First Lensman

by Edward E Smith

  “You can’t get away with this, Herkimer.” Jill tried desperately to pull her shattered nerves together. “I’ll be missed—traced…” She paused, gasping. If she told him that the Lensmen were in full and continuous communication with her—and if he believed it—he would kill her right then. She switched instantly to another track. “That double isn’t good enough to fool anybody who really knows me.”

  “She doesn’t have to be.” The man grinned venomously. “Nobody who knows you will get close enough to her to tell the difference. This wasn’t done on the spur of the moment, Jill; it was planned—minutely. You haven’t got the chance of the proverbial celluloid dog in hell.”

  “Jill!” Jack Kinnison’s thought stabbed in. “It isn’t Rushton—fourteen seventy nine is a two-story. What other streets. could it be?”

  “I don’t know…” She was not in very good shape to think.

  “Damnation! Got to get hold of somebody who knows the streets. Spud, grab a hacker at the Circle and I’ll Lens Parker…” Jack’s thought snapped off as he tuned to a local Lensman.

  Jill’s heart sank. She was starkly certain now that the Lensmen could not find her in time.

  “Tighten up a little, Eddie. You, too, Bob.”

  “Stop it! Oh, God, STOP IT!” The unbearable agony relaxed a little. She watched in horrified fascination a second glowing coal approach her bare right side. “Even if I do talk you’ll kill me anyway. You couldn’t let me go now.”

  “Kill you, my pet? Not if you behave yourself. We’ve got a lot of planets the Patrol never heard of, and you could keep a man interested for quite a while, if you really tried. And if you beg hard enough maybe I’ll let you try. However, I’d get just as much fun out of killing you as out of the other, so it’s up to you. Not sudden death, of course. Little things, at first, like we’ve been doing. A few more touches of warmth here and there—so…

  “Scream as much as you please. I enjoy it, and this room is soundproof. Once more, boys, about half an inch higher this time…up…steady…down. We’ll have half an hour or so of this stuff”—Herkimer knew that to the quivering, sensitive, highly imaginative girl his words would be practically as punishing as the atrocious actualities themselves—“then I’ll do things to your finger-nails and toe-nails, beginning with burning slivers of double-base flare powder and working up. Then your eyes—or no, I’ll save them until last, so you can watch a couple of Venerian slasher-worms work on you, one on each leg, and a Martian digger on your bare belly.”

  Gripping her hair firmly in his left hand, he forced her head back and down; down almost to her hard-held hands. His right hand, concealing something which he had not mentioned and which was probably starkly unmentionable, approached her taut-stretched throat.

  “Talk or not, just as you please.” The voice was utterly callous, as chill as the death she now knew he was so willing to deal. “But listen. If you elect to talk, tell the truth. You won’t lie twice. I’ll count to ten. One.”

  Jill uttered a gurgling, strangling noise and he lifted her head a trifle.

  “Can you talk now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Two.”

  Helpless, immobile, scared now to a depth of terror she had never imagined it possible to feel, Jill fought her wrenched and shaken mind back from insanity’s very edge; managed with a pale tongue to lick bloodless lips. Pops Kinnison always said a man could die only once, but he didn’t know…in battle, yes, perhaps…but she had already died a dozen times—but she’d keep on dying forever before she’d say a word. But—

  “Tell him, Jill!” Northrop’s thought beat at her mind. He, her lover, was unashamedly frantic; as much with sheer rage as with sympathy for her physical and mental anguish. “For the nineteenth time I say tell him! We’ve just located you—Hancock Avenue—we’ll be there in two minutes!”

  “Yes, Jill, quit being a damned stubborn jackass and tell him!” Jack Kinnison’s thought bit deep; but this time, strangely enough, the girl felt no repugnance at his touch. There was nothing whatever of the lover; nor of the brother, except of the fraternity of arms. She belonged. She would come out of this brawl right side up or none of them would. “Tell the goddam rat the truth!” Jack’s thought drove on. “It won’t make any difference—he won’t live long enough to pass it on!”

  “But I can’t—I won’t!” Jill stormed. “Why, Pops Kinnison would…”

  “Not this time I wouldn’t, Jill!” Samms’ thought tried to come in, too, but the Port Admiral’s vehemence was overwhelming. “No harm—he’s doing this strictly on his own—if Morgan had had any idea he’d’ve killed him first. Start talking or I’ll spank you to a rosy blister!”

  They were to laugh, later, at the incongruity of that threat, but it did produce results.

  “Nine.” Herkimer grinned wolfishly, in sadistic anticipation.

  “Stop it—I’ll tell!” she screamed. “Stop it—take that thing away—I can’t stand it—I’ll tell!” She burst into racking, tearing sobs.

  “Steady.” Herkimer put something in his pocket, then slapped her so viciously that fingers-long marks sprang into red relief upon the chalk-white background of her cheek. “Don’t crack up; I haven’t started to work on you yet. What about that Lens?”

  She gulped twice before she could speak. “It comes from—ulp!—Arisia. I haven’t got one myself, so I don’t know very much—ulp!—about it at first hand, but from what the boys tell me it must be…”

  * * * * *

  Outside the building three black forms arrowed downward. Northrop and young Kinnison stopped at the sixth level; Costigan went on down to take care of the guards.

  “Bullets, not beams,” the Irishman reminded his younger fellows. “We’ll have to clean up the mess without leaving a trace, so don’t do any more damage to the property than you absolutely have to.”

  Neither made any reply; they were both too busy. The two thugs standing behind the steel chair, being armed openly, went first; then Jack put a bullet through Herkimer’s head. But Northrop was not content with that. He slid the pin to “full automatic” and ten more heavy slugs tore into the falling body before it struck the floor.

  Three quick slashes and the girl was free.

  “Jill!”

  “Mase!”

  Locked in each other’s arms, straining together, no bystander would have believed that this was their first kiss. It was plainly—yes, quite spectacularly—evident, however, that it would not be their last.

  Jack, blushing furiously, picked up the cloak and flung it at the oblivious couple.

  “P-s-s-t! P-s-s-t! Jill! Wrap ’em up!” he whispered, urgently. “All the top brass in space is coming at full emergency blast—there’ll be scrambled eggs all over the place any second now—Mase! Damn your thick, hard skull, snap out of it! He’s always frothing at the mouth about her running around half naked and if he sees her like this—especially with you—he’ll simply have a litter of lizards! You’ll get a million black spots and seven hundred years in clink! That’s better—’bye now—I’ll see you up at New York Spaceport.”

  Jack Kinnison dashed to the nearest window, threw it open, and dived headlong out of the building.

  CHAPTER

  14

  Mining and Disaster

  HE EMPLOYMENT OFFICE OF any concern with personnel running into the hundreds of thousands is a busy place indeed, even when its plants are all on Tellus and its working conditions are as nearly ideal as such things can be made. When that firm’s business is Colonial, however, and its working conditions are only a couple of degrees removed from slavery, procurement of personnel is a first-magnitude problem; the Personnel Department, like Alice in Wonderland, must run as fast as it can go in order to stay where it is. Thus the “Help Wanted” advertisements of Uranium, Incorporated covered the planet Earth with blandishment and guile; and thus for twelve hours of every day and for seven days of every week the employment offices of Uranium, Inc. were filled with men—mostly the scum
of Earth.

  There were, of course, exceptions; one of which strode through the motley group of waiting men and thrust a card through the “Information” wicket. He was a chunky-looking individual, appearing shorter than his actual five feet nine because of a hundred and ninety pounds of weight—even though every pound was placed exactly where it would do the most good. He looked—well, slouchy—and his mien was sullen.

  “Birkenfeld—by appointment,” he growled through the wicket, in a voice which could have been pleasantly deep.

  The coolly efficient blonde manipulated plugs. “Mr. George W. Jones, sir, by appointment… Thank you, sir,” and Mr. Jones was escorted into Mr. Birkenfeld’s private office.

  “Have a chair, please Mr…er… Jones.”

  “So you know?”

  “Yes. It is seldom that a man of your education, training, and demonstrated ability applies to us for employment of his own initiative, and a very thorough investigation is indicated.”

  “What am I here for, then?” the visitor demanded, truculently. “You could have turned me down by mail. Everybody else has, since I got out.”

  “You are here because we who operate on the frontiers cannot afford to pass judgment upon a man because of his past, unless that past precludes the probability of a useful future. Yours does not; and in some cases, such as yours, we are very deeply interested in the future.” The official’s eyes drilled deep.

  Conway Costigan had never been in the limelight. On the contrary, he had made inconspicuousness a passion and an art. Even in such scenes of violence as that which had occurred at the Ambassadors’ Ball he managed to remain unnoticed. His Lens had never been visible. No one except Lensmen—and Clio and Jill—knew that he had one; and Lensmen—and Clio and Jill—did not talk. Although he was calmly certain that this Birkenfeld was not an ordinary interviewer, he was equally certain that the investigators of Uranium, Inc. had found out exactly and only what the Patrol had wanted them to find.

  “So?” Jones’ bearing altered subtly, and not because of the penetrant eyes. “That’s all I want—a chance. I’ll start at the bottom, as far down as you say.”

  “We advertise, and truthfully, that opportunity on Eridan is unlimited.” Birkenfeld chose his words with care. “In your case, opportunity will be either absolutely unlimited or zero, depending entirely upon yourself.”

  “I see.” Dumbness had not been included in the fictitious Mr. Jones’ background. “You don’t need to draw a blue-print.”

  “You’ll do, I think.” The interviewer nodded in approval. “Nevertheless, I must make our position entirely clear. If the slip was—shall we say accidental?—you will go far with us. If you try to play false, you will not last long and you will not be missed.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Your willingness to start at the bottom is commendable, and it is a fact that those who come up through the ranks make the best executives; in our line at least. Just how far down are you willing to start?”

  “How low do you go?”

  “A mocker, I think would be low enough; and, from your build, and obvious physical strength, the logical job.”

  “Mocker?”

  “One who skoufers ore in the mine. Nor can we make any exception in your case as to the routines of induction and transportation.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Take this slip to Mr. Calkins, in Room 6217. He will run you through the mill.”

  And that night, in an obscure boarding-house, Mr. George Washington Jones, after a meticulous Service Special survey in every direction, reached a large and somewhat grimy hand into a screened receptacle in his battered suitcase and touched a Lens.

  “Clio?” The lovely mother of their wonderful children appeared in his mind. “Made it, sweetheart, no suspicion at all. No more Lensing for a while—not too long, I hope—so…so-long, Clio.”

  “Take it easy, Spud darling, and be careful.” Her tone was light, but she could not conceal a stark background of fear. “Oh, I wish I could go, too!”

  “I wish you could, Tootie.” The linked minds flashed back to what the two had done together in the red opacity of Nevian murk; on Nevia’s mighty, watery globe—but that kind of thinking would not do. “But the boys will keep in touch with me and keep you posted. And besides, you know how hard it is to get a baby-sitter!”

  * * * * *

  It is strange that the fundamental operations of working metalliferous veins have changed so little throughout the ages. Or is it? Ores came into being with the crusts of the planets; they change appreciably only with the passage of geologic time. Ancient mines, of course, could not go down very deep or follow a seam very far; there was too much water and too little air. The steam engine helped, in degree if not in kind, by removing water and supplying air. Tools improved—from the simple metal bar through pick and shovel and candle, through drill and hammer and low explosive and acetylene, through Sullivan slugger and high explosive and electrics, through skoufer and rotary and burley and sourceless glow, to the complex gadgetry of today—but what, fundamentally, is the difference? Men still crawl, snake-like, to where the metal is. Men still, by dint of sheer brawn, jackass the precious stuff out to where our vaunted automatics can get hold of it. And men still die, in horribly unknown fashions and in callously recorded numbers, in the mines which supply the stuff upon which our vaunted culture rests.

  But to resume the thread of narrative, George Washington Jones went to Eridan as a common laborer; a mucker. He floated down beside the skip—a “skip” is a mine elevator—some four thousand eight hundred feet. He rode an ore-car a horizontal distance of approximately eight miles to the brilliantly-illuminated cavern which was the Station of the Twelfth and lowest level. He was assigned to the bunk in which he would sleep for the next fifteen nights: “Fifteen down and three up,” ran the standard underground contract.

  He walked four hundred yards, yelled “Nothing Down!” and inched his way up a rise—in many places scarcely wider than his shoulders—to the stope some three hundred feet above. He reported to the miner who was to be his immediate boss and bent his back to the skoufer—which, while not resembling a shovel at all closely, still meant hard physical labor. He already knew ore—the glossy, sub-metallic, pitchy black luster of uraninite or pitchblende; the yellows of autunite and carnotite; the variant and confusing greens of torbernite. No values went from Jones’ skoufer into the heavily-timbered, steel-braced waste-pockets of the stope; very little base rock went down the rise.

  He became accustomed to the work; got used to breathing the peculiarly lifeless, dry, oily compressed air. And when, after a few days, his stentorian “Nothing-Down!” called forth a “Nothing but a little fine stuff!” and a handful of grit and pebbles, he knew that he had been accepted into the undefined, unwritten, and unofficial, yet nevertheless intensely actual, fellowship of hard-rock men. He belonged.

  He knew that he must abandon his policy of invisibility; and, after several days of thought, he decided how he would do it. Hence, upon the first day of his “up” period, he joined his fellows in their descent upon one of the rawest, noisiest dives of Danopolis. The men were met, of course, by a bevy of giggling, shrieking, garishly painted and strongly perfumed girls—and at this point young Jones’ behavior became exceedingly unorthodox.

  “Buy me a drink, mister? And a dance, huh?”

  “On your way, sister.” He brushed the importunate wench aside. “I get enough exercise underground, an’ you ain’t got a thing I want.”

  Apparently unaware that the girl was exchanging meaningful glances with a couple of husky characters labeled “BOUNCER” in billposter type, the atypical mucker strode up to the long and ornate bar.

  “Gimme a bottle of pineapple pop,” he ordered bruskly, “an’ a package of Tellurian cigarettes—Sunshines.”

  “P-p-pine…?” The surprised bartender did not finish the word.

  The bouncers were fast, but Costigan was faster. A hard knee took one in the sol
ar plexus; a hard elbow took the other so savagely under the chin as to all but break his neck. A bartender started to swing a bung-starter, and found himself flying through the air toward a table. Men, table, and drinks crashed to the floor.

  “I pick my own company an’ I drink what I damn please,” Jones announced, grittily. “Them lunkers ain’t hurt none, to speak of…” His hard eyes swept the room malevolently, “but I ain’t in no gentle mood an’ the next jaspers that tackle me will wind up in the repair shop, or maybe in the morgue. See?”

  This of course was much too much; a dozen embattled roughnecks leaped to mop up on the misguided wight who had so impugned the manhood of all Eridan. Then, while six or seven bartenders blew frantic blasts upon police whistles, there was a flurry of action too fast to be resolved into consecutive events by the eye. Conway Costigan, one of the fastest men with hands and feet the Patrol has ever known, was trying to keep himself alive; and he succeeded.

  “What the hell, goes on here?” a chorus of raucously authoritative voices yelled, and sixteen policemen—John Law did not travel singly in that district, but in platoons—swinging clubs and saps, finally hauled George Washington Jones out from the bottom of the pile. He had sundry abrasions and not a few contusions, but no bones were broken and his skin was practically whole.

  And since his version of the affair was not only inadequate, but also differed in important particulars from those of several non-participating witnesses, he spent the rest of his holiday in jail; a development with which he was quite content.

  The work—and time—went on. He became in rapid succession a head mucker, a miner’s pimp (which short and rugged Anglo-Saxon word means simply “helper” in underground parlance) a miner, a top-miner, and then—along step up the ladder!—a shift-boss.

  And then disaster struck; suddenly, paralyzingly, as mine disasters do. Loud-speakers blared briefly—“Explosion! Cave-in! Flood! Fire! Gas! Radiation! Damp!”—and expired. Short-circuits; there was no way of telling which, if any, of those dire warnings were true.