itself upon her mind.
* * * *
And Karen and Camilla, together in Tregonsee’s ship, glanced at each other and
exchanged flashing thoughts. Should they interfere? They hadn’t had to so far, but it
began to look as though they might have to, now—it would wreck their mother’s mind, if
she could understand. She probably could not understand it, any more than Cleonie
could—but even if she could, she had so much more inherent stability, even than dad,
that she might be able to take it, at that. Nor would she ever leak, even to dad—and he,
bless his tremendous boots, was not the type to pry. Maybe, though, just to be on the
safe side, it would be better to screen the stuff, and to edit it a little if necessary. The
two girls synchronized their minds all imperceptibly with their mother’s and Cleonie’s,
and “listened.”
* * * *
The time was in the unthinkably distant past; the location was unthinkably remote
in space. A huge planet circled slowly about a cooling sun. Its atmosphere was not air;
its liquid was not water. Both were noxious; composed in large part of compounds
known to man only in his chemical laboratories.
Yet life was there; a race which was even then ancient. Not sexual, this race. Not
androgynous, nor hermaphroditic, but absolutely sexless. Except for the many who died
by physical or mental violence, its members lived endlessly:
after hundreds of thousands of years each being, having reached his capacity to
live and to learn, divided into two individuals; each of which, although possessing in toto
the parent’s memories, knowledges, skills, and powers, had also a renewed and
increased capacity.
And, since life was, there had been competition. Competition for power.
Knowledge was desirable only insofar as it contributed to power. Power for the
individual—the group —the city. Wars raged—what wars!—and internecine strifes which
lasted while planets came into being, grew old, and died. And finally, to the survivors,
there came peace. Since they could not kill each other, they combined their powers and
hurled them outward—together they would dominate and rule solar
systems—regions—the Galaxy itself—the entire macrocosmic universe!
More and more they used their minds, to bring across gulfs of space and to
enslave other races, to labor under their direction. By nature and by choice they were
bound to their own planet; few indeed were the planets upon which their race could
possibly live. Thus, then, they lived and ruled by proxy, through echelon after echelon of
underlings, an ever-increasing number of worlds.
Although they had long since learned that their asexuality was practically unique,
that sexual life dominated the universe, this knowledge served only to stiffen their
determination not only to rule the universe, but also to change its way of life to conform
with their own. They were still seeking a better proxy race; the more nearly asexual a
race, the better. The Kalonians, whose women had only one function in life—the
production of men—approached that ideal.
Now these creatures had learned of the matriarchs of Lyrane. That they were
physically females meant nothing; to the Eddorians one sex was just as good—or as
bad—as any other. The Lyranians were strong; not tainted by the weaknesses which
seemed to characterize all races believing in even near-equality of the sexes. Lyranian
science had been trying for centuries to do away with the necessity for males; in a few
more generations, with some help, that goal could be achieved and the perfect proxy
race would have been developed.
This story was not obtained in any such straightforward fashion as it is presented
here. It was dim, murky, confused. Cleonie never had understood it. Clarrissa
understood it somewhat better: that unnamed and as yet unknown race was the highest
of Boskone, and the place of the Kalonians in the Boskonian scheme was at long last
clear.
“I am giving you this story,” the Kalonian Lensman told Cleonie coldly, “not of my
own free will but because I must. I hate you as much as you hate me. What I would like
to do to you, you may imagine. Nevertheless, so that your race may have its chance, I
am to take you on a trip and, if possible, make a Lensman out of you. Come with me.”
And, urged by her jealousy of Helen, her seething ambition, and probably, if the truth
were to be known, by an Eddorian mind, Cleonie went.
There is no need to dwell at length upon the horrors, the atrocities, of that trip; of
which the matter of Eddie the meteor-miner was only a very minor episode. It will suffice
to say that Cleonie was very good Boskonian material; that she learned fast and passed
all tests successfully.
“That’s all,” the Black Lensman informed her then, “and I’m glad to see the last of
you. You’ll get a message when to hop over to Nine and pick up your Lens. Flit—and I
hope the first Gray Lensman you meet rams his Lens down your throat and turns you
inside out.”
“The same to you, brother, and soon,” Cleonie sneered. “Or, better, when my
race supplants yours as Proxies of Power, I shall give myself the pleasure of doing just
that to you.”
“Clarrissa! Clarrissa! Pay attention, please!” The Red Lensman came to herself
with a start—Helen had been thinking at her, with increasing power, for seconds. The
Velan’s image filled half the plate.
In minutes, then, Clarrissa and her party were in Kinnison’s private quarters in
the Dauntless. There had been warm mental greetings; physical demonstrations would
come later. Worsel broke in.
“Excuse it, Kim, but seconds count. Better we split, don’t you think? You find out
what the score around here is, from Clarrissa, and take steps, and I’ll chase that damn
Boskonian. He’s flitting—fast.”
“QX, Slim,” and the Velan disappeared.
“You remember Helen, of course, Kim.” Kinnison bent his head, flipping a quick
grin at his wife, who had spoken aloud. The Lyranian, trying to unbend, half-offered her
hand, but when he did not take it she withdrew it as enthusiastically as she had twenty
years before. “And this is Cleonie, the . . . the wench I’ve been telling you about. You
knew her before.”
“Yeah. She hasn’t changed much, either—still as unbarbered a mess as ever. If
you’ve got what you want, Cris, we’d better . . .”
“Kimball Kinnison, I demand Cleonie’s life!” came Helen’s vibrant thought. She
had snatched one of Clarrissa’s DeLameters and was swinging it into line when she was
caught and held as though in a vise.
“Sorry, Toots,” The Gray Lensman’s thought was more than a little grim. “Nice
little girls don’t play so rough. ‘Scuse me, Cris, for dipping into your dish. Take over.”
“Do you really mean that, Kim?”
“Yes. It’s your meat—slice it as thick or as thin as you please.”
“Even to letting her go?”
“Check. What else could you do? In a lifeboat—I’ll even show the jade how to run
it.”
“Oh . . . Kim . . .”
“Quartermaster! Kinnison. Please check Number Twelve lifeboat and break it out.
I am loaning it to Cleonie of Lyrane II.”
CHAPTER 22: KIT INVADES EDDORE; AND –
Kit had decided long since that it was his job to scout the planet Eddore. His
alone. He had told several people that he was en route there, and in a sense he had
been, but he was not hurrying. Once he started that job, he would have to see it through
with absolutely undisturbed attention, and there had been altogether too many other
things popping up. Now, however, his visualization showed a couple of weeks of free
time, and that would be enough. He wasn’t sure whether he was grown-up enough yet
to do a man’s job of work or not, and Mentor wouldn’t tell him. This was the best way to
find out. If so, QX. If not, he would back off, wait and try again later.
The kids had wanted to go along, of course.
“Come on, Kit, don’t be a pig!” Constance started what developed into the last
violent argument of their long lives.
“Let’s gang up on it—think what a grand work-out that would be for the Unit!”
“Uh-uh, Con. Sorry, but it isn’t in the cards, any more than ‘it was the last time we
discussed it,” he began, reasonably enough.
“We didn’t agree to it then,” Kay cut in, stormily, “and I for one am not going to
agree to it now. You don’t have to do it today. In fact, later on would be better. Anyway,
Kit, I’m telling you right now that if you go in, we all go, as individuals if not as the Unit.”
“Act your age, Kay,” he advised. “Get conscious. This is one of the two places in
the universe that can’t be worked from a distance, and by the time you could get here I’ll
have .the job done. So what difference does it make whether you agree or not? I’m