“Major Gannel, you will…” the Tyrant began, then stopped. He was not quite ready yet to come openly to grips with this would-be usurper. Besides, it was now plain that Gannel had only an ordinary mind. He had not even suspected all the prying that had occurred previously. He had not recognized even this last powerful thrust for what it really was; he had merely felt it vaguely and had supposed that it was an attempt at hypnotism!
A few more days and he would cut him down. Hence Alcon changed his tone and went on smoothly, “It is not hypnotism, Major Gannel, but a sort of telepathy which you cannot understand. It is, however, necessary; for in the case of a man occupying such a high position as yours, it is self-evident that we can permit no secrets whatever to be withheld from us—that we can allow no mental reservations of any kind. You see the justice and the necessity of that, do you not?”
Kinnison did. He saw also that Alcon was being super-humanly forbearing. Moreover, he knew what the Tyrant was covering up so carefully—the real reason for this highly unusual tolerance.
“I suppose you’re right; but I still don’t like it,” Gannel grumbled. Then, without either denying or acceding to Alcon’s right of mental search, he went to his own quarters.
And there—or thereabouts—he wrought diligently at a thing which had been long in the making. He had known all along that his retinue would be useless against Alcon, hence he had built up an organization entirely separate from, and completely unknown to any member of, his visible following. Nor was this really secret outfit composed of spies or sycophants. Instead, its members were hard, able, thoroughly proven men, each one carefully selected for the ability and the desire to take the place of one of Alcon’s present department heads. One at a time he put himself en rapport with them; gave them certain definite orders and instructions.
Then he put on a mechanical thought-screen. Its use could not make the prime minister any more suspicious than he already was, and it was the only way he could remain in character. This screen was, like those of Lonabar, decidedly pervious in that it had an open slit. Unlike Bleeko’s, however, which had their slits set upon a fixed frequency, the open channel of this one could be varied, both in width and in wave-length, to any setting which Kinnison desired.
Thus equipped, Kinnison attended the meeting of the Council of Advisers, and to say that he disrupted the meeting is no exaggeration. The other advisers perceived nothing out of the ordinary, of course, but both Alcon and the prime minister were so perturbed that the session was cut very short indeed. The other members were dismissed summarily, with no attempt at explanation. The Tyrant was raging, furious; the premier was alertly, watchfully intent.
“I did not expect any more physical privacy than I have been granted,” Kinnison grated, after listening quietly to a minute or two of Alcon’s unbridled language. “This thing of being spied upon continuously, both by men and by mechanisms, while it is insulting and revolting to any real man’s self-respect, can—just barely—be borne. I find it impossible, however, to force myself to submit to such an ultimately degrading humiliation as the surrender of the only vestiges of privacy I have remaining; those of my mind. I will resign from the Council if you wish, I will resume my status as an officer of the line, but I cannot and will not tolerate your extinction of the last spark of my self-respect,” he finished, stubbornly.
“Resign? Resume? Do you think I’ll let you off that easily, fool?” Alcon sneered. “Don’t you realize what I’m going to do to you? That, were it not for the fact that I am going to watch you die slowly and hideously, I would have you blasted where you stand?”
“I do not, no, and neither do you,” Gannel answered, as quietly as surprisingly. “If you were sure of your ability, you would be doing something instead of talking about it.” He saluted crisply, turned, and walked out.
Now the prime minister, as the student of this history already knows, was considerably more than he appeared upon the surface to be. His, not Alcon’s, was the voice of authority, although he worked so subtly that the Tyrant himself never did realize that he was little better than a figure-head.
Therefore, as Gannel departed, the premier thought briefly but cogently. This major was smart—too smart. He was too able, he knew too much. His advancement had been just a trifle too rapid. That thought-screen was an entirely unexpected development. The mind behind it was not quite right, either—a glimpse through the slit had revealed a flash of something that might be taken to indicate that Major Gannel had an ability which ordinary Thralians did not have. This open defiance of the Tyrant of Thrale did not ring exactly true—it was not quite in character. If it had been a bluff, it was too good—much too good. If it had not been a bluff, where was his support? How could Gannel have grown so powerful without his, Fossten’s, knowledge?
If Major Gannel were bona-fide, all well and good. Boskonia needed the strongest possible leaders, and if any other man showed himself superior to Alcon, Alcon should and would die. However, there was a bare possibility that… Was Gannel bona-fide? That point should be cleared up without delay. And Fossten, after a quizzical, searching, more than half contemptuous inspection of the furiously discomfited Tyrant, followed the rebellious, the contumaceous, the enigmatic Gannel to his rooms.
He knocked and was admitted. A preliminary and entirely meaningless conversation occurred. Then:
“Just when did you leave the Circle?” the visitor demanded, sharply.
“What do you want to know for?” Kinnison shot back. That question didn’t mean a thing to him. Maybe it didn’t to the big fellow, either—it could be just a catch—but he didn’t intend to give any kind of an analyzable reply to any question that this ape asked him.
Nor did he, through thirty minutes of viciously skillful verbal fencing. That conversation was far from meaningless, but it was entirely unproductive of results; and it was a baffled, intensely thoughtful Fossten who at its conclusion left Gannel’s quarters. From those quarters he went to the Hall of Records, where he requisitioned the major’s dossier. Then to his own private laboratory, where he applied to those records every test known to the scientists of his ultra-suspicious race.
The photographs were right in every detail. The prints agreed exactly with those he himself had secured from the subject not twenty four hours since. The typing was right. The ink was right. Everything checked. And why not? Ink, paper, fiber, and film were in fact exactly what they should have been. There had been no erasures, no alterations. Everything had been aged to the precisely correct number of days. For Kinnison had known that this check-up was coming; and while the experts of the Patrol were not infallible, Mentor of Arisia was.
Even though he had found exactly what he had expected to find, the suspicions of the prime minister were intensified rather than allayed. Besides his own, there were two unreadable minds upon Thrale, where there should have been only one. He knew how Alcon’s had been treated—could Gannel’s possibly be a natural phenomenon? If not, who had treated it, and why?
There were three, and only three possibilities. Another Eddorian, another member of the Innermost Circle, working against him? Probably not; this job was too important. The All-Highest would not permit it. The Arisian who had been hampering him so long? Much more likely. Star A Star? Most likely of all.
Not enough data…but in any event, circumspection was very definitely indicated. The show-down would come at a time and a place of his own choosing, not the foe’s.
He left the palace then, ostensibly to attend a function at the Military Academy. There, too, everything checked. He visited the town in which Gannel had been born—finding no irregularities whatever in the records of the birth. He went to the city in which Gannel had lived for the greater part of his life; where he assured himself that school records, club records, even photographs and negatives, all dead-centered the beam.
He studied the minds of six different persons who had known Gannel from childhood. As one they agreed that the Traska Gannel who was now Traska Gannel was i
n fact the real Traska Gannel, and could not by any possibility be anyone else. He examined their memory tracks minutely for scars, breaks, or other evidences of surgery; finding none. In fact, none existed, for the therapists who had performed those operations had gone back clear to the very beginnings, to the earliest memories of the Gannel child.
In spite of the fact that all the data thus far investigated were so precisely what they should have been—or because of it—the prime minister was now morally certain that Gannel was, in some fashion or other, completely spurious. Should he go farther, delve into unimportant but perhaps highly revealing side issues? He should. He did so with a minute attention to detail anticipated only by Mentor of Arisia. He found nothing amiss in any particular, but he was still unsatisfied. The mind who had falsified those records so flawlessly—if they had in fact been falsified—had done a beautiful piece of work; as masterly a job as he himself could have done. He himself would have left no traces; neither, in all probability, had the unknown.
Who, then, and why? This was no ordinary plot, no part of any ordinary scheme to overthrow Alcon. It was bigger, deeper, far more sinister. Nothing so elaborate and efficient originating upon Thrale could possibly have been developed and executed without his knowledge and at least his tacit consent. It could not be Eddorian. That narrowed the field to two—the Arisian or Star A Star.
His mind flashed back, reviewing everything that had been ascribed to that mysterious Director of Lensmen. Something clicked.
BLAKESLEE!
This was much finer than the Blakeslee affair, of course; more subtle and more polished by far. It was not nearly as obvious, as blatant, but the basic similarity was nevertheless there. Could this similarity have been accidental? No—unthinkable. In this undertaking accidents could be ruled out—definitely. Whatever had been done had been done deliberately and after meticulous preparation.
But Star A Star never repeated… Therefore, this time, he had repeated; deliberately, to throw Alcon and his psychologists off the trail. But he, Fossten, was not to be deceived by even such clever tactics.
Gannel was, then, really Gannel, just as Blakeslee had really been Blakeslee. Blakeslee had obviously been under control. Here, however, there were two possibilities. First, Gannel might be under similar control. Second, Star A Star might have operated upon Gannel’s mind so radically as to make an entirely different man of him. Either hypothesis would explain Gannel’s extreme reticence in submitting to any except the most superficial mental examination. Each would account for Gannel’s calm certainty that Alcon was afraid to attack him openly. Which of these hypotheses was the correct one could be determined later. It was unimportant, anyway, for in either case there was now accounted for the heretofore inexplicable power of Gannel’s mind.
In either case it was not Gannel’s mind at all, but that of THE Lensman, who was making Gannel act as he could not normally have acted. Somewhere hereabouts, in either case, there actually was lurking Boskonia’s Nemesis the mentality whom above all others Boskonia was raving to destroy; the one Lensman who had never been seen or heard or perceived: the feared and detested Lensman about whom nothing whatever had ever been learned.
That Lensman, whoever he might be, had at last met his match. Gannel, as Gannel, was of no importance whatever: the veriest pawn. But he who stood behind Gannel… Ah!… He, Gharlane himself, would wait and he would watch. Then, at precisely the correct instant, he would pounce!
And Kinnison, during the absence of the prime minister, worked swiftly and surely. Twelve men died, and as they ceased to live twelve others, grimly ready and thoroughly equipped for any emergency, took their places. And during that same minute of time Kinnison strode into Alcon’s private sanctum.
The Tyrant hurled orders to his guards—orders which were not obeyed He then went for his own weapons, and he was fast—but Kinnison was faster. Alcon’s guns and hands disappeared and the sickened Tellurian slugged him into unconsciousness. Then, grimly, relentlessly, he took every item of interest from the Thralian’s mind, killed him, and assumed forthwith the title and the full authority of the Tyrant of Thrale.
Unlike most such revolutions, this one was accomplished with very little bloodshed and with scarcely any interference with the business of the realm. Indeed, if anything, there was an improvement in almost every respect, since the new men were more thoroughly trained and were more competent than the previous officers had been. Also, they had arranged matters beforehand so that their accessions could be made with a minimum of friction.
They were as yet loyal to Kinnison and to Boskonia: and in a rather faint hope of persuading them to stay that way, without developing any queer ideas about overthrowing him, the Lensman called them into conference.
“Men, you know how you got where you are,” he began, coldly. “You are loyal to me at the moment. You know that real cooperation is the only way to achieve maximum productivity, and that true cooperation cannot exist in any regime in which the department heads, individually or en masse, are trying to do away with the dictator.”
“Some of you will probably be tempted very shortly to begin to work against me instead of for me and with me. I am not pleading with you, nor even asking you out of gratitude for what I have done for you, to refrain from such activities. Instead, I am telling you as a simple matter of fact that any or all of you, at the first move toward any such disloyalty, will die. In that connection, I know that all of you have been exerting every resource to discover in what manner your predecessors came so conveniently to die, and that none of you have succeeded.”
One by one they admitted that they had not.
“Nor will you, ever. Be advised that I know vastly more than Alcon did, and that I am far mere powerful. Alcon, while in no sense a weakling, did not know how to command obedience. I do. Alcon’s sources of information were meager and untrustworthy; mine are comprehensive and reliable. Alcon very often did not know that anything was being plotted against him until the thing was well along; I shall always know of the first seditious move. Alcon blustered, threatened, and warned; he tortured; he gave some offenders a second chance before he killed. I shall do none of these things. I do not threaten, I do not warn, I do not torture. Above all, I give no snake a second chance to strike at me. I execute traitors without bluster or fanfare. For your own good, gentlemen, I advise you in all seriousness to believe that I mean precisely every word I say.”
They slunk out, but Boskonian habit was too strong. Thus, within three days, three of Kinnison’s newly appointed head men died. He called another cabinet meeting.
“The three new members have listened to the recording of our first meeting, hence there is no need to repeat what I said at that time,” the Tyrant announced, in a voice so silkily venomous that his listeners cringed. “I will add to it merely that I will have full cooperation, and only cooperation, if I have to kill all of you and all of your successors to get it. You may go.”
CHAPTER
20
Gannel vs. Fossten
HIS KILLING MADE KINNISON ill; physically and mentally sick. It was ruthless, cowardly murder. It was worse than stabbing a man in the back; the poor devils didn’t have even the faintest shadow of a chance. Nevertheless he did it.
When he had first invaded the stronghold of the Wheelmen of Aldebaran I, he had acted almost without thought. If there was a chance of success, Lensmen went in. When he had scouted Jarnevon he had thought but little more. True—and fortunately—he took Worsel along; but he did not stop to consider whether or not there were minds in the Patrol better fitted to cope with the problem than was his own. It was his problem, he figured, and it was up to him to solve it.
Now, however, he knew bitterly that he could no longer act in that comparatively thoughtless fashion. At whatever loss of self-esteem, of personal stature, or of standing, he had to revise the Tellurian Lensmen’s Code. It griped him to admit it, but Nadreck was right. It was not enough to give his life in an attempt to conquer a half-way sta
tion; he must remain alive in order to follow through to completion the job which was so uniquely his. He must think, assaying and evaluating every factor of his entire task. Then, without considering his own personal feelings, he must employ whatever forces and methods were best fitted to do the work at the irreducible minimum of cost and of risk.
Thus Kinnison sat unharmed upon the throne of the Tyrant of Thrale, and thus the prime minister returned to the palace to find the fact accomplished. That worthy studied with care every aspect of the situation before he sought an audience with the new potentate.
“Allow me to congratulate you, Tyrant Gannel,” he said, smoothly. “I cannot say that I am surprised, since I have been watching you and your activities for some little time—with distinct approval, I may add. You have fulfilled—more than fulfilled, perhaps—my expectations. Your regime is functioning superbly; you have established in this very short time a smoothness of operation and an esprit de corps which are decidedly unusual. There are, however, certain matters about which it is possible that you are not completely informed.”
“It is possible,” Kinnison agreed, with the merest trace of irony. “Such as?”
“In good time. You know, do you not, who is the real authority here upon Thrale?”
“I know who was,” the Tellurian corrected, with the faintest perceptible accent upon the final verb. “In part only, however, for if you had concerned yourself wholly, the late Alcon would not have made so many nor so serious mistakes.”
“I thank you. You know, of course, the reason for that. I want the Tyrant of Thrale to be the strongest man of Thrale, and I may say without flattery that I believe he now is. And I would suggest that you add ‘sire’ when you speak to me.”
“I thank you in turn. I will so address you when you call me ‘Your Supremacy’—not sooner.”
Second Stage Lensmen Page 26
