– And it was. The Boskonians—barrel-bodied, blocky-limbed monstrosities
resembling human beings about as much as they did the Velantians—wore armor,
possessed hand-weapons of power, and fought viciously. They had even managed to
rig a few semi-portable projectors, but none of these was allowed a single blast. Spy-ray
observers were alert, and needle-beam operators; hence the fighting was all at hand to
hand, with hand-weapons only. For, while the Velantians to a man lusted to kill, they
had had it drilled into them for twenty years that the search for information came first;
the pleasure of killing, second.
Worsel himself went straight for the Boskonian officer in command. That wight
had a couple of guards with him, but they did not matter—needle-ray men took care of
them. He also had a pair of heavy blasters, which he held steadily on the Velantian.
Worsel paused momentarily; then, finding his screens adequate, he slammed the
control-room door shut with a flick of his tail and launched himself, straight and level at
his foe, with an acceleration of ten gravities. The Boskonian tried to dodge but could
not. The frightful impact did not kill him, but it hurt him, badly. Worsel, on the other hand,
was scarcely jarred. Hard, tough, and durable, Velantians are accustomed from birth to
knockings-about which would pulverize human bones.
Worsel batted the Boskonian’s guns away with two terrific blows of an armored
paw, noting as he did so that violent contact with a steel wall didn’t do their interior
mechanisms a bit of good. Then, after cutting off both his enemy’s screens and his own,
he batted the Boskonian’s helmet; at first experimentally, then with all his power.
Unfortunately, however, it held. So did the thought-screen, and there were no external
controls. That armor, damn it, was good stuff!
Leaping to the ceiling, he blasted his whole mass straight down upon the
breastplate, striking it so hard this time that he hurt his head. Still no use. He wedged
himself between two heavy braces, flipped a loop of tail around the Boskonian’s feet,
and heaved. The armored form flew across the room, struck the heavy steel wall,
bounced, and dropped. The bulges of the armor were flattened by the force of the
collision, the wall was dented—but the thought-screen still held!
Worsel was running out of time, fast. He couldn’t treat the thing very much
rougher without killing him, if he wasn’t dead already. He couldn’t take him aboard; he
had to cut that screen here and now! He could see how the armor was put together; but,
armored as he was, he could not take it apart. And, since the whole ship was empty of
air, he could not open his own.
Or could he? He could. He could breathe space long enough to do what had to
be done. He cut off his air, loosened a plate enough to release four or five hands, and,
paying no attention to his laboring lungs, set furiously to work. He tore open the
Boskonian’s armor, snapped off his thought-screen. The creature wasn’t quite dead
yet—good! He didn’t know a damn thing, though, nor did any member of his crew . . .
but. . . a ground-gripper—a big shot—had got away. Who, or what was he?
‘Tell me!” Worsel demanded, with the full power of mind and Lens, even while he
was exploring with all his skill and speed. ‘TELL ME!”
But the Boskonian was dying fast. The ungentle treatment, and now the lack of
air, were taking toll. His patterns were disintegrating by the second, faster and faster.
Meaningless blurs, which, under Worsel’s vicious probing, condensed into something
which seemed to be a Lens.
A Lensman? Impossible—starkly unthinkable! But jet back —hadn’t Kim
intimated a while back that there might be such things as Black Lensmen?
But Worsel himself wasn’t feeling so good. He was only half conscious. Red,
black, and purple spots were dancing in front of every one of his eyes. He sealed his
suit, turned on his ah-, gasped, and staggered. Two of the nearest Velantians, both of
whom had been en rapport with him throughout, came running to his aid; arriving just as
he recovered full control.
“Back to the Velan, everybody!” he ordered. “No time for any more fun—we’ve
got to get that lifeboat!” Then, as soon as he had been obeyed: “Bomb that hulk . . .
Good! Flit!”
Overtaking the lifeboat did not take long. Spearing it with a tractor and yanking it
alongside required only seconds. For all his haste, Worsel found in it only a something
that looked as though it once might have been a Delgonian Lensman. It had blown itself
apart. Because of its reptilian tenacity of life, however, it was not quite dead: its Lens
still showed an occasional flicker of light and its disintegrating mind was not yet entirely
devoid of patterns. Worsel studied that mind until all trace of life had vanished. Then he
called Kinnison.
“. . . so you see I guessed wrong. The Lens was too dim to read, but he must
have been a Black Lensman. The only readable thought in his mind was an extremely
fuzzy one of the planet Lyrane Nine. I hate to have hashed the job up so; especially
since I had one chance in two of guessing right.”
“Well, no use squawking now . . .” Kinnison paused in thought. “Besides, he
could have done it anyway, and would have. You haven’t done too badly, at that. You
found a Black Lensman who isn’t a Kalonian, and you’ve got confirmation of Boskonian
interest in Lyrane Nine. What more do you want? Stick around fairly close to the Hell-
Hole, Slim, and as soon as I can make it, I’ll join you there.”
CHAPTER 20: KINNISON AND THE BLACK LENSMAN
Boys, take her upstairs,” Klnnison-Thyron ordered, and the tremendous
raider—actually the Dauntless in disguise —floated serenely upward to a station
immediately astern of Mendonai’s flagship. All three courses of multi-ply defensive
screen were out, as were full-coverage spy-ray blocks and thought-screens.
As the fleet blasted in tight formation for Kalonia III, Boskonian experts tested the
Dauntless’ defenses thoroughly, and found them bottle-tight. No intrusion was possible.
The only open channel was to Thyron’s plate, which was so villainously fogged that
nothing could be seen except Thyron’s face. Convinced at last of that fact, Mendonai sat
back and seethed quietly; his pervasive Kalonian blueness pointing up his grim and
vicious mood.
He had never, in all his life, been insulted so outrageously. Was there
anything—anything!—he could do about it? There was not. Thyron, personally, he could
not touch—yet—and toe fact that the outlaw had so brazenly and so nonchalantly
Placed his vessel in the exact center of the Boskonian fleet made it pellucidly clear to
any Boskonian mind that he had nothing whatever to fear from that fleet.
Wherefore the Kalonian seethed, and, his minions stepped ever more softly and
followed with ever-increasing punctilio the rigid Boskonian code. For the grapevine
carries news swiftly; by this time the whole fleet knew that His Nibs had been taking a
God-awful kicking around, and the first guy who gave him an excuse to blow his stack
would be lucky if he only got skinned alive.
As the fleet spread out for inert maneuvering above the Kalonian atmosphere,
Kinnison turned again to the young Lensman.
“One last word, Frank. I’m sure everything’s covered—a lot of smart people
worked on this problem. Nevertheless, something may happen, so I’ll send you the data
as fast as I get it. Remember what I told you before—if I get the dope we need, I’m
expendable and it’ll be your job to get it back to Base. No heroics. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.” The young Lensman gulped. “I hope, though, that it doesn’t. . .”
“So do I,” Kinnison grinned as he climbed into his highly special dureum armor,
“and the chances are a million to one that it won’t. That’s why I’m going down there.”
In their respective speedsters Kinnison and Mendonai made the long drop to
ground, and side by side they went into the office of Black Lensman Melasnikov. That
worthy, too, wore heavy armor; but he did not have a mechanical thought-screen. With
his terrific power of mind, he did not need one. Thyron, of course, did; a fact of which
Melasnikov became instantly aware.
“Release your screen,” he directed, bruskly.
“Not yet, pal—don’t be so hasty,” Thyron advised. “Some things about this here
hook-up don’t exactly click. We got a little talking to do before I open up.”
“No talk, worm. Talk, especially your talk, is meaningless. From you I want, and
will have, the truth, and not talk. CUT THOSE SCREENS!”
* * * *
And lovely Kathryn, in her speedster not too far away, straightened up and sent
out a call.
“Kit—Kay—Cam—Con . . . are you free?” They were, for the moment. “Stand by,
please, all of you. I’m pretty sure something is going to happen. Dad can handle this