Children of the Lens

by Edward E Smith

  He conferred with his three fellows, he furnished them with all the data he possessed, he helped integrate the totaled facts into one composite. That composite pleased the others well enough so that they went to work, each in his own fashion, but it did not please Tregonsee. He could not visualize any coherent whole from the available parts. Therefore, while Kinnison was investigating the fall of Antigan IV, Tregonsee was sitting—or rather, standing—still and thinking. He was still standing still and thinking when Kinnison went to Radelix.

  Finally he called in an assistant to help him think. He had more respect for the opinions of Camilla Kinnison than for those of any other entity, outside of Arisia, of the two galaxies. He had helped train all five of the Kinnison children, and in Cam he had found a kindred soul. Possessing a truer sense of values than any of his fellows, he alone realized that the pupils had long since passed their tutors; and it is a measure of his quality that the realization brought into Tregonsee’s tranquil soul no tinge of rancor, but only wonder. What those incredible Children of the Lens had he did not know, but he knew that they—particularly Camilla—had extraordinary gifts.

  In the mind of this scarcely grown woman he perceived depths which he could not plumb, extensions and vistas the meanings of which he could not even vaguely grasp. He did not try either to plumb the abysses or to survey the expanses; he made no slightest effort, ever, to take from any of the children anything which the child did not first offer to reveal. In his own mind he tried to classify theirs; but, realizing in the end that that task was and always would be beyond his power, he accepted the fact as calmly as he accepted the numberless others of Nature’s inexplicable facts. Tregonsee came the closest of any Second-Stage Lensman to the real truth, but even he never did suspect the existence of the Eddorians.

  Camilla, as quiet as her twin sister Constance was boisterous, parked her speedster in one of the capacious holds of the Rigellian’s space-ship and joined him in the control room.

  “You believe, I take it, that dad’s logic is faulty, his deductions erroneous?” the girl thought; after a casual greeting. “I’m not surprised. So do I. He jumped at conclusions. But then, he does that, you know.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, exactly. However, it seems to me,” Tregonsee replied carefully, “that he did not have sufficient basis in fact to form any definite conclusion as to whether or not Renwood of Antigan was a Boskonian operative. It is that point which I wish to discuss with you first.”

  Cam concentrated. “I don’t see that it makes any difference, fundamentally, whether he was or not,” she decided, finally. “A difference in method only, not in motivation. Interesting, perhaps, but immaterial. It is virtually certain in either case that Kandron of Onlo or some other entity is the prime force and is the one who must be destroyed.”

  “Of course, my dear, but that is only the first differential. How about the second, and the third? Method governs. Nadreck, concerning himself only with Kandron, tabulated and studied only the Kandronesque manifestations. He may—probably will—eliminate Kandron. It is by no means assured, however, that that step will be enough. In fact, from my preliminary study, I would risk a small wager that the larger and worse aspects would remain untouched. I would therefore suggest that we ignore, for the time being, Nadreck’s findings and examine anew all the data available.”

  “I wouldn’t bet you a millo on that.” Camilla caught her lower lip between white, even teeth. “Check. The probability is that Renwood was a loyal citizen. Let us consider every possible argument for and against that assumption…”

  They went into contact of minds so close that the separate thoughts simply could not be resolved into terms of speech. They remained that way, not for the period of a few minutes which would have exhausted any ordinary brain, but for four solid hours; and at the end of that conference they had arrived at a few tentative conclusions.

  Kinnison had said that there was no possibility of tracing a hyper-spatial tube after it had ceased to exist. There were millions of planets in the two galaxies. There was an indefinite, quite possibly an infinite number of co-existent parallel spaces, into any one of which the tube might have led. Knowing these things, Kinnison had decided that the probability was infinitesimally small that any successful investigation could be made along those lines.

  Tregonsee and Camilla, starting with the same facts, arrived at entirely different results. There were many spaces, true, but the inhabitants of any one space belonged to that space and would not be interested in the conquest or the permanent taking over of any other. Foreign spaces, then, need not be considered. Civilization had only one significant enemy; Boskonia. Boskonia, then, captained possibly by Kandron of Onlo, was the attacker. The tube itself could not be traced and there were millions of planets, yes, but those facts were not pertinent.

  Why not? Because “X”, who might or might not be Kandron, was not operating from a fixed headquarters, receiving reports from subordinates who did the work. A rigid philosophical analysis, of which few other minds would have been capable, showed that “X” was doing the work himself, and was moving from solar system to solar system to do it. Those mass psychoses in which entire garrisons went mad all at once, those mass hysterias in which vast groups of civilians went reasonlessly out of control, could not have been brought about by an ordinary mind. Of all Civilization, only Nadreck of Palain VII had the requisite ability; was it reasonable to suppose that Boskonia had many such minds? No. “X” was either singular or a small integer.

  Which? Could they decide the point? With some additional data, they could. Their linked minds went en rapport with Worsel, with Nadreck, with Kinnison, and with the Principal Statistician at Prime Base.

  In addition to Nadreck’s locus, they determined two more—one of all inimical manifestations, the other of those which Nadreck had not used in his computations. Their final exhaustive analysis showed that there were at least two, and very probably only two, prime intelligences directing those Boskonian activities. They made no attempt to identify either of them. They communicated to Nadreck their results and their conclusions.

  “I am working on Kandron,” the Palainian replied, flatly. “I made no assumptions as to whether or not there were other prime movers at work, since the point has no bearing. Your information is interesting, and may perhaps prove valuable, and I thank you for it—but my present assignment is to find and to kill Kandron of Onlo.”

  Tregonsee and Camilla, then, set out to find “X”; not any definite actual or deduced entity, but the perpetrator of certain closely related and highly characteristic phenomena, viz, mass psychoses and mass hysterias. Nor did they extrapolate. They visited the last few planets which had been affected, in the order in which the attacks occurred. They studied every phase of every situation. They worked slowly, but—they hoped and they believed—surely. Neither of them had any idea then that behind “X” lay Ploor, and beyond Ploor, Eddore.

  Having examined the planet latest to be stricken, they made no effort to pick out definitely the one next to be attacked. It might be any one of ten worlds, or possibly even twelve. Hence, neglecting entirely the mathematical and logical probabilities involved, they watched them all, each taking six. Each flitted from world to world, with senses alert to perceive the first sign of subversive activity. Tregonsee was a retired magnate, spending his declining years in seeing the galaxy. Camilla was a Tellurian business girl on vacation.

  Young, beautiful, innocent-looking girls who traveled alone were, then as ever, regarded as fair game by the Dons Juan of any given human world. Scarcely had Camilla registered at the Hotel Grande when a well-groomed, self-satisfied man-about-town made an approach.

  “Hel-lo, beautiful! Remember me, don’t you—old Tom Thomas? What say we split a bottle of fayalin, to renew old…” He broke off, for the red-headed eyeful’s reaction was in no sense orthodox. She was not coldly unaware of his presence. She was neither coy nor angry, neither fearful nor scornful. She was only and vastly amused.


  “You think, then, that I am human and desirable?” Her smile was devastating. “Did you ever hear of the Canthrips of Ollenole?” She had never heard of them either, before that instant, but this small implied mendacity did not bother her.

  “No…o, I can’t say that I have.” The man, while very evidently taken aback by this new line of resistance, persevered. “What kind of a brush-off do you think you’re trying to give me?”

  “Brush-off? See me as I am, you beast, and thank whatever gods you recognize that I am not hungry, having eaten just last night.” In his sight her green eyes darkened to a jetty black, the flecks of gold in them scintillated and began to emit sparks. Her hair turned into a mass of horribly clutching tentacles. Her teeth became fangs, her fingers talons, her strong, splendidly proportioned body a monstrosity out of hell’s grisliest depths.

  After a moment she allowed the frightful picture to fade back into her charming self, keeping the Romeo from fainting by the power of her will.

  “Call the manager if you like. He has been watching and has seen nothing except that you are pale and sweating. I, a friend of yours, have been giving you some bad news, perhaps. Tell your stupid police all about me, if you wish to spend the next few weeks in a padded cell. I’ll see you again in a day or two, I hope: I’ll be hungry again by that time.” She walked away, serenely confident that the fellow would never willingly come within sight of her again.

  She had not damaged his ego permanently—he was not a neurotic type—but she had given him a jolt that he’d never forget. Camilla Kinnison nor any of her sisters had anything to fear from any male or males infesting any planet or roaming any depths of space.

  The expected and awaited trouble developed. Tregonsee and Camilla landed and began their hunt. The League for Planetary Purity, it appeared, was the primary focal point; hence the two attended a meeting of that crusading body. That was a mistake; Tregonsee should have stayed out in deep space, concealed behind a solid thought-screen.

  For Camilla was an unknown. Furthermore, her mind was inherently stable at the third level of stress; no lesser mind could penetrate her screens or, having failed to do so, could recognize the fact of failure. Tregonsee, however, was known throughout all civilized space. He was not wearing his Lens, of course, but his very shape made him suspect. Worse, he could not hide from any mind as powerful as that of “X” the fact that his mind was very decidedly not that of a retired Rigellian gentleman.

  Thus Camilla had known that the procedure was a mistake. She intimated as much, but she could not sway the unswerving Tregonsee from his determined course without revealing things which must forever remain hidden from him. She acquiesced, therefore, but she knew what to expect.

  Hence, when the invading intelligence blanketed the assemblage lightly, only to be withdrawn instantly upon detecting the emanations of a mind of real power, Cam had a bare moment of time in which to act. She synchronized with the intruding thought, began to analyze it and to trace it back to its source. She did not have time enough to succeed fully in either endeavor, but she did get a line. When the foreign influence vanished she shot a message to Tregonsee and they sped away.

  Hurtling through space along the established line, Tregonsee’s mind was a turmoil of thought; thoughts as plain as print to Camilla. She flushed uncomfortably—she could of course blush at will.

  “I’m not half the super-woman you’re picturing,” she said. That was true enough; no one this side of Arisia could have been. “You’re so famous, you know, and I’m not—while he was examining you I had a fraction of a second to work in. You didn’t.”

  “That may be true.” Although Tregonsee had no eyes, the girl knew that he was staring at her; scanning, but not intruding. She lowered her barriers so far that he thought they were completely down. “You have, however, extraordinary and completely inexplicable powers…but, being the daughter of Kimball and Clarrissa Kinnison…”

  “That’s it, I think.” She paused, then, in a burst of girlish confidence, went on: “I’ve got something, I really do think, but I don’t know what it is or what to do with it. Maybe in fifty years or so I will.”

  This also was close enough to the truth, and it did serve to restore to Tregonsee his wonted poise. “Be that as it may, I will take your advice next time, if you will offer it.”

  “Try and stop me—I love to give advice.” She laughed unaffectedly. “It might not be any better next time.”

  Then, further to quiet the shrewd Rigellian’s suspicions, she strode over to the control panel and checked the course. Having done so, she fanned out detectors, centering upon that course, to the fullest range of their power. She swaggered a little when she speared with a CRX tracer a distant vessel in a highly satisfactory location. That act would cut her down to size in Tregonsee’s mind.

  “You think, then, that ‘X’ is in that ship?” he asked quietly.

  “Probably not.” She could not afford to act too dumb—she could fool a Second-Stage Lensman a little, but nobody could fool one much. “It may, however, give us a lead.”

  “It is practically certain that ‘X’ is not in that vessel.” Tregonsee thought. “In fact, it may be a trap. We must, however, make the customary arrangements to take it into custody.”

  Cam nodded and the Rigellian communications officers energized their long-range beams. Far ahead of the fleeing vessel, centering upon its line of flight, fast cruisers of the Galactic Patrol began to form a gigantic cup. Hours passed, and—a not unexpected circumstance—Tregonsee’s super-dreadnought gained rapidly upon the supposed Boskonian.

  The quarry did not swerve or dodge. Straight into the mouth of the cup it sped. Tractors and pressors reached out, locked on, and were neither repulsed nor cut. The strange ship did not go inert, did not put out a single course of screen, did not fire a beam. She did not reply to signals. Spy-rays combed her from needle nose to driving jets, searching every compartment. There was no sign of life aboard.

  Spots of pink appeared upon Camilla’s deliciously smooth cheeks, her eyes flashed. “We’ve been had, Uncle Trig—how we’ve been had!” she exclaimed, and her chagrin was not all assumed. She had not quite anticipated such a complete fiasco as this.

  “Score one for ‘X’,” Tregonsee said. He not only seemed to be, but actually was, calm and unmoved. “We will now go back and pick up where we left off.”

  They did not discuss the thing at all, nor did they wonder how “X” escaped them. After the fact, they both knew. There had been at least two vessels; at least one of them had been inherently indetectable and screened against thought. In one of these latter “X” had taken a course at some indeterminable angle to the one which they had followed.

  “X” was now at a safe distance.

  “X” was nobody’s fool.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Kathryn on Guard

  ATHRYN KINNISON, TRIM AND taut in black glamorette, strolled into the breakfast nook humming a lilting song. Pausing before a full-length mirror, she adjusted her cocky little black toque at an even more piquant angle over her left eye. She made a couple of passes at her riot of curls and gazed at her reflected self in high approval as, putting both hands upon her smoothly rounded hips, she—“wriggled” is the only possible term for it—in sheer joy of being alive.

  “Kathryn…” Clarrissa Kinnison chided gently. “Don’t be exhibitionistic, dear.” Except in times of stress the Kinnison women used spoken language, “to keep in practice,” as they said.

  “Why not? It’s fun.” The tall girl bent over and kissed her mother upon the lobe of an ear. “You’re sweet, mums, you know that? You’re the most precious thing—Ha! Bacon and eggs? Goody!”

  The older woman watched half-enviously as her eldest daughter ate with the carefree abandon of one completely unconcerned about either digestion or figure. She had no more understood her children, ever, than a hen can understand the brood of ducklings she has so unwittingly hatched out, and that comparison was
more strikingly apt than Clarrissa Kinnison ever would know. She now knew, more than a little ruefully, that she never would understand them.

  She had not protested openly at the rigor of the regime to which her son Christopher had been subjected from birth. That, she knew, was necessary. It was inconceivable that Kit should not be a Lensman, and for a man to become a Lensman he had to be given everything he could possibly take. She was deeply glad, however, that her four other babies had been girls. Her daughters were not going to be Lensmen. She, who had known so long and so heavily the weight of Lensman’s Load, would see to that. Herself a womanly, feminine woman, she had fought with every resource at her command to make her girl babies grow up into replicas of herself. She had failed.

  They simply would not play with dolls, nor play house with other little girls. Instead, they insisted upon “intruding”, as she considered it, upon Lensmen; preferably upon Second-Stage Lensmen, if any one of the four chanced to be anywhere within reach. Instead of with toys, they played with atomic engines and flitters; and, later, with speedsters and space-ships. Instead of primers, they read galactic encyclopedias. One of them might be at home, as now, or all of them; or none. She never did know what to expect.

  But they were in no sense disloyal. They loved their mother with a depth of affection which no other mother, anywhere, has ever known. They tried their best to keep her from worrying about them. They kept in touch with her wherever they went—which might be at whim to Tellus or to Thrale or to Alsakan or to any unplumbed cranny of inter-galactic space—and they informed her, apparently without reservation, as to everything they did. They loved their father and their brother and each other and themselves with the same whole-hearted fervor they bestowed upon her. They behaved always in exemplary fashion. None of them had ever shown or felt the slightest interest in any one of numerous boys and men; and this trait, if the truth is to be told, Clarrissa could understand least of all.