referred to Eddore before it should become too hot for even the Masters to handle.
“Fools! Imbeciles! We, the Masters, although through no foresight or design of
yours, are already here. Know now that you have been and still are yourselves guilty of
the same conduct which you are so violently condemning in others.” Neither Eddorians
nor Ploorans realized that that deficiency was inherent in the Boskonian Scheme of
Things, or that it stemmed from the organization’s very top. “Sheer stupidity! Gross
overconfidence! Those are the reasons for our recent reverses!”
“But, Masters,” a Plooran argued, “now that we have taken over, we are winning
steadily. Civilization is rapidly going to pieces. In a few more years we will have
smashed it flat.”
“That is precisely what they wish you to think. They have been and are playing
for time. Your bungling and mismanagement have already given them sufficient time to
develop an object or an entity able to penetrate our screens; so that Eddore suffered the
disgrace of an actual physical invasion. It was brief, to be sure, and unsuccessful, but it
was an invasion, none the less—the first in our long history.”
“But, Masters . . .”
“Silence! We are not here to indulge in recriminations, but to determine facts.
Since you do not know Eddore’s location in space, it is a certainty that you did not,
either wittingly or otherwise, furnish that information. That in turn makes it clear who,
basically, the invader was . . .”
“Star A Star?” A wave of questions swept the group.
“One name serves as well as another for what” is almost certainly an Arisian
entity or device. It is enough for you to know that it is something with which your
massed minds would be completely unable to deal. To the best of your knowledge,
have you been invaded, either physically or mentally?”
“We have not, Masters; and it is unbelievable that. . .”
“Is it so?” The Masters sneered. “Neither our screens nor our Eddorian
guardsmen gave any alarm. We learned of the Arisian’s presence only when he
attempted to probe our very minds, at Eddore’s very surface. Are your screens and
minds, then, so much better than ours?”
“We erred, Masters. We abase ourselves. What do you wish us to do?”
“That is better. You will be informed, as soon as certain details have been
worked out. Although nothing is established by the fact that you know of no occurrences
here on Floor, the probability is that you are still unknown and unsuspected.
Nevertheless, one of us is now taking over control of the trap which you set for
Kinnison, in the belief that he is Star A Star.”
“Belief, Masters? It is certain that he is Star A Star!”
“In essence, yes. In exactness, no. Kinnison is, in all probability, merely a puppet
through whom an Arisian works at times. If you take Kinnison in that trap, however, the
entity you call Star A Star will assuredly kill you all.”
“But, Masters . . .”
“Again, fools, silence!” The thought dripped vitriol. “Remember how easily
Kinnison escaped from you? It was the supremely clever move of not following through
and destroying you then that obscured the truth. You are completely powerless against
the one you call Star A Star.
Against any lesser force, however—and the probability is great that only such
forces, if any, will be sent against you— you should be able to win. Are you ready?”
“We are ready, Masters.” At last the Ploorans were upon familiar ground. “Since
ordinary weapons will be useless against us, they will not attempt to use them;
especially since they have developed three extraordinary and supposedly irresistible
weapons of attack. First; projectiles composed of negative matter, particularly those of
planetary anti-mass. Second; loose planets, driven inertialess, but inerted at the point at
which their intrinsic velocities render collision unavoidable. Third, and worst; the
sunbeam. These gave us some trouble, particularly the last, but the problems were
solved and if any one of the three, or all of them, are used against us, disaster for the
Galactic Patrol is assured.
“Nor did we stop there. Our psychologists, working with our engineers, after
having analyzed exhaustively the capabilities of the so-called Second-Stage Lensmen,
developed counter-measures against every super-weapon which they will be able to
develop during the next century.”
“Such as?” The Masters were unimpressed.
“The most probable one is an extension of the sunbeam principle, to operate
from a distant sun; or, preferably, a nova. We are now installing fields and grids by the
use of which we, not the Patrol, will direct that beam.”
“Interesting—if true.’ Spread in our minds the details of all that you have foreseen
and the fashions in which you have safeguarded yourselves.”
It was a long operation, even at the speed of thought. At the end the Eddorians
were unconvinced, skeptical, and pessimistic.
“We can visualize several other things which the forces of Civilization may be
able to develop well within the century,” the Master mind said, coldly. “We will assemble
data concerning a few of them for your study. In the meantime hold yourselves in
readiness to act, as we shall issue final orders very shortly.”
“Yes, Masters,” and the Eddorians went back to their home planet as effortlessly
as they had left it. There they concluded their conference.
“. . . It is clear that Kinnison will enter that trap. He cannot do otherwise.
Kinnison’s protector, whoever or whatever he or it may be, may or may not enter it with
him. It may or may not be taken with him. Whether or not the new Arisian figment is
taken, Kimball Kinnison must die. He is the very keystone of the Galactic Patrol. At his
death, as we will advertise it to have come about, the Patrol will fall apart. The Arisians,
themselves unknown to the rank and file, will be forced to try to rebuild it around another
puppet; but neither his son nor any other man will ever be able to take Kinnison’s place
in the esteem of the hero-worshipping, undisciplined mob which is Civilization. Hence
the importance of your project. You, personally, will supervise the operation of the trap.
You, personally, will kill him.”
“With one exception, I agree with everything said. I am not at all certain that
death is the answer. One way or another, however, I shall deal effectively with
Kinnison.”
“Deal with? We said kill!”
“I heard you. I still say that mere death may not be adequate. I shall consider the
matter at length, and shall submit in due course my conclusions and recommendations,
for your consideration and approval.”
* * * *
Although none of the Eddorians knew it, their pessimism in regard to the ability of
the Ploorans to defend their planet against the assaults of Second-Stage Lensmen was
even then being justified. Kimball Kinnison, after pacing the floor for hours, called his
son.
“Kit, I’ve been working on a thing for months, and I don’t know whether I’ve got a
workable solution at last, or not. It may depend entirely on you. Before I go into it,
though, when we find Boskonia’s top planet we’ve got to blow it out of the ether, and
nothing we’ve used before will work. Check?”
“Check, on both.” Kit thought soberly for minutes. “Also, it should be faster than
anything we have.”
“My thought ‘.exactly. I’ve got something, I think, but nobody except old Cardynge
and Mentor of Arisia . . .”
“Hold it, dad, while I do a bit of spying and put out some coverage . . . QX, go
ahead.”
“Nobody except those two knew anything about the mathematics involved. Even
Sir Austin knew only enough to be able to understand Mentor’s directions—he didn’t do
any of the deep stuff himself. Nobody in the present Conference of Scientists could
even begin to handle it. It’s that foreign space, you know, that we called the Nth Space,
where that hyper-spatial tube dumped us that time. You’ve been doing a lot of work with
some of the Arisians on that sort of stuff—suppose you could get them to help you
compute a tube to take a ship there and back?”
“Hm . . . m. Let me think a second. Yes, I can. When do you need it?”
‘Today—or even yesterday.”
“Too fast. It’ll take a couple of days, but it’ll be ready for you long before you can
get your ship ready and get your gang and the stuff for your gadget aboard her.”
“That won’t take so long, son. Same ship we rode before. She’s still in
commission, you know—Space Laboratory Twelve, her name is now. Special
generators, tools, instruments, everything. We’ll be ready in two days.”
They were, and Kit smiled as he greeted Lieutenant-Admiral La Verne
Thorndyke, Principal Technician, and the other surviving members of his father’s
original crew.
‘What a tonnage of brass!” Kit said to Kim, later. “Heaviest load I ever saw on