Chapter 9

Piracy was rife. There was no suspicion, however, nor would there be for many years, that there was anything of very large purpose about the business. Murgatroyd was simply a Captain Kidd of space; and even if he were actually connected with Galactic Spaceways, that fact would not be surprising. Such relationships had always existed; the most ferocious and dreaded pirates of the ancient world worked in full partnership with the First Families of that world.

Virgil Samms was thinking of pirates and of piracy when he left Senator Morgan’s office. He was still thinking of them while he was reporting to Roderick Kinnison. Hence:

“But that’s enough about this stuff and me, Rod. Bring me up to date on Operation Boskone.”

“Branching out no end. Your guess was right that Spaceways’ losses to pirates are probably phony. But it wasn’t the known attacks--that is, those cases in which the ship was found, later, with some or most of the personnel alive--that gave us the real information. They were all pretty much alike. But when we studied the total disappearances we really hit the jack-pot.”

“That doesn’t sound just right, but I’m listening.”

“You’d better, since it goes farther than even you suspected. It was no trouble at all to get the passenger lists and the names of the crews of the independent ships that were lost without a trace. Their relatives and friends--we concentrated mostly on wives--could be located, except for the usual few who moved around so much that they got lost. Spacemen average young, you know, and their wives are still younger. Well, these young women got jobs, most of them remarried, and so on. In short, normal.”

“And in the case of Spaceways, not normal?”

“Decidedly not. In the first place, you’d be amazed at how little publication was ever done of passenger lists, and apparently crew lists were not published at all. No use going into detail as to how we got the stuff, but we got it. However, nine tenths of the wives had disappeared, and none had remarried. The only ones we could find were those who did not care, even when their husbands were alive, whether they ever saw them again or not. But the big break was--you remember the disappearance of that girls’-school cruise ship?”

“Of course. It made a lot of noise.”

“An interesting point in connection with that cruise is that two days before the ship blasted off the school was robbed. The vault was opened with thermite and the whole Administration Building burned to the ground. All the school’s records were destroyed. Thus, the list of missing had to be made up from statements made by friends, relatives, and what not.”

“I remember something of the kind. My impression was, though, that the space-ship company furnished ... Oh!” The tone of Samms’ thought alerted sharply. “That was Spaceways, under cover?”

“Definitely. Our best guess is that there were quite a few shiploads of women disappeared about that time, instead of one. Austine’s College had more students that year than ever before or since. It was the extras, not the regulars, who went on that cruise; the ones who figured it would be more convenient to disappear in space than to become ordinary missing persons.”

“But Rod! That would mean ... but where?”

“It means just that. And finding out ‘where’ will run into a project. There are over two thousand million suns in this galaxy, and the best estimate is that there are more than that many planets habitable by beings more or less human in type. You know how much of the galaxy has been explored and how fast the work of exploring the rest of it is going. Your guess is just as good as mine as to where those spacemen and engineers and their wives and girl-friends are now. I am sure, though, of four things; none of which we can ever begin to prove. One; they didn’t die in space. Two; they landed on a comfortable and very well equipped Tellurian planet. Three; they built a fleet there. Four; that fleet attacked the Hill.”

“Murgatroyd, do you suppose?” Although surprised by Kinnison’s tremendous report, Samms was not dismayed.

“No idea. No data--yet.”

“And they’ll keep on building,” Samms said. “They had a fleet much larger than the one they expected to meet. Now they’ll build one larger than all our combined forces. And since the politicians will always know what we are doing ... or it might be ... I wonder... ?”

“You can stop wondering.” Kinnison grinned savagely.

“What do you mean?”

“Just what you were going to think about. You know the edge of the galaxy closest to Tellus, where that big rift cuts in?”

“Yes.”

“Across that rift, where it won’t be surveyed for a thousand years, there’s a planet that could be Earth’s twin sister. No atomic energy, no space-drive, but heavily industrialized and anxious to welcome us. Project Bennett. Very, very hush-hush. Nobody except Lensmen know anything about it. Two friends of Dronvire’s--smart, smooth operators--are in charge. It’s going to be the Navy Yard of the Galactic Patrol.”

“But Rod...” Samms began to protest, his mind leaping ahead to the numberless problems, the tremendous difficulties, inherent in the program which his friend had outlined so briefly.

“Forget it, Virge!” Kinnison cut in. “It won’t be easy, of course, but we can do anything they can do, and do it better. You can go calmly ahead with your own chores, knowing that when--and notice that I say ‘when’, not ‘if’--we need it we’ll have a fleet up our sleeves that will make the official one look like a task force. But I see you’re at the rendezvous, and there’s Jill. Tell her ‘hi’ for me. And as the Vegians say--’Tail high, brother!’”

Samms was in the hotel’s ornate lobby; a couple of uniformed “boys” and Jill Samms were approaching. The girl reached him first.

“You had no trouble in recognizing me, then, my dear?”

“None at all, Uncle George.” She kissed him perfunctorily, the bell hops faded away. “So nice to see you--I’ve heard so much about you. The Marine Room, you said?”

“Yes. I reserved a table.”

And in that famous restaurant, in the unequalled privacy of the city’s noisiest and most crowded night spot, they drank sparingly; ate not-so-sparingly; and talked not sparingly at all.

“It’s perfectly safe here, you think?” Jill asked first.

“Perfectly. A super-sensitive microphone couldn’t hear anything, and it’s so dark that a lip-reader, even if he could read us, would need a pair of twelve-inch night-glasses.”

“Goody! They did a marvelous job, Dad. If it weren’t for your ... well, your personality, I wouldn’t recognize you even now.”

“You think I’m safe, then?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then we’ll get down to business. You, Knobos, and DalNalten all have keen and powerful minds. You can’t all be wrong. Spaceways, then, is tied in with both the Towne-Morgan gang and with thionite. The logical extension of that--Dal certainly thought of it, even though he didn’t mention it--would be...” Samms paused.

“Check. That the notorious Murgatroyd, instead of being just another pirate chief, is really working for Spaceways and belongs to the Towne-Morgan-Isaacson gang. But dad--what an idea! Can things be that rotten, really?”

“They may be worse than that. Now the next thing. Who, in your opinion, is the real boss?”

“Well, it certainly is not Herkimer Herkimer Third.” Jill ticked him off on a pink forefinger. She had been asked for an opinion; she set out to give it without apology or hesitation. “He could--just about--direct the affairs of a hot-dog stand. Nor is it Clander. He isn’t even a little fish; he’s scarcely a minnow. Equally certainly it is neither the Venerian nor the Martian. They may run planetary affairs, but nothing bigger. I haven’t met Murgatroyd, of course, but I have had several evaluations, and he does not rate up with Towne. And Big Jim--and this surprised me as much as it will you--is almost certainly not the prime mover.” She looked at him questioningly.

“That would have surprised me tremendously yesterday; but after today--I’ll tell you about that presently--it doesn’t.”

“I’m glad of that. I expected an argument, and I have been inclined to question the validity of my own results, since they do not agree with common knowledge--or, rather, what is supposed to be knowledge. That leaves Isaacson and Senator Morgan.” Jill frowned in perplexity; seemed, for the first time, unsure. “Isaacson is of course a big man. Able. Well-informed. Extremely capable. A top-notch executive. Not only is, would have to be, to run Spaceways. On the other hand, I have always thought that Morgan was nothing but a windbag...” Jill stopped talking; left the thought hanging in air.

“So did I--until today,” Samms agreed grimly. “I thought that he was simply an unusually corrupt, greedy, rabble-rousing politician. Our estimates of him may have to be changed very radically.”

Samms’ mind raced. From two entirely different angles of approach, Jill and he had arrived at the same conclusion. But, if Morgan were really the Big Shot, would he have deigned to interview personally such small fry as Olmstead? Or was Olmstead’s job of more importance than he, Samms, had supposed?

“I’ve got a dozen more things to check with you,” he went on, almost without a pause, “but since this leadership matter is the only one in which my experience would affect your judgment, I had better tell you about what happened today...”

Tuesday came, and hour fourteen hundred; and Samms strode into an office. There was a big, clean desk; a wiry, intense, gray-haired man.

“Captain Willoughby?”

“Yes.”

“George Olmstead reporting.”

“Fourth Officer.” The captain punched a button; the heavy, sound-proof door closed itself and locked.

“Fourth Officer? New rank, eh. What does the ticket cover?”

“New, and special. Here’s the articles; read it and sign it.” He did not add “or else”, it was not necessary. It was clearly evident that Captain Willoughby, never garrulous, intended to be particularly reticent with his new subordinate.

Samms read. “ ... Fourth Officer ... shall ... no duties or responsibilities in the operation or maintenance of said space-ship ... cargo...” Then came a clause which fairly leaped from the paper and smote his eyes: “when in command of a detail outside the hull of said space-ship he shall enforce, by the infliction of death or such other penalty as he deems fit...”

The Lensman was rocked to the heels, but did not show it. Instead, he took the captain’s pen--his own, as far as Willoughby was concerned, could have been filled with vanishing ink--and wrote George Olmstead’s name in George Olmstead’s bold, flowing script.

Willoughby then took him aboard the good ship Virgin Queen and led him to his cabin.

“Here you are, Mr. Olmstead. Beyond getting acquainted with the super-cargo and the rest of your men, you will have no duties for a few days. You have full run of the ship, with one exception. Stay out of the control room until I call you. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.” Willoughby turned away and Samms, after tossing his space-bag into the rack, took inventory.

The room was of course very small; but, considering the importance of mass, it was almost extravagantly supplied. There were shelves, or rather, tight racks, of books; there were sun-lamps and card-shelves and exercisers and games; there was a receiver capable of bringing in programs from almost anywhere in space. The room had only one lack; it did not have an ultra-wave visiplate. Nor was this lack surprising. “They” would scarcely let George Olmstead know where “they” were taking him.

Samms was surprised, however, when he met the men who were to be directly under his command; for instead of one, or at most two, they numbered exactly forty. And they were all, he thought at first glance, the dregs and sweepings of the lowest dives in space. Before long, however, he learned that they were not all space-rats and denizens of Skid Rows. Six of them--the strongest physically and the hardest mentally of the lot--were fugitives from lethal chambers; murderers and worse. He looked at the biggest, toughest one of the six--a rock-drill-eyed, red-haired giant--and asked:

“What did they tell you, Tworn, that your job was going to be?”

“They didn’t say. Just that it was dangerous, but if I done exactly what my boss would tell me to do, and nothing else, I might not even get hurt. An’ I was due to take the deep breath the next week, see? That’s just how it was, boss.”

“I see,” and one by one Virgil Samms, master psychologist, studied and analyzed his motley crew until he was called into the control room.

The navigating tank was covered; no charts were to be seen. The one “live” visiplate showed a planet and a fiercely blue-white sun.

“My orders are to tell you, at this point, all I know about what you’ve got to do and about that planet down there. Trenco, they call it.” To Virgil Samms, the first adherent of Civilization ever to hear it, that name meant nothing whatever. “You are to take about five of your men, go down there, and gather all the green leaves you can. Not green in color; sort of purplish. What they call broadleaf is the best; leaves about two feet long and a foot wide. But don’t be too choosy. If there isn’t any broadleaf handy, grab anything you can get hold of.”

“What is the opposition?” Samms asked, quietly. “And what have they got that makes them so tough?”

“Nothing. No inhabitants, even. Just the planet itself. Next to Arisia, it’s the God damndest planet in space. I’ve never been any closer to it than this, and I never will, so I don’t know anything about it except what I hear; but there’s something about it that kills men or drives them crazy. We spend seven or eight boats every trip, and thirty-five or forty men, and the biggest load that anybody ever took away from here was just under two hundred pounds of leaf. A good many times we don’t get any.”

“They go crazy, eh?” In spite of his control, Samms paled. But it couldn’t be like Arisia. “What are the symptoms? What do they say?”

“Various. Main thing seems to be that they lose their sight. Don’t go blind, exactly, but can’t see where anything is; or, if they do see it, it isn’t there. And it rains over forty feet deep every night, and yet it all dries up by morning. The worst electrical storms in the universe, and wind-velocities--I can show you charts on that--of over eight hundred miles an hour.”

“Whew! How about time? With your permission, I would like to do some surveying before I try to land.”

“A smart idea. A couple of the other boys had the same, but it didn’t help--they didn’t come back. I’ll give you two Tellurian days--no, three--before I give you up and start sending out the other boats. Pick out your five men and see what you can do.”

As the boat dropped away, Willoughby’s voice came briskly from a speaker. “I know that you five men have got ideas. Forget ‘em. Fourth Officer Olmstead has the authority and the orders to put a half-ounce slug through the guts of any or all of you that don’t jump, and jump fast, to do what he tells you. And if that boat makes any funny moves I blast it out of the ether. Good harvesting!”

For forty-eight Tellurian hours, taking time out only to sleep, Samms scanned and surveyed the planet Trenco; and the more he studied it, the more outrageously abnormal it became.

Trenco was, and is, a peculiar planet indeed. Its atmosphere is not air as we know air; its hydrosphere does not resemble water. Half of that atmosphere and most of that hydrosphere are one chemical, a substance of very low heat of vaporization and having a boiling point of about seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit. Trenco’s days are intensely hot; its nights are bitterly cold.

At night, therefore, it rains: and by comparison a Tellurian downpour of one inch per hour is scarcely a drizzle. Upon Trenco it really rains--forty seven feet and five inches of precipitation, every night of every Trenconian year. And this tremendous condensation of course causes wind. Willoughby’s graphs were accurate. Except at Trenco’s very poles there is not a spot in which or a time at which an Earthly gale would not constitute a dead calm; and along the equator, at every sunrise and every sunset, the wind blows from the day side into the night side at a velocity which no Tellurian hurricane or cyclone, however violent, has even distantly approached.

Also, therefore, there is lightning. Not in the mild and occasional flashes which we of gentle Terra know, but in a continuous, blinding glare which outshines a normal sun; in battering, shattering, multi-billion-volt discharges which not only make darkness unknown there, but also distort beyond recognition and beyond function the warp and the woof of space itself. Sight is almost completely useless in that fantastically altered medium. So is the ultra-beam.