Chapter 8

That murderous attack upon Virgil Samms, and its countering by those new super-lawmen, the Lensmen, and by an entire task force of the North American Armed Forces, was news of Civilization-wide importance. As such, it filled every channel of Universal Telenews for an hour. Then, in stunning and crescendo succession, came the staccato reports of the creation of the Galactic Patrol, the mobilization--allegedly for maneuvers--of Galactic Patrol’s Grand Fleet, and the ultimately desperate and all-too-nearly successful attack upon The Hill.

“Just a second, folks; we’ll have it very shortly. You’ll see something that nobody ever saw before and that nobody will ever see again. We’re getting in as close as the Law will let us.” The eyes of Telenews’ ace reporter and the telephoto lens of his cameraman stared down from a scooter at the furiously smoking, sputteringly incandescent surface of Triplanetary’s ancient citadel; while upon dozens of worlds thousands of millions of people packed themselves tighter and tighter around tens of millions of visiplates and loud-speakers in order to see and to hear the tremendous news.

“There it is, folks, look at it--the only really impregnable fortress ever built by man! A good many of our experts had it written off as obsolete, long ago, but it seems these Lensmen had something up their sleeves besides their arms, heh-heh! And speaking of Lensmen, they haven’t been throwing their weight around, so most of us haven’t noticed them very much, but this reporter wants to go on record right now as saying there must be a lot more to the Lens than any of us has thought, because otherwise nobody would have gone to all that trouble and expense, to say nothing of the tremendous loss of life, just to kill the Chief Lensman, which seems to have been what they were after.

“We told you a few minutes ago, you know, that every Continent of Civilization sent official messages denying most emphatically any connection with this outrage. It’s still a mystery, folks; in fact, it is getting more and more mysterious all the time. Not one single man of the Black Fleet was taken alive! Not even in the ships that were only holed--they blew themselves up! And there were no uniforms or books or anything of the kind to be found in any of the wrecks--no identification whatever!

“And now for the scoop of all time! Universal Telenews has obtained permission to interview the two top Lensmen, both of whom you all know--Virgil Samms and ‘Rod the Rock’ Kinnison--personally for this beam. We are now going down, by remote control, of course, right into the Galactic patrol office, right in The Hill itself. Here we are. Now if you will step just a little closer to the mike, please, Mr. Samms, or should I say... ?”

“You should say ‘First Lensman Samms’,” Kinnison said bruskly.

“Oh, yes, First Lensman Samms. Thank you, Mr. Kinnison. Now, First Lensman Samms, our clients all want to know all about the Lens. We all know what it does, but what, really, is it? Who invented it? How does it work?”

Kinnison started to say something, but Samms silenced him with a thought.

“I will answer those questions by asking you one.” Samms smiled disarmingly. “Do you remember what happened because the pirates learned to duplicate the golden meteor of the Triplanetary Service?”

“Oh, I see.” The Telenews ace, although brash and not at all thin-skinned, was quick on the uptake. “Hush-hush? T. S.?”

“Top Secret. Very much so,” Samms confirmed, “and we are going to keep some things about the Lens secret as long as we possibly can.”

“Fair enough. Sorry folks, but you will agree that they’re right on that. Well, then, Mr. Samms, who do you think it was that tried to kill you, and where do you think the Black Fleet came from?”

“I have no idea,” Samms said, slowly and thoughtfully. “No. No idea whatever.”

“What? Are you sure of that? Aren’t you holding back maybe just a little bit of a suspicion, for diplomatic reasons?”

“I am holding nothing back; and through my Lens I can make you certain of the fact. Lensed thoughts come from the mind itself, direct, not through such voluntary muscles as the tongue. The mind does not lie--even such lies as you call ‘diplomacy’.”

The Lensman demonstrated and the reporter went on:

“He is sure, folks, which fact knocked me speechless for a second or two--which is quite a feat in itself. Now, Mr. Samms, one last question. What is all this Lens stuff really about? What are all you Lensmen--the Galactic Council and so on--really up to? What do you expect to get out of it? And why would anybody want to make such an all-out effort to get rid of you? And give it to me on the Lens, please, if you can do it and talk at the same time--that was a wonderful sensation, folks, of getting the dope straight and knowing that it was straight.”

“I can and will answer both by voice and by Lens. Our basic purpose is...” and he quoted verbatim the resounding sentences which Mentor had impressed so ineradicably upon his mind. “You know how little happiness, how little real well-being, there is upon any world today. We propose to increase both. What we expect to get out of it is happiness and well-being for ourselves, the satisfaction felt by any good workman doing the job for which he is best fitted and in which he takes pride. As to why anyone should want to kill me, the logical explanation would seem to be that some group or organization or race, opposed to that for which we Lensmen stand, decided to do away with us and started with me.”

“Thank you, Mr. Samms. I am sure that we all enjoyed this interview very much. Now, folks, you all know ‘Rocky Rod’, ‘Rod the Rock’, Kinnison ... just a little closer, please ... thank you. I don’t suppose you have any suspicions, either, any more than...”

“I certainly have!” Kinnison barked, so savagely that five hundred million people jumped as one. “How do you want it; voice, or Lens, or both?” Then on the Lens: “Think it over, son, because I suspect everybody!”

“Bub-both, please, Mr. Kinnison.” Even Universal’s star reporter was shaken by the quiet but deadly fury of the big Lensman’s thought, but he rallied so quickly that his hesitation was barely noticeable. “Your Lensed thought to me was that you suspect everybody, Mr. Kinnison?”

“Just that. Everybody. I suspect every continental government of every world we know, including that of North America of Tellus. I suspect political parties and organized minorities. I suspect pressure groups. I suspect capital and I suspect labor. I suspect an organization of criminals. I suspect nations and races and worlds that no one of us has as yet heard of--not even you, the top-drawer newshawk of the universe.”

“But you have nothing concrete to go on, I take it?”

“If I did have, do you think I’d be standing here talking to you?”

First Lensman Samms sat in his private quarters and thought.

Lensman Dronvire of Rigel Four stood behind him and helped him think.

Port Admiral Kinnison, with all his force and drive, began a comprehensive program of investigation, consolidation, expansion, redesigning, and rebuilding.

Virgilia Samms went to a party practically every night. She danced, she flirted, she talked. How she talked! Meaningless small talk for the most part--but interspersed with artless questions and comments which, while they perhaps did not put her partner of the moment completely at ease, nevertheless did not quite excite suspicion.

Conway Costigan, Lens under sleeve, undisguised but inconspicuous, rode the ether-lanes; observing minutely and reporting fully.

Jack Kinnison piloted and navigated and computed for his friend and boat-mate:

Mason Northrop; who, completely surrounded by breadboard hookups of new and ever-more-fantastic complexity, listened and looked; listened and tuned; listened and rebuilt; listened and--finally--took bearings and bearings and bearings with his ultra-sensitive loops.

DalNalten and Knobos, with dozens of able helpers, combed the records of three worlds in a search which produced as a by-product a monumental “who’s who” of crime.

Skilled technicians fed millions of cards, stack by stack, into the most versatile and most accomplished machines known to the statisticians of the age.

And Dr. Nels Bergenholm, abandoning temporarily his regular line of work, devoted his peculiar talents to a highly abstruse research in the closely allied field of organic chemistry.

The walls of Virgil Samms’ quarters became covered with charts, diagrams, and figures. Tabulations and condensations piled up on his desk and overflowed into baskets upon the floor. Until:

“Lensman Olmstead, of Alphacent, sir,” his secretary announced.

“Good! Send him in, please.”

The stranger entered. The two men, after staring intently at each other for half a minute, smiled and shook hands vigorously. Except for the fact that the newcomer’s hair was brown, they were practically identical!

“I’m certainly glad to see you, George. Bergenholm passed you, of course?”

“Yes. He says that he can match your hair to mine, even the individual white ones. And he has made me a wig-maker’s dream of a wig.”

“Married?” Samms’ mind leaped ahead to possible complications.

“Widower, same as you. And...”

“Just a minute--going over this once will be enough.” He Lensed call after call. Lensmen in various parts of space became en rapport with him and thus with each other.

“Lensmen--especially you, Rod--George Olmstead is here, and his brother Ray is available. I am going to work.”

“I still don’t like it!” Kinnison protested. “It’s too dangerous. I told the Universe I was going to keep you covered, and I meant it!”

“That’s what makes it perfectly safe. That is, if Bergenholm is sure that the duplication is close enough...”

“I am sure.” Bergenholm’s deeply resonant pseudo-voice left no doubt at all in any one of the linked minds. “The substitution will not be detected.”

“ ... and that nobody knows, George, or even suspects, that you got your Lens.”

“I am sure of that.” Olmstead laughed quietly. “Also, nobody except us and your secretary knows that I am here. For a good many years I have made a specialty of that sort of thing. Photos, fingerprints, and so on have all been taken care of.”

“Good. I simply can not work efficiently here,” Samms expressed what all knew to be the simple truth. “Dronvire is a much better analyst-synthesist than I am; as soon as any significant correlation is possible he will know it. We have learned that the Towne-Morgan crowd, Mackenzie Power, Ossmen Industries, and Interstellar Spaceways are all tied in together, and that thionite is involved, but we have not been able to get any further. There is a slight correlation--barely significant--between deaths from thionite and the arrival in the Solarian System of certain Spaceways liners. The fact that certain officials of the Earth-Screen Service have been and are spending considerably more than they earn sets up a slight but definite probability that they are allowing space-ships or boats from space-ships to land illegally. These smugglers carry contraband, which may or may not be thionite. In short, we lack fundamental data in every department, and it is high time for me to begin doing my share in getting it.”

“I don’t check you, Virge.” None of the Kinnisons ever did give up without a struggle. “Olmstead is a mighty smooth worker, and you are our prime coordinator. Why not let him keep up the counter-espionage--do the job you were figuring on doing yourself--and you stay here and boss it?”

“I have thought of that, a great deal, and have...”

“Because Olmstead can not do it,” a hitherto silent mind cut in, decisively. “I, Rularion of North Polar Jupiter, say so. There are psychological factors involved. The ability to separate and to evaluate the constituent elements of a complex situation; the ability to make correct decisions without hesitation; as well as many others not as susceptible to concise statement, but which collectively could be called power of mind. How say you, Bergenholm of Tellus? For I have perceived in you a mind approximating in some respects the philosophical and psychological depth of my own.” This outrageously egotistical declaration was, to the Jovian, a simple statement of an equally simple truth, and Bergenholm accepted it as such.

“I agree. Olmstead probably could not succeed.”

“Well, then, can Samms?” Kinnison demanded.

“Who knows?” came Bergenholm’s mental shrug, and simultaneously:

“Nobody knows whether I can or not, but I am going to try,” and Samms ended--almost--the argument by asking Bergenholm and a couple of other Lensmen to come into his office and by taking off his Lens.

“And that’s another thing I don’t like.” Kinnison offered one last objection. “Without your Lens, anything can happen to you.”

“Oh, I won’t have to be without it very long. And besides, Virgilia isn’t the only one in the Samms family who can work better--sometimes--without a Lens.”

The Lensmen came in and, in a surprisingly short time, went out. A few minutes later, two Lensmen strolled out of Samms’ inner office into the outer one.

“Good-bye, George,” the red-headed man said aloud, “and good luck.”

“Same to you, Chief,” and the brown-haired one strode out.

Norma the secretary was a smart girl, and observant. In her position, she had to be. Her eyes followed the man out, then scanned the Lensman from toe to crown.

“I’ve never seen anything like it, Mr. Samms,” she remarked then. “Except for the difference in coloring, and a sort of ... well, stoopiness ... he could be your identical twin. You two must have had a common ancestor--or several--not too far back, didn’t you?”

“We certainly did. Quadruple second cousins, you might call it. We have known of each other for years, but this is the first time we have met.”

“Quadruple second cousins? What does that mean? How come?”

“Well, say that once upon a time there were two men named Albert and Chester...”

“What? Not two Irishmen named Pat and Mike? You’re slipping, boss.” The girl smiled roguishly. During rush hours she was always the fast, cool, efficient secretary, but in moments of ease such persiflage as this was the usual thing in the First Lensman’s private office. “Not at all up to your usual form.”

“Merely because I am speaking now as a genealogist, not as a raconteur. But to continue, we will say that Chester and Albert had four children apiece, two boys and two girls, two pairs of identical twins, each. And when they grew up--half way up, that is...”