Kinnison did start his flit, but he did not get far. In fact, he did
not even reach his squalid room before cold reason told him that the
job was only half done--yes, less than half. He had to give Boskone
credit for having brains, and it was not at all likely that even such
a comparatively small unit as a planetary headquarters would have only
one string to its bow. They certainly would have been forced to install
duplicate controls of some sort or other by the trouble they had had
after Helmuth's supposedly impregnable Grand Base had been destroyed.
There were other straws pointing the same way. Where had those five
strange thought-screened men come from? Bominger hadn't known of them
apparently. If that idea was sound, the other headquarters would have a
spy ray on the whole thing. Both sides used spy rays freely, of course,
and to block them was, ordinarily, worse than to let them come. The
enemies' use of the thought-screen was different. They realized that
it made it easy for the unknown Lensman to discover their agents, but
they were forced to use it because of the deadliness of the supposed
mind-ray. Why hadn't he thought of this sooner, and had the whole area
blocked off? Too late to cry about it now, though.
Assume the idea correct. They certainly knew now that he was a
Lensman; probably were morally certain that he was _the_ Lensman. His
instantaneous change from a drunken dock-walloper to a cold-sober,
deadly-skilled rough-and-tumble brawler--and the unexplained deaths of
half-a-dozen agents, as well as that of Bominger himself--this was bad.
Very, _very_ bad--a flare lit tip-off, if there ever was one. Their spy
rays would have combed him, millimeter by plotted cubic millimeter:
they knew exactly where his Lens was, as well as he did himself. He had
put his tail right into the wringer--wrecked the whole job right at the
start--unless he could get that other headquarters outfit, too, and get
them before they reported in detail to Boskone.
In his room, then, he sat and thought, harder and more intensely
than he had ever thought before. No ordinary method of tracing would
do. It might be anywhere on the planet, and it certainly would have
no connection whatever with the thionite gang. It would be a small
outfit; just a few men, but under smart direction. Their purpose would
be to watch the business end of the organization, but not to touch it
save in an emergency. All that the two groups would have in common
would be recognition signals, so that the reserves could take over in
case anything happened to Bominger--as it already had. They had him,
Kinnison, cold--What to do? _What to do?_
The Lens. That must be the answer--it _had_ to be. The Lens--what was
it, really, anyway? Simply an aggregation of crystalloids. Not really
alive; just a pseudolife, a sort of a reflection of his own life--he
wondered--great Klono's brazen teeth and tail, could _that_ be it? An
idea had struck him, an idea so stupendous in its connotations and
ramifications that he gasped, shuddered, and almost went faint at the
shock. He started to reach for his Lens, then forced himself to relax
and shot a thought to Base.
"Gerrond! Send me a portable spy-ray block, quick!"
"But that would give everything away!" protested the vice-admiral.
"That's why we haven't been using them."
"Are you telling me?" the Lensman demanded. "Shoot it along--I'll
explain while it's on the way." He went on to tell the Base commander
everything that he thought it well for him to know, concluding: "So
you see, it's a virtual certainty that I am already as wide open as
intergalactic space, and that nothing but fast and sure moves will do
us a bit of good."
The block arrived, and as soon as the messenger had departed Kinnison
set it going. He was now the center of a sphere into which no spy-ray
beam could penetrate. He was also an object of suspicion to anyone
using a spy ray, but that fact made no difference, then. He snatched
off his shoe, took out his Lens, and tossed that ultra-precious
fabrication across the room. Then, just as though he still wore it, he
directed a thought at Winstead.
"All serene, Lensman?" he asked, quietly.
"Everything's on the beam," came instant reply. "Why?"
"Just checking, is all." Kinnison did not specify exactly what it was
that he was checking!
* * * * *
He then did something which, so far as he knew, no Lensman had ever
before even thought of doing. Although he felt stark naked without his
Lens, he hurled a thought three quarters of the way across the Galaxy
to that dread planet Arisia; a thought narrowed down to the exact
pattern of that gigantic, fearsome Brain who had been his mentor and
his sponsor.
"Ah, 'tis Kimball Kinnison, of Earth," that entity responded, in
precisely the same modulation it had employed once before. "You have
perceived, then, youth, that the Lens is not the supremely important
thing you have supposed it to be?"
"I ... you ... I mean--" The flustered Lensman, taken completely aback,
was cut off by a sharp rebuke.
"Stop! You are thinking muddily--conduct ordinarily inexcusable! Now,
youth, to redeem yourself, you will explain the phenomenon to me,
instead of asking me to explain it to you. I realize that you have
just discovered another facet of the Cosmic Truth, I know what a shock
it has been to your immature mind; hence for this once it may be
permissible for me to overlook your crime. But strive not to repeat the
offense; for I tell you again in all possible seriousness--I cannot
urge upon you too strongly the fact--that in clear and precise thinking
lies your only safeguard through that which you are attempting.
Confused, wandering thought will assuredly bring disaster inevitable
and irreparable."
"Yes, sir," Kinnison replied meekly; a small boy reprimanded by his
teacher. "It must be this way. In the first stage of training the Lens
is a necessity; just as is the crystal ball or some other hypnotic
object in a séance. In the more advanced stage the mind is able to work
without aid. The Lens, however, may be--in fact, it must be--endowed
with uses other than that of a symbol of identification; uses about
which I as yet know nothing. Therefore, while I can work without it, I
should not do so except when it is absolutely necessary, as its help
will be imperative if I am to advance to any higher stage. It is also
clear that you were expecting my call. May I ask if I am on time?"
"You are--your progress has been highly satisfactory. Also, I note with
approval that you are not asking for help in your admittedly difficult
present problem."
"I know that it wouldn't do me any good--and why." Kinnison grinned
wryly. "But I'll bet that Worsel, when he comes up for his second
treatment, will know on the spot what it has taken me all this time to
find out."
"You deduce truly. He did."
"What? He has been back there already? And you told me--"
"What I told you was true and is. His mind is more fully developed and
more responsive than yours; yours is of vastly greater latent capacity,
capability, and force--" and the line of communication snapped.
Calling a conveyance, Kinnison was whisked to Base, the spy-ray
block full on all the way. There, in a private room, he put his
heavily-insulated Lens and a full spool of tape into a ray-proof
container, sealed it, and called in the Base commander.
"Gerrond, here is a package of vital importance," he informed him.
"Among other things, it contains a record of everything I have done to
date. If I don't come back to claim it myself, please send it to Prime
Base for personal delivery to Port Admiral Haynes. Speed will be no
object, but safety very decidedly of the essence."
"QX--we'll send it in by special messenger."
"Thanks a lot. Now I wonder if I could use your visiphone a minute? I
want to talk to the zoo."
"Certainly."
"Zoological Gardens?" and the image of an elderly, white-bearded man
appeared upon the plate. "Lensman Kinnison of Tellus--Unattached. Have
you as many as three oglons, caged together?"
"Yes. In fact, we have four of them in one cage."
"Better yet. Will you please send them over here to Base at once?
Vice-admiral Gerrond, here, will confirm."
"It is most unusual, sir--" the gray-beard began, but broke off at a
curt word from Gerrond. "Very well, sir," he agreed, and disconnected.
"Oglons?" the surprised commander demanded. "_Oglons!_"
* * * * *
For the oglon, or Radeligian cateagle, is one of the fiercest, most
intractable beasts of prey in existence; it assays more concentrated
villainy and more sheerly vicious ferocity to the gram than any other
creature known to science. It is not a bird, but a winged mammal; and
is armed not only with the gripping, tearing talons of the eagle, but
also with the heavy, cruel, needle-sharp fangs of the wildcat. And its
mental attitude toward all other forms of life is anti-social to the
nth degree.
"Oglons." Kinnison confirmed, shortly. "I can handle them."
"You can, of course. But--" Gerrond stopped. This Gray Lensman was
forever doing amazing, unprecedented, incomprehensible things. But, so
far, he had produced eminently satisfactory results, and he could not
be expected to spend all his time in explanations.
"But you think I'm screwy, huh?"
"Oh, no, Kinnison, I wouldn't say that. I only ... well ... after
all, there isn't much real evidence that we didn't mop up one hundred
percent."
"Much? Real evidence? There isn't any," the Tellurian assented,
cheerfully enough. "But you've got the wrong slant entirely on these
people. You are still thinking of them as gangsters, desperadoes,
renegade scum of our own civilization. They are not. They are just as
smart as we are; some of them are smarter. Perhaps I am taking too many
precautions; but, if so, there is no harm done. On the other hand,
there are two things at stake which, to me at least, are extremely
important; this whole job of mine and my life: and remember this--the
minute I leave this Base both of those things are in your hands."
To that, of course, there could be no answer.
While the two men had been talking and while the oglons were being
brought out, two trickling streams of men had been passing, one into
and one out of the spy ray shielded confines of Base. Some of these men
were heavily bearded, some were shaven clean, but all had two things
in common. Each one was human in type and each one in some respect or
other resembled Kimball Kinnison.
"Now remember, Gerrond," the Gray Lensman said impressively as he was
about to leave. "They're probably right here in Ardith, but they may be
anywhere on the planet. Keep a spy ray on me wherever I go, and trace
theirs if you can. That will take some doing, as the head one is bound
to be an expert. Keep those oglons at least a mile--thirty seconds
flying time--away from me; get all the Lensmen you can on the job;
keep a cruiser and a speedster hot, but not too close. I may need one
of them, or all, or none of them, I can't tell; but I do know this--if
I need anything at all, I'll need it fast. Above all, Gerrond, by the
Lens you wear, do nothing whatever, no matter what happens around me or
to me, until I give you the word. QX?"
"QX, Gray Lensman. Clear ether!"
Kinnison took a ground-cab to the mouth of the narrow street upon which
was situated his dock-walloper's mean lodging. This was a desperate,
a fool-hardy trick--but in its very boldness, in its insolubly
paradoxical aspects, lay its strength. Probably Boskone could solve its
puzzles, but--he hoped--this ape, not being Boskone, couldn't. And,
paying off the cabman, he thrust his hands into his tattered pockets
and, whistling blithely if a bit raucously through his stained teeth,
he strode off down the narrow way as though he did not have a care in
the world. But he was doing the finest job of acting of his short
career; even though, for all he really knew, he might not have any
audience at all. For, inwardly, he was strung to highest tension. His
sense of perception, sharply alert, was covering the full hemisphere
around and above him; his mind was triggered to jerk any muscle of his
body into instantaneous action.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, in a heavily guarded room, there sat a manlike being,
faintly but definitely blue; not only as to eyes, but also as to hair,
teeth, and complexion. For two hours he had been sitting at his spy
ray plate, studying with ever-growing uneasiness the human beings so
suddenly and so surprisingly numerously having business at the Patrol's
Base. For minutes he had been studying minutely a man in a ground-cab,
and his uneasiness reached panic heights.
"It _is_ the Lensman!" he burst out. "It's _got_ to be, Lens or no
Lens. Who else would have the cold nerve to go back there when he knows
that he has exposed himself?"
"Well, get him, then," advised his companion. "All set, aren't you?"
"But it _can't_ be!" the chief went on, reversing himself in
mid-flight. "A Lensman without a Lens is unthinkable, and invisible
Lens is preposterous. And this fellow has not now, and never has had,
a mind-ray machine. He hasn't got _anything_! And besides, the Lensman
we're after wouldn't think of doing a thing like this--he always
disappears the instant a job is finished, whether or not there is any
chance of his having been discovered."
"Well, drop him and chase somebody else, then," the lieutenant advised,
unfeelingly.
"But there's nobody nearly enough like him!" snarled the chief, in
desperation. He was torn by doubt and indecision. This whole situation
was a mess--it didn't add up right, from any possible angle. "It's
got to be him--it _can't_ be anybody else. I've checked and rechecked
him. It _is_ him, and not a double. He thinks that he's safe enough; he
doesn't suspect that we're here at all. Besides, his only good double,
Fordyce--and _he's_ not good enough to stand the inspection I just gave
him--hasn't appeared anywhere."
"Probably inside Base yet. Maybe this is a better double. Perhaps this
_is_ the real Lensman pretending he isn't, or maybe the real Lensman
is slipping out while you're watching the man in the cab," the junior
suggested, helpfully.
"Shut up!" the superior yelled. He started to reach for a switch, but
paused, hand in air.
"Go ahead. That's it, call District and toss it into their laps, if
it's too hot for you to handle. I think myself that whoever did this
job is a warm number--plenty warm."
"And get my ears bunted off with that 'your report is neither complete
nor conclusive' of his?" the chief sneered. "And get reduced for
incompetence besides? No, we've got to do it ourselves, and do it
right--but that man there isn't the Lensman--he can't be!"
"Well, you'd better make up your mind--you haven't got all day. And nix
on that 'we' stuff. It's _you_ that's got to do it--you're the boss,
not me," the underling countered, callously. For once, he was really
glad that he was not the one in command. "And you'd better get busy and
do it, too."
"I'll do it," the chief declared, grimly. "There's a way."
There was a way. One only. He must be brought in alive and compelled to
divulge the truth. There was no other way.
The blue man touched a stud and spoke. "Don't kill him--bring him
in alive. If you kill him even accidentally, I'll kill both of you,
myself."
* * * * *
The Gray Lensman made his carefree way down the alleylike thoroughfare,
whistling inharmoniously and very evidently at peace with the Universe.
It takes something, friends, to walk knowingly into a trap; without
betraying emotion or stress even while a blackjack, wielded by a strong
arm, is descending toward the back of your head. Something of quality,
something of fiber. But whatever it took, Kinnison in ample measure had.
He did not wink, flinch, or turn an eye as the billy came down. Only
as it touched his hair did he act, exerting all his marvelous muscular
control to jerk forward and downward, with the weapon and ahead of it,
to spare himself as much as possible of the terrific blow.
[Illustration: _The Lensman, fully aware, yet did not wink, flinch, or
turn an eye as the billy came down._]
The blackjack crunched against the base of the Lensman's skull in a
shower of coruscating constellations. He fell. He lay there, twitching
feebly.