Children of the Lens

by Edward E Smith

  “But how about their fights with each other?”

  “Do you know of any such?”

  “Why…uh…can’t say that I do.” Kit’s surprise was plain. “But since they fight with me so much, they must…”

  “That does not follow, and for a very good reason. We may as well discuss that reason now, as it is a necessary part of the education which you are about to receive. You already know that your sisters are very different, each from the other. Know now, youth, that each was specifically developed to be so completely different that there is no possible point which could be made an issue between any two of them.”

  “Ungh…um…” It took some time for Kit to digest that news. “Then where do I come in that they all fight with me at the drop of a hat?”

  “That, too, while regrettable, is inevitable. Each of your sisters, as you may have suspected, is to play a tremendous part in that which is to come. The Lensmen, we of Arisia, all will contribute, but upon you Children of the Lens—especially upon the girls—will fall the greater share of the load. Your individual task will be that of coordinating the whole; a duty which no Arisian is or ever can be qualified to perform. You will have to direct the efforts of your sisters; re-enforcing every heavily-attacked point with your own incomparable force and drive; keeping them smoothly in mesh and in place. As a side issue, you will also have to coordinate the feebler efforts of us of Arisia, the Lensmen, the Patrol, and whatever other minor forces we may be able to employ.”

  “Holy—Klono’s—claws!” Kit was gasping like a fish. “Just where, Mentor, do, you figure I’m going to pick up the jets to swing that load? And as to coordinating the kids—that’s out. I’d make just one suggestion to any one of them and she’d forget all about the battle and tear into me—no, I’ll take that back. The stickier the going, the closer they rally ’round.”

  “Right. It will always be so. Now, youth, that you have these facts, explain these matters to me, as a sort of preliminary exercise.”

  “I think I see.” Kit thought intensely. “The kids don’t fight with each other because they don’t overlap. They fight with me because my central field overlaps them all. They have no occasion to fight with anybody else, nor have I, because with anybody else our viewpoint is always right and the other fellow knows it—except for Palainians and such, who think along different lines than we do. Thus, Kay never fights with Nadreck. When he goes off the beam, she simply ignores him and goes on about her business. But with them and me…we’ll have to learn to arbitrate, or something, I suppose…” his thought trailed off.

  “Manifestations of adolescence; with adulthood, now coming fast, they will pass. Let us get on with the work.”

  “But wait a minute!” Kit protested. “About this coordinator thing. I can’t do it. I’m too much of a kid—I won’t be ready for a job like that for a thousand years!”

  “You must be ready,” Mentor’s thought was inexorable. “And, when the time comes, you shall be. Now, youth, come fully into my mind.”

  There is no use repeating in detail the progress of an Arisian super-education, especially since the most accurate possible description of the most important of those details would be intrinsically meaningless. When, finally, Kit was ready to leave Arisia, he looked much older and more mature than before; he felt immensely older than he looked. The concluding conversation of that visit, however, is worth recording.

  “You now know, Christopher,” Mentor mused, “What you children are and how you came to be. You are the accomplishment of long lifetimes of work. It is with profound satisfaction that I now perceive clearly that those lifetimes have not been spent in vain.”

  “Yours, you mean.” Kit was embarrassed, but one point still bothered him. “Dad met and married mother, yes, but how about the others? Tregonsee, Worsel, and Nadreck? They and the corresponding females—don’t take that literally for Nadreck, of course—were also penultimates, of lines as long as ours. You Arisians decided that the human stock was best, so none of the other Second-Stage Lensmen ever met their complements. Not that it could make any difference to them, of course, but I should think that three of your fellow students wouldn’t feel so good.”

  “Ah, youth, I am very glad indeed that you mention the point.” The Arisian’s thought was positively gleeful. “You have at no time, then, detected anything peculiar about this that you know as Mentor of Arisia?”

  “Why, of course not. How could I? Or, rather, why should I?”

  “Any lapse on our part, however slight, from practically perfect synchronization would have revealed to such a mentality as yours that I whom you know as Mentor am not an individual, but four. While we each worked as individuals upon all of the experimental lines, whenever we dealt with any one of the penultimates or ultimates we did so as a fusion. This was necessary, not only for your fullest possible development, but also to be sure that each of us had complete data upon every minute facet of the truth. While it was in no sense important to the work itself to keep you in ignorance of Mentor’s plurality, the fact that we could keep you ignorant of it, particularly now that you have become adult, showed that our work was being done in a really workman-like fashion.”

  Kit whistled; a long, low whistle which was tribute enough to those who knew what it meant. He knew what he meant, but there were not enough words or thoughts to express it.

  “But you’re going to keep on being Mentor, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “I am. The real task, as you know, lies ahead.”

  “QX. You say I’m adult. I’m not. You imply that I’m more than several notches above you in qualifications. I could laugh myself silly about that one, if it wasn’t so serious. Why, any one of you Arisians has forgotten more than I know, and could tie me up into bow-knots!”

  “There are elements of truth in your thought. That you can now be called adult, however, does not mean that you have attained your full power; only that you are able to use effectively the powers you have and are able to acquire other and larger powers.”

  “But what are those powers?” Kit demanded. “You’ve hinted on that same theme a thousand times, and I don’t know what you mean any better than I did before!”

  “You must develop your own powers.” Mentor’s thought was as final as Fate. “Your mind is potentially far abler than mine. You will in time come to know my mind in full; I never will be able to know yours. For the lesser, but full mind to attempt to instruct in methodology the greater, although emptier one, is to set that greater mind in an undersized mold and thus to do it irreparable harm. You have the abilities and the powers. You will have to develop them yourself, by the perfection of techniques concerning which I can give you no instructions whatever.”

  “But surely you can give me some kind of a hint!” Kit pleaded. “I’m just a kid, I tell you—I don’t even know how or where to begin!”

  Under Kit’s startled mental gaze, Mentor split suddenly into four parts, laced together by a pattern of thoughts so intricate and so rapid as to be unrecognizable. The parts fused and again Mentor spoke.

  “I can point the way in only the broadest, most general terms. It has been decided, however, that I can give you one hint—or, more properly, one illustration. The surest test of knowledge known to us is the visualization of the Cosmic All. All science is, as you know, one. The true key to power lies in the knowledge of the underlying reasons for the succession of events. If it is pure causation—that is, if any given state of things follows as an inevitable consequence because of the state existing an infinitesimal instant before—then the entire course of the macro-cosmic universe was set for the duration of all eternity in the instant of its coming into being. This well-known concept, the stumbling-block upon which many early thinkers came to grief, we now know to be false. On the other hand, if pure randomness were to govern, natural laws as we know them could not exist. Thus neither pure causation nor pure randomness alone can govern the succession of events.”

  “The truth, then, must lie so
mewhere in between. In the macro-cosmos, causation prevails; in the micro-, randomness; both in accord with the mathematical laws of probability. It is in the region between them—the intermediate zone, or the interface, so to speak—that the greatest problems lie. The test of validity of any theory, as you know, is the accuracy of the predictions which are made possible by its use, and our greatest thinkers have shown that the completeness and fidelity of any visualization of the Cosmic All are linear functions of the clarity of definition of the components of that interface. Full knowledge of that indeterminate zone would mean infinite power and a statistically perfect visualization. None of these things, however, will ever be realized; for the acquirement of that full knowledge would require infinite time.”

  “That is all I can tell you. It will, properly studied, be enough. I have built within you a solid foundation; yours alone is the task of erecting upon that foundation a structure strong enough to withstand the forces which will be thrown against it.”

  “It is perhaps natural, in view of what you have recently gone through, that you should regard the problem of the Eddorians as one of insuperable difficulty. Actually, however, it is not, as you will perceive when you have spent a few weeks in re-integrating yourself. You must not, you shall not, and in my clear visualization you do not, fail.”

  Communication ceased. Kit made his way groggily to his control board, went free, and lined out for Klovia. For a guy whose education was supposed to be complete, he felt remarkably like a total loss with no insurance. He had asked for advice and had got—what? A dissertation on philosophy, mathematics, and physics—good enough stuff, probably, if he could see what Mentor was driving at, but not of much immediate use. He did have a brainful of new stuff, though—didn’t know yet what half of it was—he’d better be getting it licked into shape. He’d “sleep” on it.

  He did so, and as he lay quiescent in his bunk the tiny pieces of an incredibly complex jig-saw puzzle began to click into place. The ordinary zwilniks—all the small fry fitted in well enough. The Overlords of Delgon. The Kalonians…hm…he’d better check with dad on that angle. The Eich—under control. Kandron of Onlo, ditto. “X” was in safe hands; Cam had already been alerted to watch her step. Some planet named Ploor—what in all the purple hells of Palain had Mentor meant by that crack? Anyway, that piece didn’t fit anywhere—yet. That left Eddore—and at the thought a series of cold waves raced up and down the young Lensman’s spine. Nevertheless, Eddore was his oyster—his, and nobody else’s. Mentor had made that plain enough. Everything the Arisians had done for umpteen skillions of years had been aimed at the Eddorians. They had picked him out to emcee the show—and how could a man coordinate an attack against something he knew nothing about? And the only way to get acquainted with Eddore and its denizens was to go there. Should he call in the kids? He should not. Each of them had her hands full of her own job; that of developing her own full self. He had his; and the more he studied the question, the clearer it became that the first number on the program of his self-development was—would have to be—a single-handed expedition against the key planet of Civilization’s top-ranking foes.

  He sprang out of his bunk, changed his vessel’s course, and lined out a thought to his father.

  “Dad? Kit. Been flitting around out Arisia way, and picked up an idea I want to pass along to you. It’s about Kalonians. What do you know about them?”

  “They’re blue…”

  “I don’t mean that.”

  “I know you don’t. There were Helmuth, Jalte, Prellin, Crowninshield…all I can think of at the moment. Big operators, son, and smart hombres, if I do say so myself as shouldn’t; but they’re all ancient history…hold it! Maybe I know of a modern one, too—Eddie’s Lensman. The only part of that picture that was sharp was the Lens, since Eddie was never analytically interested in any of the hundreds of types of people he met, but there was something about that Lensman… I’ll bring him back and focus him as sharply as I can…there.” Both men studied the blurred statue posed in the Gray Lensman’s mind. “Wouldn’t you say he could be a Kalonian?”

  “Check. I wouldn’t want to say much more than that. But about that Lens—did you really examine it? It is sharp—under the circumstances, of course, it would be.”

  “Certainly! Wrong in every respect—rhythm, chroma, context, and aura. Definitely not Arisian; therefore Boskonian. That’s the point—that’s what I was afraid of, you know.”

  “Double check. And that point ties in tight with the one that made me call you just now, that everybody, including you and me, seems to have missed. I’ve been searching my memory for five hours—you know what my memory is like—and I have heard of exactly two other Kalonians. They were big operators, too. I have never heard of the planet itself. To me it is a startling fact that the sum total of my information on Kalonia, reliable or otherwise, is that it produced seven big-shot zwilniks; six of them before I was born. Period.”

  Kit felt his father’s jaw drop.

  “No, I don’t remember of hearing anything about the planet, either,” the older man finally replied. “But I’ll bet I can get you all the information you want in fifteen minutes.”

  “Credits to millos it’ll be a lot nearer fifteen days. You can find it sometime, though, if anybody can—that’s why I’m taking it up with you. While I don’t want to seem to be giving a Gray Lensman orders”—that jocular introduction had come to be a sort of ritual in the Kinnison family—“I would very diffidently suggest that there might be some connection between that completely unnoticed planet and some of the things we don’t know about Boskonia.”

  “Diffident! You?” The Gray Lensman laughed deeply. “Like a hydride bomb! I’ll start a search of Kalonia right away. As to your credits-to-millos-fifteen-days thing, I’d be ashamed to take your money. You don’t know our librarians or our system. Ten millos, even money, that we get operational data in less than five G-P days from right now. Want it?”

  “I’ll say so. I’ll wear that cento on my tunic as a medal of victory over the Gray Lensman. I do know the size of these here two galaxies!”

  “QX—it’s a bet. I’ll Lens you when we get the dope. In the meantime, Kit, remember that you’re my favorite son.”

  “Well, you’re not so bad, yourself. Any time I want mother to divorce you so as to change fathers for me I’ll suggest it to her.” What a terrific, what a tremendous meaning was heterodyned upon that seemingly light exchange! “Clear ether, dad!”

  “Clear ether, son!”

  CHAPTER

  13

  Clarrissa Takes Her L-2 Work

  HOUSANDS OF YEARS WERE TO pass before Christopher Kinnison could develop the ability to visualize, from the contemplation of one fact or artifact, the entire Universe to which it belonged. He could not even plan in detail his one-man invasion of Eddore until he could integrate all available data concerning the planet Kalonia into his visualization of the Boskonian Empire. One unknown, Ploor, blurred his picture badly enough; two such completely unknown factors made visualization, even in broad, impossible.

  Anyway, he decided, he had one more job to do before he tackled the key planet of the enemy; and now, while he was waiting for the dope on Kalonia, would be the best time to do it. Wherefore he sent out a thought to his mother.

  “Hi, First Lady of the Universe! ’Tis thy first-born who wouldst fain converse with thee. Art pressly engaged in matters of moment or import?”

  “Art not, Kit.” Clarrissa’s characteristic chuckle was as infectious, as full of the joy of life, as ever. “Not that it would make any difference—but methinks I detect an undertone of seriosity beneath thy persiflage. Spill it.”

  “Let’s make it a rendezvous, instead,” he suggested. “We’re fairly close, I think—closer than we’ve been for a long time. Where are you, exactly?”

  “Oh! Can we? Wonderful!” She marked her location and velocity in his mind. She made no effort to conceal her joy at the idea of a personal meeting. She never ha
d tried and she never would try to make him put first matters other than first. She had not expected to see him again, physically, until this war was over. But if she could…!

  “QX. Hold your course and speed; I’ll be seeing you in eighty-three minutes. In the meantime, it’ll be just as well if we don’t communicate, even by Lens…”

  “Why, son?”

  “Nothing definite—just a hunch, is all. ’Bye, gorgeous!”

  The two speedsters approached each other—inerted—matched intrinsics—went free—flashed into contact—sped away together upon Clarrissa’s original course.

  “Hi, mums!” Kit spoke into a visiphone. “I should of course come to you, but it might be better if you come in here—I’ve got some special rigs set up here that I don’t want to leave. QX?” He snapped on one of the special rigs as he spoke—a device which he himself had built and installed; the generator of the most efficient thought-screen then known.

  “Why, of course!” She came, and was swept off her feet in the exuberance of her tall son’s embrace; a greeting which she returned with equal fervor.

  “It’s nice, mother, seeing you again.” Words, or thoughts even, were so inadequate! Kit’s voice was a trifle rough; his eyes were not completely dry.

  “Uh-huh. It is nice,” she agreed, snuggling her spectacular head even more firmly into the curve of his shoulder. “Mental contact is better than nothing, of course, but this is perfect!”

  “Just as much a menace to navigation as ever, aren’t you?” He held her at arm’s length and shook his head in mock disapproval. “Do you think it’s quite right for one woman to have so much of everything when all the others have so little of anything?”

  “Honestly, I don’t.” She and Kit had always been exceptionally close; now her love for and her pride in this splendid creature, her son and her first-born, simply would not be denied. “You’re joking, I know, but that strikes too deep for comfort. I wake up in the night to wonder why, of all the women in existence, I should be so lucky, especially in my husband and children… QX, skip it.” Kit was shying away—she should have known better than to try in words even to skirt the profound depths of sentiment which both she and he knew so well were there.