close range or far, and he could not understand or sympathize with squeamishness.
Nadreck, of course, had neither liked nor disliked any part of the whole affair; to him his
part had been merely another task, to be performed with the smallest outlay of physical
and mental effort consistent with good workmanship.
“What next?” Kinnison asked then, of the group at large. “I say the Ploorans.
They’re not like these poor devils were —they probably sent them in. They’ve got it
coming!”
“They certainly have!”
“Floor!”
“By all means Floor!”
“But how about Arisia here?” Maitland asked.
“Under control,” Kinnison replied. “We’ll leave a heavy guard and a spare
tank—the Arisians will do the rest.”
As soon as the tremendous fleet had shaken itself down into the course for Floor,
all seven of the Kinnisons retired to a small dining room and ate a festive meal. They
drank after-dinner coffee. Most of them smoked. They discussed, for a long time and
not very quietly, the matter of the Hell-Hole in Space. Finally:
“I know it’s a trap, as well as you do.” Kinnison got up from the table, rammed his
hands into his breeches pockets, and paced the floor. It’s jot T – R – A – P painted all
over it, in bill-poster letters seventeen meters high. So what? Since I’m the .only one
who can, I’ve got to go in, if it’s still there after we knock Floor off. And it’ll still be there,
for all the tea in China. All the Ploorans aren’t on Floor.”
Four young Kinnisons flashed thoughts at Kathryn, who frowned and bit her lip.
She had hit that hole with everything she had, and simply bounced. She had been able
to block the radiation, of course, but such solid barriers had been necessary that she
had blinded herself by her own screens. That it was Eddorian there could be no doubt . .
. warned by her own activities in the other tube—Plooran of course—and dad would be
worth taking in more ways than one . . .
“I can’t say that I’m any keener about going in than any of you are about having
me do it,” the big Lensman went on, “but unless some of you can figure out a reason for
my not going in that isn’t fuller of holes than a sponge, I’m going to tackle it just as soon
after we blow Floor apart as I can possibly get there.”
And Kathryn, his self-appointed guardian, knew that nothing could stop him. Nor
did anyone there, even Clarrissa, try to stop him. Lensmen all, they knew that he had to
go in.
To the Five, the situation was not too serious. Kinnison would come through
unhurt. The Eddorians could take him, of course. But whether or not they could do
anything to him after they got him would depend on what the Kinnison kids would be
doing in the meantime—and that would be plenty. They couldn’t delay his entry into the
tube very much without making a smell, but they could and would hurry Arisia up. And
even if, as seemed probable, he was already in the tube when Arisia was ready for the
big push, a lot could be done at the other end. Those amoeboid monstrosities would be
fighting for their own precious lives, this time, not for the lives of slaves: and the Five
promised each other grimly that the Eddorians would have too much else to worry about
to waste any time on Kimball Kinnison.
Clarrissa Kinnison, however, fought the hardest and bitterest battle of her life.
She loved Kim with a depth and a fervor which very few women, anywhere, have ever
been able to feel. She knew with a sick, cold certainty, knew with every fibre of her
being and with every cell of her brain, that if he went into that trap he would die in it.
Nevertheless, she would have to let him go in. More, and worse, she would have to
send him in—to his death—with a smile. She could not ask him not to go in. She could
not even suggest again that there was any possibility that he need not go in. He had to
go in. He had to . . .
And if Lensman’s Load was heavy on him, on her it was almost unbearable. His
part was vastly the easier. He would only have to die; she would have to live. She would
have to keep on living—without Kim—living a lifetime of deaths, one after another. And
she would have to hold her block and smile, not only with her face, but with her whole
mind. She could be scared, of course, apprehensive, as he himself was; she could wish
with all her strength for his safe return: but if he suspected the thousandth part of what
she really felt it would break his heart. Nor would it do a bit of good. However broken-
hearted at her rebellion against the inflexible Code of the Lens, he would still go in.
Being Kimball Kinnison, he could not do anything else.
As soon as she could, Clarrissa went to a distant room and turned on a full-
coverage block. She lay down, buried her face in the pillow, clenched her fists, and
fought.
Was there any way—any possible way—that she could die instead? None. It was
not that simple.
She would have to let him go . . .
With a SMILE . . .
Not gladly, but proudly and willingly . . . for the good of the Patrol . . .
DAMN THE PATROL!!
Clarrissa Kinnison gritted her teeth and writhed.
She would simply have to let him go into that ghastly trap —go to his absolutely
sure and certain death—without showing one white feather,, either to her husband or to
her children. Her husband, her Kim, would have to die . . . and
she—would—have—to—live . . .
She got up, smiled experimentally, and snapped off the block. Then, actually
smiling and apparently confident, she strolled down the corridor.
Such is Lensman’s Load.
CHAPTER 26: THE BATTLE OF PLOOR
Twenty-odd years before, when the then Dauntless and her crew were thrown
out of a hyper-spatial tube and into that highly enigmatic Nth space, La Verne
Thorndyke had been Chief Technician. Mentor of Arisia found them, and put into the
mind of Sir Austin Cardynge, mathematician extraordinary, the knowledge of how to find
the way back to normal space. Thorndyke, working under nerve-shattering difficulties,
had been in charge of building the machines which were to enable the vessel to return
to her home space. He built them. She returned.
He was now again in charge, and every man of his present crew had been a
member of his former one. He did not command the space-ship or her regular crew, of
course, but they did not count. Not one of those kids would be allowed to set foot on the
fantastically dangerous planet to which the inertialess Space Laboratory Twelve was
anchored.
Older, leaner, grayer, he was now, even more than then, Civilization’s Past
Master of Mechanism. If anything could be built, “Thorny” Thorndyke could build it. If it
couldn’t be built, he could build something just as good.
He lined his crew up for inspection; men who, although many of them had as
much rank and had had as many years of as much authority as their present boss, had
been working for days to forget as completely as possible their executive positions and
responsibilities. Each man wore not one, but three, personal neutralizers; one inside
and two outside of his space-suit. Thorndyke, walking down the line, applied his test-kit
to each individual neutralize!-. He then tested his own. QX—all were at max.
“Fellows,” he said then, “you all remember what it was like last time. This is going
to be the same, except more so and for a longer time. How we did it before without any
casualties I’ll never know. If we can do it again it’ll be a major miracle, no less. Before,
all we had to do was to build a couple of small generators and some controls out of stuff
native to the planet, and we didn’t find that any too easy a job. This time, for a starter,
we’ve got to build a Bergenholm big enough to free the whole planet; after which we
install the Bergs, tube-generators, atomic blasts, and other stuff we brought along.
“But that native Berg is going to be a Class A Prime headache, and until we get it
running it’s going to be hell on wheels. The only way we can get away with it is to check
and re-check every thing and every step. Check, check, double-check; then go back
and double-check again.
“Remember that the fundamental characteristics of this Nth space are such that
inert matter can travel faster than light; and remember, every second of the time, that
our intrinsic velocity is something like fifteen lights relative to anything solid in this