“These personal insults, gratuitous and false as they are, make it a matter of honor,” he declared smoothly. “Meet me, then, tomorrow, half an hour before sunset, in the Place of Swords. It will be sabers.”
“Accepted,” Kinnison meticulously followed the ritual. “To first blood or to the death?” This question was superfluous—the stigma of the Lensman’s epithets, delivered before such a large group, could not possibly be expunged by the mere letting of a little blood.
“To the death,” curtly.
“So be it, Oh captain!” Kinnison saluted punctiliously, executed a snappy about-face, and marched stiffly out of the room.
QX. This was fine—strictly according to Hoyle. The captain was a swordsman, of course; but Kinnison was no slouch. He didn’t think he’d have to use a thought-beam to help him. He had had five years of intensive training. Quarter-staff, night-stick, club, knife, and dagger; foil, epee, rapier, saber, broadsword, scimitar, bayonet, what-have-you—with practically any nameable weapon any Lensman had to be as good as he was with fists and feet.
The Place of Swords was in fact a circular arena, surrounded by tiers of comfortably-padded seats. It was thronged with uniforms, with civilian formal afternoon dress, and with modish gowns; for such duels as this were sporting events of the first magnitude.
To guard against such trickery as concealed armor, the contestants were almost naked. Each wore only silken trunks and a pair of low shoes, whose cross-ribbed, flexible composition soles could not be made to slip upon the corrugated surface of the cork-like material of the arena’s floor.
The colonel himself, as master of ceremonies, asked the usual perfunctory questions. No, reconciliation was impossible. No, the challenged would not apologize. No, the challenger’s honor could not be satisfied with anything less than mortal combat. He then took two sabers from an orderly, measuring them to be sure that they were of precisely the same length. He tested each edge for keenness, from hilt to needle point, with an expert thumb. He pounded each hilt with a heavy testing club. Lastly, still in view of the spectators, he slipped a guard over each point and put his weight upon the blades. They bent alarmingly, but neither broke and both snapped back truly into shape. No spy or agent, everyone then knew, had tampered with either one of those beautiful weapons.
Removing the point-guards, the colonel again inspected those slenderly lethal tips and handed one saber to each of the duelists. He held out a baton, horizontal and shoulder-high. Gannel and the captain crossed their blades upon it. He snapped his stick away and the duel was on.
Kinnison fought in Gannel’s fashion exactly; in his characteristic crouch and with his every mannerism. He was, however, the merest trifle faster than Gannel had ever been—just enough faster so that by the exertion of everything he had of skill and finesse, he managed to make the zwilnik’s blade meet steel instead of flesh during the first long five minutes of furious engagement. The guy was good, no doubt of that. His saber came writhing in, to disarm. Kinnison flicked his massive wrist. Steel slithered along steel; hilt clanged against heavy basket hilt. Two mighty right arms shot upward, straining to the limit. Breast to hard-ridged breast, left arms pressed against bulgingly-corded backs, every taut muscle from floor-gripping feet up to powerful shoulders thrown into the effort, the battlers stood motionlessly en tableau for seconds.
The ape wasn’t fat, at that, Kinnison realized then; he was as hard as cord-wood underneath. Not fat enough, anyway, to be anybody’s push-over; although he was probably not in good enough shape to last very long—he could probably wear him down. He wondered fleetingly, if worst came to worst, whether he would use his mind or not. He didn’t want to…but he might have to. Or would he, even then—could he? But he’d better snap out of it. He couldn’t get anywhere with this body-check business; the zwilnik was just about as strong as he was.
They broke, and in the breaking Kinnison learned a brand new cut. He sensed it coming, but he could not parry or avoid it entirely; and the crowd shrieked wildly as the captain’s point slashed into Gannel’s trunks and a stream of crimson trickled down Gannel’s left leg.
Stamp! Stamp! Cut, thrust, feint, slash and parry, the grim game went on. Again, in spite of all he could do, Kinnison was pinked; this time by a straight thrust aimed at his heart. He was falling away from it, though, so got only half an inch or so of the point in the fleshy part of his left shoulder. It bled spectacularly, however, and the throng yelled ragingly for the kill. Another—he never did know exactly how he got that one—in the calf of his right leg; and the bloodthirsty mob screamed still louder.
Then, the fine edge of the captain’s terrific attack worn off, Kinnison was able to assume the offensive. He maneuvered his foe into an awkward position, swept his blade aside, and slashed viciously at the neck. But the Thralian was able partially to cover. He ducked frantically, even while his parrying blade was flashing up. Steel clanged, sparks flew, but the strength of the Lensman’s arm could not be entirely denied. Instead of the whole head, however, Kinnison’s razor-edged weapon snicked off only an ear and a lock of hair.
Again the spectators shrieked frenzied approval. They did not care whose blood was shed, so long as it was shed; and this duel, of two superb swordsmen so evenly matched, was the best they had seen for years. It was, and promised to keep on being, a splendidly gory show indeed.
Again and again the duelists engaged at their flashing top speed; once again each drew blood before the colonel’s whistle shrilled.
Time out for repairs: to have either of the contestants bleed to death, or even to the point of weakness, was no part of the code. The captain had out-pointed the lieutenant, four to two, just as he always did in the tournaments; but he now derived very little comfort from the score. He was weakening, while Gannel seemed as strong and fast as at the bout’s beginning.
Surgeons gave hasty but effective treatment, new and perfect sabers replaced the nicked weapons, the ghastly thing went on. The captain tired slowly but surely; Gannel took, more and more openly and more and more savagely, the offensive.
When it was over Kinnison flipped his saber dexterously, so that its point struck deep into the softly resilient floor beside that which had once been his captain. Then, while the hilt swung back and forth in slow arcs, he faced one segment of the now satiated throng and crisply saluted the colonel.
“Sir, I trust that I have won honorably the right to be examined for fitness to become the captain of my company?” he asked, formally; and:
“You have, sir,” the colonel as formally replied.
CHAPTER
17
Into Nth Space
INNISON’S WOUNDS, BEING superficial, healed rapidly. He passed the examination handily. He should have; since, although it was rigorous and comprehensive, Traska Gannel himself could have passed and Kinnison, as well as knowing practically everything that the Thralian had ever learned, had his own vast store of knowledge upon which to draw. Also, if necessary, he could have read the answers from the minds of the examiners.
As a captain, the real Gannel would have been a hard and brilliant commander, noticeable even among the select group of tried and fire-polished veterans who officered the Guards. Hence Kinnison became so; in fact, considerably more so than most. He was harsh, he was relentless and inflexible; but he was absolutely fair. He did not punish a given breach of discipline with twenty lashes one time and with a mere reprimand the next; fifteen honest, scarring strokes it became for each and every time, whoever the offender. Whatever punishment a man deserved by the book he got, promptly and mercilessly; whatever reward was earned was bestowed with equal celerity, accompanied by a crisply accurate statement of the facts in each case, at the daily parade-review.
His men hated him, of course. His non-coms and lieutenants, besides hating him, kept on trying to cut him down. All, however, respected him and obeyed him without delay and without question, which was all that any Boskonian officer could expect and which was far more than most of them ever
got.
Having thus consolidated his position, Kinnison went blithely to work to undermine and to supplant the major. Since Alcon, like all dictators everywhere, was in constant fear of treachery and of revolution, war-games were an almost constant form of drill. The general himself planned and various officers executed the mock attacks, by space, air, and land; the Royal Guards and Alcon’s personal troops, heavily outnumbered, always constituted the defense. An elaborate system of scoring had been worked out long since, by means of which the staff officers could study in detail every weak point that could be demonstrated.
“Captain Gannel, you will have to hold passes 25, 26, and 27,” the obviously worried major told Kinnison, the evening before a particularly important sham battle was to take place. The Lensman was not surprised. He himself had insinuated the idea into his superior’s mind. Moreover, he already knew, from an intensive job of spying, that his major was to be in charge of the defense, and that the colonel, who was to direct the attacking forces, had decided to route his main column through Pass 27.
“Very well, sir,” Kinnison acknowledged. “I wish to protest formally, however, against those orders. It is manifestly impossible, sir, to hold all three of those passes with two platoons of infantry and one squadron of speedsters. May I offer a suggestion…”
“You may not,” the major snapped. “We have deduced that the real attack is coming from the north, and that any activity in your sector will be merely a feint. Orders are orders, captain!”
“Yes, sir,” Kinnison replied, meekly, and signed for the thick sheaf of orders which stated in detail exactly what he was to do.
The next evening, after Kinnison had won the battle by disregarding every order he had been given, he was summoned to the meeting of the staff. He had expected that, too, but he was not at all certain of how it was coming out. It was in some trepidation, therefore, that he entered the lair of the Big Brass Hats.
“Har-rumph!” he was greeted by the adjutant. “You have been called…”
“I know why I was called,” Kinnison interrupted, brusquely. “Before we go into that, however, I wish to prefer charges before the general against Major Delios of stupidity, incompetence, and inefficiency.”
Astonishment resounded throughout the room in a ringing silence, broken finally by the general.
“Those are serious charges indeed, Captain Gannel; but you may state your case.”
“Thank you, sir. First, stupidity: He did not perceive, at even as late a time as noon, when he took all my air away from me to meet the feint from the north, that the attack was not to follow any orthodox pattern. Second, incompetence: The orders he gave me could not possibly have stopped any serious attack through any one of the passes I was supposed to defend. Third, inefficiency: No efficient commander refuses to listen to suggestions from his officers, as he refused to listen to me last night.”
“Your side, Major?” and the staff officers listened to a defense based upon blind, dumb obedience to orders.
“We will take this matter under advisement,” the general announced then. “Now, Captain, what made you suspect that the colonel was coming through Pass 27?”
“I didn’t,” Kinnison replied, mendaciously. “To reach any one of those passes, however, he would have to come down this valley,” tracing it with his forefinger upon the map. “Therefore I held my whole force back here at Hill 562, knowing that, warned by my air of his approach, I could reach any one of the passes before he could.”
“Ah. Then, when your air was sent elsewhere?”
“I commandeered a flitter—my own, by the way—and sent it up so high as to be undetectable. I then ordered motorcycle scouts out, for the enemy to capture; to make the commander of any possible attacking or reconnaissance force think that I was still blind.”
“Ah…smart work. And then?”
“As soon as my scout reported troop movements in the valley, I got my men ready to roll. When it became certain that Pass 27 was the objective, I rushed everything I had into preselected positions commanding every foot of that pass. Then, when the colonel walked into the trap, I wiped out most of his main column. However, I had a theoretical loss of three-quarters of my men in doing it,” bitterly. “If I had been directing the defense I would have wiped out the colonel’s entire force, ground and air both, with a loss of less than two percent.”
This was strong talk. “Do you realize, Captain Gannel, that this is sheer insubordination?” the general demanded. “That you are in effect accusing me also of stupidity in planning and in ordering such an attack?”
“Not at all, sir,” Kinnison replied instantly. “It was quite evident, sir, that you did it deliberately, to show all of us junior officers the importance of thought. To show us that, while unorthodox attacks may possibly be made by unskilled tacticians, any such attack is of necessity fatally weak if it be opposed by good tactics. In other words, that orthodox strategy is the only really good strategy. Was not that it, sir?”
Whether it was or not, that viewpoint gave the general an out, and he was not slow in taking advantage of it. He decided then and there, and the always subservient staff agreed with him, that Major Delios had indeed been stupid, incompetent, and inefficient; and Captain Gannel forthwith became Major Gannel.
Then the Lensman took it easy. He wangled and finagled various and sundry promotions and replacements, until he was once more surrounded by a thoroughly subsidized personal staff and in good position to go to work upon the colonel. Then, however, instead of doing so, he violated another Boskonian precedent by having a frank talk with the man whom normally he should have been trying to displace.
“You have found out that you can’t kill me, colonel,” he told his superior, after making sure that the room was really shielded. “Also that I can quite possibly kill you. You know that I know more than you do—that all my life, while you other fellows were helling around, I have been working and learning—and that I can, in a fairly short time, take your job away from you without killing you. However, I don’t want it.”
“You don’t want it!” The colonel stared, narrow-eyed. “What do you want, then?” He knew, of course, that Gannel wanted something.
“Your help,” Kinnison admitted, candidly. “I want to get onto Alcon’s personal staff, as adviser. With my experience and training, I figure that there’s more in it for me there than here in the Guards. Here’s my proposition—if I help you, by showing you how to work out your field problems and in general building you up however I can instead of tearing you down, will you use your great influence with the general and Prime Minister Fossten to have me transferred to the Household?”
“Will I? I’ll say I will!” the colonel agreed, with fervor. He did not add “If I can’t kill you first”—that was understood.
And Kinnison did build the colonel up. He taught him things about the military business which that staff officer had never even suspected; he sounded depths of strategy theretofore completely unknown to the zwilnik. And the more Kinnison taught him, the more eager the colonel became to get rid of him. He had been suspicious and only reluctantly cooperative at first; but as soon as he realized that he could not kill his tutor and that if the latter stayed in the Guards it would be only a matter of days—at most of weeks—until Gannel would force himself into the colonelcy by sheer force of merit, he pulled in earnest every wire he could reach.
Before the actual transfer could be effected, however, Kinnison received a call from Nadreck.
“Excuse me, please, for troubling you,” the Palainian apologized, “but there has been a development in which you may perhaps be interested. This Kandron has been given orders by Alcon to traverse a hyper-spatial tube, the terminus of which will appear at coordinates 217-493-28 at hour eleven of the seventh Thralian day from the present.”
“Fine business! And you want to chase him, huh?” Kinnison jumped at the conclusion. “Sure—go ahead. I’ll meet you there. I’ll fake up some kind of an excuse to get away from here and
we’ll run him ragged…”
“I do not,” Nadreck interrupted, decisively. “If I leave my work here it will all come undone. Besides, it would be dangerous—foolhardy. Not knowing what lies at the other end of that tube, we could make no plans and could have no assurance of safety, or even of success. You should not go, either—that is unthinkable. I am reporting this matter in view of the possibility that you may think it significant enough to warrant the sending of some observer whose life is of little or no importance.”
“Oh…uh-huh… I see. Thanks, Nadreck.” Kinnison did not allow any trace of his real thought to go out before he broke the line. Then:
“Funny ape, Nadreck,” he cogitated, as he called Haynes. “I don’t get his angle at all—I simply can’t figure him out… Haynes? Kinnison,” and he reported in full.
“The Dauntless has all the necessary generators and equipment, and the place is far enough out so that she can make the approach without any trouble,” the Lensman concluded. “We’ll burn whatever is at the other end of that tube clear out of the ether. Send along as many of the old gang as you can spare. Wish we had time to get Cardynge—he’ll howl like a wolf at being left out—but we’ve got only a week…”
“Cardynge is here,” Haynes broke in. “He has been working out some stuff for Thorndyke on the sunbeam. He is finished now, though, and will undoubtedly want to go along.”
“Fine!” and explicit arrangements for the rendezvous were made.
It was not unduly difficult for Kinnison to make his absence from duty logical, even necessary. Scouts and observers reported inexplicable interferences with certain communications lines. With thoughts of THE Lensman suffusing the minds of the higher-ups, and because of Gannel’s already-demonstrated prowess and keenness, he scarcely had to signify a willingness to investigate the phenomena in order to be directed to do so.
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