He forgot his problem for a while when, at the end, Illona Potter danced. For Lonabarian acrobatic dancing is not like the Tellurian art of the same name. Or rather, it is like it, except more so—much more so. An earthly expert would be scarcely a novice on Lonabar, and Illona was a Lonabarian expert. She had been training, intensively, all her life, and even in Lonabar’s chill social and psychological environment she had loved her work. Now, reveling as she was in the first realization of liberty of thought and of person, and inspired by the heart-felt applause of the space-hounds so closely packed into the hall, she put on something more than an exhibition of coldly impersonal skill and limberness. And the feelings, both of performer and of spectators, were intensified by the fact that, of all the repertoire of the Dauntless’ superb orchestra, Illona liked best to dance to the stirring strains of “Our Patrol”. “Our Patrol”, which any man who has ever worn the space-black-and-silver will say is the greatest, grandest, most glorious, most terrific piece of music that ever was or ever will be written, played, or sung! Small wonder, then, that the dancer really “gave”; or that the mighty cruiser’s walls almost bulged under the applause of Illona’s “boys” at the end of her first number.
They kept her at it until the captain stopped it, to keep the girl from killing herself. “She’s worn down to a nub,” he declared, and she was. She was trembling. She was panting, her almost-lacquered-down hair stood out in wild disorder. Her eyes were starry with tears—happy tears. Then the ranking officers made short speeches of appreciation and the spectators carried the actors—actual carrying, in Illona’s case, upon an improvised throne—off for refreshments.
Back in his quarters, Kinnison tackled his problem again. He could work out something on Lonabar now, but what about Lyrane? It tied in, too—there was an angle there, somewhere. To get it, though, somebody would have to get close to—really friendly with—the Lyranians. Just looking on from the outside wouldn’t do. Somebody they could trust and would confide in—and they were so damnably, so fanatically non-cooperative! A man couldn’t get a millo’s worth of real information—he could read any one mind by force, but he’d never get the right one. Neither could Worsel or Tregonsee or any other non-human Lensman; the Lyranians just simply didn’t have the galactic viewpoint. No, what he wanted was a human woman Lensman, and there weren’t any…
At the thought he gasped; the pit of his stomach felt cold. Mac! She was more than half Lensman already—she was the only un-Lensed human being who had ever been able to read his thoughts… But he didn’t have the gall, the sheer, brazen crust, to shove a load like that onto her…or did he? Didn’t the job come first? Wouldn’t she be big enough to see it that way? Sure she would! As to what Haynes and the rest of the Lensmen would think…let them think! In this, he had to make his own decisions…
He couldn’t. He sat there for an hour; teeth locked until his jaws ached, fists clenched.
“I can’t make that decision alone,” he breathed, finally. “Not jets enough by half,” and he shot a thought to distant Arisia and Mentor the Sage.
“This intrusion is necessary,” he thought coldly, precisely. “It seems to me to be wise to do this thing which has never before been done. I have no data, however, upon which to base a decision and the matter is grave. I ask, therefore—is it wise?”
“You do not ask as to repercussions—consequences, either to yourself or to the woman?”
“I ask what I asked.”
“Ah, Kinnison of Tellus, you truly grow. You at last learn to think. It is wise,” and the telepathic link snapped.
Kinnison slumped down in relief. He had not known what to expect. He would not have been surprised if the Arisian had pinned his ears back; he certainly did not expect either the compliment or the clear-cut answer. He knew that Mentor would give him no help whatever in any problem which he could possibly solve alone; he was just beginning to realize that the Arisian would aid him in matters which were absolutely, intrinsically, beyond his reach.
Recovering, he flashed a call to Surgeon-Marshal Lacy.
“Lacy? Kinnison. I would like to have Sector Chief Nurse Clarrissa MacDougall detached at once. Please have her report to me here aboard the Dauntless, en route, at the earliest possible moment of rendezvous.”
“Huh? What? You can’t…you wouldn’t…” the old Lensman gurgled.
“No, I wouldn’t. The whole Corps will know it soon enough, so I might as well tell you now. I’m going to make a Lensman out of her.”
Lacy exploded then, but Kinnison had expected that.
“Seal it!” he counseled, sharply. “I’m not doing it entirely on my own—Mentor of Arisia made the final decision. Prefer charges against me if you like, but in the meantime please do as I request.”
And that was that.
CHAPTER
8
Cartiff the Jeweler
FEW HOURS BEFORE THE TIME of rendezvous with the cruiser which was bringing Clarrissa out to him, the detectors picked up a vessel whose course, it proved, was set to intersect their own. A minute or so later a sharp, clear thought came through Kinnison’s Lens.
“Kim? Raoul. Been flitting around out Arisia way, and they called me in and asked me to bring you a package. Said you’d be expecting it. QX?”
“Hi, Spacehound! QX.” Kinnison had very decidedly not been expecting it—he had been intending to do the best he could without it—but he realized instantly, with a thrill of gladness, what it was. “Inert? Or can’t you stay?”
“Free. Got to make a rendezvous. Can’t take time to inert—that is, if you’ll inert the thing in your cocoon. Don’t want it to hole out on you, though.”
“Can do. Free it is. Pilot room! Prepare for inertialess contact with vessel approaching. Magnets. Messenger coming aboard—free.”
The two speeding vessels flashed together, at all their unimaginable velocities, without a thump or jar. Magnetic clamps locked and held. Airlock doors opened, shut, opened; and at the inner port Kinnison met Raoul LaForge, his classmate through the four years at Wentworth Hall. Brief but hearty greetings were exchanged, but the visitor could not stop. Lensmen are busy men.
“Fine seeing you, Kim—be sure and inert the thing—clear ether!”
“Same to you, ace. Sure I will—think I want to vaporize half of my ship?”
Indeed, inerting the package was the Lensman’s first care, for in the free condition it was a frightfully dangerous thing. Its intrinsic velocity was that of Arisia, while the ship’s was that of Lyrane II. They might be forty or fifty miles per second apart; and if the Dauntless should go inert that harmless-looking package would instantly become a meteorite inside the ship. At the thought of that velocity he paused. The cocoon would stand it—but would the Lens? Oh, sure, Mentor knew what was coming; the Lens would be packed to stand it.
Kinnison wrapped the package in heavy gauze, then in roll after roll of spring-steel mesh. He jammed heavy steel springs into the ends, then clamped the whole thing into a form with high-alloy bolts an inch in diameter. He poured in two hundred pounds of metallic mercury, filling the form to the top. Then a cover, also bolted on. This whole assembly went into the “cocoon”, a cushioned, heavily-padded affair suspended from all four walls, ceiling, and floor by every shock-absorbing device known to the engineers of the Patrol.
The Dauntless inerted briefly at Kinnison’s word and it seemed as though a troop of elephants were running silently amuck in the cocoon room. The package to be inerted weighed no more than eight ounces—but eight ounces of mass, at a relative velocity of fifty miles per second, possesses a kinetic energy by no means to be despised.
The frantic lurchings and bouncings subsided, the cruiser resumed her free flight, and the man undid all that he had done. The Arisian package looked exactly as before, but it was harmless now; it had the same intrinsic velocity as did everything else aboard the vessel.
Then the Lensman pulled on a pair of insulating gloves and opened the package; finding, as he had expe
cted, that the packing material was a dense, viscous liquid. He poured it out and there was the Lens—Cris’s Lens! He cleaned it carefully, then wrapped it in heavy insulation. For of all the billions of unnumbered billions of living entities in existence, Clarrissa MacDougall was the only one whose flesh could touch that apparently innocuous jewel with impunity. Others could safely touch it while she wore it, while it glowed with its marvelously polychromatic cold flame; but until she wore it and unless she wore it its touch meant death to any life to which it was not attuned.
Shortly thereafter another Patrol cruiser hove in sight. This meeting, however, was to be no casual one, for the nurse could not be inerted from the free state in the Dauntless’ cocoon. No such device ever built could stand it—and those structures are stronger far than is the human frame. Any adjustment which even the hardest, toughest spacehound can take in a cocoon is measured in feet per second, not in miles.
Hundreds of miles apart, the ships inerted and their pilots fought with supreme skill to make the two intrinsics match. And even so the vessels did not touch, even nearly. A space-line was thrown; the nurse and her space-roll were quite unceremoniously hauled aboard.
Kinnison did not meet her at the airlock, but waited for her in his con room; and the details of that meeting will remain unchronicled. They were young, they had not seen each other for a long time, and they were very much in love. It is evident, therefore, that Patrol affairs were not the first matters to be touched upon. Nor, if the historian has succeeded even partially in portraying truly the characters of the two persons involved, is it either necessary or desirable to go at any length into the argument they had as to whether or not she should be inducted so cavalierly into a service from which her sex had always, automatically, been barred. He did not want to make her carry that load, but he had to; she did not—although for entirely different reasons—want to take it.
He shook out the Lens and, holding it in a thick-folded corner of the insulating blanket, flicked one of the girl’s fingertips across the bracelet. Satisfied by the fleeting flash of color which swept across the jewel, he snapped the platinum-iridium band around her left wrist, which it fitted exactly.
She stared for a minute at the smoothly, rhythmically flowing colors of the thing so magically sprung to life upon her wrist; awe and humility in her glorious eyes. Then:
“I can’t, Kim. I simply can’t. I’m not worthy of it,” she choked.
“None of us are, Cris. We can’t be—but we’ve got to do it, just the same.”
“I suppose that’s true—it would be so, of course… I’ll do my best…but you know perfectly well, Kim, that I’m not—can’t ever be—a real Lensman.”
“Sure you can. Do we have to go over all that again? You won’t have some of the technical stuff that we got, of course, but you carry jets that no other Lensman ever has had. You’re a real Lensman; don’t worry about that—if you weren’t, do you think they would have made that Lens for you?”
“I suppose not…it must be true, even though I can’t understand it. But I’m simply scared to death of the rest of it, Kim.”
“You needn’t be. It’ll hurt, but not more than you can stand. Don’t think we’d better start that stuff for a few days yet, though; not until you get used to using your Lens. Coming at you, Lensman!” and he went into Lens-to-Lens communication, broadening it gradually into a wide-open two-way. She was appalled at first, but entranced some thirty minutes later, when he called the lesson to a halt.
“Enough for now,” he decided. “It doesn’t take much of that stuff to be a great plenty, at first.”
“I’ll say it doesn’t,” she agreed. “Put this away for me until next time, will you, Kim? I don’t want to wear it all the time until I know more about it.”
“Fair enough. In the meantime I want you to get acquainted with a new girl-friend of mine,” and he sent out a call for Illona Potter.
“Girl-friend!”
“Uh-huh. Study her. Educational no end, and she may be important. Want to compare notes with you on her later, is why I’m not giving you any advance dope on her—here she comes.”
“Mac, this is Illona,” he introduced them informally. “I told them to give you the cabin next to hers,” he added, to the nurse. “I’ll go with you to be sure everything’s on the green.” It was, and the Lensman left the two together.
“I’m awfully glad you’re here,” Illona said, shyly. “I’ve heard so much about you, Miss…”
“‘Mac’ to you, my dear—all my friends call me that,” the nurse broke in. “And you don’t want to believe everything you hear, especially aboard this space-bucket.” Her lips smiled, but her eyes were faintly troubled.
“Oh, it was nice,” Illona assured her. “About what a grand person you are, and what a wonderful couple you and Lensman Kinnison make—why, you really are in love with him, aren’t you?” This in surprise, as she studied the nurse’s face.
“Yes,” unequivocally. “And you love him, too, and that makes it…”
“Good heavens, no!” the Aldebaranian exclaimed, so positively that Clarrissa jumped.
“What? You don’t? Really?” Gold-flecked, tawny eyes stared intensely into engagingly candid eyes of black. The nurse wished then that she had left her Lens on, so she could tell whether this bejeweled brunette hussy was telling the truth or not.
“Certainly not. That’s what I meant—I’m simply scared to death of him. He’s so…well, so overpowering—he’s so much more—tremendous—than I am. I didn’t see how any girl could possibly love him—but I understand now how you could, perhaps. You’re sort of—terrific—yourself, you know. I feel as though I ought to call you ‘Your Magnificence’ instead of just plain ‘Mac’.”
“Why, I’m no such thing!” Clarrissa exclaimed; but she softened noticeably, none the less. “And I think that I’m going to like you a lot.”
“Oh…h…h—honestly?” Illona squealed. “It sounds too good to be true, you’re so marvelous. But if you do, I think that Civilization will be everything that I’ve been afraid—so afraid—that it couldn’t possibly be!”
No longer was it a feminine Lensman investigating a female zwilnik; it was two girls—two young, intensely alive, human girls—who chattered on and on.
Days passed. Clarrissa learned some of the uses of her Lens. Then Kimball Kinnison, Second-Stage Lensman, began really to bear down. Since such training has been described in detail elsewhere, it need be said here only that Clarrissa MacDougall had mental capacity enough to take it without becoming insane. He suffered as much as she did; after every mental bout he was as spent as she was; but both of them stuck relentlessly to it.
He did not make a Second Stage Lensman of her, of course. He couldn’t. Much of the stuff was too hazy yet; more of it did not apply. He gave her everything, however, which she could handle and which would be of any use to her in the work she was to do; including the sense of perception. He did it, that is, with a modicum of help; for, once or twice, when he faltered or weakened, not knowing exactly what to do or not being quite able to do it, a stronger mind than his was always there.
At length, approaching Tellus fast, the nurse and Kinnison had a final conference; the consultation of two Lensmen settling the last details of procedure in a long-planned and highly important campaign.
“I agree with you that Lyrane II is a key planet,” she was saying, thoughtfully. “It must be, to have those expeditions from Lonabar and the as yet unknown planet ‘X’ centering there.”
“‘X’ certainly, and don’t forget the possibility of ‘Y’ and ‘Z’ and maybe others,” he reminded her. “The Lyrane-Lonabar linkage is the only one we’re sure of. With you on one end of that and me on the other, it’ll be funny if we can’t trace out some more. While I’m building up an authentic identity to tackle Bleeko, you’ll be getting chummy with Helen of Lyrane. That’s about as far ahead as we can plan definitely right now, since this groundwork can’t be hurried too much.”
&
nbsp; “And I report to you often—frequently, in fact.” Clarrissa widened her expressive eyes at her man.
“At least,” he agreed. “And I’ll report to you between times.”
“Oh, Kim, it’s nice, being a Lensman!” She snuggled closer. Some way or other, the conference had become somewhat personal. “Being en rapport will be almost as good as being together—we can stand it, that way, at least.”
“It’ll help a lot, ace, no fooling. That was why I was afraid to go ahead with it on my own hook. I couldn’t be sure that my feelings were not in control, instead of my judgment—if any.”
“I’d have been certain that it was your soft heart instead of your hard head if it hadn’t been for Mentor,” she sighed, happily. “As it is, though, everything’s on the green.”
“All done with Illona?”
“Yes, the darling…she’s the sweetest thing, Kim…and a storehouse of information if there ever was one. You and I know more of Boskonian life than anyone of Civilization ever knew before, I’m sure. And it’s so ghastly! We must win, Kim…we simply must, for the good of all creation!”
“We will.” Kinnison spoke with grim finality.
“But back to Illona. She can’t go with me, and she can’t stay here with Hank aboard the Dauntless taking me back to Lyrane, and you can’t watch her. I’d hate to think of anything happening to her, Kim.”
“It won’t,” he replied, comfortably. “Ilyowicz won’t sleep nights until he has her as the top-flight solo dancer in his show—even though she doesn’t have to work for a living any more…”
“She will, though, I think. Don’t you?”
“Probably. Anyway, a couple of Haynes’ smart girls are going to be her best friends, wherever she goes. Sort of keep an eye on her until she learns the ropes—it won’t take long. We owe her that much, I figure.”
Second Stage Lensmen Page 12
