“They’re blue . . .”
“I don’t mean that.”
“I know you don’t. There were Helmuth, Jalte, Prellin, Crowninshield . . . all I can
think of at the moment. Big operators, son, and smart hombres, if I do say so myself as
shouldn’t; but they’re all ancient history . . . hold it! Maybe I know of a modern one,
too—Eddie’s Lensman. The only part of that picture that was sharp was the Lens, since
Eddie was never analytically interested in any of the hundreds of types of people he
met, but there was something about that Lensman . . . I’ll bring him back and focus him
as sharply as I can . . . there.” Both men studied the blurred statue posed in the Gray
Lensman’s mind. “Wouldn’t you say he could be a Kalonian?”
“Check. I wouldn’t want to say much more than that. But about that Lens—did
you really examine it? It is sharp—under the circumstances, of course, it would be.”
“Certainly! Wrong in every respect—rhythm, chroma, context, and aura.
Definitely not Arisian; therefore Boskonian. That’s the point—that’s what I was afraid of,
you know.”
“Double check. And that point ties in tight with the one that made me call you just
now, that everybody, including you and me, seems to have missed. I’ve been searching
my memory for five hours—you know what my memory is like—and I have heard of
exactly two other Kalonians. They were big operators, too. I have never heard of the
planet itself. To me it is a startling fact that the sum total of my information on Kalonia,
reliable or otherwise, is that it produced seven big-shot zwilniks; six of them before I
was born. Period.”
Kit felt his father’s jaw drop.
“No, I don’t remember of hearing anything about the planet, either,” the older
man finally replied. “But I’ll bet I can get you all the information you want in fifteen
minutes.”
“Credits to millos it’ll be a lot nearer fifteen days. You can find it sometime,
though, if anybody can—that’s why I’m taking it up with you. While I don’t want to seem
to be giving a Gray Lensman orders”—that jocular introduction had come to be a sort of
ritual in the Kinnison family—”I would very diffidently suggest that there might be some
connection between that completely unnoticed planet and some of the things we don’t
know about Boskonia.”
“Diffident! You?” The Gray Lensman laughed deeply. “Like a hydride bomb! I’ll
start a search of Kalonia right away. As to your credits-to-millos-fifteen-days thing, I’d be
ashamed to take your money. You don’t know our librarians or our system. Ten millos,
even money, that we get operational data in less than five G-P days from right now.
Want it?”
“I’ll say so. I’ll wear that cento on my tunic as a medal of victory over the Gray
Lensman. I do know the size of these here two galaxies!”
“QX—it’s a bet. I’ll Lens you when we get the dope. In the meantime, Kit,
remember that you’re my favorite son.”
“Well, you’re not so bad, yourself. Any time I want mother to divorce you so as to
change fathers for me I’ll suggest it to her.” What a terrific, what a tremendous meaning
was heterodyned upon that seemingly light exchange! “Clear ether, dad!”
“Clear ether, son!”
CHAPTER 13: CLARRISSA TAKES HER L-2 WORK
Thousands of years were to pass before Christopher Kinnison could develop the
ability to visualize, from the contemplation of one fact or artifact, the entire Universe to
which it belonged. He could not even plan in detail his one-man invasion of Eddore until
he could integrate all available data concerning the planet Kalonia into his visualization
of the Boskonian Empire. One unknown, Floor, blurred his picture badly enough; two
such completely unknown factors made visualization, even in broad, impossible.
Anyway, he decided, he had one more job to do before he tackled the key planet of the
enemy; and now, while he was waiting for the dope on Kalonia, would be the best time
to do it. Wherefore he sent out a thought to his mother. “Hi, First Lady of the Universe!
‘Tis thy first-born who wouldst fain converse with thee. Art pressly engaged in matters of
moment or import?” “Art not, Kit.” Clarrissa’s characteristic chuckle was as infectious, as
full of the joy of life, as ever. “Not that it would make any difference—but methinks I
detect an undertone of seriosity beneath thy persiflage. Spill it.” “Let’s make it a
rendezvous, instead,” he suggested. “We’re fairly close, I think—closer than we’ve been
for a long time. Where are you, exactly?” “Oh! Can we? Wonderful!” She marked her
location and velocity in his mind. She made no effort to conceal her joy at the idea of a
personal meeting. She never had tried and she never would try to make him put first
matters other than first. She had not expected to see him again, physically, until this war
was over. But if she could . . . ! “QX. Hold your course and speed; I’ll be seeing you in
eighty-three minutes. In the meantime, it’ll be just as well if we don’t communicate, even
by Lens . . .” “Why, son?” “Nothing definite—just a hunch, is all. ‘Bye, gorgeous!” The
two speedsters approached each other—incited— matched intrinsics—went
free—flashed into contact—sped away together upon Clarrissa’s original course. “Hi,
mums!” Kit spoke into a visiphone. “I should of course come to you, but it might be
better if you come in here— I’ve got some special rigs set up here that I don’t want to
leave. QX?” He snapped on one of the special rigs as he spoke—a device which he
himself had built and installed; the generator of the most efficient thought-screen then
known. “Why, of course!” She came, and was swept off her feet in the exuberance of
her tall son’s embrace; a greeting which she returned with equal fervor. “It’s nice,
mother, seeing you again.” Words, or thoughts even, were so inadequate! Kit’s voice
was a trifle rough; his eyes were not completely dry. “Uh-huh. It is nice,” she agreed,
snuggling her spectacular head even more firmly into the curve of his shoulder. “Mental
contact is better than nothing, of course, but this is perfect!”
“Just as much a menace to navigation as ever, aren’t you?” He held her at arm’s
length and shook his head in mock disapproval. “Do you think it’s quite right for one
woman to have so much of everything when all the others have so little of anything?”
“Honestly, I don’t.” She and Kit had always been exceptionally close; now her
love for and her pride in this splendid creature, her son and her first-born, simply would
not be denied. “You’re joking, I know, but that strikes too deep for comfort. I wake up in
the night to wonder why, of all the women in existence, I should be so lucky, especially
in my husband and children . . . QX, skip it.” Kit was shying away—she should have
known better than to try in words even to skirt the profound depths of sentiment which
both she and he knew so well were there.
“Get back onto the beam, gorgeous, you know what I meant. Look at yourself in
the mirror some day—or do you, perchance?”
“Once in a while—maybe twice.” She giggled unaffectedly. “You don’t think all
this charm and glamor conies without effort, do you? But maybe you’d better get back
onto the beam yourself—you didn’t come all these parsecs out of your way to say pretty
things to your mother—even though I admit they’ve built up my ego no end.”
“On target, dead center.” Kit had been grinning, but he sobered quickly. “I wanted
to talk to you about Lyrane and the job you’re figuring on doing out there.”
“Why?” she demanded. “Do you know anything about “Unfortunately, I don’t.”
Kit’s black frown of concentration reminded her forcibly of his father’s characteristic
scowl. “Guesses—suspicions—theories—not even good hunches. But I thought . . . I
wondered . . .” He paused, embarrassed as a schoolboy, then went on with a rush:
“Would you mind it too much if I went into something pretty personal?”
“You know I wouldn’t, son.” In contrast to Kit’s usual clarity and precision of
thought, the question was highly ambiguous, but Clarrissa covered both angles. “I can
conceive of no subject, event, action, or thing, in either my life or yours, too intimate or
too personal to discuss with you in full. Can you?”
“No, I can’t—but this is different. As a woman, you’re tops—the finest and best
that ever lived.” This statement, made with all the matter-of-factness of stating that a
triangle had three corners, thrilled Clarrissa through and through. “As a Gray Lensman
you’re over the rest of them like a cirrus cloud. But you should rate full Second Stage,
and . . . well, you may run up against something too hot to handle, some day, and I. . .