First Lensman

by Edward E Smith

  To turn that tremendous cylindrical engine of destruction around would have been a task of hours, but it was not necessary. Instead, each vessel cut its tractors and pressors, spun end for end, re-connected, and retraced almost exactly its previous course; cutting out and blasting into nothingness another “plug” of Black warships. Another reversal, another dash; and this time, so disorganized were the foes and so feeble the beaming, not a single Patrol vessel was lost. The Black fleet, so proud and so conquering of mien a few minutes before, had fallen completely apart.

  “That’s enough, Rod, don’t you think?” Samms thought then. “Please order Clayton to cease action, so that we can hold a parley with their senior officers.”

  “Parley, hell!” Kinnison’s answering thought was a snarl. “We’ve got ’em going—mop ’em up before they can pull themselves together! Parley be damned!”

  “Beyond a certain point military action becomes indefensible butchery, of which our Galactic Patrol will never be guilty. That point has now been reached. If you do not agree with me, I’ll be glad to call a Council meeting to decide which of us is right.”

  “That isn’t necessary. You’re right—that’s one reason I’m not First Lensman.” The Port Admiral, fury and fire ebbing from his mind, issued orders; the Patrol forces hung motionless in space. “As President of the Galactic Council, Virge, take over.”

  Spy-rays probed and searched; a communicator beam was sent. Virgil Samms spoke aloud, in the lingua franca of deep space.

  “Connect me, please, with the senior officer of your fleet.”

  There appeared upon Samms’ plate a strong, not unhandsome face; deep-stamped with the bitter hopelessness of a strong man facing certain death.

  “You’ve got us. Come on and finish us.”

  “Some such indoctrination was to be expected, but I anticipate no trouble in convincing you that you have been grossly misinformed in everything you have been told concerning us; our aims, our ethics, our morals, and our standards of conduct. There are, I assume, other surviving officers of your rank, although of lesser seniority?”

  “There are ten other vice-admirals, but I am in command. They will obey my orders or die.”

  “Nevertheless, they shall be heard. Please go inert, match our intrinsic velocity, and come aboard, all eleven of you. We wish to explore with all of you the possibilities of a lasting peace between our worlds.”

  “Peace? Bah! Why lie?” The Black commander’s expression did not change. “I know what you are and what you do to conquered races. We prefer a clean, quick death in your beams to the kind you deal out in your torture rooms and experimental laboratories. Come ahead—I intend to attack you as soon as I can make a formation.”

  “I repeat, you have been grossly, terribly, shockingly misinformed.” Samms’ voice was quiet and steady; his eyes held those of the other. “We are civilized men, not barbarians or savages. Does not the fact that we ceased hostilities so soon mean anything to you?”

  For the first time the stranger’s face changed subtly, and Samms pressed the slight advantage.

  “I see it does. Now if you will converse with me mind to mind…” The First Lensman felt for the man’s ego and began to tune to it, but this was too much.

  “I will not!” The Black put up a solid block. “I will have nothing to do with your cursed Lens. I know what it is and will have none of it!”

  “Oh, what’s the use, Virge!” Kinnison snapped. “Let’s get on with it!”

  “A great deal of use, Rod,” Samms replied, quietly. “This is a turning-point. I must be right—I can’t be that far wrong,” and he again turned his attention to the enemy commander.

  “Very well, sir, we will continue to use spoken language. I repeat, please come aboard with your ten fellow vice-admirals. You will not be asked to surrender. You will retain your side-arms—as long as you make no attempt to use them. Whether or not we come to any agreement, you will be allowed to return unharmed to your vessels before the battle is resumed.”

  “What? Side-arms? Returned? You swear it?”

  “As President of the Galactic Council, in the presence of the highest officers of the Galactic Patrol as witnesses, I swear it.”

  “We will come aboard.”

  “Very well. I will have ten other Lensmen and officers here with me.”

  The Boise, of course, inerted first; followed by the Chicago and nine of the tremendous tear-drops from Bennett. Port Admiral Kinnison and nine other Lensmen joined Samms in the Boise’s con room; the tight formation of eleven Patrol ships blasted in unison in the space-courtesy of meeting the equally tight formation of Black warships half-way in the matter of intrinsic velocity.

  Soon the two little sub-fleets were motionless in respect to each other. Eleven Black gigs were launched. Eleven Black vice-admirals came aboard, to the accompaniment of the full military honors customarily granted to visiting admirals of friendly powers. Each was armed with what seemed to be an exact duplicate of the Patrol’s own current blaster; Lewiston, Mark Seventeen. In the lead strode the tall, heavy, gray-haired man with whom Samms had been dealing; still defiant, still sullen, still concealing sternly his sheer desperation. His block was still on, full strength.

  The man next in line was much younger than the leader, much less wrought up, much more intent. Samms felt for this man’s ego, tuned to it, and got the shock of his life. This Black vice-admiral’s mind was not at all what he had expected to encounter—it was; in every respect, of Lensman grade!

  “Oh…how? You are not speaking, and… I see…the Lens… THE LENS!” The stranger’s mind was for seconds an utterly indescribable turmoil in which relief, gladness, and high anticipation struggled for supremacy.

  In the next few seconds, even before the visitors had reached their places at the conference table, Virgil Samms and Corander of Petrine exchanged thoughts which would require many thousands of words to express; only a few of which are necessary here.

  “The LENS… I have dreamed of such a thing, without hope of realization or possibility. How we have been misled! They are, then, actually available upon your world, Samms of Tellus?”

  “Not exactly, and not at all generally,” and Samms explained as he had explained so many times before. “You will wear one sooner than you think. But as to ending this warfare. You survivors are practically all natives of your own world. Petrine?”

  “Not ‘practically’, we are Petrinos all. The ‘teachers’ were all in the Center. Many remain upon Petrine and its neighboring worlds, but none remain alive here.”

  “Ohlanser, then, who assumed command, is also a Petrino? So hard-headed, I had assumed otherwise. He will be a stumbling-block. Is he actually in supreme command?”

  “Only by and with our consent, under such astounding circumstances as these. He is a reactionary, of the old, die-hard, war-dog school. He would ordinarily be in supreme command and would be supported by the teachers if any were here; but I will challenge his authority and theirs; standing upon my right to command my own fleet as I see fit. So will, I think, several others. So go ahead with your meeting.”

  “Be seated, Gentlemen.” All saluted punctiliously and sat down. “Now, Vice-Admiral Ohlanser…”

  “How do you, a stranger, know my name?”

  “I know many things. We have a suggestion to offer which, if you Petrinos will follow it, will end this warfare. First, please believe that we have no designs upon your planet, nor any quarrel with any of its people who are not hopelessly contaminated by the ideas and the culture of the entities who are back of this whole movement; quite possibly those whom you refer to as the ‘teachers’. You did not know whom you were to fight, or why.” This was a statement, with no hint of question about it.

  “I see now that we did not know all the truth,” Ohlanser admitted, stiffly. “We were informed, and given proof sufficient to make us believe, that you were monsters from outer space—rapacious, insatiable, senselessly and callously destructive to all other forms of in
telligent life.”

  “We suspected something of the kind. Do you others agree? Vice-Admiral Corander?”

  “Yes. We were shown detailed and documented proofs; stereos of battles, in which no quarter was given. We saw system after system conquered, world after world laid waste. We were made to believe that our only hope of continued existence was to meet you and destroy you in space; for if you were allowed to reach Petrine every man, woman, and child on the planet would either be killed outright or tortured to death. I see now that those proofs were entirely false; completely vicious.”

  “They were. Those who spread that lying propaganda and all who support their organization must be and shall be weeded out. Petrine must be and shall be given her rightful place in the galactic fellowship of free, independent, and cooperative worlds. So must any and all planets whose peoples wish to adhere to Civilization instead of to tyranny and despotism. To further these ends, we Lensmen suggest that you re-form your fleet and proceed to Arisia…”

  “Arisia!” Ohlanser did not like the idea.

  “Arisia,” Samms insisted. “Upon leaving Arisia, knowing vastly more than you do now, you will return to your home planet, where you will take whatever steps you will then know to be necessary.”

  “We were told that your Lenses are hypnotic devices,” Ohlanser sneered, “designed to steal away and destroy the minds of any who listen to you. I believe that, fully. I will not go to Arisia, nor will any part of Petrine’s Grand Fleet. I will not attack my home planet. I will not do battle against my own people. This is final.”

  “I am not saying or implying that you should. But you continue to close your mind to reason. How about you, Vice-Admiral Corander? And you others?”

  In the momentary silence Samms put himself en rapport with the other officers, and was overjoyed at what he learned.

  “I do not agree with Vice-Admiral Ohlanser,” Corander said, flatly. “He commands, not Grand Fleet, but his sub-fleet merely, as do we all. I will lead my sub-fleet to Arisia.”

  “Traitor!” Ohlanser shouted. He leaped to his feet and drew his blaster, but a tractor beam snatched it from his grasp before he could fire.

  “You were allowed to wear side-arms, not to use them,” Samms said, quietly. “How many of you others agree with Corander; how many with Ohlanser?”

  All nine voted with the younger man.

  “Very well. Ohlanser, you may either accept Corander’s leadership or leave this meeting now and take your sub-fleet directly back to Petrine. Decide now which you prefer to do.”

  “You mean you aren’t going to kill me, even now? Or even degrade me, or put me under arrest?”

  “I mean exactly that. What is your decision?”

  “In that case… I was—must have been—wrong. I will follow Corander.”

  “A wise choice. Corander, you already know what to expect; except that four or five other Petrinos now in this room will help you, not only in deciding what must be done upon Petrine, but also in the doing of it. This meeting will adjourn.”

  “But…no reprisals?” Corander, in spite of his newly acquired knowledge, was dubious, almost dumbfounded. “No invasion or occupation? No indemnities to your Patrol, or reparations? No punishment of us, our men, or our families?”

  “None.”

  “That does not square up even with ordinary military usage—”

  “I know it. It does conform, however, to the policy of the Galactic Patrol which is to spread throughout our island universe.”

  “You are not even sending your fleet, or heavy units of it, with us, to see to it that we follow your instructions?”

  “It is not necessary. If you need any form of help you will inform us of your requirements via Lens, as I am conversing with you now, and whatever you want will be supplied. However, I do not expect any such call. You and your fellows are capable of handling the situation. You will soon know the truth, and know that you know it; and when your housecleaning is done we will consider your application for representation upon the Galactic Council. Goodbye.”

  Thus the Lensmen—particularly First Lensman Virgil Samms—brought another sector of the galaxy under the aegis of Civilization.

  CHAPTER

  20

  The Election

  FTER THE RALLY THERE WERE a few days during which neither Samms nor Kinnison was on Earth. That the Cosmocrats’ presidential candidate and the First Lensman were both with the Fleet was not a secret; in fact, it was advertised. Everyone was told why they were out there, and almost everyone approved.

  Nor was their absence felt. Developments, fast and terrific, were slammed home. Cosmocratic spellbinders in every state of North America waved the flag, pointed with pride, and viewed with alarm, in the very best tradition of North American politics. But above all, there appeared upon every news-stand and in every book-shop of the Continent, at opening time of the day following Rally Day, a book of over eighteen hundred pages of fine print; a book the publication of which had given Samms himself no little concern.

  “But I’m afraid of it!” he had protested. “We know it’s true; but there’s material on almost every page for the biggest libel and slander suits in history!”

  “I know it,” the bald and paunchy Lensman-attorney had replied. “Fully. I hope they do take action against us, but I’m absolutely certain they won’t.”

  “You hope they do?”

  “Yes. If they take the initiative they can’t prevent us from presenting our evidence in full; and there is no court in existence, however corrupt, before which we could not win. What they want and must have is delay; avoidance of any issue until after the election.”

  “I see.” Samms was convinced.

  The location of the Patrol’s Grand Fleet had been concealed from all inhabitants of the Solarian system, friends and foes alike; but the climactic battle—liberating as it did energies sufficient to distort the very warp and woof of the fabric of space itself—could not be hidden or denied, or even belittled. It was not, however, advertised or blazoned abroad. Then as now the newshawks wanted to know, instantly and via long-range communicators, vastly more than those responsible for security cared to tell; then as now the latter said as little as it was humanly possible to say.

  Everyone knew that the Patrol had won a magnificent victory; but nobody knew who or what the enemy had been. Since the rank and file knew it, everyone knew that only a fraction of the Black fleet had actually been destroyed; but nobody knew where the remaining vessels went or what they did. Everyone knew that about ninety five percent of the Patrol’s astonishingly huge Grand Fleet had come from, and was on its way back to, the planet Bennett, and knew—since Bennettans would in a few weeks be scampering gaily all over space—in general what Bennett was; but nobody knew why it was.

  Thus, when the North American Contingent landed at New York Spaceport, everyone whom the newsmen could reach was literally mobbed. However, in accordance with the aphorism ascribed to the wise old owl, those who knew the least said the most. But the Telenews ace who had once interviewed both Kinnison and Samms wasted no time upon small fry. He insisted on seeing the two top Lensmen, and kept on insisting until he did see them.

  “Nothing to say,” Kinnison said curtly, leaving no doubt whatever that he meant it. “All talking—if any—will be done by First Lensman Samms.”

  “Now, all you millions of Telenews listeners, I am interviewing First Lensman Samms himself. A little closer to the mike, please, First Lensman. Now, sir, what everybody wants to know is—who are the Blacks?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? On the Lens, sir?”

  “On the Lens. I still don’t know.”

  “I see. But you have suspicions or ideas? You can guess?”

  “I can guess; but that’s all it would be—a guess.”

  “And my guess, folks, is that his guess would be a very highly informed guess. Will you tell the public, First Lensman Samms, what your guess is?”

  “I wi
ll.” If this reply astonished the newshawk, it staggered Kinnison and the others who knew Samms best. It was, however, a coldly calculated political move. “While it will probably be several weeks before we can furnish detailed and unassailable proof, it is my considered opinion that the Black fleet was built and controlled by the Morgan-Towne-Isaacson machine. That they, all unknown to any of us, enticed, corrupted, and seduced a world, or several worlds, to their program of domination and enslavement. That they intended by armed force to take over the Continent of North America and through it the whole earth and all the other planets adherent to Civilization. That they intended to hunt down and kill every Lensman, and to subvert the Galactic Council to their own ends. This is what you wanted?”

  “That’s fine, sir—just what we wanted. But just one more thing, sir.” The newsman had obtained infinitely more than he had expected to get; yet, good newsmanlike, he wanted more. “Just a word, if you will, Mr. Samms, as to these trials and the White Book?”

  “I can add very little, I’m afraid, to what I have already said and what is in the book; and that little can be classed as ‘I told you so’. We are trying, and will continue to try, to force those criminals to trial; to break up, to prohibit, an unending series of hair-splitting delays. We want, and are determined to get, legal action; to make each of those we have accused defend himself in court and under oath. Morgan and his crew, however, are working desperately to avoid any action at all, because they know that we can and will prove every allegation we have made.”

  The Telenews ace signed off, Samms and Kinnison went to their respective offices, and Cosmocratic orators throughout the nation held a field-day. They glowed and scintillated with triumph. They yelled themselves hoarse, leather-lunged tub-thumpers though they were, in pointing out the unsullied purity, the spotless perfection of their own party and its every candidate for office; in shuddering revulsion at the never-to-be-sufficiently-condemned, proved and demonstrated villainy and blackguardy of the opposition.