V.

Kinnison's speedster shot away and made an undetectable, uneventful

voyage back to the Earth. In due time, therefore, the Gray Lensman was

again closeted with Port Admiral Haynes.

"Why the foliage?" the chief of staff asked, almost at sight, for the

Gray Lensman was wearing a more-than-half-grown beard.

"I may need to be Chester Q. Fordyce for a while. If I don't, I can

shave it off quick. If I do, a real beard is a lot better than an

imitation," and he plunged into his subject.

"Very fine work, son, very fine indeed," Haynes congratulated the

younger man at the conclusion of his report. "We shall begin at once,

and be ready to rush things through when the technicians bring back the

necessary data from Medon. But there's one more thing I want to ask

you. How did you come to place those spotting-screens so exactly? The

beam practically dead-centered them. You said that it was surmise and

suspicion before it happened, but I thought then and still think that

you had a much firmer foundation than any kind of a mere hunch. What

was it?"

"Deduction, based upon an unproved, but logical, cosmogonic theory--but

you probably know more about that stuff than I do."

"Highly improbable. I read just a smattering now and then of the doings

of the astronomers and astrophysicists. I didn't know that that was one

of your specialties, either."

"It isn't, but I had to do a little cramming. We'll have to go back

quite a while to make it clear. You know, of course, that a long time

ago, before even interplanetary ships were developed, the belief was

general that not more than about four planetary solar systems could be

in existence at any one time in the whole Galaxy?"

"Yes, I am familiar with that belief--a consequence of the

binary-dynamic-encounter theory in a too-limited application. The

theory itself is still good, isn't it?"

"Eminently so--every other theory is wrecked by its failure to account

for the quantity and above all, the distribution, of angular momentum

of planetary systems. But you know what I'm going to say--that 'limited

application' proves it!"

"No, just let's say that a bit of light is beginning to dawn. Go ahead."

"QX. Well, when it was discovered that there were millions of times

as many planets in the Galaxy as could be accounted for by a dynamic

encounter occurring once in two times ten to the tenth years or so,

some way had to be figured out to increase, millionfold, the number

of such encounters. Manifestly, the random motion of the stars within

the Galaxy could not account for it. Neither could the vibration or

oscillation of the globular clusters through the Galaxy. The meeting

of two Galaxies--the passage of them completely through each other,

edgewise--would account for it very nicely. It would also account for

the fact that the solar systems on one side of the Galaxy tend to be

somewhat older than the ones on the apposite side. Question; find the

Galaxy. It was van der Schleiss, I believe, who found it. Lundmark's

Nebula. It is edge on to us, with a receding velocity of twelve hundred

and forty-six miles per second--the exact velocity which, corrected for

gravitational decrement, will put Lundmark's Nebula right here at the

time when, according to our best geophysicists and geochemists, old

Earth was being born. If that theory was correct, Lundmark's Nebula

should also be full of planets. Four expeditions went out to check the

theory, and none of them came back. We know why, now--Boskone got them.

We got back, because of you, and only you."

"Holy Klono!" the old man breathed, paying no attention to the tribute.

"It checks--_how_ it checks!"

"To nineteen decimals."

* * * * *

"But still it doesn't explain why you set your traps on that line."

"Sure it does. How many Galaxies are there in the Universe, do you

suppose, that are full of planets?"

"Why, all of them I suppose--or no, not so many perhaps--I don't

know--I don't remember of having read anything on that question."

"No, and you probably won't. Only loose-screwed space detectives,

like me, and crackpot science-fiction writers, like Wacky Willison,

have noodles vacuous enough to harbor such thin ideas. But, according

to our admittedly highly tenuous reasoning, there are only two such

Galaxies--Lundmark's Nebula and ours."

"Huh? Why?" demanded Haynes.

"Because Galaxies don't collide much, if any, oftener than binaries

within a Galaxy do," Kinnison asserted. "True, they are closer

together in space, relative to their actual linear dimensions, than are

stars; but on the other hand, their relative motions are slower--that

is, a star will traverse the average interstellar distance much quicker

than a Galaxy will the intergalactic one--so that the whole thing evens

up. As nearly as Wacky and I could figure it, two Galaxies will collide

deeply enough to produce a significant number of planetary solar

systems on an average of once in just about one point eight times ten

to the tenth years. Pick up your slide rule and check me on it, if you

like."

"I'll take your word for it," the old Lensman murmured absently. "But

any Galaxy probably has at least a couple of solar systems all the

time--but I see your point. The probability is overwhelmingly great

that Boskone would be in a Galaxy having hundreds of millions of

planets rather than in one having only a dozen or less inhabitable

worlds. But at that, they _could_ all have lots of planets. Suppose

that our wilder thinkers are right, that Galaxies are grouped into

Universes, which are spaced, roughly, about the same as the Galaxies

are. Two of _them_ could collide, couldn't they?"

"They could, but you're getting 'way out of my range now. At this

point the detective withdraws, leaving a clear field for you and the

science-fiction imaginationeer."

"Well, finish the thought--that I'm wackier even than he is!" Both

men laughed, and the Port Admiral went on: "It's a fascinating

speculation--it does no harm to let the fancy roam at times--but at

that, there are things of much greater importance. You think, then,

that the thionite ring enters into this matrix?"

"Bound to. Everything ties in. The most intelligent races of this

Galaxy are oxygen-breathers, with warm, red blood: the only kind of

physique which thionite affects. The more of us who get the thionite

habit, the better for Boskone. It explains why we have never got to

the first check station in getting any of the real higher-ups in the

thionite game; instead of being an ordinary criminal ring they've got

all the brains and all the resources of Boskonia back of them. But if

they are that big--and as good as we know they are--I wonder why--"

Kinnison's voice trailed off into silence; his brain raced.

* * * * *

"I want to ask you a question that is none of my business," the young

Lensman went on almost immediately, in a voice strangely altered. "Just

how long ago was it that you started losing fifth-year men just before

graduation? I mean, that boys sent to Arisia to be measured for their

Lenses supposedly never got there? Or at least, they never came back

and no Lenses were ever received for them?"

"About ten years. Twelve, I think, to be ex--" Haynes broke off in the

middle of the word and his eyes bored into those of the younger man.

"What makes you think that there were any such?"

"Deduction again, but this time I know that I'm right. At least one

every year. Usually two or three."

"Right, but there have always been space accidents ... or they were

caught by the pirates ... you think, then, that--"

"I don't think. I _know_!" Kinnison declared. "They got to Arisia, _and

they died there_. All I can say is, thank God for the Arisians! We can

still trust our Lenses; they are seeing to that."

"But why didn't they tell us?" Haynes asked, perplexed.

"They wouldn't; that isn't their way," Kinnison stated, flatly and

with conviction. "They have given us an instrumentality, the Lens, by

virtue of which we should be able to do the job, and they are seeing

to it that that instrumentality remains untarnished. If we cannot

handle it properly, that is our lookout. We've got to fight our own

battles and bury our own dead. Now that we have smeared up the enemy's

military organization in this Galaxy by wiping out Helmuth and his

headquarters, the drug syndicate seems to be my best chance of getting

a line on the real Boskone. While you are mopping up and keeping them

from establishing another war base here, I think I'd better be getting

at it, don't you?"

"Probably so--you know your own oysters best. Mind if I ask where

you're going to start in?" Haynes looked at Kinnison quizzically as he

spoke. "Have you deduced that, too?"

The Gray Lensman returned the look in kind. "No. Deduction couldn't

take me quite that far," he replied in the same tone. "You are going to

tell me that, when you get around to it."

"Me? Where do I come in?" the Port Admiral feigned surprise.

"As follows. Helmuth probably had nothing to do with the dope running,

so its organization must still be intact. If so, they would take over

as much of the other branch as they could get hold of, and hit us

harder than ever. I haven't heard of any unusual activity around here,

so it must be somewhere else. Wherever it is, you would know about it,

since you are a member of Galactic Council; and Councillor Ellington,

in charge of Narcotics, would hardly take any very important step

without conferring with you, as port admiral and chief of staff. How

near right am I?"

* * * * *

"On the center of the beam, all the way--your deducer is blasting at

maximum," Haynes said, in admiration. "Radelix is the worst--they're

hitting it mighty hard. We sent a full unit over there last week. Shall

we recall them, or do you want to work independently?"

"Let them go on; I'll be of more use working on my own, I think. I did

the boys over there a favor a while back--they would co-operate anyway,

of course, but it's a little nicer to have them sort of owe it to me.

We'll all be able to play together very nicely if the opportunity

arises."

"I'm mighty glad you're taking this on. The Radeligians are stuck, and

we had no real reason for thinking that our men could do any better.

With this new angle of approach, however, and with you working behind

the scenes, the picture looks entirely different."

"I'm afraid that's unjustifiably high--"

"Not a bit of it, lad. Just a minute--I'll break out a couple of

beakers of fayalin--Luck!"

"Thanks, chief!"

"Down the hatch!" and again the Gray Lensman was gone. To the

spaceport, into his speedster, and away--hurtling through the void

at the maximum blast of the fastest space-flier then boasted by the

Galactic Patrol.

During the long trip, Kinnison exercised, thought, and studied

spool after spool of tape--the Radeligian language. Thoughts of the

red-headed nurse obtruded themselves strongly at times, but he put them

aside resolutely. He was, he assured himself, off women forever--all

women. He cultivated his new beard; trimming it, with the aid of a

triplex mirror and four stereoscopic photographs, into something which,

although neat and spruce enough, was too full and bushy by half to be

a Vandyke. Also, he moved his Lens bracelet up his arm and rayed the

white skin thus exposed until his whole wrist was the same even shade

of tan.

He did not drive his speedster to Radelix, for that racy little

fabrication would have been recognized anywhere for what she was; and

private citizens simply did not drive ships of that type. Therefore,

with every possible precaution of secrecy, he landed her in a

Patrol base four solar systems away. In that base Kimball Kinnison

disappeared; but the tall, shock-haired, bushy-bearded Chester Q.

Fordyce--cosmopolite, man of leisure, and dilettante in science--who

took the next space liner for Radelix was not precisely the same

individual who had come to that planet a few days before with that name

and those unmistakable characteristics.

Mr. Chester Q. Fordyce, then, and not Gray Lensman Kimball Kinnison,

disembarked at Ardith, the world-capital of Radelix. He took up his

abode at the Hotel Ardith-Splendide and proceeded, with neither too

much nor too little fanfare, to be his cosmopolitan self in those

circles of society in which, wherever he might find himself, he was

wont to move.

As a matter of course, he entertained, and was entertained by, the

Tellurian Ambassador. Equally as a matter of course, he attended divers

and sundry functions, at which he made the acquaintance of hundreds of

persons, many of them personages. That one of these should have been

Vice-Admiral Gerrond, Lensman in charge of the Patrol's Radeligian

base, was inevitable.

* * * * *

It was, then, a purely routine and logical development that at a

reception one evening Vice-Admiral Gerrond stopped to chat for a

moment with Mr. Fordyce; and it was purely accidental that the nearest

bystander was a few yards distant. Hence, Mr. Fordyce's conduct was

strange enough.

"Gerrond!" he said without moving his lips and in a tone almost

inaudible, the while he was offering the Admiral an Alsakanite

cigarette. "Don't look at me particularly right now, and don't show

surprise. Study me for the next ten minutes, then put your Lens on

me and tell me whether you have ever seen me before or not." Then,

glancing at the watch upon his left wrist--a time-piece just about

as large and as ornate as a wrist watch could be and still remain in

impeccable taste--he murmured something conventional and strolled away.

The ten minutes passed and he felt Gerrond's thought. A peculiar

sensation, this, being on the receiving end of a single beam, instead

of using his own Lens.

"As far as I can tell, I have never seen you before. You are certainly

not one of our agents, and if you are one of Haynes' whom I have ever

worked with you have done a wonderful job of disguising. I must have

met you somewhere, sometime, else there would be no point to your

question; but beyond the evident--and admitted--fact that you are a

white Tellurian, I can't seem to place you."

"Does this help?" This question was shot through Kinnison's own Lens.

"Since I have known so few Tellurian Lensmen it tells me that you

must be Kinnison, but I do not recognize you at all readily. You seem

changed--older--besides, who ever heard of an Unattached Lensman doing

the work of an ordinary agent?"

"I am both older and changed--partly natural and partly artificial. As

for the work, it's a job that no ordinary agent can handle--it takes a

lot of special equipment--"

"You've got _that_, indubitably! I get goose-flesh yet every time I

think of that trial."

"You think that I'm proof against recognition, then, as long as I don't

use my Lens?" Kinnison stuck to the issue.

"Absolutely so. You're here, then, on thionite?" No other issue,

Gerrond knew, could be grave enough to account for this man's presence.

"But your wrist? I studied it. You can't have worn your Lens there for

months--those Tellurian bracelets leave white streaks an inch wide."

"I tanned it with a pencil beam. Nice job, eh? But what I want to ask

you about is a little co-operation. As you supposed, I'm here to work

on this drug ring."

"Surely--anything we can do. But Narcotics is handling that, not

us--but you know that, as well as I do--" the officer broke off,

puzzled.

"I know. That's why I want you--that and because you handle the secret

service. Frankly, I'm scared to death of leaks. For that reason I'm not

saying anything to anyone except Lensmen, and I'm having no dealings

with anyone connected with Narcotics. I have as unimpeachable an

identity as Haynes could furnish--"

"There's no question as to its adequacy, then," the Radeligian

interposed.

"I would like to have you pass the word around among your boys and

girls that you know who I am and that I'm safe to play with. That way,

if Boskone's agents spot me, it will be for an agent of Haynes, and not

for what I really am. That's the first thing. Can do?"

"Easily and gladly. Consider it done. Second?"

"To have a boatload of good, tough marines on hand if I should call

you. There are some Valerians coming over later, but I may need help in

the meantime. I may want to start a fight--quite possibly even a riot."

"They'll be ready, and they'll be big, tough, and hard. Anything else?"

* * * * *

"Not just now, except for one question. You know Countess Avondrin, the

woman I was dancing with a while ago. Got any dope on her?"

"Certainly not--what do you mean?"

"Huh? Don't you know even that she's a Boskonian agent of some kind?"

"Man, you're crazy! She isn't an agent, she can't be. Why, she's the

daughter of a Planetary Councillor, the wife of one of our most loyal

officers."

"She would be. That's the type they like to get hold of."

"Prove it!" the Admiral snapped. "Prove it or retract it!" He almost

lost his poise, almost looked toward the distant corner in which the

bewhiskered gentleman was sitting so idly.

"QX. If she isn't an agent, why is she wearing a thought-screen? You

haven't tested her, of course."

Of course not. The amenities, as has been said, demanded that certain

reserves of privacy remain inviolate. The Tellurian went on: "You

didn't, but I did. On this job I can recognize nothing of good taste,

of courtesy, of chivalry, or even of ordinary common decency. I suspect

_everyone_ who does not wear a Lens."

"A thought-screen!" exclaimed Gerrond. "How could she, without armor?"

"It's a late model--brand new. Just as good and just as powerful as the

one I myself am wearing," Kinnison explained. "The mere fact that she's

wearing it gives me a lot of highly useful information."

"What do you want me to do about her?" the Admiral asked. He was

mentally asquirm, but he was a Lensman.

"Nothing whatever--except possibly, for our own information, to find

out how many of her friends have become thionite-sniffers lately. If

you do anything, you may warn them, although I know nothing definite

about which to caution you. I'll handle her. Don't worry too much,

though; I don't think she's anybody we really want. Afraid she's small

fry--no such luck as that I'd get hold of a big one so soon."

"I hope she's small fry." Gerrond's thought was a grimace of distaste.

"I hate Boskonia as much as anybody does, but I don't relish the idea

of having to put that girl into the Chamber."

"If my picture is half right she can't amount to much," Kinnison

replied. "A good lead is the best I can expect. I'll see what I can do."

For days, then, the searching Lensman pried into minds: so insidiously

that he left no trace of his invasions. He examined men and women,

of high and of low estate. Waitresses and ambassadors, flunkies and

bankers, ermined prelates and truck drivers. He went from city to city.

Always, but with only a fraction of his brain, he played the part of

Chester Q. Fordyce; ninety-nine percent of his stupendous mind was

probing, searching and analyzing. Into what charnel pits of filth and

corruption he delved, into what fastnesses of truth and loyalty and

high courage and ideals, must be left entirely to the imagination; for

the Lensman never has spoken and never will speak of these things.

He went back to Ardith and, late at night, approached the dwelling of

Count Avondrin. A servant arose and admitted the visitor, not knowing

then or ever that he did so. The bedroom door was locked from the

inside, but what of that? What resistance can any mechanism offer to

a master craftsman, plentifully supplied with tools, who can perceive

every component part, however deeply buried?

The door opened. The countess was a light sleeper, but before she could

utter a single scream one powerful hand clamped her mouth, another

snapped the switch of her supposedly carefully concealed thought-screen

generator. What followed was done very quickly.

[Illustration: _A throttling hand clamped over her mouth even as she

awoke, and in the same instant her thought-screen flicked off._]

Mr. Fordyce strolled back to his hotel and Lensman Kinnison directed a

thought at Vice-Admiral Gerrond.

"Better fake up some kind of an excuse for having a couple of guards or

policemen in front of Count Avondrin's town house at eight twenty-five

this morning. The countess is going to have a brainstorm."

"What _have_ ... what will she do?" Gerrond mastered his emotions

sufficiently to keep from swearing.

"Nothing much. Scream a bit, rush out of doors half dressed, and fight

anything and everybody that touches her. Warn the officers that she'll

kick, scratch, and bite. There are plenty of signs of a prowler having

been in her room, but if they can find him they're good--_very_ good.

She'll have all the signs and symptoms, even to the puncture, of having

been given a shot in the arm of some brand-new drug, which the doctors

won't be able to find or to identify. But there will be no question

raised of insanity or of any other permanent damage--she'll be right

as rain in a couple of months."

"Oh, that mind-ray machine of yours again, eh? And that's all you're

going to do to her?"

"That's all. I can let her off easy and still be just, I think. She's

helped me a lot. She'll be a good girl from now on, too; I've thrown a

scare into her that will last her the rest of her life."

"Thanks, Gray Lensman! What else?"

"I'd like to have you at the Tellurian Ambassador's Ball day after

tomorrow, if it's convenient."

"I've been planning on it, since it's on the 'must' list. Shall I bring

anything or anyone special?"

"No. I just want you on hand to give me any information you can on a

person who will probably be there to investigate what happened to the

countess."

"I'll be there," and he was.

* * * * *

It was a gay and colorful throng, but neither of the two Lensmen was

in any mood for gaiety. They acted, of course. They neither sought nor

avoided each other but, somehow, they were never alone together.

"Man or woman?" asked Gerrond.

"I don't know. All I've got is the recognition."

The Radeligian did not ask what that recognition was to be. He knew

that that information might prove dangerous indeed to any unauthorized

possessor. He did not want to know it; he was glad that the Tellurian

had not thrust it upon him.

Suddenly the Vice-Admiral's attention was wrenched toward the doorway,

to see the most marvelously, the most flawlessly beautiful woman he

had ever seen. But not long did he contemplate that beauty, for the

Tellurian Lensman's thoughts were fairly seething, despite his iron

control.

"Do you mean ... you can't mean--" Gerrond faltered.

"Yes--definitely!" Kinnison rasped. "She looks like an angel, but take

it from me, _she isn't_. She's one of the slimiest snakes that ever

lived--she's so low that she could put on a tall silk hat and walk

under a duck. I know she's beautiful. She's a riot, a seven-sector

callout, a thionite dream. So what? She is also Dessa Desplaines,

formerly of Aldebaran II. Does that mean anything to you?"

"Not a thing, Kinnison."

"She's in it, clear to her neck. I had a chance to wring her neck once,

too, damn it all, and didn't. She's got a brazen crust, coming here

now, with all our Narcotics on the job--Wonder if they think they've

got Enforcement so badly whipped that they can get away with stuff as

rough as this--Sure you don't know her, or know of her?"

"I never saw her before, or heard of her."

"Perhaps she isn't known, out this way. Or maybe they think they're

ready for a show-down ... or don't care. Her being here ties me up hand

and foot, anyway. _She'll_ recognize me, for all the tea in China.

Gerrond! You know the Narcotics' Lensmen, don't you?"

"Certainly."

"Call one of them right now. Tell him that Dessa Desplaines, the

zwilnik[1] houri, is right here on the floor--What! He doesn't know

her, either! And none of our boys are Lensmen! Make it a three-way.

Lensman Winstead? Kinnison of Sol III--unattached. Sure that none of

you recognize this picture?" and he transmitted a perfect image of

the ravishing creature then moving regally across the floor. "Nobody

does? Good! Maybe that's why she's here, after all--thinks she can get

away with it. Anyway, she's your meat. Here's the chance for a real

capture. Come and get her."

[Footnote 1: Zwilnik:--any person connected with the illicit drug

traffic. E.E.S.]

"You will appear against her, of course?"

"If necessary--but it won't be necessary. As soon as she sees that the

game's up, all hell will be out for noon."

* * * * *

As soon as the connection had been broken, Kinnison realized that the

thing could not be done that way; that he could not stay out of it. No

man alive save himself could prevent her from flashing a warning--badly

as he hated it, he had to do it. Gerrond glanced at him curiously: he

had received a few of those racing thoughts.

"Tune in on this," Kinnison grinned wryly. "If the last meeting I had

with her is any criterion, it ought to be good. S'pose anybody around

here understands the language of Aldebaran II?"

"Never heard it mentioned if they do."

The Tellurian walked blithely up to the radiant visitor, held out

his hand in Earthly--and Aldebaranian--greeting, and spoke: "Madam

Desplaines would not remember Chester Q. Fordyce, of course. It is of

the piteousness that I should be so accursedly of the ordinariness; for

to see madam but the one time, as I did at the New Year's ball in High

Altamont, is to remember her forever."

"Such a flatterer!" The woman laughed. "I trust that you will forgive

me, Mr. Fordyce, but one meets so many interesting--" Her eyes widened

in surprise, an expression which changed rapidly to one of flaming

hatred, not unmixed with fear.

"So you do recognize me, you bedroom-eyed, Aldebaranian hell-cat," he

remarked, evenly. "I rather expected that you would."

"Yes, you sweet, uncontaminated sissy, you overgrown super-Boy Scout,

I do," she hissed, malevolently, and made a quick motion toward her

corsage. These two, as has been intimated, were friends of old.

Quick though she was, the man was quicker. His left hand darted out to

seize her left wrist; his right, flashing around her body, grasped her

right and held it rigidly in the small of her back. Thus they walked

away.

"Stop!" she flared. "You're making a spectacle of me!"

"Now isn't that something to worry about?" His lips smiled, for the

benefit of the observers, but his eyes held no glint of mirth. "These

folks will think that this is the way all Aldebaranian friends walk

together. If you think for a second that I'm going to give you a chance

to touch that sounder you're wearing you haven't got the sense of a

Zabriskan fontema. Stop wriggling!" he counseled, sharply. "Even if you

can do enough hula-hula shimmying to work it, before it contacts once

I'll crush your brain to a pulp, right here and right now!"

Outside, in the grounds, "Oh, Lensman, let's sit down and talk this

over!" and the girl brought into play everything she had. It was a

distressing scene, but it left the Lensman cold.

"Save your breath," he advised her finally, wearily. "To me you're just

another zwilnik, no more and no less. A female louse is still a louse;

and calling a zwilnik a louse is sheerest flattery."

He said that; and, saying it, knew it to be the exact and crystal

truth: but not even that knowledge could mitigate in any iota the

recoiling of his every fiber from the deed which he was about to do. He

could not even pray, with immortal Merritt's _Dwayanu_:

"_Luka--turn your wheel so I need not slay this woman!_"

It had to be. Why in all the nine hells of Valeria did he have to be

a Lensman? Why did he have to be the one to do it? But it had to be

done, and soon; they'd be here shortly.

"There's just one thing you can do to make me believe that you're even

partially innocent," he ground out, "that you have even one decent

thought or one decent instinct anywhere in you."

"What is that, Lensman? I'll do it, whatever it is!"

"Release your thought-screen and send out a call to the Big Shot."

The girl stiffened. This big cop wasn't so dumb--he really _knew_

something. He must die, and at once. How could she get word to--

Simultaneously Kinnison perceived that for which he had been waiting;

the Narcotics men were coming.

He tore open the woman's gown, flipped the switch of her

thought-screen, and invaded her mind. But, fast as he was, he was

late--almost too late altogether. He could get neither direction line

nor location; but only, and faintly, a picture of a space-dock saloon,

of a repulsively obese man in a luxuriously furnished back room. Then

her mind went completely blank and her body slumped down, bonelessly.

Thus Narcotics found them; the woman inert and flaccid upon the bench,

the man staring down at her in black abstraction.