after he had been convinced that he most probably was, the Onlonian’s thoughts had
touched fleetingly upon a multitude of closely-related subjects. Would it be safe to
abandon some of the more onerous precautions he had always taken, and which had
served him so well for so many years? And as he thought of them, each one of his
safeguards flashed at least partially into view; and for Nadreck, any significant part was
as good as the whole. Kandron’s protective devices, therefore, did not protect.
Projectors, designed to flame out against intruders, remained cold. Ports opened; and
as Nadreck touched sundry buttons various invisible beams, whose breaking would
have produced unpleasant results, ceased to exist. In short, Nadreck knew all the
answers. If he had not been coldly certain that his information was complete, he would
not have acted at all.
After entry, his first care was to send out spotting devices which would give
warning in case Kandron should return unexpectedly soon. Then, working in the
service-spaces behind instrument-boards and panels, in junction boxes, and in various
other out-of-the-way places, he cut into lead after lead, ran wire after wire, and installed
item after item of apparatus and equipment upon which he had been at work for weeks.
He finished his work undisturbed. He checked and rechecked the circuits, making
absolutely certain that every major one of the vessel’s controlling leads ran to or through
at least one of the things he had just installed. With painstaking nicety he obliterated
every visible sign of his visit. He departed as carefully as he had come; restoring to full
efficiency as he went each one of Kandron’s burglar-alarms.
Kandron returned, entered his ship as usual, stored his flitter, and extended a
tentacular member toward the row of switches on his panel.
“Don’t touch anything, Kandron,” he was advised by a thought as cold and as
deadly as any one of his own; and upon the Onlonian equivalent of a visiplate there
appeared the one likeness which he least expected and least desired to perceive.
“Nadreck of Palain VII—Star A Star—THE Lensman!” The Onlonian was
physically and emotionally incapable of gasping, but the idea is appropriate. “You have,
then, wired and mined this ship.”
There was a subdued clicking of relays. The Bergenholm came up to speed, the
speedster spun about and darted away under a couple of kilodynes of drive.
“I am Nadreck of Palain VII, yes. One of the group of Lensmen whose collective
activities you have ascribed to Star A Star and the Lensman. Your ship is, as you have
deduced, mined. The only reason you did not die as you entered it is that I wish to be
really certain, and not merely statistically so, that it is Kandron of Onlo, not someone,
else, who dies.”
“That unutterable fool!” Kandron quivered in helpless rage. “Oh, that I had taken
the time and killed you myself!”
“If you had done your own work, the techniques I used here could not have been
employed, and you might have been in no danger at the present moment,” Nadreck
admitted, equably enough. “My powers are small, my intellect feeble, and what might
have been has no present bearing. I am inclined, however, to question the validity of
your conclusions, due to the known fact that you have been directing a campaign
against me for over twenty years without success; whereas I have succeeded against
you in less than half a year. . . . My analysis is now complete. You may now touch any
control you please. By the way, you do not deny that you are Kandron of Onlo, do you?”
Neither of those monstrous beings mentioned or even thought of mercy. In
neither of their languages was there any word for or concept of such a thing.
“That would be idle. You know my pattern as well as I know yours. . . . I cannot
understand how you got through that. . .”
“It is not necessary that you should. Do you wish to close one of those switches
or shall I?”
Kandron had been thinking for minutes, studying every aspect of his
predicament. Knowing Nadreck, he knew just how desperate the situation was. There
was, however, one very small chance—just one. The way he had come was clear. That
was the only clear way. Wherefore, to gain an extra instant of time, he reached out
toward a switch; but even while he was reaching he put every ounce of his tremendous
strength into a leap which hurled him across the room toward his flitter.
No luck. One of Nadreck’s minor tentacles was already Curled around a switch,
tensed and ready. Kandron was still in air when a relay snapped shut and four canisters
of duodec detonated as one. Duodecaplylatomate, that frightful detonant whose
violence is exceeded only by that of nuclear disintegration!
There was an appalling flash of viciously white light, which expanded in
milliseconds into an enormous globe of incandescent gas. Cooling and darkening as it
expanded rapidly, into the near-vacuum of interplanetary space, the gases and vapors
soon became invisible. Through and throughout the entire volume of volatilization
Nadreck drove analyzers and detectors, until he knew positively that no particle of
material substance larger in diameter than five microns remained of either Kandron or
his space-ship. He then called the Gray Lensman.
“Kinnison? Nadreck of Palain VII calling, to report that my assignment has been
completed. I have destroyed Kandron of Onlo.”
“Good! Fine business, ace! What kind of a picture did you get? He must have
known something about the higher echelons—or did he? Was he just another dead
end?”
“I did not go into that.”
“Huh? Why not?” Kinnison demanded, exasperation in every line of his thought.
“Because it was not included in the project,” Nadreck explained, patiently. “You
already know that one must concentrate in order to work efficiently. To secure the
requisite minimum of information it was necessary to steer his thoughts into one, and
only one, set of channels. There were some foreign side-bands, of course, and it may
be that some of them touched upon this new subject which you have now, too late,
introduced . . . no, there were no such.”
“Damnation!” Kinnison exploded; then by main strength shut himself up. “QX,
ace; skip it. But listen, my spiny and murderous friend. Get this—engrave it in big type
right on the top-side inside of your thick skull—what we want is INFORMATION, not
mere liquidation. Next time you get hold of such a big shot as Kandron must have been,
don’t kill him until either: first, you get some leads as to who or what the real head of the
outfit is; or, second, you make sure that he doesn’t know. Then kill him all you want to,
but FIND OUT WHAT HE KNOWS FIRST. Have I made myself clear this time?”
“You have, and as coordinator your instructions should and will govern. I point
out, however, that the introduction of a multiplicity of objectives into a problem not only
destroys its unity, but also increases markedly both the time necessary for, and the
actual personal danger involved in, its solution.”
“So what?” Kinnison countered, as evenly as he could. “That way, we may be
able to get the answer some day. Your way, we never will. But the thing’s done—there’s
no use yapping and yowling about it now. Have you any ideas as to what you should do
next?”
“No. Whatever you wish, that I shall try to do.”
“I’ll check with the others.” He did so, receiving no helpful ideas until he consulted
his wife.
“Hi, Kim, my dear!” came Clarrissa’s buoyant thought; and, after a brief but
intense greeting: “Glad you called. Nothing definite enough yet to report to you officially,
but there are indications that Lyrane IX may be an important . . .
“Nine?” Kinnison interrupted. “Not Eight again?”
“Nine,” she confirmed. “A new item. So I may be doing a flit over there one of
these days.”
“Uh-uh,” he denied. “Lyrane Nine would be none of your business. Stay away
from it.”
“Says who?” she demanded. “We went into this once before, Kim, about you
telling me what I could and couldn’t do.”
“Yeah, and I came out second best.” Kinnison grinned. “But now, as coordinator,
I make suggestions to even Second-Stage Lensmen, and they follow them—or else. I
therefore suggest officially that you stay away from Lyrane IX on the grounds that since
it is colder than a Palainian’s heart, it is definitely not your problem, but Nadreck’s. And
I’m adding this—if you don’t behave yourself I’ll come over there and administer
appropriate physical suasion.”
“Come on over—that’d be fun!” Clarrissa giggled, then sobered quickly. “But
seriously, you win, I guess—this time. You’ll keep me informed?”
“I’ll do that. Clear ether, Cris!” and he turned back to the Palainian.
“. . . so you see this is your problem. Go to it, little chum.”