“You.” Kinnison made succinct answer. “You should have taken my advice about pondering the various aspects of an iceberg.”
“Bah!” the other snorted. “That silliness?”
“Not as silly as you think. That was a warning, Bleeko, that the stuff showing above the surface is but a very small portion of my total resources. But you could not or would not learn by precept. You had to have it the hard way. Apparently, however, you have learned. That you have not been able to locate my forces I am certain. I am almost as sure that you do not want to try me again, at least until you have found out what you do not know. But I can give you no more time—you must decide now, Bleeko, whether it is to be peace or war between us. I still prefer a peaceful settlement, with an equitable division of the spoils; but if you want war, so be it.”
“I have decided upon peace,” the Lonabarian said, and the effort of it almost choked him. “I, Menjo Bleeko the Supreme, will give you a place beside me. Come to me here, at once, so that we may discuss the terms of peace.”
“We will discuss them now,” Kinnison insisted.
“Impossible! Barred and shielded as this room is…”
“It would be,” Kinnison interrupted with a nod, “for you to make such an admission as you have just made.”
“…I do not trust unreservedly this communication line. If you join me now, you may do so in peace. If you do not come to me, here and now, it is war to the death.”
“Fair enough, at that,” the Lensman admitted. “After all, you’ve got to save your face, and I haven’t—yet. And if I team up with you I can’t very well stay out of your palace forever. But before I come there I want to give you three things—a reminder, a caution, and a warning. I remind you that our first exchange of amenities cost you a thousand times as much as it did me. I caution you to consider again, and more carefully this time, the iceberg. I warn you that if we again come into conflict you will lose not only a mine, but everything you have, including your life. So see to it that you lay no traps for me. I come.”
He went out into the shop. “Take over, Sport,” he told his gangster protege. “I’m going up to the palace to see Menjo Bleeko. If I’m not back in two hours, and if your grapevine reports that Bleeko is out of the picture, what I’ve left in the store here is yours until I come back and take it away from you.”
“I’ll take care of it, Boss—thanks,” and the Lensman knew that in true Lonabarian gratitude the youth was already, mentally, slipping a long, keen knife between his ribs.
Without a qualm, but with every sense stretched to the limit and in instant readiness for any eventuality, Kinnison took a cab to the palace and entered its heavily-guarded portals. He was sure that they would not cut him down before he got to Bleeko’s room—that room would surely be the one chosen for the execution. Nevertheless, he took no chances. He was supremely ready to slay instantly every guard within range of his sense of perception at the first sign of inimical activity. Long before he came to them, he made sure that the beams which were set to search him for concealed weapons were really search-beams and not lethal vibrations.
And as he passed those beams each one of them reported him clean. Rings, of course; a stick-pin, and various other items of adornment. But Cartiff, the great jeweler, would be expected to wear very large and exceedingly costly gems. And the beam has never been projected which could penetrate those Worsel-designed, Thorndyke-built walls of force; to show that any one of those flamboyant gems was not precisely what it appeared to be.
Searched, combed minutely, millimeter by cubic millimeter, Kinnison was escorted by a heavily-armed quartette of Bleeko’s personal guards into His Supremacy’s private study. All four bowed as he entered—but they strode in behind him, then shut and locked the door.
“You fool!” Bleeko gloated from behind his massive desk. His face flamed with sadistic joy and anticipation. “You trusting, greedy fool! I have you exactly where I want you now. How easy! How simple! This entire building is screened and shielded—by my screens and shields. Your friends and accomplices, whoever or wherever they are, can neither see you nor know what is to happen to you. If your ship attempts your rescue it will be blasted out of the ether. I will, personally, gouge out your eyes, tear off your nails, strip your hide from your quivering carcass…” Bleeko was now, in his raging exaltation, fairly frothing at the mouth.
“That would be a good trick if you could do it,” Kinnison remarked, coldly. “But the real fact is that you haven’t even tried to use that pint of blue mush that you call a brain. Do you think me an utter idiot? I put on an act and you fell for it…”
“Seize him, guards! Silence his yammering—tear out his tongue!” His Supremacy shrieked, leaping out of his chair as though possessed.
The guards tried manfully, but before they could touch him—before any one of them could take one full step—they dropped. Without being touched by material object or visible beam, without their proposed victim having moved a muscle, they died and fell. Died instantly, in their tracks; died completely, effortlessly, painlessly, with every molecule of the all-important compound without which life cannot even momentarily exist shattered instantaneously into its degradation products; died not knowing even that they died.
Bleeko was shaken, but he was not beaten. Needle-ray men, sharpshooters all, were stationed behind those walls. Gone now the dictator’s intent to torture his victim to death. Slaying him out of hand would have to suffice. He flashed a signal to the concealed marksmen, but that order too went unobeyed. For Kinnison had perceived the hidden gunmen long since, and before any of them could align his sights or press his firing stud each one of them ceased to live. The zwilnik then flipped on his communicator and gobbled orders. Uselessly; for death sped ahead. Before any mind at any switchboard could grasp the meaning of the signal, it could no longer, think.
“You fiend from hell!” Bleeko screamed, in mad panic now, and wrenched open a drawer in order to seize a weapon of his own. Too late. The Lensman had already leaped, and as he landed he struck—not gently. Lonabar’s tyrant collapsed upon the thick-piled rug in a writhing, gasping heap; but he was not unconscious. To suit Kinnison’s purpose he could not be unconscious; he had to be in full possession of his mind.
The Lensmen crooked one brawny arm around the zwilnik’s neck in an unbreakable strangle-hold and flipped off his thought-screen. Physical struggles were of no avail: the attacker knew exactly what to do to certain nerves and ganglia to paralyze all such activity. Mental resistance was equally futile against the overwhelmingly superior power of the Tellurian’s mind. Then, his subject quietly passive, Kinnison tuned in and began his search for information. Began it—and swore soulfully. This couldn’t be so…it didn’t make any kind of sense…but there it was.
The ape simply didn’t know a thing about any ramification whatever of the vast culture to which Civilization was opposed. He knew all about Lonabar and the rest of the domain which he had ruled with such an iron hand. He knew much—altogether too much—about humanity and Civilization, and plainly to be read in his mind were the methods by which he had obtained those knowledges and the brutally efficient precautions he had taken to make sure that Civilization would not in turn learn of him.
Kinnison scowled blackly. His deductions simply couldn’t be that far off…and besides, it wasn’t reasonable that this guy was the top or that he had done all that work on his own account… He pondered deeply, staring unseeing at Bleeko’s placid face; and as he pondered, some of the jigsaw blocks of the puzzle began to click into a pattern.
Then, ultra-carefully, with the utmost nicety of which he was capable, he again fitted his mind to that of the dictator and began to trace, one at a time, the lines of memory. Searching, probing, coursing backward and forward along those deeply-buried time-tracks, until at last he found the breaks and the scars. For, as he had told Illona, a radical mind-operation cannot be performed without leaving marks. It is true that upon cold, unfriendly Jarnevon, after Worsel h
ad so operated upon Kinnison’s mind, Kinnison himself could not perceive that any work had been done. But that, be it remembered, was before any actual change had occurred; before the compulsion had been applied. The false memories supplied by Worsel were still latent, non-existent; the true memory chains, complete and intact, were still in place.
The lug’s brain had been operated upon, Kinnison now knew, and by an expert. What the compulsion was, what combination of thought-stimuli it was that would restore those now non-existent knowledges, Kinnison had utterly no means of finding out. Bleeko himself, even subconsciously, did not know. It was, it had to be, something external, a thought-pattern impressed upon Bleeko’s mind by the Boskonian higher-up whenever he wanted to use him; and to waste time in trying to solve that problem would be the sheerest folly. Nor could he discover how that compulsion had been or could be applied. If he got his orders from the Boskonian high command direct, there would have to be an inter-galactic communicator; and it would in all probability be right here, in Bleeko’s private rooms. No force-ball, or anything else that could take its place, was to be found. Therefore Bleeko was, probably, merely another Regional Director, and took orders from someone here in the First Galaxy.
Lyrane? The possibility jarred Kinnison. No real probability pointed that way yet, however; it was simply a possibility, born of his own anxiety. He couldn’t worry about it—yet.
His study of the zwilnik’s mind, unproductive although it was of the desired details of things Boskonian, had yielded one highly important fact. His Supremacy of Lonabar had sent at least one expedition to Lyrane II; yet there was no present memory in his mind that he had ever done so. Kinnison had scanned those files with surpassing care, and knew positively that Bleeko did not now know even that such a planet as Lyrane II existed.
Could he, Kinnison, be wrong? Could somebody other than Menjo Bleeko have sent that ship? Or those ships, since it was not only possible, but highly probable, that that voyage was not an isolated instance? No, he decided instantly. Illona’s knowledge was far too detailed and exact Nothing of such importance would be or could be done without the knowledge and consent of Lonabar’s dictator. And the fact that he did not now remember it was highly significant. It meant—it must mean—that the new Boskone or whoever was back of Boskone considered the solar system of Lyrane of such vital importance that knowledge of it must never, under any circumstances, get to Star A Star, the detested, hated, and feared Director of Lensmen of the Galactic Patrol! And Mac was on Lyrane II—ALONE! She had been safe enough so far, but…
“Cris!” he sent her an insistent thought.
“Yes, Kim?” came flashing answer.
“Thank Klono and Noshabkeming! You’re QX, then?”
“Of course. Why shouldn’t I be, the same as I was this morning?”
“Things have changed since then,” he assured her, grimly. “I’ve finally cracked things open here, and I find that Lonabar is simply a dead end. It’s a feeder for Lyrane, nothing else. It’s not a certainty, of course, but there’s a very distinct possibility that Lyrane is IT. If it is, I don’t need to tell you that you’re on a mighty hot spot. So I want you to quit whatever you’re doing and run. Hide. Crawl into a hole and pull it in after you. Get into one of Helen’s deepest crypts and have somebody sit on the lid. And do it right now—five minutes ago would have been better.”
“Why, Kim!” she giggled. “Everything here is exactly as it has always been. And surely, you wouldn’t have a Lensman hide, would you? Would you, yourself?”
That question was, they both knew, unanswerable. “That’s different,” he of course protested, but he knew that it was not. “Well, anyway, be careful,” he insisted. “More careful than you ever were before in your life. Use everything you’ve got, every second, and if you notice anything, however small, the least bit out of the way, let me know, right then.”
“I’ll do that. You’re coming, of course.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I’ll say I am—in force! ’Bye, Cris—BE CAREFUL!” and he snapped the line. He had a lot to do. He had to act fast, and had to be right—and he couldn’t take all day in deciding, either.
His mind flashed back over what he had done. Could he cover up? Should he cover up, even if he could? Yes and no. Better not even try to cover Cartiff up, he decided. Leave that trail just as it was; wide and plain—up to a certain point. This point, right here. Cartiff would disappear here, in Bleeko’s palace.
He was done with Cartiff, anyway. They would smell a rat, of course—it stunk to high heaven. They might not—they probably would not—believe that he had died in the ruins of the palace, but they wouldn’t know that he hadn’t. And they would think that he hadn’t found out a thing, and he would keep them thinking so as long as he could. The young thug in Cartiff’s would help, too, all unconsciously. He would assume the name and station, of course, and fight with everything Kinnison had taught him. That would help—Kinnison grinned as he realized just how much it would help.
The real Cartiff would have to vanish as completely, as absolutely without a trace as was humanly possible. They would figure out in time that Cartiff had done whatever was done in the palace, but it was up to him to see to it that they could never find out how it was done. Wherefore he took from Menjo’s mind every iota of knowledge which might conceivably be of use to him thereafter. Then Menjo Bleeko died and the Lensman strode along corridors and down stairways. And wherever he went, there went Death.
This killing griped Kinnison to the core of his being, but it had to be. The fate of all Civilization might very well depend upon the completeness of his butchery this day; upon the sheer mercilessness of his extermination of every foe who might be able to cast any light, however dim, upon what he had just done.
Straight to the palace arsenal he went, where he labored briefly at the filling of a bin with bombs. A minute more to set a timer and he was done. Out of the building he ran. No one stayed him; nor did any, later, say that they had seen him go. He dumped a dead man out of a car and drove it away at reckless speed. Even at that, however, he was almost too slow—hurtling stones from the dynamited palace showered down scarcely a hundred feet behind his screeching wheels.
He headed for the space-port; then, changing his mind, braked savagely as he sent Lensed instructions to Watson. He felt no compunction about fracturing the rules and regulations made and provided for the landing of space-ships at space-ports everywhere by having his vessel make a hot-blast, unauthorized, and quite possibly highly destructive landing to pick him up. Nor did he fear pursuit. The big shots were, for the most part, dead. The survivors and the middle-sized shots were too busy by far to waste time over an irregular incident at a space-port. Hence nobody would give anybody any orders, and without explicit orders no Lonabarian officer would act. No, there would be no pursuit. But They—the Ones Kinnison was after—would interpret truly every such irregular incident; wherefore there must not be any.
Thus it came about that when the speeding ground-car was upon an empty stretch of highway, with nothing in sight in any direction, a space-ship eased down upon muffled under-jets directly above it. A tractor beam reached down; car and man were drawn upward and into the vessel’s hold. Kinnison did not want the car, but he could not leave it there. Since many cars had been blown out of existence with Bleeko’s palace, for this one to disappear would be natural enough; but for it to be found abandoned out in the open country would be a highly irregular and an all too revealing occurrence.
Upward through atmosphere and stratosphere the black cruiser climbed; out into inter-stellar space she flashed. Then, while Watson coaxed the sleek flyer to do even better than her prodigious best, Kinnison went to his room and drilled a thought to Prime Base and Port Admiral Haynes.
“Kinnison. Are you too busy to give me a couple of minutes?”
“You always have the right-of-way, Kim, you know that—you’re the most important thing in the galaxy right now,” Haynes said, soberly.
Scarcely had he started, however, when he felt a call impinge upon his own Lens. Clarrissa was calling him from Lyrane II.
“Just a sec, admiral! Come in, Cris—make it a three-way with Admiral Haynes!”
“You told me to report anything unusual, no matter what,” the girl began. “Well, I finally managed to get chummy enough with Helen so she’d really talk to me. The death-rate from airplane crashes went up sharply a while ago and is still rising. I am reporting that fact as per instructions.”
“Hm…m…m. What kind of crashes?” Kinnison asked.
“That’s the unusual feature of it. Nobody knows—they just disappear.”
“WHAT?” Kinnison yelled the thought, so forcibly that both Clarrissa and Haynes winced under its impact.
“Why, yes,” she replied, innocently—somewhat too innocently. “But as to what it means…”
“You know what it means, don’t you?” Kinnison snapped.
“I don’t know anything. I can do some guessing, of course, but for the present I’m reporting a fact, not personal opinions.”
“QX. That fact means that you do, right now, crawl into the deepest, most heavily thought-screened hole in Lyrane and stay there until I, personally, come and dig you out,” he replied, grimly. “It means, Admiral Haynes, that I want Worsel and Tregonsee as fast as I can get them—not orders, of course, but very, very urgent requests. And I want vanBuskirk and his gang of Valerians, and Grand Fleet, with all the trimmings, within easy striking distance of Dunstan’s Region as fast as you can possibly get them there. And I want…”
“Why all the excitement, Kim?” Haynes demanded. “You’re ’way ahead of me, both of you. Give!”
“I don’t know anything, either,” Kinnison emphasized the verb very strongly. “However, I suspect a lot. Everything, in fact, grading downward from the Eich. I’d say Overlords, except that I don’t see how…what do you think, Cris?”
Second Stage Lensmen Page 15
