Samms thought, flashingly and cogently. A few minutes sufficed to cover Triplanetary’s history and the beginning of the Solarian Patrol; then, for almost three hours, he went into the ramifications of the Galactic Patrol of his imaginings. Finally he wrenched himself back to reality. He jumped up, paced the floor, and spoke.
“But there’s a vital flaw, one inherent and absolutely ruinous fact that makes the whole thing impossible!” he burst out, rebelliously. “No one man, or group of men, no matter who they are, can be trusted with that much power. The Council and I have already been called everything imaginable; and what we have done so far is literally nothing at all in comparison with what the Galactic Patrol could and must do. Why, I myself would be the first to protest against the granting of such power to anybody. Every dictator in history, from Philip of Macedon to the Tyrant of Asia, claimed to be-and probably was, in his beginnings-motivated solely by benevolence. How am I to think that the proposed Galactic Council, or even I myself, will be strong enough to conquer a thing that has corrupted utterly every man who has ever won it? Who is to watch the watchmen?”
“The thought does you credit, youth,” Mentor replied, unmoved. “That is one reason why you are here. You, of your own force, can not know that you are in fact incorruptible. I, however, know. Moreover, there is an agency by virtue of which that which you now believe to be impossible will become commonplace. Extend your arm.”
Samms did so, and there snapped around his wrist a platinum-iridium bracelet carrying, wrist-watch-wise, a lenticular something at which the Tellurian stared in stupefied amazement. It seemed to be composed of thousands-millions-of tiny gems, each of which emitted pulsatingly all the colors of the spectrum; it was throwing out- broadcasting -a turbulent flood of writhing, polychromatic lightl
“The sucessor to the golden meteor of the Triplanetary Service,” Mentor said, calmly. “The Lens of Arisia. You may take my word for it, until your own experience shall have convinced you of the fact, that no one will ever wear Arisia’s Lens who is in any sense unworthy. Here also is one for your friend, Commissioner Kinnison; it is not necessary for him to come physically to Arisia. It is, you will observe, in an insulated container, and does not glow. Touch its surface, but lightly and very fleetingly, for the contact will be painful.”
Samms’ finger-tip barely touched one dull, gray, lifeless jewel: his whole arm jerked away uncontrollably as there swept through his whole being the intimation of an agony more poignant by far than any he had ever known.
“Why-it’s alive!” he gasped.
“No, it is not really alive, as you understand the term . . :’ Mentor paused, as though seeking a way to describe to the Tellurian a thing which was to him starkly, incomprehensible. “It is, however, endowed with what you might call a sort of pseudo- life; by virtue of which it gives off its characteristic radiation while, and only while, it is in physical circuit with the living entity-the ego, let us say-with whom it is in exact resonance. Glowing, the Lens is perfectly harmless; it is complete-saturated-satiated- fulfilled. In the dark condition it is, as you have learned, dangerous in the extreme. It is then incomplete-unfulfilled-frustrated-you might say seeking or yearning or demanding. In that condition its pseudo-life interferes so strongly with any life to which it is not attuned that that life, in a space of seconds, is forced out of this plane or cycle of existence.”
“Then I-I alone-of all the entities in existence, can wear this particular Lens?” Samms licked his lips and stared at it, glowing so satisfyingly and contentedly upon his wrist. “But when I die, will it be a perpetual menace?”
“By no means. A Lens cannot be brought into being except to match same one living personality; a short time after you pass into the next cycle your Lens will disintegrate.”
“Wonderful!” Samms breathed, in awe. “But there’s one thing . . . these things are . . . priceless, and there will be millions of them to make . . . and you don’t. . .”
“What will we get out of it, you mean?” The Arisian seemed to smile.
“Exactly.” Samms blushed, but held his ground. “Nobody does anything for nothing. Altruism is beautiful in theory, but it has never been known to work in practice. I will pay a tremendous price any price within reason or possibilityfor the Lens; but I will have to know what that price is to be.”
“It will be heavier than you think, or can at present realize; although not in the sense you fear.” Mentor’s thought was solemnity itself. “Whoever wears the Lens of Arisia will carry a load that no weaker mind could bear. The load of authority; of responsibility; of knowledge that would wreck completely any mind of lesser strength. Altruism? No. Nor is it a case of good against evil, as you so firmly believe. Your mental picture of glaring white and of unrelieved black is not a true picture. Neither absolute evil nor absolute good do or can exist.”
“But that would make it still worse!” Samms protested. “In that case, I can’t see any reason at all for your exerting yourselves-putting yourselves out-for us.”
“There is, however, reason enough; although I am not sure that I can make it as clear to you as I would wish. There are in fact three reasons; any one of which would justify us in exerting-would compel us to exert-the trivial effort involved in the furnishing of Lenses to your Galactic Patrol. First, there is nothing either intrinsically right or intrinsically wrong about liberty or slavery, democracy or autocracy, freedom of action or complete regimentation. It seems to us, however, that the greatest measure of happiness and of well-being for the greatest number of entities, and therefore the optimum advancement toward whatever sublime Goal it is toward which this cycle of existence is trending in the vast and unknowable Scheme of Things, is to be obtained by securing for each and every individual the greatest amount of mental and physical freedom compatible with the public welfare. We of Arisia are only a small part of this cycle; and, as goes the whole, so goes in greater or lesser degree each of the parts. Is it impossible for you, a fellow citizen of this cycle-universe, to believe that such fulfillment alone would be ample compensation for a much greater effort?”
“I never thought of it in that light . . .” It was hard for Samms to grasp the concept; he never did understand it thoroughly. “I begin to see, I think . . . at least, I believe you.”
“Second, we have a more specific obligation in that the life of many, many worlds has sprung from Arisian seed. Thus, in loco parentis, we would be derelict indeed if we refused to act. And third, you yourself spend highly valuable time and much effort in playing chess. Why do you do it? What do you get out of it?”
“Why, I . . . uh . . . mental excercise, I suppose . . ,,I like it!”
“Just so. And I am sure that one of your very early philosophers came to the conclusion that a fully competent mind, from a study of one fact or artifact belonging to any given universe, could construct or visualize that universe, from the instant of its creation to its ultimate end?”
“Yes. At least, I have heard the proposition stated, but I have never believed it possible.”
“It is not possible simply because no fully competent mind ever has existed or ever will exist. A mind can become fully competent only by the acquisition of infinite knowledge, which would require infinite time as well as infinite capacity. Our equivalent of your chess, however, is what we call the ‘Visualization of the Cosmic All’. In my visualization a descendant of yours named Clarrissa MacDougall will, in a store called Brenleer’s upon the planet . . . but no, let us consider a thing nearer at hand and concerning you personally, so that its accuracy will be subject to check. Where you will be and exactly what you will be doing, at some definite time in the future. Five years, let us say?”
“Go ahead. If you can do that you’re good.”
“Five Tellurian calendar years then, from the instant of your passing through the screen of ‘The Hill’ on this present journey, you will be . . . allow me, please, a moment of thought . . . you will be in a barber shop not yet built; the address of which is to be fifteen hundred fifteen Twelfth Avenue, Spokane, Washington, North America, Tellus. The barber’s name will be Antonio Carbonero and he will be left-handed. He will be engaged in cutting your hair. Or rather, the actual cutting will have been done and he will be shaving, with a razor trade-marked ‘Jensen-King-Byrd’, the short hairs in front of your left ear. A comparatively small, quadrupedal, grayish-striped entity, of the race called ‘cat’-a young cat, this one will be, and called Thomas, although actually of the female sex-will jump into your lap, addressing you pleasantly in a language with which you yourself are only partially familiar. You call it mewing and purring, I believe?”