“Mentor! Grinning Noshabkeming, what’s up?”
“Damfino. Must be big, though, for Mentor to be handling it”
“Big! It’s immense! Who ever heard of Arisia stepping in before?”
“Big! Colossal! Mentor never talked twice to anybody except the L2’s before, did
he?”
Millions of Lensed questions flooded every base and every office of the Patrol.
Nobody, not even the vice-coordinator, knew a thing.
“You might as well stop sending in questions as to what this is all about, because
none of us knows any more about it than you do,” Maitland finally sent out a general
message. “Apparently everybody with a Lens is getting the same thought, no more and
no less. All I can say is that it must be a Class A Prime emergency, and everyone who
is not actually tied up in a life and death matter will please drop everything and stand
by.”
Mentor wanted, and had to have, high tension. He got it. Tension mounted higher
and higher as eventless hours passed and as, for the first time in history, Patrol
business slowed down almost to a stop.
And in a small cruiser, manned by four red-headed girls and one red-headed
youth, tension was also building up. The problem of the mechanical screens had long
since been solved. Atomic powered counter-generators were in place, ready at the
touch of a button to neutralize the mechanically-generated screens of the enemy and
thus to make the engagement a mind-to-mind combat. They were as close to Eddore’s
star-cluster as they could be without giving alarm. They had had nothing to do for hours
except wait. They were probably keyed up higher than any other five Lensmen in all of
space.
Kit, son of his father, was pacing the floor, chain-smoking.
Constance was alternately getting up and sitting down—up— down—up. She,
too, was smoking; or, rather, she was lighting cigarettes and throwing them away.
Kathryn was sitting, stiffly still, manufacturing Lenses which, starting at her wrists, raced
up both bare arms to her shoulders and disappeared. Karen was meticulously sticking
holes in a piece of blank paper with a pin, making an intricate and meaningless design.
Only Camilla made any pretense of calmness, and it was as transparent as glass. She
was pretending to read a novel; but instead of absorbing its full content at the rate of
one glance per page, she had read half of it word by word and still had no idea of what
the story was about.
“Are you ready, children?” Mentor’s thought came in at last.
“Ready!” Without knowing how they got there, the Five found themselves
standing in the middle of the room, packed tight.
“Oh, Kit, I’m shaking like a torso-tosser!” Constance wailed. “I just know I’m going
to louse up this whole damn war!”
“QX, baby, we’re all in the same fix. Can’t you hear my teeth chatter? Doesn’t
mean a thing. Good teams—champions —all feel the same way before a big game
starts . . . and this is the biggest game ever . . . steady down, kids. We’ll be QX as soon
as the whistle blows—I hope . . .”
“P-s-s-t!” Kathryn hissed. “Listen!”
“Lensmen of the Galactic Patrol!” Mentor’s resonant pseudo-voice filled all space.
“I, Mentor of Arisia, am calling upon you because of a crisis in which no lesser force can
be of use. You have been informed upon the matter of Floor. It is true that Floor has
been destroyed; that the Ploorans, physically, are no more. You of the Lens, however,
already know dimly that the physical is not the all. Know now that there is a residuum of
non-material malignancy against which all the physical weapons of all the universes
would be completely impotent. That evil effluvium, intrinsically vicious, is implacably
opposed to every basic concept and idea of your Patrol. It has been on the move ever
since the destruction of the planet Floor. Unaided, we of Arisia are not strong enough to
handle it, but the massed and directed force of your collective mind will be able to
destroy it completely. If you wish me to do so, I will supervise the work of so directing
your mental force as to encompass the complete destruction of this menace, which I tell
you most solemnly is the last weapon of power with which Boskonia will be able to
threaten Civilization. Lensmen of the Galactic Patrol, met as one for the first time in
Civilization’s long history, what is your wish?”
A tremendous wave of thought, expressed in millions of variant phraseologies,
made the wish of the Lensmen very clear indeed. They did not know how such a thing
could be done, but they were supremely eager to have Mentor of Arisia lead them
against the Boskonians, whoever and wherever they might be.
“Your verdict is unanimous, as I had hoped and believed that it would be. It is
well. The part of each of you will be simple, but not easy. You will all of you, individually,
think of two things, and of only two. First, of your love for and your pride in and your
loyalty to your Patrol. Second, of the clear fact that Civilization must and shall triumph
over Boskonia. Think these thoughts, each of you with all the strength that in him lies.
“You need not consciously direct those thoughts. Being attuned to my pattern,
the force will flow at my direction. As it passes from you, you will replenish it, each
according to his strength. You will find it the hardest labor you have ever performed, but
it will be of permanent harm to none and it will not be of long duration. Are you ready?”
“WE ARE READY!” The crescendo roar of thought bulged the galaxy to its poles.
“Children—strike!”
The generators flared into action—the mechanical screens collapsed—the Unit
struck. The outermost mental screen went down. The Unit struck again, almost
instantly. Down went the second. The third. The fourth.
It was that flawless Unit, not Camilla, who detected and analyzed and precisely
located the Eddorian guardsman handling each of those far-flung screens. It was the
Unit, not Kathryn and Kit, who drilled the pilot hole through each Eddorian’s hard-held
block and enlarged it into a working orifice. It was the Unit, not Karen, whose
impenetrable shield held stubbornly every circular mil of advantage gained in making
such ingress. It was the Unit, not Constance, who assembled and drove home the
blasts of mental force in which the Eddorians died. No time whatever was lost in
consultation or decision. Action was not only instantaneous, but simultaneous with
perception. The Children of the Lens were not now five, but one. The UNIT.
“Come in, Mentor!” Kit snapped then. “All you Arisians and all the Lensmen.
Nothing specialized—just a general slam at the whole screen. This fifth screen is the
works—they’ve got twenty minds on it instead of one, and they’re top-notchers. Best
strategy now is for us five to lay off for a second or two and show ’em what we’ve got in
the line of defense, while the rest of you fellows give ’em hell!”
Arisia and the massed Lensmen struck; a tidal wave of such tremendous weight
and power that under its impact the fifth screen sagged Sat against the planet’s surface.
Any one Lensman’s power was small, of course, in comparison with that of any
Eddorian; but every available Lensman of the Galactic Patrol was giving, each
according to his strength, and the output of one Lensman, multiplied by the countless
millions which was the number of Lensmen then at work, made itself tellingly felt.
Countless? Yes. Only Mentor ever knew how many minds contributed to that
stupendous flood of force. Bear in mind that in the First Galaxy alone there are over one
hundred thousand million suns: that each sun has, on the average, something over one
and thirty seven hundredths planets inhabited by intelligent life: that about one-half of
these planets then adhered to Civilization; and that Tellus, an average planet, graduates
approximately one hundred Lensmen every year. ‘
“So far, Kit, so good,” Constance panted. Although she was no longer trembling,
she was still highly excited. “But I don’t know how many more shots like that
I’ve—we’ve—got left in the locker.”
“You’re doing fine, Connie,” Camilla soothed.
“Sure you are, baby. You’ve got plenty of jets,” Kit agreed. Except in moments of
supreme stress these personal, individual exchanges of by-thoughts did not interfere
with the smooth functioning of the Unit. “Fine work, all of you, kids. I thought we’d get
over the shakes as soon as . . .”
“Watch it!” Camilla snapped. “Here comes the shock wave. Brace yourself, Kay.
Hold us together, Kit!”
The wave came. Everything that the Eddorians could send. The Unit’s barrier did
not waver. After a full second of it— a time comparable to days of saturation atomic
bombing in ordinary warfare—Karen, who had been standing stiff and still, began to
relax.
“This is too, too easy,” she declared. “Who’s helping me? I can’t feel anything,