those of an organist over the banked keys of his console; producing,
not chords and arpeggios of harmony, but roaring blasts of precisely
controlled power. Each keylike switch controlled one jet. Lightly and
fleetingly touched, it produced a gentle urge; at sharp, full contact
it yielded a mighty, solid shove; depressed still farther, so as to
lock into any one of a dozen notches, it brought into being a torrent
of propulsive force of any desired magnitude, which ceased only when
its key-release was touched.
And Henderson was a virtuoso. Smoothly, effortlessly, but in a space
of seconds the great vessel rolled over, spiraled, and swung until her
landing jets were in line and exerting five gravities of thrust. Then,
equally smoothly, almost imperceptibly, the line of force was varied
until the flame-enshrouded dome was stationary below them. Nobody, not
even the two other Master Pilots, and least of all Henderson himself,
paid any attention to the polished perfection, the consummate artistry,
of the performance. That was his job. He was a Master Pilot, and one of
the hallmarks of his rating was the habit of making difficult maneuvers
look easy.
"Take 'em now, chief? Can't we, huh?" Chatway, the chief firing
officer, did not say those words. He did not need to. The attitude and
posture of the C.F.O. and his subordinates made the thought tensely
plain.
"Not yet, Chatty," the Lensman answered the unsent thought. "We'll have
to wait until they englobe us, so that we can get them all. It's got
to be all or none. If even one of them gets away, or even has time to
analyze and report on the stuff we're going to use, it'll be just too
bad."
He then got in touch with the officer within the beleaguered base and
renewed the conversation at the point at which it had been broken off.
"We can help you, I think; but to do so effectively we must have clear
ether. Will you please order your ships away, out of even extreme
range?"
"For how long? They can do us irreparable damage in one rotation of the
planet."
"One-twentieth of that time, at most--if we cannot do it in that time
we cannot do it at all. Nor will they direct many beams at you, if any.
They will be working on us."
Then, as the defending ships darted away, Kinnison turned to his C. F.
O. "QX, Chatty. Open up with your secondaries. Fire at will!"
Then from projectors of a power theretofore carried only by maulers,
there raved out against the nearest Boskonian vessels beams of a
vehemence compared to which the enemies' own seemed weak, futile. And
those were the secondaries!
As has been intimated, the _Dauntless_ was an unusual ship. She was
enormous. She was bigger even than a mauler in actual bulk and mass;
and from needle-beaked prow to jet-studded stern she was literally
packed with power--power for any emergency conceivable to the fertile
minds of Port Admiral Haynes and his staff of designers and engineers.
Instead of two, or at most three intake-screen exciters, she had two
hundred. Her bus bars, instead of being the conventional rectangular
coppers, of a few square inches cross-sectional area, were laminated
members built up of co-axial tubing of pure silver to a diameter
of over a yard--multiple and parallel conductors, each of whose
current-carrying capacity was to be measured only in millions of
amperes. And everything else aboard that mighty engine of destruction
was upon the same Gargantuan scale.
* * * * *
Titanic though those thrusts were, not a pirate ship was seriously
hurt. Outer screens went down, and more than a few of the second lines
of defense also failed. But that was the Patrolmen's strategy; to let
the enemy know that they had weapons of offense somewhat superior to
their own, but not quite powerful enough to be a real menace.
In minutes, therefore, the Boskonians rushed up and englobed the
newcomer; supposing, of course, that she was a product of the world
below, that she was manned by the race who had so long and so
successfully fought off Boskonian encroachment.
They attacked, and under the concentrated fury of their beams, the
outer screen of the Patrol ship began to fail. Higher and higher into
the spectrum it radiated, blinding white--blue--an intolerable violet
glare; then, patchily, through the invisible ultraviolet and into
the black of extinction. The second screen resisted longer and more
stubbornly, but finally it also went down; the third automatically
taking up the burden of defense. Simultaneously, the power of
Civilization's projectors weakened, as though the _Dauntless_ were
shifting her power from offense to defense in order to stiffen her
third, and supposedly her last, shielding screen.
"Pretty soon, now, Chatway," Kinnison observed. "Just as soon as they
can report that they have us in a bad way; that it is just a matter of
time until they blow us out of the ether. Better report now--I'll put
you on the spool."
"We are equipped to energize simultaneously eight of the new,
replaceable-unit primary projectors," the C.F.O. stated, crisply.
"There are twenty-one vessels englobing us, and no others within
detection. With a discharge period of point six oh second and a
switching interval of point oh nine, the entire action should occupy
one point nine eight seconds."
"Chief Communications Officer Nelson on the spool. Can the last
surviving ship of the enemy report enough in two seconds to do us
material harm?"
"In my opinion it cannot, sir," Nelson reported, formally. "The
communications officer is neither an observer nor a technician; he
merely transmits whatever material is given him by other officers
for transmission. If he is already working a beam to his base at the
moment of our first blast, he might be able to report the destruction
of vessels, but he could not be specific as to the nature of the agent
used. Such a report could do no harm, as the fact of the destruction
of the vessels will in any event become apparent shortly. Since we
are apparently being overcome easily, however, and this is a routine
action, the probability is that this detachment is not in direct
communication with Base at any given moment. If not, he could not
establish working control in two seconds."
"Kinnison now reporting. Having determined to the best of my ability
that engaging the enemy at this time will not enable them to send
Boskone any information regarding our primary armament, I now give the
word to--_fire_."
* * * * *
The underlying principle of the destructive beam produced by
overloading a regulation projector had, it is true, been discovered by
a Boskonian technician. In so far as Boskonia was concerned, however,
the secret had died with its inventor, since the pirates had at that
time no headquarters in the First Galaxy. And the Patrol had had months
of time in which to perfect it, for that work was begun before the last
of Helmuth's guardian fortress had been destroyed.
The projector was not now fatal to its crew, since they were protected
from the lethal back-radiation, not only by shields of force, but also
by foot after impenetrable foot of lead, osmium, carbon, and paraffin.
The refractories were of neo-cargalloy, backed and permeated by M K R
fields; the radiators were constructed of the most ultimately resistant
materials known to the science of the age. But even so, the unit had
a useful life of but little over half a second, so frightful was the
overload at which it was used. Like a rifle cartridge, it was good for
only one shot. Then it was thrown away, to be replaced by a new unit.
Those problems were relatively simple of solution. Switching those
enormous energies was the great stumbling block. The old Kimmerling
block-dispersion circuit breaker was prone to arc over under loads
much in excess of a hundred billion KW, hence could not even be
considered in this new application. However, the Patrol force finally
succeeded in working out a combination of the immersed-antenna and
the semi-permeable-condenser types, which they called the Thorndyke
heavy-duty switch. It was cumbersome, of course--any device to
interrupt voltages and amperages of the really astronomical magnitude
in question could not at that time be small--but it was positive,
fast-acting, and reliable.
At Kinnison's word of command, eight of those indescribable primary
beams lashed out; stilettos of irresistibly penetrant energy which not
even a Q-type helix could withstand. Through screens, through wall
shields, and through metal they hurtled in a space of time almost too
brief to be measured. Then, before each beam expired, it was swung a
little, so that the victim was literally split apart or carved into
sections. Performance exceeded by far that of the hastily improvised
weapon which had so easily destroyed the heavy cruisers of the Patrol;
in fact, it checked almost exactly with the theoretical figures of the
designers.
As the first eight beams winked out, eight more came into being, then
five more; and meanwhile the mighty secondaries were sweeping the
heavens with full-aperture cones of destruction. Metal meant no more
to those rays than did organic material; everything solid or liquid
whiffed into vapor and disappeared. The _Dauntless_ lay alone in the
sky of that new world.
"Marvelous--wonderful!" the thought beat into Kinnison's brain as soon
as he re-established rapport with the being so far below. "We have
recalled our ships. Will you please come down to our spaceport at
once, so that we can put into execution a plan which has been long in
preparation?"
"As soon as your ships are down," the Tellurian acquiesced. "Not
sooner, as your landing conventions are doubtless very unlike our own
and we do not wish to cause disaster. Give me the word when your field
is entirely clear."
* * * * *
That word came soon, and Kinnison nodded to the pilots. Once more
inertialess, the _Dauntless_ shot downward, deep into atmosphere,
before her inertia was restored. Rematching velocity this time was a
simple matter, and upon the towering, powerfully resilient pillars of
her landing-jets the inconceivable mass of the Tellurian ship of war
settled toward the ground, as lightly seeming as a wafted thistle-down.
"Their cradles wouldn't fit us, of course, even if they were big
enough--which they aren't, by half," Schermerhorn commented. "Where do
they want us to put her?"
"'Anywhere,' they say," the Lensman answered, "but we don't want to
take that too literally--without a solid dock she'll make an awful
hole, wherever we set her down. Won't hurt her any. She's designed for
it. We couldn't expect to find cradles to fit her anywhere except on
Tellus. I'd say to lay her down on her belly over there in that corner,
out of the way, as close to that big hangar as you can work without
blasting it out with your jets."
As Kinnison had intimated, the lightness of the vessel was indeed only
seeming. Superbly and effortlessly the big boat seeped downward into
the designated corner; but when she touched the pavement she did not
stop. Still easily and without jar or jolt she settled--a full twenty
feet into the concrete, reinforcing steel and hard-packed earth of the
field before she came to a halt.
"What a monster! Who are they? Where could they have come from?"
Kinnison caught a confusion of startled thoughts as the real size and
mass of the visitor became apparent to the natives. Then again came
the clear thought of the officer.
"We would like very much to have you and as many as possible of your
companions come to confer with us as soon as you have tested our
atmosphere. Come in spacesuits if you must."
The air was tested and found suitable. True, it did not match exactly
that of Tellus, or Rigel IV, or Velantia; but then, neither did that of
the _Dauntless_, since that gaseous mixture was a compromise one, and
mostly artificial to boot.
"Worsel, Tregonsee, and I will go to this conference," Kinnison
decided. "The rest of you sit tight. I don't need to tell you to
keep on your toes, that anything is apt to happen, anywhere, without
warning. Keep your detectors full out and keep your noses clean--be
ready like the good little endeavorers you are, 'to do with all your
might what your hands find to do.' Come on, fellows," and the three
Lensmen strode, wriggled, and waddled across the field, to and into a
spacious room of the Administration Building.
"Strangers, or, I should say friends, I introduce you to Wise, our
president," Kinnison's acquaintance said, clearly enough, although it
was plain to all three Lensmen that he was shocked at the sight of the
Earthman's companions.
"I am informed that you understand our language--" the president began
doubtfully.
He, too, was staring at Tregonsee and Worsel. He had been told that
Kinnison, and therefore, supposed, the rest of the visitors, were
beings fashioned more or less after his own pattern. But these two
creatures!
* * * * *
For they were not even remotely human in form. Tregonsee, the
Rigellian, with his leathery, multiappendaged, oil-drumlike body, his
immobile dome of a head and his four blocky pillars of legs must at
first sight have appeared fantastic indeed. And Worsel, the Velantian,
was infinitely worse. He was repulsive, a thing materialized from
sheerest nightmare--a leather-winged, crocodile-headed, crooked-armed,
thirty-foot long, pythonish, reptilian monstrosity!
But the President of Medon saw at once that which the three outlanders
had in common. The Lenses, each glowingly aflame with its own innate
pseudo-vitality--Kinnison's clamped to his brawny wrist by a band of
iridium-osmium-tungsten alloy; Tregonsee's embedded in the glossy
black flesh of one mighty, sinuous arm; Worsel's apparently driven
deep and with cruel force into the horny, scaly hide squarely in the
middle of his forehead, between two of his weirdly stalked, repulsively
extensible eyes.
"It is not your language we understand, but your thoughts, by virtue of
these our Lenses which you have already noticed." The president gasped
as Kinnison bulleted the information into his mind. "Go ahead.... Just
a minute!" as an unmistakable sensation swept through his being. "We've
gone _free_! The whole planet, I perceive. In that respect, at least,
you are in advance of us. As far as I know, no scientist of any of our
races has even thought of a Bergenholm big enough to free a world."
"It was long in the designing; many years in the building of its
units," Wise replied. "We are leaving this sun in an attempt to escape
from our enemy and yours; Boskone. It is our only chance of survival.
The means have long been ready, but the opportunity which you have just
made for us is the first that we have had. This is the first time in
many, many years that not a single Boskonian vessel is in position to
observe our flight."
"Where are you going? Surely the Boskonians will be able to find you if
they wish."
"That is possible, but we must run that risk. We must have a respite
or perish; after a long lifetime of continuous warfare, our resources
are at the point of exhaustion. There is a part of this Galaxy in which
there are very few planets, and of those few, none are inhabited or
habitable. Since nothing is to be gained, ships seldom or never go
there. If we can reach that region undetected, the probability is that
we shall be unmolested long enough to recuperate."
Kinnison exchanged flashing thoughts with his two fellow Lensmen, then
turned again to Wise.
"We come from a neighboring Galaxy," he informed him, and pointed
out to his mind just which Galaxy he meant. "You are fairly close to
the edge of this one. Why not move over to ours? You have no friends
here, since you think that yours may be the only remaining independent
planet. We can assure you of friendship. We can also give you some hope
of peace--or at least semipeace--in the near future, for we are driving
Boskonia out of our Galaxy."
"What you think of as 'semipeace' would be tranquillity incarnate to
us," the old man replied with feeling. "We have, in fact, considered
long that very move. We decided against it for two reasons: first,
because we knew nothing about conditions there, and hence might be
going from bad to worse; and second and more important, because of lack
of reliable data upon the density of matter in intergalactic space.
Lacking that, we could not estimate the time necessary for the journey,
and we could have no assurance that our sources of power, great as they
are, would be sufficient to make up the heat lost by radiation."
"We have already given you an idea of conditions and we can give you
the data you lack."
* * * * *
They did so, and for a matter of minutes the Medonians conferred.
Meanwhile Kinnison went on a mental expedition to one of the power
plants. He expected to see supercolossal engines; bus bars ten feet
thick, perhaps cooled in liquid helium; and other things in proportion.
But what he actually saw made him gasp for breath and call Tregonsee's
attention. The Rigellian sent out his sense of perception with
Kinnison's, and he also was almost stunned.
"What's the answer, Trig?" the Earthman asked, finally. "This is more
down your alley than mine. That motor's about the size of my foot, and
if it isn't eating a thousand pounds an hour I'm Klono's maiden aunt.
And the whole output is going out on two wires no bigger than number
four, jacketed together like ordinary parallel pair. Perfect insulator?
If so, how about switching?"
"That must be it, a substance of practically infinite resistance," the
Rigellian replied absently, studying intently the peculiar mechanism.
"Must have a better conductor than silver, too, unless they can handle
voltages of ten to the fifteenth or so, and don't see how they could
break such potentials.... Guess they don't use switches ... don't see
any ... must shut down the prime sources.... No, there it is--so small
that I overlooked it completely. In that little box there! Sort of a
jam-plate type; a thin sheet of insulation with a knife on the leading
edge, working in a slot to cut the two conductors apart--kills the arc
by jamming into the tight slot at the end of the box. The conductors
must fuse together at each make and burn away a little at each break,
that's why they have renewable tips. Kim, they've really got something!
I certainly am going to stay here and do some studying."
"Yes, and we'll have to rebuild the _Dauntless_--"
The two Lensmen were called away from their study by Worsel--the
Medonians had decided to accept the invitation to attempt to move to
the First Galaxy. Orders were given, the course was changed and the
planet, now a veritable spaceship, shot away in the new direction.
"Not as many legs as a speedster, of course, but at that, she's no
slouch--we're making plenty of lights," Kinnison commented, then turned
to the president. "It seems rather presumptuous for us to call you
simply 'Wise,' especially as I gather that that is not really your
formal name--"
"That is what I am called, and that is what you are to call me," the
oldster replied: "We of Medon do not have names. Each has a number; or,
rather, a symbol composed of numbers and letters of our alphabet--a
symbol which gives his full classification. Since these things are
too clumsy for regular use, however, each of us is given a nickname,
usually an adjective, which is supposed to be more or less descriptive.
You of Earth we could not give a complete symbol, your two companions
we could not give any at all. However, you may be interested in knowing
that you three have already been named?"
"Very much so."
"You are to be called 'Keen.' He of Rigel IV is 'Strong,' and he of
Velantia is 'Agile.'"
"Quite complimentary to me, but--"
"Not bad at all, I'd say," Tregonsee broke in. "But hadn't we better be
getting on with more serious business?"
"We should indeed," Wise agreed. "We have much to discuss with you;
particularly the weapon you used."
"Could you get an analysis of it?" Kinnison asked, sharply.
"No. No one beam was in operation long enough. However, a study of the
recorded data, particularly the figure for intensity--figures so high
as to be almost unbelievable--lead us to believe that the beam is the
result of an enormous overload upon a projector otherwise of more or
less conventional type. Some of us have wondered why we did not think
of the idea ourselves--"
"So did we, when it was used on us," Kinnison grinned and went off to
explain the origin of the primary. "But before we go into details,
I noticed that your fixed-mount stuff could not work effectively
through atmosphere. We have what we call Q-type helices, with which
we incase such beams so that they work in a tube of vacuum. We will
give you the Q-formulæ and also the working hookup--including the
protective devices, because they're mighty dangerous without plenty
of force-backing--of the primaries, in exchange for some lessons in
power-plant design."
"Such an exchange of knowledge would be helpful indeed," Wise agreed.
"The Boskonians know nothing whatever of this beam, and we do not
want them to learn of it," Kinnison cautioned. "Therefore I have two
suggestions to make. First, that you try everything else before you
use this primary beam. Second, that you don't use it even then unless
you can wipe out, as nearly simultaneously as we did out there, every
Boskonian who may be able to report back to his base as to what really
happened. Fair enough?"
"Eminently so. We agree without reservation--it is to our interest as
much as yours that such a secret be kept from Boskone."
"QX. Fellow, let's go back to the ship for a couple of minutes." Then,
aboard the _Dauntless_: "Tregonsee, you and your crew want to stay with
the planet, to show the Medonians what to do and to help them along
generally, as well as to learn about their power system. Thorndyke,
you and your gang, and probably Lensman Hotchkiss, had better study
these things, too--you'll know what you want as soon as they show you
the hookup. Worsel, I'd like to have you stay with the ship. You're
in command of her until further orders. Keep her here for, say, a
week or ten days, until the planet is well out of the Galaxy. Then,
if Hotchkiss and Thorndyke haven't got all the dope they want, leave
them here to ride back with Tregonsee on the planet and drill the
_Dauntless_ for Tellus. Keep yourself more or less disengaged for a
while, and sort of keep tuned to me. I may not need an ultra-long-range
communicator, but you never can tell."
"Why such comprehensive orders, Kim?" asked Hotchkiss. "Who ever heard
of a commander abandoning his expeditions? Aren't you sticking around?"
"Nope--got to do a flit. Think maybe I'm getting an idea. Break out my
speedster, will you, Allerdyce?"--and the Gray Lensman was gone.