The Space Opera Megapack

by John W. Campbell

  “Of course, sir. I was planning on it.”

  “I’m afraid that is impossible,” the Chief of Staff said.

  “Why, General Cardeen?” Lola asked.

  “Because you’d be shot,” Cardeen said, bluntly. “We have a very good Secret Service, it is true, and we would give you every protection possible; but such an all-out effort as would be made to assassinate you would almost certainly succeed.”

  “Shot?” Garlock asked in surprise. “What with? You haven’t anything that could even begin to crack an Operator’s Shield.”

  “With this, sir.” Cardeen held out his automatic pistol for inspection.

  “Oh, I hadn’t studied it…a pellet-projector.…”

  “Pellet! Do you call a four-seventy-five slug a pellet?”

  “Not much of that, really…it shoots eight times—shoot all eight of them at her. None of them will touch her.”

  “What? I will not! One of those slugs will go through three women like her, front to back in line.”

  “I will, then.” The pistol leaped into Garlock’s hand. “Hold up one hand, Brownie, and catch ’em. Don’t let ’em splash—no deformation, so he can recognize his own pellets.”

  Holding the unfamiliar weapon in a clumsy, highly unorthodox grip—something like a schoolgirl’s first attempt—Garlock glanced once at Lola’s upraised palm and eight shots roared out as fast as the gases of explosion could operate the mechanism. The pistol’s barrel remained rigidly motionless under all the stress of ultra-rapid fire. Lola’s slim, deeply-tanned arm did not even quiver under the impact of that storm of heavy bullets against her apparently unsupported hand. No one saw those bullets strike that gently-curved right palm, but everyone saw them drop into her cupped left hand, like drops of water dripping rapidly from the end of an icicle into a bowl.

  “Here are your pellets, General Cardeen.” Lola handed them to him with a smile.

  “Holy—Jumping—Snakes!” the general said, and:

  “Wotta torpedo!” came the gangster’s envious thought.

  “You see, I am perfectly safe from being ‘shot,’ as you call it,” Lola said. “So I’ll come down and work with you. You might have your news services put out a bulletin, though. I never have killed anyone, and am not going to here, but anyone who tries to shoot me or bomb me or anything will lose both hands at the wrists just before he fires. That would keep them from killing anyone standing near me, don’t you think?”

  “I should think it would,” General Cordeen thought, and a pall of awe covered the linked minds. The implications of the naively frank remark just uttered by this apparently inoffensive and defenseless young woman were simply too overwhelming to be discussed.

  “Anything else on the agenda, Clee?” Lola asked.

  There was not, and the starship’s guests were returned, each to his own home place.

  And not one of them, it may be said, was exactly the same as he had been.

  CHAPTER 4

  “I think I’ll come along with you and bodyguard you, Lola,” Belle said, the following morning after breakfast. “Clee’s going to be seven thousand miles deep in mathematics and Jim’s doing his stuff at the observatory, and I can’t help either of ’em at the moment. You’d do a better job, wouldn’t you, if you could concentrate on it?”

  “Of course. Thanks, Belle. But remember, it’s already been announced—no death. Just hands. I can’t really believe that I’ll be attacked, but they seem pretty sure of it.”

  “I’d like to separate anyone like that from his head instead of his hands, but as it is published so it will be performed.”

  “How about wearing some kind of half-way-comfortable shoes instead of those slippers?” Garlock asked. “That could turn out to be a long, tough brawl, and your dogs’ll be begging for mercy before you get back here.”

  “Uh-uh. Very comfortable and a perfect fit. Besides, if I have to suffer just a little bit for good appearance’s sake in a matter of intergalactic amity.…”

  “A matter of showing off, you mean.”

  “Why, Clee!” Belle widened her eyes at him. “How you talk! But they’re ready, Lola—let’s go.”

  The two girls disappeared from the Main, to appear on the speakers’ stand in front of the Capitol Building. President Benton was there, with his cabinet and certain other personages. General Cordeen and his staff. And many others.

  “Oh, Miss Bellamy, too? I’m very glad you are here,” Benton said, as he shook hands cordially with both.

  “Thank you. I came along as bodyguard. May I meet your Secret Service Chief, please?”

  “Why, of course. Miss Bellamy, may I present Mr. Avengord?”

  “You have the hospital room ready?… Where is it, please?”

  “Back of us, in the wing.…”

  “Just think of it, please, and I will follow your thought.… Ah, yes, there it is. I hope it will not be used. You agree with General Cordeen that there will be one or more attempts at assassination?”

  “I’m very much afraid so. This town is literally riddled with enemy agents, and of course we don’t know all of them—especially the best ones. They know that if these meetings go through, they’re sunk; so they’re desperate. We’ve got this whole area covered like dew—we’ve arrested sixteen suspects already this morning—but all the advantage is theirs,” Avengord finished glumly.

  “Not all of it, sir,” Belle smiled at him cheerfully. “You have me, and I am a Prime Operator. That is, a wielder of power of no small ability. Oh, you are right. There is an attempt now being prepared.”

  * * * *

  While Belle had been greeting and conversing, she had also been scanning. Her range, her sensitivity, and her power were immensely greater than Lola’s; were probably equal to Garlock’s own. She scanned by miles against the scant yards covered by the Secret Service.

  “Where?”

  “Give me your thought.” The Secret Service man did not know what she meant—telepathy was of course new to him—so she seized his attention and directed it to a certain window in a building a couple of miles away on a hill.

  “But they couldn’t, from there!”

  “But they can. They have a quite efficient engine of destruction—a ‘rifle’ is their thought. Large, and long, with a very good telescope on it—with crosshairs. If I scan their minds more precisely you may know the weapon.… Ah, they think of it as a ‘Buford Mark Forty Anti-Aircraft Rifle’.”

  “A Buford! My God, they can hit any button on her clothes—get her away, quick!” He tried to jump, but could not move.

  “As you were,” she directed. “There was another Buford there, and another over there.” She guided his thought. “Two men to each Buford. There are now six handless men in your hospital room. If you will send men to those three places you will find the Bufords and the hands. Your surgeon will have no difficulty in matching the hands to the men. If any seek to remove either Bufords or hands before your men get there, I will de-hand them, also.”

  * * * *

  To say that the Secret Service man was flabbergasted is to put it very mildly indeed. Cordeen had told him, with much pounding on his desk and in searing, air-blueing language, what to expect-or, rather, to expectanything, no matter what and with no limits whatever—but he hadn’t believed it then and simply could not believe it now. Goddamn it, such things couldn’t happen. And this beautiful, beautifully-stacked, half-naked woman—girl, rather, she couldn’t be a day over twenty-five—even if it had been their black-browed, toplofty leader, Captain Garlock himself.…

  “I am twenty-three of your years old, not twenty-five,” she informed him, coldly, “and I will permit no distinction of sex. In your primitive culture the women may still be allowing you men to believe in the fallacy of the superiority of the male, but know right now that I can do anything any man ever born can do and do it better.”

  “Oh, I’m… I’m sure…certainly.…” Avengord’s thought was incoherent.

  “If you want me
to work with you you had better start believing right now that there are a lot of things you don’t know,” Belle went on relentlessly. “Stop believing that just because a thing has not already happened on this primitive, backward, mudball planet of yours, it can’t happen anywhere or anywhen. You do believe, however, whether you want to or not, things you see with your own eyes?”

  “Yes. I can not be hypnotized.”

  “I’m very glad you believe that much.” Avengord did not notice that she neither confirmed nor denied the truth of his statement. “To that end you will go now into the hospital room and see the bandaging going on. You will see and hear the news broadcast going out as I prepared it.”

  He went, and came back a badly shaken man.

  “But they’re sending it out exactly as it happened!” he protested. “They’ll all scatter out so fast and so far we’ll never catch them!”

  “By no means. You see, the amputees didn’t believe that they would lose their hands. Their superiors didn’t believe it, either; they assured each other and their underlings that it was just capitalistic bluff and nonsense. And since they are all even more materialistic and hidebound and unbelieving than you are, they all are now highly confused—at a complete loss.”

  “You can say that again. If I, working with you and having you pounding it into my head, couldn’t more than half believe it.…”

  “So they are now very frightened, as well as confused, and the director of their whole spy system is now violating rule and precedent by sending out messengers to summon certain high agents to confer with him in his secret place.”

  “If you’ll tell me where, I’ll get over to my office.…”

  “No. We’ll both be in your office in plenty of time. We’ll watch Lola get started. It will be highly instructive for you to watch a really capable Operator at work.”

  * * * *

  President Benton had been introduced; had in turn finished introducing Lola. The crowd, many thousands strong, was cheering. Lola was stepping into the carefully marked speaker’s place.

  “You may disconnect these,” she waved a hand at the battery of microphones, “since I do not use speech. Not only do I not know any of your various languages, but no one language would suffice. My thought will go to every person on this, your world.”

  “World?” the President asked in surprise. “Surely not behind the Curtains? They will jam you, I’m afraid.”

  “My thought, as I shall drive it, will not be stopped,” Lola assured him. “Since this world has no telepathy, it has no mind-blocks and I can cover the planet as easily as one mind. Nor does it matter whether it be day or night, or whether anyone is awake or asleep. All will receive my message. Since you wish a record, the cameras may run, although they are neither necessary nor desirable for me. Everyone will see me in his mind, much better than on the surface of any teevee tube.”

  “And I was going to have her address Congress!” the President whispered, aside, to General Cordeen.

  Then Lola put her whole fine personality into a smile, directed apparently not only at each separate individual within sight, but also individually at every person on the globe; and when Brownie Montandon set out to make a production of a smile, it had the impact of a pile-driver. Then came her smooth, gently-flowing, friendly thought:

  “My name, friends of this world Ormolan, is Lola Montandon. Those of you who are now looking at teevee screens can see my imaged likeness. All of you can see me very much better within your own minds.

  “I am not here as an invader in any sense, but only as a citizen of the First Galaxy of this, our common universe. I have attuned my mind to each of yours in order to give you a message from the United Galaxian Societies.

  “There are four of us Galaxians in this Exploration Team. As Galaxians it is our purpose here and our duty here to open your minds to certain basic truths, to be of help to you in clearing your minds of fallacies, of lies, and of undefensible prejudices; to the end that you will more rapidly become Galaxians yourselves.…”

  “Okay. This will go on and on. That’s enough to give you an idea of what a trained and polished performer can do. What do you think of themcomfits, Chief?” Belle deliberately knocked the Secret Service man out of his Lola-induced mood.

  “Huh? Oh, yes.” Avengord was still groggy. “She’s phenomenal—good—I don’t mean goody-goody, but sincere and really.…”

  “Yeah, but don’t fall in love with her. Everybody does and it doesn’t do any of them a bit of good. That’s her specialty and she’s very good at it. I told you she’s a smooth, smooth worker.”

  “You can say that again.” Avengord did not know that he was repeating himself. “But it isn’t an act. She means it and it’s true.”

  “Of course she means it and of course it’s true. Otherwise even she, with all her training, couldn’t sell such a big bill of goods.” Then, in answer to the man’s unspoken question, “Yes, we’re all different. She’s the contactor, the spreader of the good old oil, the shining example of purity and sweetness and light—in short, the Greaser of the Ways. I’m a fighter, myself. Do you think she could actually have de-handed those men? Uh-uh. At the last minute she would have weakened and brought them in whole. My job in this operation is to knock hell out of the ones Lola can’t convince, such as those spies you and I are going to interview pretty quick.”

  “Even they ought to be convinced. I don’t see how anybody could help but be.”

  “Uh-uh. It’ll bounce off like hailstones off of a tin roof. The only thing to do to that kind of scum is kill them. If you’ll give me a thought as to where your office is we’ll hop over and.…”

  * * * *

  Belle and Avengord disappeared from the stand; and, such was Lola’s hold, no one on the platform or in the throng even noticed that they were gone. They materialized in Avengord’s private office; he sitting as usual at his desk, she reclining in legs-crossed ease in a big leather chair.

  “…get to work.” Belle’s thought had not been interrupted by any passage of time whatever. “What do you want to do first?”

  “But I thought you were covering Miss Montandon?”

  “I am. Like a blanket. Just as well here as anywhere. I will be, until she gets back to the Pleiades. What first?”

  “Oh. Well, since I don’t know what your limits are—if you have any—you might as well do whatever you think best and I’ll watch you do it.”

  “That’s the way to talk. You’re going to get a shock when you see who the Head Man is. George T. Basil.”

  “Basil! I’ll say it’s a shock!” Avengord steadied, frowned in concentration. “Could be, though. He would never be suspected—but they’re very good at that.”

  “Yeah. His name used to be Baslovkowitz. He was trained for years, then planted. None of this can be proved, as his record is perfect. Born citizen, highest standing in business and social circles. Unlimited entry and top security clearance. Right?”

  “Right…and getting enough evidence, in such cases as that, is pure, unadulterated hell.”

  “I suppose I could kill him, after we’ve recorded everything he knows,” Belle suggested.

  “No!” He snapped. “Too many people think of us as a strong-arm squad now. Anyway, I’d rather kill him myself than wish the job off onto—you don’t like killing, do you?”

  “That’s the understatement of the century. No civilized person does. In a hot fight, yes; but killing anyone who is helpless to fight back—in cold blood—ugh! It makes me sick in my stomach even to think of it.”

  “With the way you can read minds, we can get evidence enough to send them all to jail, and that we’ll have to do.”

  “How about this?” Belle grinned as another solution came to mind. “From those first eight top men, we’ll find out a lot of others lower down, and so on, until we have ’em all locked up here. We’ll announce that exactly so many spies and agents—giving names, addresses, and facts, of course—got panicky after Lola’s address. They f
ired up their hidden planes and flew back behind the Curtain. Then, when we’ve scanned their minds and recorded everything you want, I’ll pack them all, very snugly and carefully, into Sovig’s private office. With the world situation what it then will be, he won’t dare kill them—he simply won’t know what to do when faced with it.”

  * * * *

  Avengord agreed happily. He reached out and flipped the switch of his intercom. “Miss Kimling, come in, please.”

  The door burst open. “Why, it is you! But you were on the rostrum just a minute.… Oh!” She saw Belle, and backed, eyes wide, toward the door she had just entered. “She was there, too, and it’s fifteenmiles.…”

  “Steady, Fram. I’d like to present you to Prime Operator Belle Bellamy, who is cleaning out the entire Curtain organization for us.”

  “But how did you.…”

  “Never mind that. Teleportation. It took her half an hour to pound it into me, and we can’t take time to explain anything now. I’ll tell everybody everything I know as soon as I can. In the meantime, don’t be surprised at anything that happens, and by that I mean anything. Such as solid people appearing on this carpet—on that spot right there—instantaneously. I want you to pay close attention to everything your mind receives, put your phenomenal memory into high gear, listen to everything I record, stop me any time I’m wrong, and be sure I get everything we need.”

  “I don’t know exactly what you’re talking about, sir, but I’ll try.”

  “Frankly, I don’t, either—we’ll just have to roll it as we go along. We’re ready for George T. Basil now, Miss Bellamy—I hope. Don’t jump, Fram.”

  * * * *

  Basil appeared and Fram jumped. She did not scream, however, and did not run out of the office. The master spy was a big, self-assured, affluent type. He had not the slightest idea of how he had been spirited out of his ultra-secret sub-basement and into this room; but he knew where he was and, after one glance at Belle, he knew why. He decided instantly what to do about it.