Lensman from rigel, p.11
Lensman From Rigel, page 11
With much gladhanding and pats and mumblings of welcome, the two arrivals were ushered into the room.
Chaplain General Chon was a muscular, red-faced human with a military cut of gray hair and a neatly trimmed Van Dyke beard of the same iron-gray color. He was dressed in the equivalent rank of Admiral of the Fleet. After his quick and ready smiles, his face grew serious. His eyes kept flicking nervously toward Thorndyke, and his body was stiffly braced as though his companion was on the verge of exploding.
Thorndyke, Master Technician of the Galactic Patrol, indeed looked as if he were about to burst. His trim figure and military bearing had an attitude of attack. He plunked himself on the edge of Kinnison's desk, folded his arms, and said, "I don't know what kind of bad news you've been having, but I'm going to make it worse. I wasn't part of the hyperspatial tube attacks. But I do know that some of my scientist friends have been scared silly by them. They weren't as scared as they're gonna be! Kim, you've got to call a Conference of Scientists. Now get this. Somebody on the other side has sent a black hole through a hyperspatial tube! A black hole sent through a hyperspatial tube! I got a confidential report on that. It took place near an outpost where it might have been overlooked, except for good luck. One of our special researchers recorded it, but has been keeping it under his hat. There's a full security clamp on this information, and even I'm not supposed to know. Now you know, Kim. And you, Treg. Oh, hello, Garner. Who's your friend?... Good to know you, P'Keen.... Well, I'm here on your laboratory-warship, Kim. Tregonsee and I will immediately start an analysis. Meanwhile, call that Conference of Scientists. Every second may count. This could be a greater threat than the introduction of the tube at the Battle of Tellus!" Thorndyke took a bare fraction of a second for an introspective look at his monologue. "Excuse my tornado tactics, as you might well say, Kim. But after all, a black hole through a tube could mean the end to the Galactic Patrol and Civilization!"
Hero or Villain
For a Patrolman who wasn't a Lensman, who was, in the opinions of the greatest scientific brains of two galaxies, a mere technician, D. D. Cloudd made a spectacular arrival at Klovia. That planet, home for Galactic Coordinator Kimball Kinnison, Ultra Prime base of the Galactic Patrol in the Second Galaxy, headquarters for the secret organizations of Second Stage Lensman Tregonsee, now the site of the meeting of the Joint Senior Councils of Scientists, was accustomed to most anything. But D. D. Cloudd's arrival, interrupting the first day's session of the conference, made a very big impression.
The tremendous thunderclap of a sonic boom over the entire capital city and the sprawling base announced the appearance of Cloudd above the roof of Supreme Galactic Headquarters.
Millions of people had rushed from buildings onto roof-tops and into streets, tingling from the physical blow of the vibrating airwave.
Patrolmen and civil employees had streamed from the various cells of the hive of Ultra Prime, startled out of its occasionally impressive but generally dull routine.
Four Lensmen, the quartet of the only Second Stage Lensmen ever created by Mentor of Arisia, had been brought to their feet and out onto the balcony overlooking the private space port where lightly, like a shining, slowly spinning royal
barge of some eminent visitor, Cloudd's cruiser was settling down.
Cloudd's arrival had literally and figuratively shaken up the place.
He hadn't meant to be all that eventful. He had meant to arrive with a bit of dramatic flair, proclaiming himself as being of some importance, perhaps a bit ostentatious but with dignity, distinction, and élan. As a man who was not one to shun his opportunities for excitement, he had suggested the landing maneuver. His suggestion was a command. No one questioned his distinguished status nor enlightened him that what he asked, perfectly executed, would have the result it had. His guardian fleet had come barreling into Klovian space at high speed inert. With the indisputable authority of priority orders and in full recognition of the caliber of the fleet that approached, his cruiser and its escorting vessels had been smoothly received, credentials verified, and sent on through with dispatch. They had arrowed through the opening ranks of the Home Fleet. His fleet had passed through shell after shell of defensive satellites without pause. It had circled the planet twice, in a silvery streaking line of ships in the night skies. Then it had plunged earthward. Straight at Ultra Prime it had fallen, bringing lumps to the throats of the many who had been growing aware of the developing spectacle. Every rule and regulation of landing clearance had been followed-- under the waiving of the special priority--but at an irrational, breakneck speed. The ships dumbfounded the watchers as they plummeted closer and closer to the ground. Apprehension had grown as the collision course was followed--until, at the very last moment, at the edge of suicide, the pull-up had come. And the finale: the performance, under perfect execution, had ended with a spectacular U-shaped reversal under maximum G-stress, bursting open as a blossom of metal petals in the sky.
Then, the massive sonic boom had thundered down upon the people.
The four Second Stage Lensmen, inside the headquarters building in the sanctum sanctorum of the Galactic Coordinator himself, had heard or sensed the whine of the falling ships. They were moving toward the outside open door when the bang came, and they appeared, one at a time, moving at
different speeds, upon the balcony which, in a huge six-foot-wide band, encircled the quarter-mile diameter of the restricted landing area.
Worsel, the big dragon Lensman, flying out like a winged snake, was on the balcony first, most of his eyes popping out on their stalks at the commotion. Since the establishment of peace, he had secretly thought of it as "ultra prim" base because it was such a showcase; this was like nothing he could have expected. He draped a goodly portion of his thirty-foot length over the railing, hanging out, gawking. He'd been so quick that he could observe the Patrolmen and office workers just now boiling out onto the tarmac and various balconies.
Kimball Kinnison was only seconds behind. His mouth was open in amazement, for only he had ever approached the base like this before. And he longed to do it still, but his worried staff had convinced him that it was complaints from townspeople and not his personal risk-taking which made them urge him to restrain himself.
The third Lensman was Tregonsee. He was no longer pretending death. The discussion with the Chaplain General aboard the Dauntless had decided that the maximum effect had been accomplished. There would still be deliberate mystification about the death of an important Rigellian, and the enemy would be even more unsettled by the conflicting evidence, but the masquerade SHELL GAME was over. So Tregonsee waddled out on the balcony, in full view for the first time. He did it merely to be polite and to keep his friends company, not because he was as curious as they or because he wanted to display himself as part of an official resurrection. He had early perceived the situation developing overhead and he had anticipated its finale. But, as noise meant absolutely nothing to him, he had not anticipated the effect it would have on people. The commotion was of hardly any interest to him-- but the man who caused it most certainly was.
Finally there came on the scene the fourth and sole remaining Second Stage Lensman, Nadreck of Palain. That frigid-blooded, poison-breathing, Z-type being was understandably slow. Instead of his thin-skinned force-field atmosuit, he was encumbered by a bulky one, almost like a portable room. He liked the big refrigerated suit for longer visits, such as this, because he could continue his research and experiments inside it. For that convenience he gladly suffered the inconvenience of hampered mobility. He could slip more easily in and out of the fourth dimension within this super-cooled suit, and he had so much more room utilizing the space-elasticity of the fourth dimension. Big suits made him feel comfortable among scientists; he could prove or disprove some of their theories within his miniature laboratory even as they were boasting about them. No, he really didn't care about being on the balcony; the coming and the going of three-dimensional people was particularly tedious to him; but after all, he was a psychologist, to his own mind probably the best psychologist in the universe, so he deigned to be out on the balcony to learn more about mass hysteria. Humanoids suffered from mass hysteria, a fascinating puzzle, and he always wished to learn more about it.
Down the ramp from the cruiser marched one medium-sized Patrolman. A technician! No high-ranking something-or-other! The Lensmen could feel the incredulity and disappointment in the air. The personnel had been turned out for days to welcome arriving VIPs, and they had been bored; this had been something different, something promising, without any command to be flag-waving greeters, so they were disappointed. Between two hastily-formed ranks of impeccably dressed Patrolmen, the technician, saluting, waving, and smiling at all, met a protocol officer. They spoke and nodded to each other and the officer led the way toward the doorway beneath the balcony where the four great Lensmen stood.
Kinnison threw his mind down on Cloudd.
"Well, I'll be damned," Kinnison said aloud and into the minds of his friends. "It's that man Cloudd you invited, Tregonsee. Curse me to the eleven hells of Telemanchia if I've ever encountered a lowly Patrolman with such impudence, such brazen assurance! We are going to meet that man now, right away! I've got a feeling--this fellow Cloudd--I'm going to like him! Something tells me we're all going to like him!"
Within minutes, D. D. Cloudd was in the presence of the mighty four. His euphoria drained away from him like the burst bottom of a waterbag. He knew he had been unspeakably reckless, rude, and presumptuous. He absolutely knew that he was about to be cashiered out of the service in disgrace. If he had known how to grovel, he would have done so with remorse and repentance.
But all he could do was stand rigidly at attention and say, "I'm sorry, sirs. Really. I apologize," and to keep thinking: I've disgraced myself and my superiors and to atone for it I'm going to blow up a Boskonian planet personally and go up along with it.
Three Lensmen were sympathetic in varying degrees, but Nadreck wasn't. He agreed with Cloudd's self-evaluation and frankly expressed himself. "Technician Benson Cloudd, I speak because there is awkward emotion in my friends. I feel your apology is an acknowledgment of errors which you intend as a kind of reparation. I also note, because of the poor quality of your mind screen, that you would act like a peevish human child and get yourself killed so we can feel sorry for you. Such is not logical, and it is irreversibly self-defeating. On the other hand, I recognize that you are potentially a very superior entity, worthy of discussing things with me. I therefore will overlook your immaturity this time and request that you tell us what you know about the illogical, aborted space battle from which you have just come. We all have a basic understanding, from the report to Tregonsee, of the appearance and disappearance of the enemy, but I humbly believe that I speak for all when I say you must organize your thoughts better and go over the facts again."
To Cloudd, Nadreck's frankness was effective. It was more effective than all the chewings-out Captain Barnard had regularly given him. Even more effective, and certainly less disconcerting, it was than the recent clinical discussion aboard his cruiser; on direct orders from HQ-T-Prime, part of a meticulous examination of him before his clearance to enter Ultra Prime, he had been psychologically poked at by the fleet's psychiatrist who had accompanied him. Of course, it had helped him, but looking so closely at himself hadn't been particularly pleasant.
Before attempting any reports to the Lensmen, there were still more preparations concerning his presence there. Cloudd was sent from them with instructions to report to the base psychiatrist, who would evaluate the psychological report from the interview on the cruiser, and then to Patrol
Credentials to have his papers and golden meteor identification pocket-case checked for his final clearance.
"Before I give you a background report on this Patrolman Cloudd," Tregonsee said, "I've got to take up the serious matters of Voddon the Manarkan and John Tsien. As you know, they are here in Ultra Prime as two of the five scientists who were victims of the tube attacks. Every one of the scientists have had their minds muddled. Both Nadreck and Worsel agree that it was a deliberate probing, not just a side-effect of the attacks. So, I have been extra cautious in my clearance of the five to be here, with complete physical and mental examinations by mind and machine. In the cases of Voddon and Tsien, however, there is an exceptional strangeness which disturbs me. I propose that we collectively examine them before they are allowed to participate in the sub-committee of the Conference of Scientists. They are here now, waiting outside for our attention."
There was full agreement to Tregonsee's plan, and John Tsien was brought in first. True to his name, he had that Tellurian oriental hereditary strain which gave him distinctive eyes and a yellow tinge to his skin. He was a middle-aged man with an exceedingly sharp and agile brain--except that there was a large black cloud of turmoil within it which no Lensman could dispel. As agreed, each Lensman concentrated on his pre-assigned responsibility: Kinnison was to fasten upon Tsien's consciousness, Tregonsee was to concentrate on the unconsciousness, and Worsel was to occupy the id's attention. Nadreck was given the crucial task of sifting through what remained.
Tsien was diagnosed as a thoroughly reliable and loyal believer in Civilization and the Galactic Council and Patrol. There was, however, Nadreck pointed out, without the slightest flicker of excitement in his mind, a very serious flaw to negate Tsien's fitness and compatibility.
John Tsien had within his head, put there by fourth-dimensional surgery, an Ordovik crystal!
While the four Lensmen held the man unaware and helpless with one part of their minds, they discussed his fate with the other.
They were agreed that the crystal was there without his knowledge, that it had probably been placed there at the time of the raid against him to plunder his mind, and that whatever other function it might have, the most serious result from it being activated there, in its indisputable potential, was that it would function as a bomb. The possibility of a tube attack through it was virtually non-existent, considering that it would be through the mind of a man who could give the warning before his death, plus the enclosed condition of the crystal which would inevitably make for a disruptive explosion.
"It is, in my humble opinion," Nadreck said, "an attempt at planting a bomb in their enemy's heart--in a meeting just like this. It would be an ingenious idea, if it weren't so stupid."
"Stupid?" said Worsel. "Why so, you denizen of a deep-freezer? Is it because you consider martyrdom the height of stupidity?"
"Worsel, my friend," Nadreck replied, "you give a good example of humanoid imbecility. But no, I mean that the bomb couldn't have worked. It was so heavily shielded to prevent its discovery that it was inoperable. No wonder it took such effort by us to find it. I suggest we put Tsien in a safe place, remove the shielding, and see what does happen."
"By all that's holy, Nadreck!" Kinnison exclaimed, flabbergasted once more by Nadreck's queer ethical reasoning, "Tsien's a good man and valuable to us!"
"Perhaps he will be more valuable to us to demonstrate what could be, if designed properly, a very effective terror weapon. I'm sure Tsien would be glad to give up his life to protect mine--or any of our lives, for that matter."
"What we should do," Kinnison said, coming to the firm conclusion even as he thought of the idea, "is to make certain that the crystal really is neutralized, as you say--and allow Tsien to go about as though we didn't know about this. We may learn something. When the Conference is over we'll remove the crystal and try some other experiments."
The Lensmen, following some brief comments about such experiments later, agreed to Kinnison's idea. Then, with Tsien's departure, still unaware of his condition, they called in Voddon.
Again they went through the same procedure, although in a different manner against the humanoid without eyes or
ears. Again Nadreck, without a quiver of distress, informed them that, if anything, Voddon's secret hidden within his head was even worse than Tsien's!
Voddon the Manarkan had buried within his brain, inserted by fourth-dimensional surgery, an operating transmitter! Voddon was a walking electronic spy device!
It took only a few seconds for Tregonsee to reassure Kinnison that security hadn't been breached.
"No frequencies get through our screens here in Ultra Prime," Tregonsee said. "This clears up my worry about the hidden transmitter which has been sporadically operating, and which I've had everyone searching for." They heard his mind give the equivalent of a sigh. "My big worry was that what was being blocked by us was nevertheless being recorded, to be snuggled out later, in a major security leak."
"I suppose," Kinnison said, "that's another result of the raids. Perhaps we should re-examine all the others."
"No," said Tregonsee, "these two are the only ones under any suspicion. What I am unsure of is whether Voddon is actually a traitor or not. I find his mind in unusually perfect order, but something bothers me."
"Yes," Nadreck agreed. "There is something. There is a touch of insanity to him--his brain is partially destroyed."
"What it is," Kinnison said, "is indicated by a tiny change I see. It is not a mental surgical scar, those marks left behind on a brain even when the operation is done by the most expert of brain surgeons. But it is like such a scar. It is a shadowy image of another neurological network in the mind. I'd guess that this is not the real Voddon, but a substitute, an impostor, who has had Voddon's personality stamped over his, with the other mind completely eradicated." Kinnison looked thoughtfully at the rigid body of the Manarkan, his own mind continuing to obliterate Voddon's consciousness.
"You're right, Kim," Worsel said, and Tregonsee added, "I've run over Voddon's security clearance in my head just now, and I can figure out the story. Voddon, the real Voddon, had an accident from which he recovered just a few months ago. Obviously, the real Voddon did not recover. His identity died or was murdered. The impostor took his place. The blanket in his mind, hiding the change in his brain and the transmitter, was excused away as being a result of the accident.
