First Lensman

by Edward E Smith

  “In the past there have been presidents who used that high office for low purposes; whose very memory reeks of malfeasance and corruption. One was impeached, others should have been. Witherspoon never should have been elected. Witherspoon should have been impeached the day after he was inaugurated. Witherspoon should be impeached now. We know, and at the Grand Rally at New York Spaceport three weeks from tonight we are going to PROVE, that Witherspoon is simply a minor cog-wheel in the Morgan-Towne-Isaacson machine, ‘playing footsie’ at command with whatever group happens to be the highest bidder at the moment, irrespective of North America’s or the System’s good. Witherspoon is a gangster, a cheat, and a God damn liar, but he is of very little actual importance; merely a boodling nincompoop. Morgan is the real boss and the real menace, the Operating Engineer of the lowest-down, lousiest, filthiest, rottenest, most corrupt machine of murderers, extortionists, bribe-takers, panderers, perjurers, and other pimples on the body politic that has ever disgraced any so-called civilized government. Good night.”

  “Wow!” Jack Kinnison yelped. “That’s high, even for him!”

  “Just a minute, Jack,” Jill cautioned. “The other side, too. Listen to this choice bit from Senator Morgan.”

  “It is not exactly hypnotism, but something infinitely worse; something that steals away your very minds; that makes anyone listening believe that white is yellow, red, purple, or pea-green. Until our scientists have checked this menace, until we have every wearer of that cursed Lens behind steel bars, I advise you in all earnestness not to listen to them at all. If you do listen your minds will surely be insidiously decomposed and broken; you will surely end your days gibbering in a padded cell.

  “And murders? Murders! The feeble remnants of the gangs which our government has all but wiped out may perhaps commit a murder or so per year; the perpetrators of which are caught, tried, and punished. But how many of your sons and daughters has Roderick Kinnison murdered, either personally or through his uniformed slaves? Think! Read the record! Then make him explain, if he can; but do not listen to his lying, mind-destroying Lens.

  “Democracy? Bah! What does ‘Rod the Rock’ Kinnison—the hardest, most vicious tyrant, the most relentless and pitiless martinet ever known to any Armed Force in the long history of our world—know of democracy? Nothing! He understands only force. All who oppose him in anything, however small, or who seek to reason with him, die without record or trace; and if he is not arrested, tried, and executed, all such will continue, tracelessly and without any pretense of trial, to die.

  “But at bottom, even though he is not intelligent enough to realize it, he is merely one more in the long parade of tools of ruthless and predatory wealth, the MONIED POWERS. They, my friends, never sleep; they have only one God, one tenet, one creed—the almighty CREDIT. That is what they are after, and note how craftily, how stealthily, they have done and are doing their grabbing. Where is your representation upon that so-called Galactic Council? How did this criminal, this vicious, this outrageously unconstitutional, this irresponsible, uncontrollable, and dictatorial monstrosity come into being? How and when did you give this bloated colossus the right to establish its own currency—to have the immeasurable effrontery to debar the solidest currency in the universe, the credit of North America, from interplanetary and interstellar commerce? Their aim is clear; they intend to tax you into slavery and death. Do not forget for one instant, my friends, that the power to tax is the power to destroy. THE POWER TO TAX IS THE POWER TO DESTROY. Our forefathers fought and bled and died to establish the principle that taxation without rep…”

  “And so on, for one solid hour!” Jill snarled, as she snapped the switch viciously. “How do you like them potatoes?”

  “Hell’s—Blazing—Pinnacles!” This from Jack, silent for seconds, and:

  “Rugged stuff…very, very rugged,” from Northrop. “No wonder you look sort of pooped, Spud. Being Chief Bodyguard must have developed recently into quite a chore.”

  “You ain’t just snapping your choppers, hub,” was Costigan’s grimly flippant reply. “I’ve yelled for help—in force.”

  “So have I, and I’m going to yell again, right now,” Jack declared. “I don’t know whether Dad is going to kill Morgan or not—and don’t give a damn—but if Morgan isn’t going all out to kill Dad it’s because they’ve forgotten how to make bombs.”

  He Lensed a call to Bergenholm.

  “Yes, Jack?… I will refer you to Rularion, who has had this matter under consideration.”

  “Yes, John Kinnison, I have considered the matter and have taken action,” the Jovian’s calmly assured thought rolled into the minds of all, even Lensless Jill’s. “The point, youth, was well taken. It was your thought that some thousands—perhaps five—of spy-ray operators and other operatives will be required to insure that the Grand Rally will not be marred by episodes of violence.”

  “It was,” Jack said, flatly. “It still is.”

  “Not having considered all possible contingencies nor the extent of the field of necessary action, you err. The number will approach nineteen thousand very nearly. Admiral Clayton has been so advised and his staff is now at work upon a plan of action in accordance with my recommendation. Your suggestions, Conway Costigan, in the matter of immediate protection of Roderick Kinnison’s person, are now in effect, and you are hereby relieved of that responsibility. I assume that you four wish to continue at work?”

  The Jovian’s assumption was sound.

  “I suggest, then, that you confer with Admiral Clayton and fit yourselves into his program of security. I intend to make the same suggestion to all Lensmen and other qualified persons not engaged in work of more pressing importance.”

  Rularion cut off and Jack scowled blackly. “The Grand Rally is going to be held three weeks before election day. I still don’t like it. I’d save it until the night before election—knock their teeth out with it at the last possible minute.”

  “You’re wrong, Jack; the Chief is right,” Costigan argued. “Two ways. One, we can’t play that kind of ball. Two, this gives them just enough rope to hang themselves.”

  “Well…maybe.” Kinnison-like, Jack was far from being convinced. “But that’s the way it’s going to be, so let’s call Clayton.”

  “First,” Costigan broke in. “Jill, will you please explain why they have to waste as big a man as Kinnison on such a piffling job as president? I was out in the sticks, you know—it doesn’t make sense.”

  “Because he’s the only man alive who can lick Morgan’s machine at the polls,” Jill stated a simple fact. “The Patrol can get along without him for one term, after that it won’t make any difference.”

  “But Morgan works from the side-lines. Why couldn’t he?”

  “The psychology is entirely different. Morgan is a boss. Pops Kinnison isn’t. He’s a leader. See?”

  “Oh… I guess so… Yes. Go ahead.”

  * * * * *

  Outwardly, New York Spaceport did not change appreciably. At any given moment of day or night there were so many hundreds of persons strolling aimlessly or walking purposefully about that an extra hundred or so made no perceptible difference. And the spaceport was only the end-point. The Patrol’s activities began hundreds or thousands or millions or billions of miles away from Earth’s metropolis.

  A web was set up through which not even a grain-of-sand meteorite could pass undetected. Every space-ship bound for Earth carried at least one passenger who would not otherwise have been aboard; passengers who, if not wearing Lenses, carried Service Special equipment amply sufficient for the work in hand. Geigers and other vastly more complicated mechanisms flew toward Earth from every direction in space; streamed toward New York in Earth’s every channel of traffic. Every train and plane, every bus and boat and car, every conveyance of every kind and every pedestrian approaching New York City was searched; with a search as thorough as it was unobtrusive. And every thing and every entity approaching New York Spaceport was combed, li
terally by the cubic millimeter.

  No arrests were made. No package was confiscated, or even disturbed, throughout the ranks of public check boxes, in private offices, or in elaborate or casual hiding-places. As far as the enemy knew, the Patrol had no suspicion whatever that anything out of the ordinary was going on. That is, until the last possible minute. Then a tall, lean, space-tanned veteran spoke softly aloud, as though to himself:

  “Spy-ray blocks—interference—umbrella—on. Report.”

  That voice, low and soft as it was, was picked up by every Service Special receiver within a radius of a thousand miles, and by every Lensman listening, wherever he might be. So were, in a matter of seconds, the replies.

  “Spy-ray blocks on, sir.”

  “Interference on, sir.”

  “Umbrella on, sir.”

  No spy-ray could be driven into any part of the tremendous port. No beam, communicator or detonating, could operate anywhere near it. The enemy would now know that something had gone wrong, but he would not be able to do anything about it.

  “Reports received,” the tanned man said, still quietly. “Operation Zunk will proceed as scheduled.”

  And four hundred seventy one highly skilled men, carrying duplicate keys and/or whatever other specialized apparatus and equipment would be necessary, quietly took possession of four hundred seventy one objects, of almost that many shapes and sizes. And, out in the gathering crowd, a few disturbances occurred and a few ambulances dashed busily here and there. Some women had fainted, no doubt, ran the report. They always did.

  And Conway Costigan, who had been watching, without seeming even to look at him, a porter loading a truck with opulent-looking hand-luggage from a locker, followed man and truck out into the concourse. Closing up, he asked:

  “Where are you taking that baggage, Charley?”

  “Up Ramp One, boss,” came the unflurried reply. “Flight Ninety will be late taking off, on accounts this jamboree, and they want it right up there handy.”

  “Take it down to the…”

  Over the years a good many men had tried to catch Conway Costigan off guard or napping, to beat him to the punch or to the draw—with a startlingly uniform lack of success. The Lensman’s fist traveled a bare seven inches: the supposed porter gasped once and traveled—or rather, staggered backward—approximately seven feet before he collapsed and sprawled unconscious upon the pavement.

  “Decontamination,” Costigan remarked, apparently to empty air, as he picked the fellow up and draped him limply over the truckful of suitcases. “Deke. Front and center. Area forty-six. Class Eff-ex—hotter than the middle tail-race of hell.”

  “You called Deke?” A man came running up. “Eff-ex six—nineteen. This it?”

  “Check. It’s yours, porter and all. Take it away.”

  Costigan strolled on until he met Jack Kinnison, who had a rapidly-developing mouse under his left eye.

  “How did that happen, Jack?” he demanded sharply. “Something slip?”

  “Not exactly.” Kinnison grimed ruefully. “I have the damndest luck! A woman—an old lady at that—thought I was staging a hold-up and swung on me with her hand-bag—southpaw and from the rear. And if you laugh, you untuneful harp, I’ll hang one right on the end of your chin, so help me!”

  “Far be it from such,” Costigan assured him, and did not—quite—laugh. “Wonder how we came out? They should have reported before this—p-s-s-t! Here it comes!”

  Decontamination was complete; Operation Zunk had been a one-hundred-percent success; there had been no casualties.

  “Except for one black eye,” Costigan could not help adding; but his Lens and his Service Specials were off. Jack would have brained him if any of them had been on.

  Linking arms, the two young Lensmen strode away toward Ramp Four, which was to be their station.

  This was the largest crowd Earth had ever known. Everybody, particularly the Nationalists, had wondered why this climactic political rally had been set for three full weeks ahead of the election, but their curiosity had not been satisfied. Furthermore, this meeting had been advertised as no previous one had ever been; neither pains nor cash had been spared in giving it the greatest build-up ever known. Not only had every channel of communication been loaded for weeks, but also Samms’ workers had been very busily engaged in starting rumors; which grew, as rumors do, into things which their own fathers and mothers could not recognize. And the baffled Nationalists, trying to play the whole thing down, made matters worse. Interest spread from North America to the other continents, to the other planets, and to the other solar systems.

  Thus, to say that everybody was interested in, and was listening to, the Cosmocrats’ Grand Rally would not be too serious an exaggeration.

  Roderick Kinnison stepped up to the battery of microphones; certain screens were cut.

  “Fellow entities of Civilization and others: while it may seem strange to broadcast a political rally to other continents and to beam it to other worlds, it was necessary in this case. The message to be given, while it will go into the political affairs of the North American Continent of Tellus, will deal primarily with a far larger thing; a matter which will be of paramount importance to all intelligent beings of every inhabited world. You know how to attune your minds to mine. Do it now.”

  He staggered mentally under the shock of encountering practically simultaneously so many minds, but rallied strongly and went on, via Lens:

  “My first message is not to you, my fellow Cosmocrats, nor to you, my fellow dwellers on Earth, nor even to you, my fellow adherents to Civilization; but to THE ENEMY. I do not mean my political opponents, the Nationalists, who are almost all loyal fellow North Americans. I mean the entities who are using the leaders of that Nationalist party as pawns in a vastly larger game.

  “I know, ENEMY, that you are listening. I know that you had goon squads in this audience, to kill me and my superior officer. Know now that they are impotent. I know that you had atomic bombs, with which to obliterate this assemblage and this entire area. They have been disassembled and stored. I know that you had large supplies of radioactive dusts. They now lie in the Patrol vaults near Weehauken. All the devices which you intended to employ are known, and all save one have been either nullified or confiscated.

  “That one exception is your war-fleet, a force sufficient in your opinion to wipe out all the Armed Forces of the Galactic Patrol. You intended to use it in case we Cosmocrats win this forthcoming election; you may decide to use it now. Do so if you like; you can do nothing to interrupt or to affect this meeting. This is all I have to say to you, Enemy of Civilization.

  “Now to you; my legitimate audience. I am not here to deliver the address promised you, but merely to introduce the real speaker—First Lensman Virgil Samms…”

  A mental gasp, millions strong, made itself tellingly felt.

  “…Yes—First Lensman Samms, of whom you all know. He has not been attending political meetings because we, his advisers, would not let him. Why? Here are the facts. Through Archibald Isaacson, of Interstellar Spaceways, he was offered a bribe which would in a few years have amounted to some fifty billion credits; more wealth than any individual entity has ever possessed. Then there was an attempt at murder, which we were able—just barely—to block. Knowing there was no other place on Earth where he would be safe, we took him to The Hill. You know what happened; you know what condition The Hill is in now. This warfare was ascribed to pirates.

  “The whole stupendous operation, however, was made in a vain attempt to kill one man—Virgil Samms. The, Enemy knew, and we learned, that Samms is the greatest man who has ever lived. His name will last as long as Civilization endures, for it is he, and only he, who can make it possible for Civilization to endure.

  “Why was I not killed? Why was I allowed to keep on making campaign speeches? Because I do not count. I am of no more importance to the cause of Civilization than is my opponent Witherspoon to that of the Enemy.

  “I am
a wheel-horse, a plugger. You all know me—‘Rocky Rod’ Kinnison, the hard-boiled egg. I’ve got guts enough to stand up and fight for what I know is right. I’ve got the guts and the inclination to stand up and slug it out, toe to toe, with man, beast, or devil. I would make and WILL MAKE a good president; I’ve got the guts and inclination to keep on slugging after you elect me; before God I promise to smash down every machine-made crook who tries to hold any part of our government down in the reeking muck in which it now is.

  “I am a plugger and a slugger, with no spark of the terrific flame of inspirational genius which makes Virgil Samms what he so uniquely is. My kind may be important, but I individually am not. There are so many of us! If they had killed me another slugger would have taken my place and the effect upon the job would have been nil.

  “Virgil Samms, however, can not be replaced and the Enemy knows it. He is unique in all history. No one else can do his job. If he is killed before the principles for which be is working are firmly established Civilization will collapse back into barbarism. It will not recover until another such mind comes into existence, the probability of which occurrence I will let you compute for yourselves.

  “For those reasons Virgil Samms is not here in person. Nor is he in The Hill, since the Enemy may now possess weapons powerful enough to destroy not only that hitherto impregnable fortress, but also the whole Earth. And they would destroy Earth, without a qualm, if in so doing they could kill the First Lensman.

  “Therefore Samms is now out in deep space. Our fleet is waiting to be attacked. If we win, the Galactic Patrol will go on. If we lose, we hope you shall have learned enough so that we will not have died uselessly.”

  “Die? Why should you die? You are safe on Earth!”

  “Ah, one of the goons sent that thought. If our fleet is defeated no Lensman, anywhere, will live a week. The Enemy will see to that.

  “That is all from me. Stay tuned. Come in, First Lensman Virgil Samms…take over, sir.”

  It was psychologically impossible for Virgil Samms to use such language as Kinnison had just employed. Nor was it either necessary or desirable that he should; the ground had been prepared. Therefore—coldly, impersonally, logically, tellingly—he told the whole terrific story. He revealed the most important things dug up by the Patrols’ indefatigable investigators, reciting names, places, dates, transactions, and amounts. Only in the last couple of minutes did he warm up at all.