“Because Olmstead can not do it,” a hitherto silent mind cut in, decisively. “I,
Rularion of North Polar Jupiter, say so. There are psychological factors involved. The ability to separate and to evaluate the constituent elements of a complex situation; the ability to make correct decisions without hesitation; as well as many others not as susceptible to concise statement, but which collectively could be called power of mind. How say you, Bergenholm of Tellus? For I have perceived in you a mind approximating in some respects the philosophical and psychological depth of my own.” This outrageously egotistical declaration was, to the Jovian, a simple statement of an equally simple truth, and Bergenholm accepted it as such.
“I agree. Olmstead probably could not succeed.”
“Well, then, can Samms?” Kinnison demanded.
“Who knows?” came Bergenholm’s mental shrug, and simultaneously:
“Nobody knows whether I can or not, but I am going to try,” and Samms ended-almost-the argument by asking Bergenholm and a couple of other Lensmen to come into his office and by taking off his Lens.
“And that’s another thing I don’t like.” Kinnison offered one last objection. “Without your Lens, anything can happen to you.”
“Oh, I won’t have to be without it very long. And besides, Virgilia isn’t the only one in the Samms family who can work better-sometimes-without a Lens.”
The Lensmen came in and, in a surprisingly short time, went out. A few minutes later, two Lensmen strolled out of Samms’ inner office into the outer one.
“Good-bye, George,” the red-headed man said aloud, “and good luck.”
“Same to you, Chief,” and the brown-haired one strode out.
Norma the secretary was a smart girl, and observant. In her position, she had to be. Her eyes followed the man out, then scanned the Lensman from toe to crown.
“I’ve never seen anything like it, Mr. Samms,” she remarked then. “Except for the difference in coloring, and a sort of . . . well, stoopiness . . . he could be your identical twin. You two must have had a common ancestor-or several-not too far back, didn’t you?”
“We certainly did. Quadruple second cousins, you might call it. We have known of each other for years, but this is the first time we have met.”
“Quadruple second cousins? What does that mean? How come?”
“Well, say that once upon a time there were two men named Albert and Chester .
. .”
“What? Not two Irishmen named Pat and Mike? You’re slipping, boss.” The girl smiled roguishly. During rush hours she was always the fast, cool, efficient secretary, but in moments of ease such persiflage as this was the usual thing in the First Lensman’s private office. “Not at all up to your usual form.”
“Merely because I am speaking now as a genealogist, not as a raconteur. But to continue, we will say that Chester and Albert had four children apiece, two boys and two girls, two pairs of identical twins, each. And when they grew up -half way up, that is . . . “
“Don’t fell me that we are going to suppose that all those identical twins married each other?”
“Exactly. Why not?”
“Well, it would be stretching the laws of probability all out of shape. But go ahead-
I can see what’s coming, I think.”
“Each of those couples had one, and only one, child. We will call those children Jim Samms and Sally Olmstead; John Olmstead and Irene Samms.”
The girl’s levity disappeared. “James Alexander Samms and Sarah Olmstead Samms. Your parents. I didn’t see what was coming, after all. This George Olmstead; then, is your . .”
“Whatever it is, yes. I can’t name it, either-maybe you had better call Genealogy some day and find out. But it’s no wonder we look alike. And there are three of us, not two—George has an identical twin brother.”
The red-haired Lensman stepped back into the inner office, shut the door, and Lensed a thought at Virgil Samms.
“It worked, Virgil! I talked to her for five solid minutes, practically leaning on her desk, and she didn’t tumblel And if this wig of Bergenholm’s fooled her so completely, the job he did on you would fool anybodyl”
“Fine! I’ve done a little testing myself, on the keenest men I know, without a trace of recognition so far.”
His last lingering doubt resolved, Samms boarded the ponderous, radiation-proof, neutron-proof shuttle-scow which was the only possible means of entering or leaving the Hill. A fast cruiser whisked him to Nampa, where Olmstead’s “accidentally” damaged transcontinental transport was being repaired, and from which city Olmstead had been gone so briefly that no one had missed him. He occupied Olmstead’s space; he surrendered the remainder of Olmstead’s ticket. He reached New York. He took a ‘copter to Senator Morgan’s office. He was escorted into the private office of Herkimer Herkimer Third.
“Olmstead. Of Alphacent.”
“Yes?” Herkimer’s hand moved, ever so little, upon his desk’s top.
“Here.” The Lensman dropped an envelope upon the desk in such fashion that it came to rest within an inch of. the hand.
“Prints. Here.” Samms made prints. “Wash your hands, over there.” Herkimer pressed a button. “Check all these prints, against each other and the files. Check the two halves of the torn sheet, fiber to fiber.” He turned to the Lensless Lensman, now standing quietly before his desk. “Routine; a formality, in your case, but necessary.”
“Of course.”
Then for long seconds the two hard men stared into the hard depths of each other’s eyes.
“You may do, Olmstead. We have had very good reports of you. But you have never been in thionite?”
“No. I have never even seen any.”
“What do you want to get into it for?”
“Your scouts sounded me out; what did they tell you? The usual thing-promotion from the ranks into the brass-to get to where I can do myself and the organization some good.”
“Yourself first, the organization second?”
“What else? Why should I be different from the rest of you?”
This time the locked eyes held longer; one pair smoldering, the other gold-flecked, tawny ice.
“Why, indeed?” Herkimer smiled thinly. “We do not advertise it, however.”
“Outside, I wouldn’t, either; but here I’m laying my cards flat on the table.”
“I see. You will do, Olmstead, if you live. There’s a test, you know.”
“They told me there would be.”
“Well, aren’t you curious to know what it is?”
“Not particularly. You passed it, didn’t you?”
“What do you mean by that crack?” Herkimer leaped to his feet; his eyes, smoldering before, now ablaze.
“Exactly what I said, no more and no less. You may read into it anything you please.” Samms’ voice was as cold as were his eyes. “You picked me out because of what I am. Did you think that moving upstairs would make a bootlicker out of me?”
“Not at all.” Herkimer sat down and took from a drawer two small, transparent, vaguely capsule-like tubes, each containing a few particles of purple dust. “You know what this is?”
“I can guess.”
“Each of these is a good, heavy jolt; about all that a strong man with a strong heart can stand. Sit down. Here is one dose. Pull the cover, stick the capsule up one nostril, squeeze the ejector, and sniff. If you can leave this other dose sitting here on the desk you will live, and thus pass the test. If you can’t, you die.”
Samms sat, and pulled, and squeezed, and sniffed.
His forearms hit the desk with a thud. His hands clenched themselves into fists, the tight-stretched tendons standing boldly out. His face turned white. His eyes jammed themselves shut; his jaw-muscles sprang into bands and lumps as they clamped his teeth hard together. Every voluntary muscle in his body went into a rigor as extreme as that of death itself. His heart pounded; his breathing became stertorous.
This was the dreadful “muscle-lock” so uniquely characteristic of thionite; the frenzied immobility of the ultimately passionate satisfaction of every desire.
The Galactic Patrol became for him an actuality; a force for good pervading all the worlds of all the galaxies of all the universes of all existing space-time continual. He knew what the Lens was, and why. He understood time and space. He knew the absolute beginning and the ultimate end.
He also saw things and did things over which it is best to draw a kindly veil, for every desire-mental or physical, open or sternly suppressed, noble or base-that Virgil Samms had ever had was being completely satisfied. EVERY DESIRE.
As Samms sat there, straining motionlessly upon the verge of death through sheer ecstasy, a door opened and Senator Morgan entered the room. Herkimer started, almost imperceptibly, as he turned-had there been, or not, an instantaneously-suppressed flash of guilt in those now completely clear and frank brown eyes?
“Hi, Chief; come in and sit down. Glad to see you-this is not exactly my idea of fun.”
“No? When did you stop being a sadist?” The senator sat down beside his minion’s desk, the fingertips of his left hand began soundlessly to drum. “You wouldn’t have, by any chance, been considering the idea of . . . ?” He paused significantly.