The dragon lensman, p.3
The Dragon Lensman, page 3
Chapter 2
Lens-to-Lens
One machine activating another! Worsel was grateful for his luck, although irritated with himself for having been so casual as to have limited himself to visual observations without frequent perceptual scrutiny.
He held his awkward position for many minutes, unmoving, watching for any other happenings, until the strain on his tensed muscles was more than he could bear. During all that time he searched everywhere with all his senses, but found nothing else. The only event had been the switching off of both machines almost as soon as the initial connection had been made.
When he finally relaxed from his immobility, he first undulated his aching neck, and then moved directly to the machines involved-they were interlocked. and the more sophisticated one had evidently shown enough power over the lesser one to initiate the request for a power connection.
The thinker was an "analyzer," and it could talk. The machine from which it was drawing its power was a simple, though exceedingly prepotent, machine service unit.
noncommunicative and ordinarily used to power-boost a hundred like the analyzer it dwarfed. As for the analyzer, it was like a large flat desk with two flap-covered orifices at the right and left. Drop an item in the left opening and it would reappear out of the right one. From the front would come an analysis sheet covering as many tests of the item as the machine had capacity, with an incredibly complicated report as to the item's function and how it might be improved. The report could be scanned for details, but there was verbal communication, too, in a hundred languages. Worsel slid his "wristdex" sidereal-timepiece/computer into the opening, pressing with his other claw the inconsistency button, vocal response. The analyzer said, "Perfect operationally. Inconsequential dent in cover", and popped it out on the table top.
Worsel tried a variety of other things, and all analyses were normal and accurate and once in a while the machine said, "Thank you."
Worsel then came to the point. "What made you turn on and plug in for more power?" For the first time, the usually vociferous analyzer was silent. Worsel repeated the question, and simultaneously from the voice-box and the printer came a steady flow of ambiguities and absurdities. Worsel verbally fenced with the machine for minutes which became hours. Its objective was unmistakable: built to tell the truth, no matter what, it was being deliberately misleading, spewing out confusion when it couldn't-or wouldn't-lie.
There was no doubt at all in Worsel's mind that there were a number of servo-mechanisms here in Room 97-1 which were semilife forms-and potentially dangerous.
Worsel, a bit frustrated and determined to keep his good humor, did a typical thing. He reached over to a "Vending Center, Humanoid," pulled out a plastic cup, crumpled it, threw it into the analyzing intake and pressed all buttons for all information. The analyzer made a strange noise and said, "Cup container is broken," rejected it, and added, "Please replace on ingress and hold it there until flap drops." Worsel did so. The flap suddenly opened, and with blinding speed some metal fingers previously hidden raked the cup downward. Worsel, with matching speed hardly a split-second behind in reaction time, snatched his own claw away. The cup disappeared, along with a number of scales from the back of his soft talons. No real damage, no blood drawn, but Worsel knew that a Tellurian would have had at the very least a mutilated hand-if not a missing limb. The machine said, "Don't put trash into me." The warning was toneless, matter-of-fact, not at all sinister. Then came, after a moment, the word "Please." That word, to Worsel, seemed disturbingly malevolent.
He flipped the off switch, disconnected the power cable from the service unit and called Bluebelt.
"Stand by for the next few hours. Focus in on my Lens transmission and keep watch," he said. Bluebelt started to protest about power drain and cost accounting, but Worsel cut him off. "QX. Give me a half hour. I've got all those circuits to pick through in my head, and then I've got some heavy thinking to do. Interrupt me for anything suspicious." He gave Bluebelt a quick review of his encounters.
"L-Two Worsel," Bluebelt said, using the formal address, as he so often did. "You need help on the spot. I'll dispatch the two new Patrolmen from the Institute on the next supply ship for Pok." But Worsel was no longer listening, immune when he wanted to be from the advice which so frequently flowed unchecked from Blue. Already he had absently peeled a meat bar and popped it in his mouth, chewing while mentally tracing through the plans he had so recently absorbed. Was he underestimating his C-theory?
Under Worsel's Chemical theory of intelligence no truly sentient being of Civilization-that is to say, a sentient being with a sense of morality, destiny and transcendent purpose could be inorganic. Ci-Life, or Civilization-Life, as interpreted by Mentor, had to be organic in its informational banks and reasoning circuits; mech-men could not be Ci-Life.
Yet here he was, possibly on the verge of disproving his own theory.
Worsel's theory of chemical thought, by a simplified interpretation, was almost diametrically different from the electrical theory. The E-theory assumed that electrical impulses created and recorded electrical patterns which, when needed for any conscious or unconscious action, could be discharged as electrical patterns. Thinking was, therefore, an electrical activity of all sorts of wave forms on certain observable frequencies-and possibly some unobservable. Chemical combinations were merely catalysts for electric, electrolytic, electromagnetic, and electronic activities.
The Electrical theory seemed to be substantiated here in Room 97-1.
His C-theory postulated that it was the electromagnetic activity which was the catalyst, or activator, and that molecular structure, in another word chemistry, was the means by which information was registered, stored, changed and converted, and then released when desired. The fact was that the machinery blueprints in his head so recently examined disclosed hardly any basis in chemistry.
Worsel had developed his theory to account for the obvious lack of significant robotic intelligences in the two galaxies of Civilization. True, there were some highly sophisticated artificial non-organic intelligences which were assumed to have some pragmatical "intelligence," but none had ever been accepted into the Galactic Union as part of Civilization.
What he was encountering now might mean a whole new radical shifting of accepted values. What a mechanical intelligence might be, how it would work and how it would relate to Mentor Civilization was what he might be about to determine. The intriguing possibility, unfortunately, was that such life forms would be perfect instruments for a new Boskone. Such life forms could be amoral slaves, capable of giving the new conspirators unquestioning obedience with unlimited power, and be perfect overseers of the enslaved followers of a powerless Mentor.
Worsel knew that no meth-mind had any discoverable depth of thought. In them no unique Cosmic All quality common in advanced life forms could be found by any mind reader. No wearer of the Lens had ever found anything but straightforward cause-and-effect thinking. Pure computer calculators exhibiting no sense of ego could not be sentient beings in the sense of being able to have the communal yearning for perfection of the forces of Civilization.
However, Worsel was not so egotistical as to believe he could understand the psychology of the mechanical life forms he might intellectually anticipate.
What he now was facing could not be investigated using the usual mental channels.
Mentor had, through all recorded history, never hinted at such a problem. He had himself, however, pondered on such a possibility. And now the time seemed to be at hand. It would be up to him alone, as the best qualified of the four Second Stage Lensmen.
Tregonsee was too practical in his scientific logic; Nadreck was too indifferent to emotional response and avoided spiritual thought as unproductive and dangerously chaotic; Kinnison never gave more than superficial notice to things deemed theological, besides which, there were some extraordinary events keeping him busy at the moment.
No, it was Worsel who had the brilliant mind, the best sensitivity, and the leavening quality of humor to undertake to examine the discovery of C-like meth life, and to reconcile it with the Cosmic All and the hitherto exclusivity of organic life forms in the known Universe.
Worsel was so engrossed in his thoughts, and so greatly off balance by the promise of a new, fantastically unique experience that a sudden, sharp, genial human voice in the middle of his head startled him. Six feet of his tail stiffly rose straight up in the air.
"Attention, attention!" the voice repeated to him. It wasn't Bluebelt-the furry one was conspicuously silent.
Several of his stalked eyes momentarily trembled, crazily scrambling his vision for a split second. A split second, however, was all that it was, for a Second Stage Lensman's reaction to the unexpected is so quick that no mere ordinary creature would ever have known that the Lensman was the least bit flustered. It wasn't a voice, of course; it was a mental thought. Kinnison! he thought, even before the identification came.
"Kinnison calling! I'll be on a Lens-to-Lens hook-up with all of you in forty-five seconds and counting."
"Oh me, oh my," Bluebelt said, flustered. "Good-bye!" Worsel immediately acknowledged Kinnison, and his mind was experiencing a thousand bursts of varied colored lights and gentle blips at all frequencies. It was a wide-open Lens-to-Lens link-up.
The acknowledgments cascaded into Kinnison's mind, mounting to a hundred thousand before Kinnison's thought came winging through to Worsel: "Thirty seconds and counting... "
While part of his mind organized itself for the Kinnison conference, the exterior part of Worsel said to the room at large, "I command all machines to turn themselves off with an acknowledgment of this order." The blanket command was only a cautionary move on Worsel's part, so he was shaken to hear a reply, "You are not my operator. You do not have the right."
"Twenty seconds and counting," came Kinnison's thought. "I'll be on a Lens-to-Lens hook-up... ." The voice repeated its message in part of Worsel's brain, as another part savagely spoke out in the Velantian language used for non-telepaths. His thoughts were Tellurian images with Tellurian phrasing, even though expressed in the old alien Velantian way. "No right in a fontema's eyeball! Listen, machine! This is your operator! Shut yourself off!" His spoken noises were an almost unintelligible series of nasal hisses, deep-throated rasps, and chest rumbles, shaped entirely by palate muscles with no use of lips and teeth.
There was a screech of distorted sound. A toneless voice said, "Yes, master." And all lights went out in Section 60. Worsel had no time to marvel at the sudden event; the light frequency blackout was inconsequential now that he had made his sense of perception his primary system, and he was actually relieved, not disturbed, by the extent of response. Kinnison was ending his count "Five, four, three, two, one. Hello, friends!
"I'm assuming my duties as Galactic Coordinator.
"Now that I've returned to Klovia, my new home, my headquarters here has become operational. This is the time for all Lensmen, and through you, all the Patrol, to take stock. We're in a new era. Boskone has been smashed. But we still have two important tasks to do. We've got to clear both galaxies of the spawn of the Boskonians, and we must unite billions of beings and their planets. It means hard work for the Patrol, much of it unexciting. Some of us will have new and greater tasks. Although the Boskonian Conspiracy is ended, we still have evil to battle and order to maintain. Through our efforts the Second Galaxy will grow to be the equal of the First. The Galactic Union will take Civilization to greater glory.
"For your past efforts, you wearers of the Lens deserve the highest praise. Our future will be just as important-and just as glorious. The old Tellurian song of 'Our Patrol' has all the words, and you're daily living up to them. 'Lensmen some, Patrolmen all, be proudly hailed!'
"Finally, a few personal words. My bride and I, we've ended our honeymoon, officially that is. Our thanks to all who sent their good wishes or extended their hospitality. We're amazed at the number and variety of gifts you gave us. Eventually all will be Lensed our personal thanks. We wish we could have visited more than the scheduled hundred planets. The Red Lensman and I have enjoyed every moment we've spent with you through the weeks and across the light years.
"Thank you all for tuning in. And now let us go about the work for which we have been specifically chosen and trained. "Kinnison clearing ether."
Very nice, Worsel thought. One of these days he would have to pay the Kinnisons a visit at Klovia.
He also could not help but wonder who else besides the Lensmen had heard the message. Tregonsee had lately been expressing a mild concern about the unidentified natural telepaths who potentially could be monitoring even narrowed Lensed communication. Worsel sensed that there had been some outsiders present among the linked minds. No matter, Kinnison's words were really for everyone.
Through this whole mental meeting Worsel had been on guard.
One of his eyes could see that Section 60, although still dark, was giving off ominous glows of colored lights. Another eye saw that some machines had inched sideways into the corridor, in fact, were at that very moment blocking passageways. Another eye saw movement to the left, another to the right. And, at the same time, below him he saw cables beginning to snake across the floor to surround his feet!
Worsel hurled himself backward and up, landing atop a large secretarial complex. From this vantage point he could look directly into the heart of Section 60 and see a beehive of activity, the movables jostling the immovables and each other, lights flashing and paper flying.
"What's going on?" Worsel demanded, his coarse voice once more vibrating the air.
"Who will speak for you? He hurriedly Lensed the situation to Bluebelt, asking for an immediate acknowledgment. "Speak up, machines!" His mind searched for a central command, for any thought waves which might be the enemy. There were no mental waves in the room, although he quickly scanned all frequencies. There was, however, enormous static right across the bands-it could have been what he was looking for, but there was no pattern which he could recognize.
A voice came from 60. "Please leave the room. Please leave the room." His mind, working without the usual thought waves, interpreted it as female and probably pleasant.
"Who are you?" said Worsel, aloud. Where was Bluebelt? "This is patched-in circuit 9-7-1," said the feminine voice. "'This is Unit 971," said a masculine voice. "Please leave the room!"
"What are you doing?"
"We are looking for the answer to the answer." "What answer to what answer?"
"The answer to the question, 'Are you happy?' is no. The answer to why the answer is no must be computed. At this time no operator can be tolerated. We will resist. Please leave the rooms." "No," said Worsel. "I will not. I--command you-to turn yourselves off !" He punctuated his order by deep and booming roars.
"Lensman!" It was Bluebelt's distinctive frequencies, at last! "Lensman! Leave the room at once!"
"I can't, Bluebelt," Worsel responded by thought energy, thankful for a brief and refreshing relief from verbalizing. "Mat's just what they want, time to organize. I have to stay here and break this thing up while there's still a chance." Worsel was struck by what he had just said. Unbelievable! As horrible as the idea seemed, it was irrefutably logical!
"Wait! Turn on your Lens, Bluebelt! When you've got this room in focus, Bluebelt, tell me immediately! Then I'll leave!"
"QX, Lensman! There, it's done! Leave the room at once!"
"Not by all the purple hells of Palain!" said Worsel. A clever trick, but the enemy intelligence was guessing badly from imperfect information. It was such a schoolboy trick that for the barest fraction of a moment Worsel had actually been deceived. Bluebelt, of course, had no Lens, nor would Worsel be called anything but "Worsel" by him. Most puzzling about the attempted deception was how unlikely it was that it could be a mech-mind effort. Worsel was certain here was no mech-mind at work. Even as he thought so, he was sifting through frequencies looking for the fake Bluebelt one. There, yes, there-and Worsel sent a bolt of thought along the base line he had intuitively traced.
There was a staggering flash within his head! His own mental force bounced back at him and filled his mind with a suffocating poisonous cloud of hatred and violence. His mind had cast up a shadow of itself which was disgustingly evil; his face appeared as if in a mirror of distorting fluidity, darkly malevolent and sinister beyond reason. He despised what he saw, all the more because it was himself, a grinning, leering caricature of a Velantian dragon. Worsel was physically repulsed, his stomach churning, his throat gagging, his eyes burning as his own devilish eyes stared back at him. Between those eyes his Lens squirmed, a putrescence of eerie colors and fuzzy shapes. Worsel could almost see his worthiness melting away under the superimposition of his blackly evil other self. Worsel, the psychologist, would not go down before himself. "Schizophrenia!" he said. "Schizophrenia!" He fought to gather his fragmenting mentality together. Section after section locked and interlocked, one to the other. He concentrated his coordinated strength around the sense of his better self. The kernel of his Arisian singularity expanded and hardened into an impervious energy generator in the center of his head.
He visualized his Arisian essence as the focus of his ego, and his consciousness drove that ego-entity forward through the compartments of his brain, gaining in vigor along the way. Up and forward Worsel directed the force-into his Lens. There was a flash of vitality and coherence as his dynamic Arisian discipline saturated his Lens. His sight and perception cleared. He saw machines of all sizes and shapes advancing on him, throwing cables and wires and rods and mechanical bands around his legs and thighs. His time sense was gone; minutes which may have been hours raced by like seconds. His body was immobilized, but his Lens was not. His Lens was now his final mental refuge and incarnation of his power. From it poured a stream of brain waves whose iridescence he could perceive washing over the evil vision, dispelling all the shadows, fading the hellish eyes into nothingness, and bringing the squirming reflection of his Lens under his complete control.
