Galactic Patrol

by Edward E Smith

  “Do you want my DeLameter?”

  “No, keep it. You won’t use it on me. Anybody else?”

  One guard joined the pilot, standing aside; the other four wavered.

  “Time’s up!” Kinnison snapped. “Now, you four fellows, either go for your DeLameters or turn your backs, and do it right now!”

  They elected to turn their backs and Kinnison collected their weapons, one by one. Having disarmed them, he again rolled back the partition and ordered them to join the wondering throng in the auditorium. He then addressed the assemblage, telling them what he had done and what he had it in mind to do.

  “A good many of you must be fed up on this lawless game of piracy and anxious to resume association with decent men, if you can do so without incurring too great a punishment,” he concluded. “I feel quite certain that those of us who man the hospital ship in order to return these nurses to the Patrol will get light sentences, at most. Miss MacDougall is a head nurse—a commissioned officer of the Patrol. We will ask her what she thinks.”

  “I can say more than that,” she replied clearly. “I am not ‘quite certain’ either—I am absolutely sure that whatever men Mr. Blakeslee selects for his crew will not be given any sentences at all. They will be pardoned, and will be given whatever jobs they can do best.”

  “How do you know, Miss?” asked one. “We’re a black lot.”

  “I know you are.” The head nurse’s voice was serenely positive. “I won’t say how I know, but you can take my word for it that I do know.”

  “Those of you who want to take a chance with us line up over here,” Kinnison directed, and walked rapidly down the line, reading the mind of each man in turn. Many of them he waved back into the main group, as he found thoughts of treachery or signs of inherent criminality. Those he selected were those who were really sincere in their desire to quit forever the ranks of Boskone, those who were in those ranks because of some press of circumstance rather than because of a mental taint. As each man passed inspection he armed himself from the cabinet and stood at ease before the group of women.

  Having selected his crew, the Lensman operated the controls that opened the exit nearest the hospital ship, blasted away the panel, so that that exit could not be closed, unlocked a door, and turned to the pirates.

  “Vice-Commander Krimsky, as senior officer, you are now in command of this base,” he remarked. “While I am in no sense giving you orders, there are a few matters about which you should be informed. First, I set no definite time as to when you may leave this room—I merely state that you will find it decidedly unhealthy to follow us at all closely as we go from here to the hospital ship. Second, you haven’t a ship fit to take the ether; your main injector toggles have all been broken off at the pivots. If your mechanics work at top speed, new ones can be put on in exactly two hours. Third, there is going to be a severe earthquake in precisely two hours and thirty minutes, one which should make this base merely a memory.”

  “An earthquake! Don’t bluff, Blakeslee—you couldn’t do that!”

  “Well, perhaps not a regular earthquake, but something that will do just as well. If you think I’m bluffing, wait and find out. But common sense should give you the answer to that—I know exactly what Helmuth is doing now, whether you do or not. At first I intended to wipe you all out without warning, but I changed my mind. I decided to leave you alive, so that you could report to Helmuth exactly what happened. I wish I could be watching him when he finds out how easily one man took him, and how far from foolproof his system is—but we can’t have everything. Let’s go!”

  As the group hurried away, Mac loitered until she was near Blakeslee, who was bringing up the rear.

  “Where are you, Kim?” she whispered urgently.

  “I’ll join up at the next corridor. Keep farther ahead, and get ready to run when we do!”

  As they passed that corridor a figure in gray leather, carrying an extremely heavy object, stepped out of it. Kinnison himself set his burden down, yanked a lever, and ran—and as he ran fountains of intolerable heat erupted and cascaded from the mechanism he had left upon the floor. Just ahead of him, but at some distance behind the others, ran Blakeslee and the girl.

  “Gosh, I’m glad to see you, Kim”, she panted as the Lensman caught up with them and all three slowed down. “What is that thing back there?”

  “Nothing much—just a KJ4Z hot-shot. Won’t do any real damage—just melt this tunnel down so they can’t interfere with our get-away.”

  “Then you were bluffing about the earthquake?” she asked, a shade of disappointment in her tone.

  “Hardly,” he reproved her. “That isn’t due for two hours and a half yet, but it’ll happen on scheduled time.”

  “How?”

  “You remember about the curious cat, don’t you? However, no particular secret about it, I guess—three lithium-hydride bombs placed where they’ll do the most good and timed for exactly simultaneous detonation. Here we are—don’t tell anybody I’m here.”

  Aboard the vessel, Kinnison disappeared into a stateroom while Blakeslee continued in charge. Men were divided into watches, duties were assigned, inspections were made, and the ship shot into the air. There was a brief halt to pick up Kinnison’s speedster; then, again on the way, Blakeslee turned the board over to Crandall, the pilot, and went into Kinnison’s room.

  There the Lensman withdrew his control, leaving intact the memory of everything that had happened. For minutes Blakeslee was almost in a daze, but struggled through it and held out his hand.

  “Mighty glad to meet you, Lensman. Thanks. All I can say is that after I got sucked in I couldn’t…”

  “Sure, I know all about it—that was one of the reasons I picked you out. Your subconscious didn’t fight back a bit, at any time. You’re to be in charge, from here to Tellus. Please go and chase everybody out of the control room except Crandall.”

  “Say, I just thought of something!” exclaimed Blakeslee when Kinnison joined the two officers at the board. “You must be that particular Lensman who has been getting in Helmuth’s hair so much lately!”

  “Probably—that’s my chief aim in life.”

  “I’d like to see Helmuth’s face when he gets the report of this. I’ve said that before, haven’t I? But I mean it now, even more than I did before.”

  “I’m thinking of Helmuth, too, but not that way.” The pilot had been scowling at his plate, and now turned to Blakeslee and the Lensman, glancing curiously from one to the other. “Oh I say… A Lensman, what? A bit of good old light begins to dawn; but that can wait. Helmuth is after us, foot, horse, and marines. Look at that plate!”

  “Four of ’em already!” exclaimed Blakeslee. “And there’s another! And we haven’t got a beam hot enough to light a cigarette, nor a screen strong enough to stop a firecracker. We’ve got legs, but not as many as they’ve got. You knew all about that, though, before we started; and from what you’ve pulled off so far you’ve got something left on the hooks. What is it? What’s the answer?”

  “For some reason or other they can’t detect us. All you have to do is to stay out of range of their electros and drill for Tellus.”

  “Some reason or other, eh? Nine ships on the plate now—all Boskonians and all looking for us—and not seeing us—some reason! But I’m not asking questions…”

  “Just as well not to. I’d rather you’d answer one. Who or what is Boskone?”

  “Nobody knows. Helmuth speaks for Boskone, and nobody else ever does, not even Boskone himself—if there is such a person. Nobody can prove it, but everybody knows that Helmuth and Boskone are simply two names for the same man. Helmuth, you know, is only a voice—nobody ever saw his face until today.”

  “I’m beginning to think so, myself,” and Kinnison strode away, to call at the office of Head Nurse MacDougall.

  “Mac, here’s a small, but highly important box,” he told her, taking the neutralizer from his pocket and handing it to her. “Put it in your locker
until you get to Tellus. Then take it, yourself, in person, and give it to Haynes, himself, in person, and to nobody else. Just tell him I sent it—he knows all about it.”

  “But why not keep it and give it to him yourself? You’re coming with us, aren’t you?”

  “Probably not all the way. I imagine I’ll have to do a flit before long.”

  “But I want to talk to you!” she exclaimed. “Why, I’ve got a million questions to ask you!”

  “That would take a long time,” he grinned at her, “and time is just what we ain’t got right now, neither of us,” and he strode back to the board.

  There he labored for hours at a calculating machine and in the tank, finally to squat down upon his heels, staring at two needle-like rays of light in the tank and whistling softly between his teeth. For those two lines, while exactly in the same plane, did not intersect in the tank at all! Estimating as carefully as he could the point of intersection of the lines, he punched the “cancel” key to wipe out all traces of his work and went to the chart-room. Chart after chart he hauled down, and for many minutes he worked with calipers, compass, goniometer, and a carefully-set adjustable triangle. Finally he marked a point—exactly upon a numbered dot already upon the chart—and again whistled. Then:

  “Huh!” he grunted. He rechecked all his figures and retraversed the chart, only to have his needle pierce again the same tiny hole. He stared at it for a full minute, studying the map all around his marker.

  “Star cluster AC 257-4736,” he ruminated. “The smallest most insignificant, least-known star-cluster he could find, and my largest possible error can’t put it anywhere else…kind of thought it might be in a cluster, but I never would have looked there. No wonder it took a lot of stuff to trace his beam—it would have to be four numbers Brinnell harder than a diamond drill to work from there.”

  Again whistling tunelessly to himself he rolled up the chart upon which he had been at work, stuck it under his arm, replaced the others in their compartments, and went back to the control room.

  “How’s tricks, fellows?” he asked.

  “QX,” replied Blakeslee. “We’re through them and into clear ether. Not a ship on the plate, and nobody gave us even a tumble.”

  “Fine! You won’t have any trouble, then, from here in to Prime Base. Glad of it, too—I’ve got to flit. That’ll mean long watches for you two, but it can’t very well be helped.”

  “But I say, old bird, I don’t mind the watches, but…”

  “Don’t worry about that, either. This crew can be trusted, to a man. Not one of you joined the pirates of your own free will, and not one of you has ever taken active part…”

  “What are you, a mind-reader or something?” Crandall burst out.

  “Something like that,” Kinnison assented with a grin, and Blakeslee put in.

  “More than that, you mean. Something like hypnosis, only more so. You think I had something to do with this, but I didn’t—the Lensman did it all himself.”

  “Um…m.” Crandall stared at Kinnison, new respect in his eyes. “I knew that Unattached Lensmen were good, but I had no idea they were that good. No wonder Helmuth has been getting his wind up about you. I’ll string along with any one who can take a whole base, single-handed, and make such a bally ass to boot out of such a keen old bird as Helmuth is. But I’m in a bit of a dither, not so say a funk, about what’s going to happen when we pop into Prime Base without you. Every man jack of us, you know, is slated for the lethal chamber without trial. Miss MacDougall will do her bit, of course, but what I mean is has she enough jets to swing it, what?”

  “She has, but to avoid all argument I’ve fixed that up, too. Here’s a tape, telling all about what happened. It ends up with my recommendation for a full pardon for each of you, and for a job at whatever he is found best fitted for. Signed with my thumb-print. Give it or send it to Port Admiral Haynes as soon as you land. I’ve got enough jets, I think, so that it will go as it lays.”

  “Jets? You? Right-o! You’ve got jets enough to lift fourteen freighters off the North Pole of Valeria. What next?”

  “Stores and supplies for my speedster. I’m doing a long flit and this ship has supplies to burn, so load me up, Plimsoll down.”

  The speedster was stocked forthwith. Then, with nothing more than a casually waved salute in the way of farewell, Kinnison boarded his tiny space-ship and shot away toward his distant goal. Crandall, the pilot, sought his bunk; while Blakeslee started his long trick at the board. In an hour or so the head nurse strolled in.

  “Kim?” she queried, doubtfully.

  “No, Miss MacDougall—Blakeslee. Sorry…”

  “Oh, I’m glad of that—that means that everything’s settled. Where’s the Lensman—in bed?”

  “He has gone, Miss.”

  “Gone! Without a word? Where?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “He wouldn’t, of course.” The nurse turned away, exclaiming inaudibly, “Gone! I’d like to cuff him for that, the lug! GONE! Why, the great, big, lobsterly clinker!”

  CHAPTER

  22

  Preparing for the Test

  UT KINNISON WAS NOT heading for Helmuth’s base—yet. He was splitting the ether toward Aldebaran instead, as fast as his speedster could go; and she was one of the fastest things in the galaxy. He had two good reasons for going there before tackling Boskone’s Grand Base. First, to try out his skill upon non-human intellects. If he could handle the Wheelmen he was ready to take the far greater hazard. Second, he owed those wheelers something, and he did not like to call in the whole Patrol to help him pay his debts. He could, he thought, handle that base himself.

  Knowing exactly where it was, he had no difficulty in finding the volcanic shaft which was its entrance. Down that shaft his sense of perception sped. He found the lookout plates and followed their power leads. Gently, carefully, he insinuated his mind into that of the Wheelman at the board; discovering, to his great relief, that that monstrosity was no more difficult to handle than had been the Radeligian observer. Mind or intellect, he found, were not affected at all by the shape of the brains concerned; quality, reach, and power were the essential factors. Therefore he let himself in and took position in the same room from which he had been driven so violently. Kinnison examined with interest the wall through which he had been blown, noting that it had been repaired so perfectly that he could scarcely find the joints which had been made.

  These wheelers, the Lensman knew, had explosives; since the bullets which had torn their way through his armor and through his flesh had been propelled by that agency. Therefore, to the mind within his grasp he suggested “the place where explosives are kept?” and the thought of that mind flashed to the store-room in question. Similarly, the thought of the one who had access to that room pointed out to the Lensman the particular Wheelman he wanted. It was as easy as that, and since he took care not to look at any of the weird beings, he gave no alarm.

  Kinnison withdrew his mind delicately, leaving no trace of its occupancy, and went to investigate the arsenal. There he found a few cases of machine-rifle cartridges, and that was all. Then into the mind of the munitions officer, where he discovered that the heavy bombs were kept in a distant crater, so that no damage would be done by any possible explosion.

  “Not quite as simple as I thought,” Kinnison ruminated, “but there’s a way out of that, too.”

  There was. It took an hour or so of time, and he had to control two Wheelmen instead of one, but he found that he could do that. When the munitions master took out a bomb-scow after a load of H.E., the crew had no idea that it was anything except a routine job. The only Wheelman who would have known differently, the one at the lookout board, was the other whom Kinnison had to keep under control. The scow went out, got its load, and came back. Then, while the Lensman was flying out into space, the scow dropped down the shaft. So quietly was the whole thing done that not a creature in that whole establishment knew that anything was wrong until it was t
oo late to act—and then none of them knew anything at all. Not even the crew of the scow realized that they were dropping too fast.

  Kinnison did not know what would happen if a mind—to say nothing of two of them—died while in his mental grasp, and he did not care to find out. Therefore, a fraction of a second before the crash, he jerked free and watched.

  The explosion and its consequences did not look at all impressive from the Lensman’s coign of vantage. The mountain trembled a little, then subsided noticeably. From its summit there erupted an unimportant little flare of flame, some smoke, and an insignificant shower of rock and debris.

  However, when the scene had cleared there was no longer any shaft leading downward from that crater; a floor of solid rock began almost at its lip. Nevertheless the Lensman explored thoroughly all the region where the stronghold had been, making sure that the clean-up had been one hundred percent effective.

  Then, and only then, did he point the speedster’s streamlined nose toward star cluster AC 257-4736.

  * * * * *

  In his hidden retreat so far from the galaxy’s crowded suns and worlds, Helmuth was in no enviable or easy frame of mind. Four times he had declared that that accursed Lensman, whoever he might be, must be destroyed; and had mustered his every available force to that end; only to have his intended prey slip from his grasp as effortlessly as a droplet of mercury eludes the clutching fingers of a child.

  That Lensman, with nothing except a speedster and a bomb, had taken and had studied one of Boskone’s new battleships, thus obtaining for his Patrol the secret of cosmic energy. Abandoning his own vessel, then crippled and doomed to capture or destruction, he had stolen one of the ships searching for him and in it he had calmly sailed to Velantia right through Helmuth’s screen of blockading vessels. He had in some way so fortified Velantia as to capture six Boskonian battleships. In one of those ships he had won his way back to Prime Base, with information of such immense importance that it had robbed the Boskonian organization of its then overwhelming superiority. More, he had found or had developed new items of equipment which, save for Helmuth’s own success in obtaining them, would have given the Patrol a definite and decisive superiority over Boskonia. Now both sides were equal, except for that Lensman and…the Lens.