He got.
* * * * *
“That buttons thionite up, don’t you think?” Rod Kinnison asked. “And the lawyers will have plenty of time to get the case licked into shape and lined up for trial.”
“Yes and no.” Samms frowned in thought. “The evidence is complete, from original producer to ultimate consumer; but our best guess is that it will take years to get the really important offenders behind bars.”
“Why? I thought you were giving them altogether too much time when you scheduled the blow-off for three weeks ahead of election.”
“Because the drug racket is only a small part of it. We’re going to break the whole thing at once, you know, and Mateese covers a lot more ground—murder, kidnapping, bribery, corruption, misfeasance—practically everything you can think of.”
“I know. What of it?”
“Jurisdiction, among other things. With the President, over half of the Congress, much of the judiciary, and practically all of the political bosses and police chiefs of the Continent under indictment at once, the legal problem becomes incredibly difficult. The Patrol’s Department of Law has been working on it twenty four hours a day, and the only thing they seem sure of is a long succession of bitterly-contested points of law. There are no precedents whatever.”
“Precedents be damned! They’re guilty and everybody knows it. We’ll change the laws so that…”
“We will not!” Samms interrupted, sharply. “We want and we will have government by law, not by men. We have had too much of that already. Speed is not of the essence; justice very definitely is.”
“‘Crusader’ Samms, now and forever! But I’ll buy it, Virge—now let’s get back down to earth. Operation Zwilnik is all set. Mateese is going good. Zabriska tied into Zwilnik. That leaves Operation Boskone, which is, I suppose, still getting nowhere fast.”
The First Lensman did not reply. It was, and both men knew it. The shrewdest, most capable and experienced operatives of the Patrol had hit that wall with everything they had, and had simply bounced. Low-level trials had found no point of contact, no angle of approach. Middle level; ditto. George Olmstead, working at the highest possible level, was morally certain that he had found a point of contact, but had not been able to do anything with it.
“How about calling a Council conference on it?” Kinnison asked finally. “Or Bergenholm at least? Maybe he can get one of his hunches on it.”
“I have discussed it with them all, just as I have with you. No one had anything constructive to offer, except to go ahead with Bennett as you are doing. The consensus is that the Boskonians know just as much about our military affairs as we know about theirs—no more.”
“It would be too much to expect them to be dumb enough to figure us as dumb enough to depend only on our visible Grand Fleet, after the warning they gave us at The Hill,” Kinnison admitted.
“Yes. What worries me most is that they had a running start.”
“Not enough to count,” the Port Admiral declared. “We can out-produce ’em and out-fight ’em.”
“Don’t be over-optimistic. You can’t deny them the possession of brains, ability, man-power and resources at least equal to ours.”
“I don’t have to.” Kinnison remained obstinately cheerful. “Morale, my boy, is what counts. Man-power and tonnage and fire-power are important, of course, but morale has won every war in history. And our morale right now is higher than a cat’s back—higher than any time since John Paul Jones—and getting higher by the day.”
“Yes?” The question was monosyllabic but potent.
“Yes. I mean just that—yes. From what we know of their system they can’t have the morale we’ve got. Anything they can do we can do more of and better. What you’ve got, Virge, is a bad case of ingrowing nerves. You’ve never been to Bennett, in spite of the number of times I’ve asked you to. I say take time right now and come along—it’ll be good for what ails you. It will also be a very fine thing for Bennett and for the Patrol—you’ll find yourself no stranger there.”
“You may have something there… I’ll do it.”
Port Admiral and First Lensman went to Bennett, not in the Chicago or other superdreadnaught, but in a two-man speedster. This was necessary because space-travel, as far as that planet was concerned, was a strictly one-way affair except for Lensmen. Only Lensmen could leave Bennett, under any circumstances or for any reason whatever. There was no outgoing mail, express, or freight. Even the war-vessels of the Fleet, while on practice maneuvers outside the bottle-tight envelopes surrounding the system, were so screened that no unauthorized communication could possibly be made.
“In other words,” Kinnison finished explaining, “we slapped on everything anybody could think of, including Bergenholm and Rularion; and believe me, brother, that was a lot of stuff.”
“But wouldn’t the very fact of such rigid restrictions operate against morale? It is a truism of psychology that imprisonment, like everything else, is purely relative.”
“Yeah, that’s what I told Rularion, except I used simpler and rougher language. You know how sarcastic and superior he is, even when he’s wrong?”
“How I know!”
“Well, when he’s right he’s too damned insufferable for words. You’d’ve thought he was talking to the prize boob of a class of half-wits. As long as nobody on the planet knew that there was any such thing as space-travel, or suspected that they were not the only form of intelligent life in the universe, it was all right. No such concept as being planet-bound could exist. They had all the room there was. But after they met us, and digested all the implications, they would develop the colly-wobbles no end. This, of course, is an extreme simplification of the way the old coot poured it into me; but he came through with the solution, so I took it like a little man.”
“What was the solution?”
“It’s a shame you were too busy to come in on it. You’ll see when we land.”
But Virgil Samms was quick on the uptake. Even before they landed, he understood. When the speedster slowed down for atmosphere be saw blazoned upon the clouds a welter of one many-times repeated signal; as they came to ground he saw that the same set of symbols was repeated, not only upon every available cloud, but also upon airships, captive balloons, streamers, roofs and sides of buildings—even, in multi-colored rocks and flower-beds, upon the ground itself.
“Twenty Haress,” Samms translated, and frowned in thought. “A date of the Bennettan year. Would it by any chance happen to coincide with our Tellurian November fourteenth of this present year?”
“Bright boy!” Kinnison applauded. “I thought you’d get it, but not so fast. Yes—election day.”
“I see. They know what is going on, then?”
“Everything that counts. They know what we stand to win—and lose. They’ve named it Liberation Day, and everything on the planet is building up to it in a grand crescendo. I was a little afraid of it at first, but if the screens are really tight it won’t make any difference how many people know it, and if they aren’t the beans would all be spilled anyway. And it really works—I get a bigger thrill every time I come here.”
“I can see where it might work.”
Bennett was a fully Tellurian world in mass, in atmosphere and in climate; her native peoples were human to the limit of classification, both physically and mentally. And First Lensman Samms, as he toured it with his friend, found a world aflame with a zeal and an ardor unknown to blase Earth since the days of the Crusades. The Patrol’s cleverest and shrewdest psychologists, by merely sticking to the truth, had done a marvelous job.
Bennett knew that it was the Arsenal and the Navy Yard of Civilization, and it was proud of it. Its factories were humming as they had never hummed before; every industry, every business, every farm was operating at one hundred percent of capacity. Bennett was dotted and spattered with spaceports already built, and hundreds more were being rushed to completion. The already staggering number of ships of war operating out of
those ports was being augmented every hour by more and ever more ultra-modern, ultra-fast, ultra-powerful shapes.
It was an honor to help build those ships; it was a still greater one to help man them. Competitive examinations were being held constantly, nor were all or even most of the applicants native Bennettans.
Samms did not have to ask where these young people were coming from. He knew. From all the planets of Civilization, attracted by carefully-worded advertisements of good jobs at high pay on new and highly secret projects on newly discovered planets. There were hundreds of such ads. Most were probably the Patrol’s, and led here; many were of Spaceways, Uranium Incorporated, and other mercantile firms. The possibility that some of them might lead to what was now being called Boskonia had been tested thoroughly, but with uniformly negative results. Lensmen had applied by scores for those non-Patrol jobs and had found them bona-fide. The conclusion was unavoidable—Boskone was doing its recruiting on planets unknown to any wearer of Arisia’s Lens. On the other hand, more than a trickle of Boskonians were applying for Patrol jobs, but Samms was almost certain that none had been accepted. The final screening was done by Lensmen, and in such matters Lensmen did not make many or serious mistakes.
Bennett had been informed of the First Lensman’s arrival, and Kinnison had been guilty of a gross understatement indeed in telling Samms that he would not be regarded as a stranger. Wherever Samms went he was met by wildly enthusiastic crowds. He had to make speeches, each of which was climaxed by a tremendous roar of “TO LIBERATION DAY!”
“No Lensman material here, you say, Rod?” Samms asked, after the first city-shaking demonstration was over. One of his prime concerns, throughout his life, was this. “With all this enthusiasm? Sure?”
“We haven’t found any good enough to refer to you yet. However, in a few years, when the younger generation gets a little older, there certainly will be.”
“Check.” The tour of inspection and acquaintance was finished, the two Lensmen started back to Earth.
“Well, my skeptical and pessimistic friend, was I lying, or not?” Kinnison asked, as soon as the speedster’s ports were sealed. “Can they match that or not?”
“You weren’t—and I don’t believe they can. I have never seen anything like it. Autocracies have parades and cheers and demonstrations, of course, but they have always been forced—artificial. Those were spontaneous.”
“Not only that, but the enthusiasm will carry through. We’ll be piping hot and ready to go. But about this stumping—you said I’d better start as soon as we get back?”
“Within a few days, I’d say.”
“I wouldn’t wonder, so let’s use this time in working out a plan of campaign. My idea is to start out like this…”
CHAPTER
18
Operation Zunk
ONWAY COSTIGAN, LEAVING behind him scores of clues, all highly misleading, severed his connection with Uranium, Inc. as soon as he dared after Operation Zwilnik had been brought to a successful close. The technical operation, that is; the legal battles in which it figured so largely were to run on for enough years to make the word “zwilnik” a common noun and adjective in the language.
He came to Tellus as unobtrusively as was his wont, and took an inconspicuous but very active part in Operation Mateese, now in full swing.
“Now is the time for all good men and true to come to the aid of the party, eh?” Clio Costigan giggled.
“You can play that straight across the keyboard of your electric, pet, and not with just two fingers, either. Did you hear what the boss told ’em today?”
“Yes.” The girl’s levity disappeared. “They’re so dirty, Spud—I’m really afraid.”
“So am I. But we’re not too lily-fingered ourselves if we have to be, and we’re covering ’em like a blanket—Kinnison and Samms both.”
“Good.”
“And in that connection, I’ll have to be out half the night again tonight. All right?”
“Of course. It’s so nice having you home at all, darling, instead of a million light-years away, that I’m practically delirious with delight.”
It was sometimes hard to tell what impish Mrs. Costigan meant by what she said. Costigan looked at her, decided she was taking him for a ride, and smacked her a couple of times where it would do the most good. He then kissed her thoroughly and left. He had very little time, these days, either to himself or for his lovely and adored wife.
For Roderick Kinnison’s campaign, which had started out rough and not too clean, became rougher and rougher, and no cleaner, as it went along. Morgan and his crew were swinging from the heels, with everything and anything they could dig up or invent, however little of truth or even of plausibility it might contain, and Rod the Rock had never held even in principle with the gentle precept of turning the other cheek. He was rather an Old Testamentarian, and he was no neophyte at dirty fighting. As a young operative, skilled in the punishing, maiming techniques of hand-to-hand rough-and-tumble combat, he had brawled successfully in most of the dives of most of the solarian planets and of most of their moons. With this background, and being a quick study, and under the masterly coaching of Virgil Samms, Nels Bergenholm, and Rularion of North Polar Jupiter, it did not take him long to learn the various gambits and ripostes of this non-physical, but nevertheless no-holds-barred, political mayhem.
And the “boys and girls” of the Patrol worked like badgers, digging up an item here and a fact there and a bit of information somewhere else, all for the day of reckoning which was to come. They used ultra-wave scanners, spy-rays, long eyes, stool-pigeons—everything they could think of to use—and they could not always be blocked out or evaded.
“We’ve got it, boss—now let’s use it!”
“No. Save it! Nail it down, solid! Get the facts—names, dates, places, and amounts. Prove it first—then save it!”
Prove it! Save it! The joint injunction was used so often that it came to be a slogan and was accepted as such. Unlike most slogans, however, it was carefully and diligently put to use. The operatives proved it and saved it, over and over, over and over again; by dint of what unsparing effort and selfless devotion only they themselves ever fully knew.
Kinnison stumped the Continent. He visited every state, all of the big cities, most of the towns, and many villages and hamlets; and always, wherever he went, a part of the show was to demonstrate to his audiences how the Lens worked.
“Look at me. You know that no two individuals are or ever can be alike. Robert Johnson is not like Fred Smith; Joe Jones is entirely different from John Brown. Look at me again. Concentrate upon whatever it is in your mind that makes me Roderick Kinnison, the individual. That will enable each of you to get into as close touch with me as though our two minds were one. I am not talking now; you are reading my mind. Since you are reading my very mind, you know exactly what I am really thinking, for better or for worse. It is impossible for my mind to lie to yours, since I can change neither the basic pattern of my personality nor my basic way of thought; nor would I if I could. Being in my mind, you know that already; you know what my basic quality is. My friends call it strength and courage; Pirate Chief Morgan and his cut-throat crew call it many other things. Be that as it may, you now know whether or not you want me for your President. I can do nothing whatever to sway your opinion, for what your minds have perceived you know to be the truth. That is the way the Lens works. It bares the depths of my mind to yours, and in return enables me to understand your thoughts.
“But it is in no sense hypnotism, as Morgan is so foolishly trying to make you believe. Morgan knows as well as the rest of us do that even the most accomplished hypnotist, with all his apparatus, CAN NOT AFFECT A STRONG AND DEFINITELY OPPOSED WILL. He is therefore saying that each and every one of you now receiving this thought is such a spineless weakling that—but you may draw your own conclusions.
“In closing, remember—nail this fact down so solidly that you will never forget it—a sound and healt
hy mind CAN NOT LIE. The mouth can, and does. So does the typewriter. But the mind—NEVER! I can hide my thoughts from you, even while we are en rapport, like this…but I CAN NOT LIE TO YOU. That is why, some day, all of your highest executives will have to be Lensmen, and not politicians, diplomats, crooks and boodlers. I thank you.”
As that long, bitter, incredibly vicious campaign neared its vitriolic end tension mounted higher and ever higher: and in a room in the Samms home three young Lensmen and a red-haired girl were not at ease. All four were lean and drawn. Jack Kinnison was talking.
“…not the party, so much, but Dad. He started out with bare fists, and now he’s wading into ’em with spiked brass knuckles.”
“You can play that across the board,” Costigan agreed.
“He’s really giving ’em hell,” Northrop said, admiringly.
“Did you boys listen in on his Casper speech last night?”
They hadn’t; they had been too busy.
“I could give it to you on your Lenses, but I couldn’t. reproduce the tone—the exquisite way he lifted large pieces of hide and rubbed salt into the raw places. When he gets excited you know he can’t help but use voice, too, so I got some of it on a record. He starts out on voice, nice and easy, as usual; then goes onto his Lens without talking; then starts yelling as well as thinking. Listen.”
“You ought to have a Lensman president. You may not believe that any Lensman is, and as a matter of fact must be incorruptible. That is my belief, as you can feel for yourselves, but I cannot prove it to you. Only time can do that. It is a self-evident fact, however, which you can feel for yourselves, that a Lensman president could not lie to you except by word of mouth or in writing. You could demand from him at any time a Lensed statement upon any subject. Upon some matters of state he could and should refuse to answer; but not upon any question involving moral turpitude. If he answered, you would know the truth. If he refused to answer, you would know why and could initiate impeachment proceedings then and there.
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