First Lensman

by Edward E Smith

  “Quick trip, Olmstead,” Willoughby congratulated him. “I’m surprised that you got back at all to say nothing of with so much stuff and not losing a man. Give me the weight, mister, fast!”

  “Three hundred and forty eight pounds, sir,” the supercargo reported.

  “My God! And all pure broadleaf! Nobody ever did that before! How did you do it, Olmstead?”

  “I don’t know whether that would be any of your business or not.” Samms’ mien was not insulting; merely thoughtful “Not that I give a damn, but my way might not help anybody else much, and I think I had better report to the main office first, and let them do the telling. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough,” the skipper conceded, ungrudgingly. “What a load! And no losses!”

  “One boatload of air, is all; but air is expensive out here.” Samms made a point, deliberately.

  “Air!” Willoughby snorted. “I’ll swap you a hundred flasks of air, any time, for any one of those leaves!” Which was what Samms wanted to know.

  Captain Willoughby was smart. He knew that the way to succeed was to use and then to trample upon his inferiors; to toady to such superiors as were too strong to be pulled down and thus supplanted. He knew this Olmstead had what it took to be a big shot. Therefore:

  “They told me to keep you in the dark until we got to Trenco,” he more than half apologized to his Fourth Officer shortly after the Virgin Queen blasted away from the Trenconian system. “But they didn’t say anything about afterwards—maybe they figured you wouldn’t be aboard any more, as usual—but anyway, you can stay right here in the control room if you want to.”

  “Thanks, Skipper, but mightn’t it be just as well,” he jerked his head inconspicuously toward the other officers, “to play the string out, this trip? I don’t care where we’re going, and we don’t want anybody to get any funny ideas.”

  “That’d be a lot better, of course—as long as you know that your cards are all aces, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Thanks, Willoughby. I’ll remember that.”

  Samms had not been entirely frank with the pirate captain. From the time required to make the trip, he knew to within a few parsecs Trenco’s distance from Sol. He did not know the direction, since the distance was so great that he had not been able to recognize any star or constellation. He did know, however, the course upon which the vessel then was, and he would know courses and distances from then on. He was well content.

  A couple of uneventful days passed. Samms was again called into the control room, to see that the ship was approaching a three-sun solar system.

  “This where we’re going to land?” he asked, indifferently.

  “We ain’t going to land,” Willoughby told him. “You are going to take the broadleaf down in your boat, close enough so that you can parachute it down to where it has to go. Way ’nuff, pilot, go inert and match intrinsics. Now, Olmstead, watch. You’ve seen systems like this before?”

  “No, but I know about them. Those two suns over there are a hell of a lot bigger and further away than they look, and this one here, much smaller, is in the Trojan position. Have those big suns got any planets?”

  “Five or six apiece, they say; all hotter and dryer than the brazen hinges of hell. This sun here has seven, but Number Two—‘Cavenda’, they call it—is the only Tellurian planet in the system. The first thing we look for is a big, diamond-shaped continent…there’s only one of that shape…there it is, over there. Notice that one end is bigger than the other—that end is north. Strike a line to split the continent in two and measure from the north end one-third of the length of the line. That’s the point we’re diving at now…see that crater?”

  “Yes.” The Virgin Queen, although still hundreds of miles up, was slowing rapidly. “It must be a big one.”

  “It’s a good fifty miles across. Go down until you’re dead sure that the box will land somewhere inside the rim of that crater. Then dump it. The parachute and the sender are automatic. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir; I understand,” and Samms took off.

  He was vastly more interested in the stars, however, than in delivering the broadleaf. The constellation directly beyond Sol from wherever he was might be recognizable. Its shape would be smaller and more or less distorted; its smaller stars, brilliant to Earthly eyes only because of their nearness would be dimmer, perhaps invisible; the picture would be further confused by intervening, nearby, brilliant strangers; but such giants as Canopus and Rigel and Betelgeuse and Deneb would certainly be highly visible if he could only recognize them. From Trenco his search had failed; but he was still trying.

  There was something vaguely familiar! Sweating with the mental effort, he blocked out the too-near, too-bright stars and studied intensively those that were left. A blue-white and a red were most prominent. Rigel and Betelgeuse? Could that constellation be Orion? The Belt was very faint but it was there. Then Sirius ought to be about there, and Pollux about there; and, at this distance, about equally bright. They were. Aldebaran would be orange, and about one magnitude brighter than Pollux; and Capella would be yellow, and half a magnitude brighter still. There they were! Not too close to where they should be, but close enough—it was Orion! And this thionite way-station, then, was somewhere near right ascension seventeen hours and declination plus ten degrees!

  He returned to the Virgin Queen. She blasted off. Samms asked very few questions and Willoughby volunteered very little information; nevertheless the First Lensman learned more than anyone of his fellow pirates would have believed possible. Aloof, taciturn, disinterested to a degree, he seemed to spend practically all of his time in his cabin when he was not actually at work; but he kept his eyes and his ears wide open. And Virgil Samms, as has been intimated, had a brain.

  The Virgin Queen made a quick flit from Cavenda to Vegia, arriving exactly on time; a proud, clean space-ship as high above suspicion as Calpurnia herself. Samms unloaded her cargo; replaced it with one for Earth. She was serviced. She made a fast, eventless run to Tellus. She docked at New York Spaceport. Virgil Samms walked unconcernedly into an ordinary-looking rest-room; George Olmstead, fully informed, walked unconcernedly out.

  As soon as he could, Samms Lensed Northrop and Jack Kinnison.

  “We lined up a thousand and one signals, sir,” Northrop reported for the pair, “but only one of them carried a message, and it didn’t make sense.”

  “Why not?” Samms asked, sharply. “With a Lens, any kind of a message, however garbled, coded, or interrupted, makes sense.”

  “Oh, we understood what it said,” Jack came in, “but it didn’t say enough. Just ‘READY—READY—READY’; over and over.”

  “What!” Samms exclaimed, and the boys could feel his mind work. “Did that signal, by any chance, originate anywhere near seventeen hours and plus ten degrees?”

  “Very near. Why? How did you know?”

  “Then it does make sense!” Samms exclaimed, and called a general conference of Lensmen.

  “Keep working along these same lines,” Samms directed, finally. “Keep Ray Olmstead in the Hill in my place. I am going to Pluto, and—I hope—to Palain Seven.”

  Roderick Kinnison of course protested; but, equally of course, his protests were over-ruled.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Palainians on Pluto

  LUTO IS, ON THE AVERAGE, about forty times as far away from the sun as is Mother Earth. Each square yard of Earth’s surface receives about sixteen hundred times as much heat as does each of Pluto’s. The sun as seen from Pluto is a dim, wan speck. Even at perihelion, an event which occurs only once in two hundred forty eight Tellurian years, and at noon and on the equator, Pluto is so bitterly cold that climatic conditions upon its surface simply cannot be described by or to warm-blooded, oxygen-breathing man.

  As good an indication as any can be given, perhaps, by mentioning the fact that it had taken the Patrol’s best engineers over six months to perfect the armor which Virgil Samms then wore. For
no ordinary space-suit would do. Space itself is not cold; the only loss of heat is by radiation into or through an almost perfect vacuum. In contact with Pluto’s rocky, metallic soil, however, there would be conduction; and the magnitude of the inevitable heat-loss made the Tellurian scientists gasp.

  “Watch your feet, Virge!” had been Roderick Kinnison’s insistent last thought. “Remember those psychologists—if they stayed in contact with that ground for five minutes they froze their feet to the ankles. Not that the boys aren’t good, but slipsticks sometimes slip in more ways than one. If your feet ever start to get cold, drop whatever you’re doing and drive back here at max!”

  Virgil Samms landed. His feet stayed warm. Finally, assured that the heaters of his suit could carry the load indefinitely, he made his way on foot into the settlement near which he had come to ground. And there he saw his first Palainian.

  Or, strictly speaking, he saw part of his first Palainian; for no three-dimensional creature has ever seen or ever will see in entirety any member of any of the frigid-blooded, poison-breathing races. Since life as we know it—organic, three-dimensional life—is based upon liquid water and gaseous oxygen, such life did not and could not develop upon planets whose temperatures are only a few degrees above absolute zero. Many, perhaps most, of these ultra-frigid planets have an atmosphere of sorts; some have no atmosphere at all. Nevertheless, with or without atmosphere and completely without oxygen and water; life—highly intelligent life—did develop upon millions and millions of such worlds. That life is not, however, strictly three-dimensional. Of necessity, even in the lowest forms, it possesses an extension into the hyper-dimension; and it is this metabolic extension alone which makes it possible for life to exist under such extreme conditions.

  The extension makes it impossible for any human being to see anything of a Palainian except the fluid, amorphous, ever-changing thing which is his three-dimensional aspect of the moment; makes any attempt at description or portraiture completely futile.

  Virgil Samms stared at the Palainian; tried to see what it looked like. He could not tell whether it had eyes or antennae; legs, arms, or tentacles; teeth or beaks; talons or claws or feet; skin, scales, or feathers. It did not even remotely resemble anything that the Lensman had ever seen, sensed, or imagined. He gave up; sent out an exploring thought.

  “I am Virgil Samms, a Tellurian,” he sent out slowly, carefully, after he made contact with the outer fringes of the creature’s mind, “Is it possible for you, sir or madam, to give me a moment of your time?”

  “Eminently possible, Lensman Samms, since my time is of completely negligible value.” The monster’s mind flashed into accord with Samms’ with a speed and precision that made him gasp. That is, a part of it became en rapport with a part of his: years were to pass before even the First Lensman would know much more about the Palainian than he learned in that first contact; no human beings except the Children of the Lens ever were to understand even dimly the labyrinthine intricacies, the paradoxical complexities, of the Palainian mind.

  “‘Madam’ might be approximately correct,” the native’s thought went smoothly on. “My name, in your symbology, is Twelfth Pilinipsi; by education, training, and occupation I am a Chief Dexitroboper. I perceive that you are indeed a native of that hellish Planet Three, upon which it was assumed for so long that no life could possibly exist. But communication with your race has been almost impossible heretofore… Ah, the Lens. A remarkable device, truly. I would slay you and take it, except for the obvious fact that only you can possess it.”

  “What!” Dismay and consternation flooded Samms’ mind. “You already know the Lens?”

  “No. Yours is the first that any of us has perceived. The mechanics, the mathematics, and the basic philosophy of the thing, however, are quite clear.”

  “What!” Samms exclaimed again. “You can, then, produce Lenses yourselves?”

  “By no means, any more than you Tellurians can. There are magnitudes, variables, determinants, and forces involved which no Palainian will ever be able to develop, to generate, or to control.”

  “I see.” The Lensman pulled himself together. For a First Lensman he was making a wretched showing indeed…

  “Far from it, sir,” the monstrosity assured him. “Considering the strangeness of the environment into which you have voluntarily flung yourself so senselessly, your mind is well integrated and strong. Otherwise it would have shattered. If our positions were reversed, the mere thought of the raging heat of your Earth would—come no closer, please!” The thing vanished; reappeared many yards away. Her thoughts were a shudder of loathing, of terror, of sheer detestation. “But to get on: I have been attempting to analyze and to understand your purpose, without success. That failure is not too surprising, of course, since my mind is weak and my total power is small. Explain your mission, please, as simply as you can.”

  Weak? Small? In view of the power the monstrosity had just shown, Samms probed for irony, for sarcasm or pretense. There was no trace of anything of the kind.

  He tried, then, for fifteen solid minutes, to explain the Galactic Patrol, but at the end the Palainian’s only reaction was one of blank non-comprehension.

  “I fail completely to perceive the use of, or the need for, such an organization,” she stated flatly. “This altruism—what good is it? It is unthinkable that any other race would take any risks or exert any effort for us, any more than we would for them. Ignore and be ignored, as you must already know, is the Prime Tenet.”

  “But there is a little commerce between our worlds; your people did not ignore our psychologists; and you are not ignoring me,” Samms pointed out.

  “Oh, none of us is perfect,” Pilinipsi replied, with a mental shrug and what seemed to be an airy wave of a multi-tentacled member. “That ideal, like any other, can only be approached asymptotically, never reached; and I, being somewhat foolish and silly, as well as weak and vacillant, am much less perfect than most.”

  Flabbergasted, Samms tried a new tack. “I might be able to make my position clearer if I knew you better. I know your name, and that you are a woman of Palain Seven”—it is a measure of Virgil Samms’ real size that he actually thought “woman”, and not merely “female”—”but all I can understand of your occupation is the name you have given it. What does a Chief Dexitroboper do?”

  “She—or he—or, perhaps, it…is a supervisor of the work of dexitroboping.” The thought, while perfectly clear, was completely meaningless to Samms, and the Palainian knew it. She tried again. “Dexitroboping has to do with…nourishment? No—with nutrients.”

  “Ah. Farming—agriculture,” Samms thought; but this time it was the Palainian who could not grasp the concept. “Hunting? Fishing?” No better. “Show me, then, please.”

  She tried; but demonstration, too, was useless; for to Samms the Palainian’s movements were pointless indeed. The peculiarly flowing subtly changing thing darted back and forth, rose and fell, appeared and disappeared; undergoing the while cyclic changes in shape and form and size, in aspect and texture. It was now spiny, now tentacular, now scaly, now covered with peculiarly repellent feather-like fronds, each oozing a crimson slime. But it apparently did not do anything whatever. The net result of all its activity was, apparently, zero.

  “There, it is done.” Pilinipsi’s thought again came clear. “You observed and understood? You did not. That is strange—baffling. Since the Lens did improve communication and understanding tremendously, I hoped that it might extend to the physical as well. But there must be some basic, fundamental difference, the nature of which is at present obscure. I wonder…if I had a Lens, too—but no…”

  “But yes!” Samms broke in, eagerly. “Why don’t you go to Arisia and be tested for one? You have a magnificent, a really tremendous mind. It is of Lensman grade in every respect except one—you simply don’t want to use it!”

  “Me? Go to Arisia?” The thought would have been, in a Tellurian, a laugh of scorn, “How utterly silly
—how abysmally stupid! There would be personal discomfort, quite possibly personal danger, and two Lenses would be little or no better than one in resolving differences between our two continua, which are probably in fact incommensurable.”

  “Well, then,” Samms thought, almost viciously, “can you introduce me to someone who is stupider, sillier, and more foolish than you are?”

  “Not here on Pluto, no.” The Palainian took no offense. “That was why it was I who interviewed the earlier Tellurian visitors and why I am now conversing with you. The others avoided you.”

  “I see.” Samms’ thought was grim. “How about the home planet, then?”

  “Ah. Undoubtedly. In fact, there is a group, a club, of such persons. None of them is, of course, as insane—as aberrant as you are, but they are all much more so than I am.”

  “Who of this club would be most interested in becoming a Lensman?”

  “Tallick was the least stable member of the New-Thought Club when I left Seven; Kragzex a close second. There may of course have been changes since then. But I cannot believe that even Tallick—even Tallick at his outrageous worst—would be crazy enough to join your Patrol.”

  “Nevertheless, I must see him myself. Can you and will you give me a chart of a routing from here to Palain Seven?”

  “I can and I will. Nothing you have thought will be of any use to me; that will be the easiest and quickest way of getting rid of you.” The Palainian spread a completely detailed chart in Samms mind, snapped the telepathic line, and went unconcernedly about her incomprehensible business.

  Samms, mind reeling, made his way back to his boat and took off. And as the light-years and the parsecs screamed past, he sank deeper and deeper into a welter of unproductive speculation. What were—really—those Palainians? How could they—really—exist as they seemed to exist? And why had some of that dexitroboper’s—whatever that meant!—thoughts come in so beautifully sharp and clear and plain while others…?