“You and what regiment of Valerians? Besides, it didn’t make any difference,” she explained, triumphantly. “These matriarchs don’t like me one bit better, no matter what I wear or don’t wear.”
Time passed, and in spite of Kinnison’s highly disquieting fears, nothing happened. Right on schedule the Patrol ship eased down to a landing at the edge of the Lyranian airport. Clarrissa was waiting; dressed now, not in nurse’s white, but in startlingly nondescript gray shirt and breeches.
“Not the gray leather of my station, but merely dirt color,” she explained to Kinnison after the first fervent greetings. “These women are clean enough physically, but I simply haven’t got a thing fit to wear. Is your laundry working?”
It was, and very shortly Sector Chief Nurse Clarrissa MacDougall appeared in her wonted immaculately-white, stiffly-starched uniform. She would not wear the Grays to which she was entitled; nor would she—except when defying Kinnison—claim as her right any one of the perquisites or privileges which were so indubitably hers. She was not, never had been, and never would or could be a real Lensman, she insisted. At best, she was only a synthetic—or an imitation—or a sort of amateur—or maybe a “Red” Lensman—handy to have around, perhaps, for certain kinds of jobs, but absolutely and definitely not a regular Lensman. And it was this attitude which was to make the Red Lensman not merely tolerated, but loved as she was loved by Lensmen, Patrolmen, and civilians alike throughout the length, breadth, and thickness of Civilization’s bounds.
The ship lifted from the airport and went north into the uninhabited temperate zone. The matriarchs did not have anything the Tellurians either needed or wanted; the Lyranians disliked visitors so openly and so intensely that to move away from the populated belt was the only logical and considerate thing to do.
The Dauntless arrived a day later, bringing Worsel and Tregonsee; followed closely by Nadreck in his ultra-refrigerated speedster. Five Lensmen, then, studied intently a globular map of Lyrane II which Clarrissa had made. Four of them, the oxygen-breathers, surrounded it in the flesh, while Nadreck was with them only in essence. Physically he was far out in the comfortably sub-zero reaches of the stratosphere, but his mind was en rapport with theirs; his sense of perception scanned the markings upon the globe as carefully and as accurately as did theirs.
“This belt which I have colored pink,” the female Lensman explained, “corresponding roughly to the torrid zone, is the inhabited area of Lyrane II. Nobody lives anywhere else. Upon it I have charted every unexplained disappearance that I have been able to find out about. Each of these black crosses is where one such person lived. The black circle—or circles, for frequently there are more than one—connected to each cross by a black line, marks the spot—or spots—where that person was seen for the last time or times. If the black circle is around the cross it means that she was last seen at home.”
The crosses were distributed fairly evenly all around the globe and throughout the populated zone. The circles, however, tended markedly to concentrate upon the northern edge of that zone; and practically all of the encircled crosses were very close to the northern edge of the populated belt.
“Almost all the lines intersect at this point here,” she went on, placing a finger-tip near the north pole of the globe. “The few that don’t could be observational errors, or perhaps the person was seen there before she really disappeared. If it is Overlords, their cavern must be within about fifty kilometers of the spot I’ve marked here. However, I couldn’t find any evidence that any Eich have ever been here; and if they haven’t I don’t see how the Overlords could be here, either. That, gentlemen of the Second Stage, is my report; which, I fear, is neither complete nor conclusive.”
“You err, Lensman MacDougall.” Nadreck was the first to speak. “It is both a right scholarly and highly informative piece of work, eh, friend Worsel?”
“It is so…it is indeed so,” the Velantian agreed, the while a shudder rippled along the thirty-foot length of his sinuous body. “I suspected many things, but not this…certainly not this, ever, away out here.”
“Nor I.” Tregonsee’s four horn-lipped, toothless mouths snapped open and shut; his cabled arms writhed.
“Nor I,” from Kinnison. “If I had, you’d never’ve got that Lens, Clarrissa May MacDougall.”
His voice was the grimmest she had ever heard it. He was picturing to himself her lovely body writhing in torment; stretched, twisted, broken; forgetting completely that his thoughts were as clear as a tri-di to all the others.
“If they had detected you…you know what they’d do to get hold of a mind and a vital force such as yours…”
He shook himself and drew a tremendously deep breath of relief. “But thank God they didn’t. So all I’ve got to say is that if we ever have any kids and they don’t bawl when I tell ’em about this, I’ll certainly give ’em something to bawl about!”
CHAPTER
12
Helen Goes North
UT LISTEN, KIM!” CLARRISSA protested. “all four of you are assuming that I’ve dead-centered the target. I thought probably I was right, but since I couldn’t find any Eich traces, I expected a lot of argument.”
“No argument,” Kinnison assured her. “You know how they work. They tune in on some one mind, the stronger and more vital the better. In that connection, I wonder that Helen is still around—the ones who disappeared were upper-bracket minds, weren’t they?”
She thought a space. “Now that you mention it, I believe so. Most of them, certainly.”
“Thought so. That clinches it, if it needed clinching. They tune in; then drag ’em in in a straight line.”
“But that would be so obvious!” she objected.
“It was not obvious, Clarrissa,” Tregonsee observed, “until your work made it so: a task which, I would like to say here, could not have been accomplished by any other entity of Civilization.”
“Thanks, Tregonsee. But they’re smart enough to…you’d think they’d vary their technique, at least enough to get away from those dead straight lines.”
“They probably can’t,” Kinnison decided. “A racial trait, bred into ’em for ages. They’ve always worked that way; probably can’t work any other way. The Eich undoubtedly told ’em to lay off those orgies, but they probably couldn’t do it—the vice is too habit-forming to break, would be my guess. Anyway, we’re all in agreement that it’s the Overlords?”
They were.
“And there’s no doubt as to what we do next?”
There was none. Two great ships, the incomparable Dauntless and the camouflaged warship which had served Kinnison-Cartiff so well, lifted themselves into the stratosphere and headed north. The Lensmen did not want to advertise their presence and there was no great hurry, therefore both vessels had their thought-screens out and both rode upon baffled jets.
Practically all of the crewmen of the Dauntless had seen Overlords in the substance; so far as is known they were the only human beings who had ever seen an Overlord and had lived to tell of it. Twenty two of their former fellows had seen Overlords and had died. Kinnison, Worsel, and vanBuskirk had slain Overlords in unscreened hand-to-hand combat in the fantastically incredible environment of a hyper-spatial tube—that uncanny medium in which man and monster could and did occupy the same space at the same time without being able to touch each other; in which the air or pseudo-air is thick and viscous; in which the only substance common to both sets of dimensions and thus available for combat purposes is dureum—a synthetic material so treated and so saturated as to be of enormous mass and inertia.
It is easier to imagine, then, than to describe the emotion which seethed through the crew as the news flew around that the business next in order was the extirpation of a flock of Overlords.
“How about a couple or three nice duodec torpedoes. Kim, steered right down into the middle of that cavern and touched off—POWIE!—slick, don’t you think?” Henderson insinuated.
“Aw, let’s not, Kim!�
� protested vanBuskirk, who, as one of the three Overlord-slayers, had been called into the control room. “This ain’t going to be in a tube, Kim; it’s in a cavern on a planet—made to order for axe-work. Let me and the boys put on our screens and bash their ugly damn skulls in for ’em—how about it, huh?”
“Not duodec, Hen…not yet, anyway,” Kinnison decided. “As for axe-work, Bus—maybe, maybe not. Depends. We want to catch some of them alive, so as to get some information…but you and your boys will be good for that, too, so you might as well go and start getting them ready.” He turned his thought to his snakish comrade-in-arms.
“What do you think, Worsel, is this hide-out of theirs heavily fortified, or just hidden?”
“Hidden, I would say from what I know of them—well hidden,” the Velantian replied, promptly. “Unless they have changed markedly; and, like you, I do not believe that a race so old can change that much. I could tune them in, but it might very well do more harm than good.”
“Certain to, I’m afraid.” Kinnison knew as well as did Worsel that a Velantian was the tastiest dish which could be served up to any Overlord. Both knew also, however, the very real mental ability of the foe; knew that the Overlords would be sure to suspect that any Velantian so temptingly present upon Lyrane II must be there specifically for the detriment of the Delgonian race; knew that they would almost certainly refuse the proffered bait. And not only would they refuse to lead Worsel to their caverns, but in all probability they would cancel even their ordinary activities, thus making it impossible to find them at all, until they had learned definitely that the hook-bearing tid-bit and its accomplices had left the Lyranian solar system entirely. “No, what we need right now is a good, strong-willed Lyranian.”
“Shall we go back and grab one? It would take only a few minutes,” Henderson suggested, straightening up at his board.
“Uh-uh,” Kinnison demurred. “That might smell a bit on the cheesy side, too, don’t you think, fellows?” and Worsel and Tregonsee agreed that such a move would be ill-advised.
“Might I offer a barely tenable suggestion?” Nadreck asked diffidently.
“I’ll say you can—come in.”
“Judging by the rate at which Lyranians have been vanishing of late, it would seem that we would not have to wait too long before another one comes hither under her own power. Since the despised ones will have captured her themselves, and themselves will have forced her to come to them, no suspicion will be or can be aroused.”
“That’s a thought, Nadreck—that is a thought!” Kinnison applauded. “Shoot us up, will you, Hen? ’Way up, and hover over the center of the spread of intersections of those lines. Put observers on every plate you’ve got here, and have Communications alert all observers aboard ship. Have half of them search the air all around as far as they can reach for an airplane in flight; have the rest comb the terrain below, both on the surface and underground, with spy-rays, for any sign of a natural or artificial cave.”
“What kind of information do you think they may have, Kinnison?” asked Tregonsee the Rigellian.
“I don’t know.” Kinnison pondered for minutes. “Somebody—around here somewhere—has got some kind of a tie-up with some Boskonian entity or group that is fairly well up the ladder: I’m pretty sure of that. Bleeko sent ships here—one speedster, certainly, and there’s no reason to suppose that it was an isolated case…”
“There is nothing to show, either, that it was not an isolated case,” Tregonsee observed, quietly, “and the speedster landed, not up here near the pole, but in the populated zone. Why? To secure some of the women?” The Rigellian was not arguing against Kinnison; he was, as they all knew, helping to subject every facet of the matter to scrutiny.
“Possibly—but this is a transfer point,” Kinnison pointed out. “Illona was to start out from here, remember. And those two ships…coming to meet her, or perhaps each other, or…”
“Or perhaps called there by the speedster’s crew, for aid,” Tregonsee completed the thought.
“One, but quite possibly not both,” Nadreck suggested. “We are agreed, I think, that the probability of a Boskonian connection is sufficiently large to warrant the taking of these Overlords alive in order to read their minds?”
They were; hence the discussion then turned naturally to the question of how this none-too-easy feat was to be accomplished. The two Patrol ships had climbed and were cruising in great, slow circles; the spy-ray men and the other observers were hard at work. Before they had found anything upon or in the ground, however:
“Plane, ho!” came the report, and both vessels, with spy-ray blocks out now as well as thought-screens, plunged silently into a flatly-slanting dive. Directly over the slow Lyranian craft, high above it, they turned as one to match its course and slowed to match its pace.
“Come to life, Kim—don’t let them have her!” Clarrissa exclaimed. Being en rapport with them all, she knew that both unhuman Worsel and monstrous Nadreck were perfectly willing to let the helpless Lyranian become a sacrifice; she knew that neither Kinnison nor Tregonsee had as yet given that angle of the affair a single thought. “Surely, Kim, you don’t have to let them kill her, do you? Isn’t showing you the gate or whatever it is, enough? Can’t you rig up something to do something with when she gets almost inside?”
“Why…uh… I s’pose so.” Kinnison wrenched his attention away from a plate. “Oh, sure Cris. Hen! Drop us down a bit, and have the boys get ready to spear that crate with a couple of tractors when I give the word.”
The plane held its course, directly toward a range of low, barren, precipitous hills. As it approached them it dropped, as though to attempt a landing upon a steep and rocky hillside.
“She can’t land there,” Kinnison breathed, “and Overlords would want her alive, not dead…suppose I’ve been wrong all the time? Get ready, fellows!” he snapped. “Take her at the very last possible instant—before—she—crashes—NOW!”
As he yelled the command the powerful beams leaped out, seizing the disaster-bound vehicle in a gently unbreakable grip. Had they not done so, however, the Lyranian would not have crashed; for in that last split second a section of the rugged hillside fell inward. In the very mouth of that dread opening the little plane hung for an instant, then:
“Grab the woman, quick!” Kinnison ordered, for the Lyranian was very evidently going to jump. And, such was the awful measure of the Overlord’s compulsion, she did jump; without a parachute, without knowing or caring what, if anything, was to break her fall. But before she struck ground a tractor beam had seized her, and passive plane and wildly struggling pilot were both borne rapidly aloft.
“Why, Kim, it’s Helen!” Clarrissa shrieked in surprise, then voice and manner became transformed. “The poor, poor thing,” she crooned. “Bring her in at number six lock. I’ll meet her there—you fellows keep clear. In the state she’s in a shock—especially such a shock as seeing such a monstrous lot of males—would knock her off the beam, sure.”
Helen of Lyrane ceased struggling in the instant of being drawn through the thought-screen surrounding the Dauntless. She had not been unconscious at any time. She had known exactly what she had been doing; she had wanted intensely—such was the insidiously devastating power of the Delgonian mind—to do just that and nothing else. The falseness of values, the indefensibility of motivation, simply could not register in her thoroughly suffused, completely blanketed mind. When the screen cut off the Overlord’s control, however, thus restoring her own, the shock of realization of what she had done—what she had been forced to do—struck her like a physical blow. Worse than a physical blow, for ordinary physical violence she could understand.
This mischance, however, she could not even begin to understand. It was utterly incomprehensible. She knew what had happened; she knew that her mind had been taken over by some monstrously alien, incredibly powerful mentality, for some purpose so obscure as to be entirely beyond her ken. To her narrow philosophy of existence, to her
one-planet insularity of viewpoint and outlook, the very existence, anywhere, of such a mind with such a purpose was in simple fact impossible. For it actually to exist upon her own planet, Lyrane II, was sheerly, starkly unthinkable.
She did not recognize the Dauntless, of course. To her all space-ships were alike. They were all invading warships, full of enemies. All things and all beings originating elsewhere than upon Lyrane II were, perforce, enemies. Those outrageous males, the Tellurian Lensman and his cohorts, had pretended not to be inimical, as had the peculiar, white-swathed Tellurian near-person who had been worming itself into her confidence in order to study the disappearances; but she did not trust even them.
She now knew the manner of, if not the reason for, the vanishment of her fellow Lyranians. The tractors of the space-ship had saved her from whatever fate it was that impended. She did not, however, feel any thrill of gratitude. One enemy or another, what difference did it make? Therefore, as she went through the blocking screen and recovered control of her mind, she set herself to fight; to fight with every iota of her mighty mind and with every fiber of her lithe, hard-schooled, tigress’ body. The air-lock doors opened and closed—she faced, not an armed and armored male all set to slay, but the white-clad near-person whom she already knew better than she ever would know any other non-Lyranian.
“Oh, Helen!” the girl half sobbed, throwing both arms around the still-braced Chief Person. “I’m so glad that we got to you in time! And there will be no more disappearances, dear—the boys will see to that!”
Helen did not know, really, what disinterested friendship meant. Since the nurse had put her into a wide-open two-way, however, she knew beyond all possibility of doubt that these Tellurians wished her and all her kind well, not ill; and the shock of that knowledge, superimposed upon the other shocks which she had so recently undergone, was more than she could bear. For the first and only time in her hard, busy, purposeful life, Helen of Lyrane fainted; fainted dead away in the circle of the Earth-girl’s arms.
Second Stage Lensmen Page 17