refreshed, in a sense galvanized by the brief personal visit with her dynamic daughter, it
was no longer Mrs. Kimball Kinnison who faced the Lyranian queen. Instead, it was the
Red Lensman; a full-powered Second-Stage Lensman who had finally decided that,
since appeals to reason, logic, and common sense had no perceptible effect upon this
stiff-necked near-woman, the time had come to bear down. “Furthermore, I intend to
interview her now, and not at some such indefinite future time as your whim may see fit
to allow.”
Ladora sent out a final desperate call for help and mustered her every force
against the interloper. Fast and strong as her mind was, however, the Red Lensman’s
was faster and stronger. The Lyranian’s defensive structure was wrecked in the instant
of its building, the frantically struggling mind was taken over in toto. Help
arrived—uselessly; since although Clarrissa’s newly enlarged mind had not been put to
warlike use, it was brilliantly keen and ultimately sure. Nor, in time of stress, did the
softer side of her nature operate to stay mind or hand. While carrying Lensman’s Load
she contained no more of ruth for Civilization’s foes than did abysmally frigid Nadreck
himself.
Head thrown back, taut and tense, gold-flecked tawny eyes flashing, she stood
there for a moment and took on her shield everything those belligerent persons could
send. More, she returned it in kind, plus; and under those withering blasts of force more
than one of her attackers died. Then, still holding her block, she and her unwilling
captive raced across the field toward the line of peculiar little fabric-and-wire machines
that were still the last word in Lyranian air-transport.
Clarrissa knew that the Lyranians had no modern offensive or defensive
weapons. They did, however, have some fairly good artillery at the airport; and she
hoped fervently as she ran that she could put out jets enough to spoil aim and
fuzing—luckily, they hadn’t developed proximity fuzes yet! —of whatever ack-ack they
could bring to bear on her crate during the few minutes she would have to use it.
Fortunately, there was no artillery at the small, unimportant airport on which her
speedster lay.
“Here we are. We’ll take this tripe—it’s the fastest thing here!”
Clarrissa could operate the triplane, of course—any knowledge or ability that
Ladora had ever had was now and permanently the Lensman’s. She started the queer
engines; and as the powerful little plane screamed into the air, hanging from its props,
she devoted what of her mind she could spare to the problem of anti-aircraft fire. She
could not handle all the gun-crews; but she could and did control the most important
members of most of them. Thus, nearly all the shells either went wide or exploded too
soon. Since she knew every point of aim of the few guns with whose operations she
could not interfere, she avoided their missiles by not being at any one of those points at
the predetermined instant of functioning.
Thus plane and passengers escaped unscratched; and in a matter of minutes
arrived at their destination. The Lyranians there had been alerted, of course; but they
were few in number and they had not been informed that it would take physical force,
not mental, to keep that red-headed pseudo-person from boarding her outlandish ship
of space.
In a few more minutes, then, Clarrissa and her captive were high in the
stratosphere. Clarrissa sat Ladora down—hard—in a seat and fastened the safety
straps.
“Stay in that seat and keep your thoughts to yourself,” she directed, curtly. “If you
don’t, you’ll never again either move or think in this life.” She opened a sliding door, put
on a couple of wisps of Manarkan glamorette, reached for a dress, and paused. Eyes
glowing, she gazed hungrily at a suit of plain gray leather; a costume which she had not
as yet so much as tried on. Should she wear it, or not?
She could work efficiently—at service maximum, really—in ordinary clothes.
Ditto, although she didn’t like to, unclothed. In Gray, though, she could hit absolute max
if she had to. Nor had there ever been any question of right involved; the only barrier
had been her own hyper-sensitivity.
For over twenty years she herself had been the only one to deny her right. What
license, she. was wont to ask, did an imitation or synthetic or amateur or “Red”
Lensman have to wear the garb which meant so much to so many? Over those years,
however, it had become increasingly widely known that hers was one of the five finest
and most powerful minds in the entire Gray Legion; and when Coordinator Kinnison
recalled her to active duty in Unattached status, that Legion passed by unanimous vote
a resolution asking her to join them in Gray. Psychics all, they knew that nothing less
would suffice; that if there was any trace of resentment or of antagonism or of feelings
that she did not intrinsically belong, she would never don the uniform which every
adherent of Civilization so revered and for which, deep down, she had always so
intensely longed. The Legion had sent her these Grays. Kit had convinced her that she
did actually deserve them.
She really should wear them. She would.
She put them on, thrilling to the core as she did so, and made the quick little
gesture she had seen Kim make so many times. Gray Seal. No one, however
accustomed, has ever donned or ever will don unmoved the plain gray leather of the
Unattached Lensman of the Galactic Patrol.
Hands on hips, she studied herself minutely and approvingly, both in the mirror
and by means of her vastly more efficient sense of perception. She wriggled a little, and
giggled inwardly as she remembered deploring as “exhibitionistic” this same conduct in
her oldest daughter.
The Grays fitted her perfectly. A bit revealing, perhaps, but her figure was still
good—very good, as a matter of fact. Not a speck of dirt or tarnish. Her DeLameters
were fully charged. Her tremendous Lens flamed brilliantly upon her wrist. She
looked—and felt—ready. She could hit absolute max in a fraction of a micro-second. If
she had to get really tough, she would. She sent out a call.
“Helen of Lyrane! I know they’ve got you around here somewhere, and if any of
your guards try to screen out this thought I’ll burn their brains out. Clarrissa of Sol III
calling. Come in, Helen!”
“Clarrissa!” This time there was no interference. A world of welcome was in every
nuance of the thought. “Where are you?”
“High up, at . . .” Clarrissa gave her position. “I’m in my speedster, so can get to
anywhere on the planet in minutes. More important, where are you? And why?”
“In jail, in my own apartment.” Queens should have palaces, but Lyrane’s ruler
did not. Everything was strictly utilitarian. “The tower on the corner, remember? On the
top floor? ‘Why’ is too long to go into now—I’d better tell you as much as possible of
what you should know, while there’s still time.”
‘Time? Are you in danger?”
“Yes. Ladora would have killed me long ago if it had dared. My following grows
less daily, the Boskonians stronger. The guards have already summoned help. They are
coming now, to take me.”
‘That’s what they think!” Clarrissa had already reached the scene. She had
exactly the velocity she wanted. She slanted downward in a screaming dive. “Can you
tell whether they’re limbering up any ack-ack around there?”
“I don’t believe so—I don’t feel any such thoughts.”
“QX. Get away from the window.” If they hadn’t started already they never would;
the Red Lensman was deadly sure of that.
She came within range—her range—of the guns. She was in time. Several
gunners were running toward their stations. None of them arrived. The speedster
leveled off and stuck its hard, sharp nose into and almost through the indicated room;
re-enforced concrete, steel bars, and glass showering abroad as it did so. The port
snapped open. As Helen leaped in, Clarrissa practically threw Ladora out.
“Bring Ladora back!” Helen demanded. “I shall have its life!”
“Nix!” Clarrissa snapped. “I know everything she does. We’ve other fish to fry, my
dear.”
The massive door clanged shut. The speedster darted forward, straight through
the solid concrete wall. Clarrissa’s vessel, solidly built of beryllium alloys, had been
designed to take brutal punishment. She took it.
Out in open space, Clarrissa went free, leaving the artificial gravity at normal.
Helen stood up, took Clarrissa’s hand, and shook it gravely and strongly; a gesture at
which the Red Lensman almost choked.
Helen of Lyrane had changed even less than had the Earth-woman. She was still
.six feet tall; erect, taut, springy, and poised. She didn’t weigh a pound more than the
one-eighty she had scaled twenty-odd years ago. Her vivid auburn hair showed not one
strand of gray. Her eyes were as clear and as proud; her skin almost as fine and firm.