He opened up her mind as she had never dreamed it possible for a mind to open. He
separated the tiny, jammed compartments, each completely from every other. He
showed her how to make room for this tremendous expansion and watched her do it,
against the shrieking protests of every cell and fiber of her body and of her brain. He
drilled new channels everywhere, establishing an inconceivably complex system of
communication lines of infinite conductivity. He knew just what he was doing to her,
since the same thing had been done to him so recently, but he kept on relentlessly until
the job was done. Completely done.
Then, working together, they sorted and labeled and classified and catalogued.
They checked and double checked. Finally she knew, and Kit knew that she knew,
every hitherto unplumbed recess of her mind and every individual cell of her brain.
Every iota of every quality and characteristic, every scrap of knowledge she had ever
acquired or ever would acquire, would be at her command instantaneously and
effortlessly. Then, and only then, did Kit withdraw his mind from hers.
“Did you say that I was short just a few jets, Kit?” She got up groggily and
mopped her face; upon which her few freckles stood out surprisingly dark upon a
background of white. “I’m a wreck—I’d better go and . . .”
“As you were for just a sec—I’ll break out a bottle of fayalin. This rates a
celebration of sorts, don’t you think?”
“Very much so.” As she sipped the pungently aromatic red liquid her color began
to come back. “No wonder I felt as though I were missing something all these years.
Thanks, Kit. I really appreciate it. You’re a . . .”
“Seal it, mums.” He picked her up and squeezed her, hard. He scarcely noticed
her sweat-streaked face and disheveled hair, but she did.
“Good Heavens, Kit, I’m a perfect hag!” she exclaimed. “I’ve got to go and put on
a new face!”
“QX. I don’t feel quite so fresh, myself. What I need, though, is a good, thick
steak. Join me?”
“Uh-uh. How can you even think of eating, at a time like this?”
“Same way you can think of war-paint and feathers, I suppose. Different people,
different reactions. QX, I’ll be in there and see you in fifteen or twenty minutes. Flit!”
She left, and Kit heaved an almost explosive sigh of relief. Mighty good thing she
hadn’t asked too many questions— if she had become really curious, he would have
had a horrible time keeping her away from the fact that that kind of work never had been
done and never would be done outside of solid Arisian screen. He ate, cleaned up, ran
a comb through his hair, and, when his mother was ready, crossed over into her
speedster.
“Whee—whee-yu!” Kit whistled descriptively. “What a seven-sector call-out! Just
who do you think you’re going to knock out of the ether on Lyrane Two?”
“Nobody at all.” Clarrissa laughed. “This is all for you, son—and maybe a little bit
for me, too.”
“I’m stunned. You’re a blinding flash and a deafening report. But I’ve got to do a
flit, gorgeous. So clear . . .”
“Wait a minute—you can’t go yet! I’ve got questions to ask you about these new
networks and things. How do I handle them?”
“Sorry—you’ve got to develop your own techniques. You know that already.”
“In a way. I thought maybe, though, I could wheedle you into helping me a little. I
should have known better—but tell me, all Lensmen don’t have minds like this, do
they?”
“I’ll say they don’t. They’re all like yours was before, but not as good. Except the
other L2’s, of course—dad, Worsel, Tregonsee, and Nadreck. Theirs are more or less
like yours is now; but you’ve got a lot of stuff they haven’t.”
“Huh?” she demanded. “Such as?”
“‘Way down—there.” He showed her. “You worked all that stuff yourself. I only
showed you how, without getting in too close.”
“Why? Oh, I see—you would. Life force. I would have lots of that, of course.” She
did not blush, but Kit did.
“Life force” was a pitifully inadequate term indeed for that which Civilization’s only
Lensman-mother had in such measure, but they both knew what it was. Kit ducked.
“You can always tell all about a Lensman by looking at his Lens; it’s the wiring
diagram of his total mind. You’ve studied dad’s of course.”
“Yes. Three times as big as the ordinary, ones—or mine —and much finer and
brighter. But mine isn’t, Kit?”
“It wasn’t, you mean. Look at it now.”
She opened a drawer, reached in, and stared; her eyes and mouth becoming
three round O’s of astonishment. She had never seen that Lens before, or anything like
it. It was three times as big as hers, seven times as fine and as intricate, and ten times
as bright.
“Why, this isn’t mine!” she gasped. “But it must be . . .”
“Sneeze, beautiful,” Kit advised. “Cobwebs. You aren’t thinking a lick. Your mind
changed, so your Lens had to. See?”
“Of course—I wasn’t thinking; that’s a fact. Let me look at your Lens, Kit—you
never seem to wear it—I haven’t seen it since you graduated.”
“Sure. Why not?” He reached into a pocket. “I take after you, that way; neither of
us gets any kick out of throwing his weight around.”
His Lens flamed upon his wrist. It was larger in diameter than Clarrissa’s, and
thicker. Its texture was finer; its colors were brighter, harsher, and seemed, somehow,
solider. Both studied both Lenses for a moment, then Kit seized his mother’s hand,
brought their wrists together, and stared.
“That’s it,” he breathed. “That’s it . . . That’s IT, just as sure as Klono has got
teeth and claws.”
“What’s it? What do you seer she demanded.
“I see how and why I got the way I am—and if the kids had Lenses theirs would
be the same. Remember dad’s? Look at your dominants—notice that every one of them
is duplicated in mine. Blank them out of mine, and see what you’ve got left—pure
Kimball Kinnison, with just enough extras thrown in to make me an individual instead of
a carbon copy. Hm . . . hm . . . credits to millos this is what comes of having Lensmen
on both sides of the family. No wonder we’re freaks! Don’t know whether I’m in favor of it
or not—I don’t think they should produce any more Lady Lensmen, do you? Maybe
that’s why they never did.”
“Don’t try to be funny,” she reproved; but her dimples were again in evidence. “If
it would result in more people like you and your sisters, I’d be very much in favor of it;
but, some way or other,-! doubt it. I know you’re squirming to go, so I won’t hold you any
longer. What you just found out about Lenses is fascinating. For the rest of it . . . well . .
. thanks, son, and clear ether.”
“Clear ether, mother. This is the worst part of being together, leaving so quick. I’ll
see you again, though, soon and often. It you get stuck, yell, and one of the kids or I
—or all of us—will be with you in a split second.”
He gave her a quick, hard hug; kissed her enthusiastically, and left. He did not
tell her, and she never did find out, that his “discovery” of one of the secrets of the Lens
was made to keep her from asking questions which he could not answer.
The Red Lensman was afraid that she would not have time to put her new mind
in order before reaching Lyrane II; but, being naturally a good housekeeper, she did.
More, so rapidly and easily did her mind now work, she had time to review and to
analyze every phase of her previous activities upon that planet and to lay out in broad
her first lines of action. She wouldn’t put on the screws at first, she decided. She would
let them think that she didn’t have any more jets than before. Helen was nice, but a
good many of the others, especially that airport manager, were simply quadruply-
distilled vixens. She’d take it easy at first, but she’d be very sure that she didn’t get into
any such jams as last time.
She coasted down through Lyrane’s stratosphere and poised high above the city
she remembered so well.
“Helen of Lyrane!” she sent out a sharp, clear thought. “That is not your name, I
know, but we did not learn any other . . .”
She broke off, every nerve taut. Was that, or was it not, Helen’s thought; cut off,
wiped out by a guardian block before it could take shape?
“Who are you stranger, and what do you want?” the thought came, almost
instantly, from a person seated at the desk which had been Helen’s.