Galactic Patrol

by Edward E Smith

  Upon that confusedly writhing heap the Patrolmen flung themselves, terrible axes destructively a-swing. In turn they were attacked viciously, but this battle was not long to endure. VanBuskirk’s first terrific blow knocked one adversary away, almost spinning end over end. Kinnison took out one, the Dutchman another, and the remaining three were no match at all for the humiliated and furiously raging Velantian. But it was not until the monstrosities had been gruesomely carved and torn apart, literally to bits, that they ceased their insensately voracious attacks.

  “They took me by surprise,” explained Worsel, unnecessarily, as the three made their way through the night toward their goal, “and six of them at once were too much for me. I tried to hold their minds, but apparently they have none.”

  “How about the Overlords?” asked Kinnison. “Suppose they have received any of our thoughts? Bus and I may have done some unguarded radiating.”

  “No,” Worsel made positive reply. “The thought-screen batteries, while small and of very little actual power, have a very long service life. Now let us go over again the next steps of our plan of action.”

  Since no more untoward events marred their progress toward the Delgonian city, they soon reached it. It was for the most part dark and quiet, its somber buildings merely blacker blobs against a background of black. Here and there, however, were to be seen automotive vehicles moving about, and the three invaders crouched against a convenient wall, waiting for one to come along the “street” in which they were. Eventually one did.

  As it passed them Worsel sprang into headlong, gliding flight, Kinnison’s heavy knife in one gnarled fist. And as he sailed he struck—lethally. Before that luckless Delgonian’s brain could radiate a single thought it was in no condition to function at all, for the head containing it was bouncing in the gutter. Worsel backed the peculiar conveyance along the curb and his two companions leaped into it, lying flat upon its floor and covering themselves from sight as best they could.

  Worsel, familiar with things Delgonian and looking enough like a native of the planet to pass a casual inspection in the dark, drove the car. Streets and thoroughfares he traversed at reckless speed, finally drawing up before a long, low building; entirely dark. He scanned his surrounding with care, in every direction. Not a creature was in sight.

  “All is clear, friends,” he thought, and the three adventurers sprang to the building’s entrance. The door—it had a door, of sorts—was locked, but vanBuskirk’s axe made short work of that difficulty. Inside, they braced the wrecked door against intrusion, then Worsel led the way into the unlighted interior. Soon he flashed his lamp about him and stepped upon a black, peculiarly-marked tile set into the floor, whereupon a harsh, white light illuminated the room.

  “Cut it, before somebody takes alarm!” snapped Kinnison.

  “No danger of that,” replied the Velantian. “There are no windows in any of these rooms; no light can be seen from outside. This is the control room of the city’s power plant. If you can convert any of this power to your uses, help yourselves to it. In this building is also a Delgonian arsenal. Whether or not anything in it can be of service to you is of course for you to say. I am now at your disposal.”

  Kinnison had been studying the panels and instruments. Now he and vanBuskirk tore open their armor—they had already learned that the atmosphere of Delgon, while not as wholesome for them as that in their suits, would for a time at least support human life—and wrought diligently with pliers, screw-drivers, and other tools of the electrician. Soon their exhausted batteries were upon the floor beneath the instrument panel, absorbing greedily the electrical fluid from the bus-bars of the Delgonians.

  “Now, while they’re getting filled up, let’s see what these people use for guns. Lead on, Worsel!”

  CHAPTER

  7

  The Passing of the Overlords

  ITH WORSEL IN THE LEAD, the three interlopers hastened along a corridor, past branching and intersecting hallways, to a distant wing of the structure. There, it was evident, manufacturing of weapons was carried on; but a quick study of the queer-looking devices and mechanisms upon the benches and inside the storage racks lining the walls convinced Kinnison that the room could yield them nothing of permanent benefit. There were high-powered beam-projectors, it was true; but they were so heavy that they were not even semi-portable. There were also hand weapons of various peculiar patterns, but without exception they were ridiculously inferior to the DeLameters of the Patrol in every respect of power, range, controllability, and storage capacity. Nevertheless, after testing them out sufficiently to make certain of the above findings, he selected an armful of the most powerful models and turned to his companions.

  “Let’s go back to the power room,” he urged. “I’m nervous as a cat. I feel stark naked without my batteries; and if anyone should happen to drop in there and do away with them, we’d be sunk without a trace.”

  Loaded down with Delgonian weapons they hurried back the way they had come. Much to Kinnison’s relief he found that his forebodings had been groundless; the batteries were still there, still absorbing myriawatt-hour after myriawatt-hour from the Delgonian generators. Staring fixedly at the innocuous-looking containers, he frowned in thought.

  “Better we insulate those leads a little heavier and put the cans back in our armor,” he suggested finally. “They’ll charge just as well in place, and it doesn’t stand to reason that this drain of power can go on for the rest of the night without somebody noticing it. And when that happens those Overlords are bound to take plenty of steps—none of which we have any idea what are going to be.”

  “You must have power enough now so that we can all fly away from any possible trouble,” Worsel suggested.

  “But that’s just exactly what we’re not going to do!” Kinnison declared, with finality. “Now that we’ve found a good charger, we aren’t going to leave it until our accumulators are chock-a-block. It’s coming in faster than full draft will take it out, and we’re going to get a full charge if we have to stand off all the vermin of Delgon to do it.”

  Far longer than Kinnison had thought possible they were unmolested, but finally a couple of Delgonian engineers came to investigate the unprecedented shortage in the output of their completely automatic generators. At the entrance they were stopped, for no ordinary tools could force the barricade vanBuskirk had erected behind that portal. With leveled weapons the Patrolmen stood, awaiting the expected attack, but none developed. Hour by hour the long night wore away, uneventfully. At daybreak, however, a storming party appeared and massive battering rams were brought into play.

  As the dull, heavy concussions reverberated throughout the building the Patrolmen each picked up two of the weapons piled before them and Kinnison addressed the Velantian.

  “Drag a couple of those metal benches across that corner and coil up behind them,” he directed. “They’ll be enough to ground any stray charges—if they can’t see you they won’t know you’re here, so probably nothing much will come your way direct.”

  The Velantian demurred, declaring that he would not hide while his two companions were fighting his battle, but Kinnison silenced him fiercely.

  “Don’t be a fool!” the Lensman snapped. “One of these beams would fry you to a crisp in ten seconds, but the defensive fields of our armor could neutralize a thousand of them, from now on. Do as I say, and do it quick, or I’ll shock you unconscious and toss you in there myself!”

  Realizing that Kinnison meant exactly what he said, and knowing that, unarmored as he was, he was utterly unable to resist either the Tellurian or their common foe, Worsel unwillingly erected his metallic barrier and coiled his sinuous length behind it. He hid himself just in time.

  The outer barricade had fallen, and now a wave of reptilian forms flooded into the control room. Nor was this any ordinary investigation. The Overlords had studied the situation from afar, and this wave was one of heavily-armed—for Delgon—soldiery. On they came, projectors fiercel
y aflame; confident in their belief that nothing could stand before their blasts. But how wrong they were! The two repulsively erect bipeds before them neither burned nor fell. Beams, no matter how powerful, did not reach them at all, but spent themselves in crackingly incandescent fury, inches from their marks. Nor were these outlandish beings inoffensive. Utterly careless of the service-life of the pitifully weak Delgonian projectors, they were using them at maximum drain and at extreme aperture—and in the resultant beams the Delgonian soldier-slaves fell in scorched and smoking heaps. On came reserves, platoon after platoon, only and continuously to meet the same fate; for as soon as one projector weakened the invincibly armored man would toss it aside and pick up another. But finally the last commandeered weapon was exhausted and the beleaguered pair brought their own DeLameters—the most powerful portable weapons known to the military scientists of the Galactic Patrol—into play.

  And what a difference! In those beams the attacking reptiles did not smoke or burn. They simply vanished in a blaze of flaming light, as did also the nearby walls and a good share of the building beyond! The Delgonian hordes having disappeared, vanBuskirk shut off his projector. Kinnison, however, left his on, angling its beam sharply upward, blasting into fiery vapor the ceiling and roof over their heads, remarking:

  “While we’re at it we might as well fix things, so that we can make a quick get-away if we want to.”

  Then they waited. Waited, watching the needles of their meters creep ever closer to the “full-charge” marks; waited while, as they suspected, the distant, cowardly-hiding Overlords planned some other, more promising line of physical attack.

  Nor was it long in developing. Another small army appeared, armored this time; or, more accurately, advancing behind metallic shields. Knowing what to expect, Kinnison was not surprised when the beam of his DeLameter not only failed to pierce one of those shields, but did not in any way impede the progress of the Delgonian column.

  “Well, were all done here, anyway, as far as I’m concerned,” Kinnison grinned at the Dutchman as he spoke. “My cans’ve been showing full back pressure for the last two minutes. How about yours?”

  “Same here,” vanBuskirk reported, and the two leaped lightly into the Velantian’s refuge. Then, inertialess all, the three shot into the air at such a pace that to the slow senses of the Delgonian slaves they simply disappeared. Indeed, it was not until the barrier had been blasted away and every room, nook, and cranny of the immense structure had been literally and minutely combed that the Delgonians—and through their enslaved minds the Overlords—became convinced that their prey had in some uncanny and unknown fashion eluded them.

  Now high in air, the three allies traversed in a matter of minutes the same distance that had cost them so much time and strife the day before. Over the monster-infested forest they sped, over the deceptively peaceful green lushness of the jungle, to slant down toward Worsel’s thought-proof tent. Inside that refuge they snapped off their thought screens and Kinnison yawned prodigiously.

  “Working days and nights both is all right for a while, but it gets monotonous in time. Since this seems to be the only really safe spot on the planet, I suggest that we take a day or so off and catch up on our eats and sleeps.”

  They slept and ate; slept and ate again.

  “The next thing on the program,” Kinnison announced then, “Is to clean out that den of Overlords. Then Worsel will be free to help us get going about our own business.”

  “You speak lightly indeed of the impossible,” Worsel, all glum despondency, reproved him. “I have already explained why the task is, and must remain, beyond our power.”

  “Yes, but you don’t quite grasp the possibilities of the stuff we’ve got now to work with,” the Tellurian replied. “Listen: you could never do anything because you couldn’t see through or work through your thought screens. Neither we nor you could, even now, enslave a Delgonian and make him lead us to the cavern, because the Overlords would know all about it way ahead of time and the slave would lead us anywhere else except to the cavern. However, one of us can cut his screen and surrender; possibly keeping just enough screen up to keep the enemy from possessing his mind fully enough to learn that the other two are coming along. The big question is—which of us is to surrender?”

  “That is already decided,” Worsel made instant reply. “I am the logical—in fact, the only one—to do it. Not only would they think it perfectly natural that they should overpower me, but also I am the only one of us three sufficiently able to control his thoughts as to keep from them the knowledge that I am being accompanied. Furthermore, you both know that it would not be good for your minds, unaccustomed as they are to the practice, to surrender their control voluntarily to an enemy.”

  “I’ll say it wouldn’t!” Kinnison agreed, feelingly. “I might do it if I had to, but I wouldn’t like it and I don’t think I’d ever quite get over it. I hate to put such a horrible job off onto you, Worsel, but you’re undoubtedly the best equipped to handle it—and even you may have your hands full.”

  “Yes…” the Velantian said, thoughtfully. “While the undertaking is no longer an absolute impossibility, it is difficult…very. In any event you will probably have to beam me yourselves if we succeed in reaching the cavern… The Overlords will see to that. If so, do it without regret—know that I expect it and am well content to die in that fashion. Any one of my fellows would be only too glad to be in my place; meaning what it does to all Velantia. Know also that I have already reported what is to occur, and that your welcome to Velantia is assured, whether or not I accompany you there.”

  “I don’t think I’ll have to kill you, Worsel,” Kinnison replied, slowly, picturing in detail exactly what that steel-hard reptilian body would be capable of doing when, unshackled, its directing mind was completely taken over by an utterly soulless and conscienceless Overlord. “If you can’t keep from going off the deep end, of course you’ll get tough and I know you’re mighty hard to handle. However, as I told you back there, I think I can beam you unconscious without killing you. I may have to burn off a few scales, but I’ll try not to do any damage that can’t be repaired.”

  “If you can so stop me it will be wonderful indeed. Are we ready?”

  They were ready. Worsel opened the door and in a moment was hurtling through the air, his giant wings arrowing him along at a pace no winged creature of Earth could even approach. And, following him easily at a little distance, floated the two Patrolmen upon their inertialess drives.

  During that long flight scarcely a thought was exchanged, even between Kinnison and vanBuskirk. To direct a thought at the Velantian was of course out of the question. All lines of communication with him had been cut; and furthermore his mind, able as it was, was being taxed to the ultimate cell in doing what he had set out to do. And the two Patrolmen were reluctant to converse with each other, even upon their tight-beams, radios, or sounders, for fear that some slight leakage of thought-energy might reveal their presence to the ever watchful Overlords. If this opportunity were lost, they knew, another chance to wipe out that hellish horde might never present itself.

  Land was traversed, and sea; but finally a stupendous range of mountains reared before them and Worsel, folding back his tireless wings, shot downward in a screaming, full-weight dive. In his line of flight Kinnison saw the mouth of a cave, a darker spot of blackness in the black rock of the mountain’s side. Upon the ledged approach there lay a Delgonian—a guard or lookout, of course.

  The Lensman’s DeLameter was already in his hand, and at sight of the guardian reptile he sighted and fired in one fast motion. But, rapid as it was, it was still too slow—the Overlords had seen that the Velantian had companions of whom he had been able to keep them in ignorance theretofore.

  Instantly Worsel’s wings again began to beat, bearing him off at a wide angle; and, although the Patrolmen were insulated against his thought, the meaning of his antics was very plain. He was telling them in every possible way that the
hole below was not the cavern of the Overlords; that it was over this way; that they were to keep on following him to it. Then, as they refused to follow him, he rushed upon Kinnison in mad attack.

  “Beam him down, Kim!” vanBuskirk yelled. “Don’t take any chances with that bird!” and leveled his own DeLameter.

  “Lay off, Bus!” the Lensman snapped. “I can handle him—a lot easier out here than on the ground.”

  And so it proved. Inertialess as he was, the buffetings of the Velantian affected him not at all; and when Worsel coiled his supple body around him and began to apply pressure, Kinnison simply expanded his thought screen to cover them both, thus releasing the mind of his temporarily inimical friend from the Overlord’s grip. Instantly the Velantian became himself, snapped on his own shield, and the three continued as one their interrupted downward course.

  Worsel came to a halt upon the ledge, beside the practically incinerated corpse of the lookout; knowing, unarmored as he was, that to go further meant sudden death. The armored pair, however, shot on into the gloomy passage. At first they were offered no opposition—the Overlords had had no time to muster an adequate defense. Scattering handfuls of slaves rushed them, only to be blasted out of existence as their hand weapons proved useless against the armor of the Galactic Patrol. Defenders became more numerous as the cavern itself was approached, but neither were they allowed to stay the Patrolman’s progress. Finally a palely shimmering barrier of metal appeared to bar their way. Its fields of force neutralized or absorbed the blasts of the DeLameters, but its material substance offered but little resistance to a thirty-pound sledge, swung by one of the strongest men ever produced by any planet colonized by the humanity of Earth.

  Now they were in the cavern itself—the sanctum sanctorum of the Overlords of Delgon. There was the hellish torture screen; now licked clean of life. There was the audience which had been so avid, now milling about in a mob frenzy of panic. There, upon a raised balcony, were the “big shots” of this nauseous clan; now doing their utmost to marshal some force able to cope effectively with this unheard-of violation of their ages-old immunity.