conclusions.
“I am working on Kandron,” the Palainian replied, flatly. “I made no assumptions
as to whether or not there were other prime movers at work, since the point has no
bearing. Your information is interesting, and may perhaps prove valuable, and I thank
you for it—but my present assignment is to find and to kill Kandron of Onlo.”
Tregonsee and Camilla, then, set out to find “X”; not any definite actual or
deduced entity, but the perpetrator of certain closely related and highly characteristic
phenomena, viz, mass psychoses and mass hysterias. Nor did they extrapolate. They
visited the last few planets which had been affected, in the order in which the attacks
occurred. They studied every phase of every situation. They worked slowly, but—they
hoped and they believed—surely. Neither of them had any idea then that behind “X” lay
Floor, and beyond Floor, Eddore.
Having examined the planet latest to be stricken, they made no effort to pick out
definitely the one next to be attacked. It might be any one of ten worlds, or possibly
even twelve. Hence, neglecting entirely the mathematical and logical probabilities
involved, they watched them all, each taking six. Each flitted from world to world, with
senses alert to perceive the first sign of subversive activity. Tregonsee was a retired
magnate, spending his declining years in seeing the galaxy. Camilla was a Tellurian
business girl on vacation.
Young, beautiful, innocent-looking girls who traveled alone were, then as ever,
regarded as fair game by the Don Juans of any given human world. Scarcely had
Camilla registered at the Hotel Grande when a well-groomed, self-satisfied man-about-
town made an approach.
“Hel-lo, beautiful! Remember me, don’t you—old Tom Thomas? What say we
split a bottle of fayalin, to renew old . . .” He broke off, for the red-headed eyeful’s
reaction was in no sense orthodox. She was not coldly unaware of his presence. She
was neither coy nor angry, neither fearful nor scornful. She was only and vastly
amused.
“You think, then, that I am human and desirable?” Her smile was devastating.
“Did you ever hear of the Canthrips of Ollenole?” She had never heard of them either,
before that instant, but this small implied mendacity did not bother her.
“No . . . o, I can’t say that I have.” The man, while very evidently taken aback by
this new line of resistance, persevered. “What kind of a brush-off do you think you’re
trying to give me?”
“Brush-off? See me as I am, you beast, and thank whatever gods you recognize
that I am not hungry, having eaten just last night.” In his sight her green eyes darkened
to a jetty black, the flecks of gold in them scintillated and began to emit sparks. Her hair
turned into a mass of horribly clutching tentacles. Her teeth became fangs, her fingers
talons, her strong, splendidly proportioned body a monstrosity out of hell’s grisliest
depths.
After a moment she allowed the frightful picture to fade back into her charming
self, keeping the Romeo from fainting• by the power of her will.
“Call the manager if you like. He has been watching and has seen nothing except
that you are pale and sweating. I, a friend of yours, have been giving you some bad
news, perhaps. Tell your stupid police all about me, if you wish to spend the next few
weeks in a padded cell. I’ll see you again in a day or two, I hope: I’ll be hungry again by
that time.” She walked away, serenely confident that the fellow would never willingly
come within sight of her again.
She had not damaged his ego permanently—he was not a neurotic type—but
she had given him a jolt that he’d never forget. Camilla Kinnison nor any of her sisters
had anything to fear from any male or males infesting any planet or roaming any depths
of space.
The expected and awaited trouble developed. Tregonsee and Camilla landed
and began their hunt. The League for Planetary Purity, it appeared, was the primary
focal point; hence the two attended a meeting of that crusading body. That was a
mistake; Tregonsee should have stayed out in deep space, concealed behind a solid
thought-screen.
For Camilla was an unknown. Furthermore, her mind was inherently stable at the
third level of stress; no lesser mind could penetrate her screens or, having failed to do
so, could recognize the fact of failure. Tregonsee, however, was known throughout all
civilized space. He was not wearing his Lens, of course, but his very shape made him
suspect. Worse, he could not hide from any mind as powerful as that of “X” the fact that
his mind was very decidedly not that of a retired Rigellian gentleman.
Thus Camilla had known that the procedure was a mistake. She intimated as
much, but she could not sway the unswerving Tregonsee from his determined course
without revealing things which must forever remain hidden from him. She acquiesced,
therefore, but she knew what to expect.
Hence, when the invading intelligence blanketed the assemblage lightly, only to
be withdrawn instantly upon detecting the emanations of a mind of real power, Cam had
a bare moment of time in which to act. She synchronized with the intruding thought,
began to analyze it and to trace it back to its source. She did not have time enough to
succeed fully in either endeavor, but she did get a line. When the foreign influence
vanished she shot a message to Tregonsee and they sped away.
Hurtling through space along the established line, Tregonsee’s mind was a
turmoil of thought; thoughts as plain as print to Camilla. She flushed
uncomfortably—she could of course blush at will.
“I’m not half the super-woman you’re picturing,” she said. That was true enough;
no one this side of Arisia could have been. “You’re so famous, you know, and I’m not—
while he was examining you I had a fraction of a second to work in. You didn’t.”
“That may be true.” Although Tregonsee had no eyes, the girl knew that he was
staring at her; scanning, but not intruding. She lowered her barriers so far that he
thought they were completely down. “You have, however, extraordinary and completely
inexplicable powers . . . but, being the daughter of Kimball and Clarrissa Kinnison . . .”
“That’s it, I think.” She paused, then, in a burst of girlish confidence, went on:
“I’ve got something, I really do think, but I don’t know what it is or what to do with it.
Maybe in fifty years or so I will.”
This also was close enough to the truth, and it did serve to restore to Tregonsee
his wonted poise. “Be that as it may, I will take your advice next time, if you will offer it.”
‘Try and stop me—I love to give advice.” She laughed unaffectedly. “It might not
be any better next time.”
Then, further to quiet the shrewd Rigellian’s suspicions, she strode over to the
control panel and checked the course. Having done so, she fanned out detectors,
centering upon that course, to the fullest range of their power. She swaggered a little
when she speared with a CRX tracer a distant vessel in a highly satisfactory location.
That act would cut her down to size in Tregonsee’s mind.
“You think, then, that ‘X’ is in that ship?” he asked quietly.
“Probably not.” She could not afford to act too dumb-she could fool a Second-
Stage Lensman a little, but nobody could fool one much. “It may, however, give us a
lead.”
“It is practically certain that ‘X’ is not in that vessel.” Tregonsee thought. “In fact, it
may be a trap. We must, however, make the customary arrangements to take it into
custody.”
Cam nodded and the Rigellian communications officers energized their long-
range beams. Far ahead of the fleeing vessel, centering upon its line of flight, fast
cruisers of the Galactic Patrol began to form a gigantic cup. Hours passed, and—a not
unexpected circumstance—Tregonsee’s super-dreadnought gained rapidly upon the
supposed Boskonian.
The quarry did not swerve or dodge. Straight into the mouth of the cup it sped.
Tractors and pressors reached out, locked on, and were neither repulsed nor cut. The
strange ship did not go inert, did not put out a single course of screen, did not fire a
beam. She did not reply to signals. Spy-rays combed her from needle nose to driving
jets, searching every compartment. There was no sign of life aboard.
Spots of pink appeared upon Camilla’s deliciously smooth cheeks, her eyes
flashed. “We’ve been had, Uncle Trig—how we’ve been had!” she exclaimed, and her
chagrin was not all assumed. She had not quite anticipated such a complete fiasco as
this.
“Score one for ‘X’,” Tregonsee said. He not only seemed to be, but actually was,
calm and unmoved. “We will now go back and pick up where we left off.”
They did not discuss the thing at all, nor did they wonder how “X” escaped them.