And while the crews became more and more expert at the new technique, so that metal came in faster and faster— huge, hot-sliced bars of iron ten feet square and a quarter of a mile long were being driven into that enigmatic sphere of extinction—an outer framework a hundred and fifty miles in diameter was being built Nor, contrary to what might be supposed, was a prohibitive amount of metal or of labor necessary to fabricate that mammoth structure. Instead of six there were six cubed—two hundred sixteen—working stations, complete with generators and super-Bergenholms and screen generators, each mounted upon a massive platform; but, instead of being connected and supported by stupendous beams and trusses of metal, those platforms were Linked by infinitely stronger bonds of pure force. It took a lot of ships to do the job, but the technicians of the Patrol had at call enough floating machine shops and to spare.
When the sphere of negation grew to be about a foot in apparent diameter it had been found necessary to surround it with a screen opaque to all visible light, for to look into it long or steadily then meant insanity. Now the opaque screen was sixteen feet in diameter, nearing dangerously the sustaining framework, and the outer frame was ready. It was time to change.
The Lensman held his breath, but the Medonians and the Tellurian technicians did not turn a hair as they mounted their new stations and tested their apparatus.
“Ready,”
“Ready,”
“Ready.” Station after station reported; then, as Thorndyke threw in the master switch, the primary sphere—invisible now, through distance, to the eye, but plain upon the visiplates—disappeared; a mere morsel to those new gigantic forces.
“Swing into it, boys!” Thorndyke yelled into his transmitter. “We don’t have to feed her with a teaspoon any more. Let her have it!”
And “let her have it” they did. No more cutting up of the larger meteorites; asteroids ten, fifteen, twenty miles in diameter, along with hosts of smaller stuff, were literally hurled through the black screen into the even lusher blackness of that which was inside it, without complaint from the quietly humming motors.
“Satisfied, Kim?” Thorndyke asked.
“Uh-huh!” the Lensman assented, vigorously. “Nice! . . . Slick, in fact,” he commended.
“I’ll buzz off now, I guess.”
“Might as well—everything’s on the green. Clear ether, spacehound!”
“Same to you, big fella. I’ll be seeing you, or sending you a thought. There’s Tellus, right over there. Funny, isn’t it, doing a flit to a place you can actually see before you start?”
The trip to Earth was scarcely a hop, even in a supply-boat. To Prime Base the Gray Lensman went, where he found that his new non-ferrous speedster was done; and during the next few days he tested it out thoroughly. It did not register at all, neither upon the regular, long-range ultra-instruments nor upon the short-range emergency electros. Nor could it be seen in space, even in a telescope at point-blank range. True, it occulted an occasional star; but since even the direct rays of a search-light failed to reveal its shape to the keenest eye—the Lensmen-chemists who had worked out that ninety nine point nine nine percent absolute black coating had done a wonderful job—the chance of discovery through that occurrence was very slight.
“QX, Kim?” the Port Admiral asked. He was accompanying the Gray Lensman on a last tour of inspection.
“Fine, chief. Couldn’t be better—thanks a lot.”
“Sure you’re non-ferrous yourself?”
“Absolutely. Not even an iron nail in my shoes.”
“What is it, then? You look worried. Want something expensive?”
“You hit the thumb, Admiral, right on the nail. But it’s not only expensive—we may never have any use for it.”
“Better build it, anyway. Then if you want it you’ll have it, and if you don’t want it we can always use it for something. What is it?”
“A nut-cracker. There are a lot of cold planets around, aren’t there, that aren’t good for anything?”
“Thousands of them—millions.”
“The Medonians put Bergenholms on their planet and flew it from Lundmark’s Nebula to here in a few weeks. Why wouldn’t it be a sound idea to have the planetographers pick out a couple of useless worlds which, at some points in their orbits, have diametrically opposite velocities, to within a degree or two?”
“You’ve got something there, my boy. Will do. Very much worth having, just for its own sake, even if we never have any use for it. Anything else?”
“Not a thing in the universe. Clear ether, chief!”
“Light landings, Kinnison!” and gracefully, effortlessly, the dead-black sliver of semi- precious metal lifted herself away from Earth.
* * * Through Bominger, the Radeligian Big Shot, Kinnison had had a long and eminently satisfactory interview with Prellin, the regional director of all surviving Boskonian activities.
Thus he knew where he was, even to the street address, and knew the name of the firm which was his alias— Ethan D. Wembleson and Sons, Inc., 4627 Boulevard De-zalies, Cominoche, Quadrant Eight, Bronseca. That name had been his first shock, for that firm was one of the largest and most conservative houses in galactic trade; one having an unquestioned AAA-1 rating in every mercantile index.
However, that was the way they worked, Kinnison reflected, as his speedster reeled off the parsecs. It wasn’t far to Bronseca—easy Lens distance—he’d better call somebody there and start making arrangements. He had heard about the planet, although he’d never been there.
Somewhat warmer than Tellus, but otherwise very Earthlike. Millions of Tellurians lived there and liked it His approach to the planet Bronseca was characterized by all possible caution, as was his visit to Cominoche, the capital city. He found that 4627 Boulevard Dezalies was a structure covering an entire city block and some eighty stories high, owned and occupied exclusively by Wembleson’s. No visitors were allowed except by appointment. His first stroll past it showed him that an immense cylinder, comprising almost the whole interior of the building, was shielded by thought screens. He rode up and down in the elevators of nearby buildings—no penetration. He visited a dozen offices in the neighborhood upon various errands, choosing his time with care so that he would have to wait in each an hour or so in order to see his man.
These leisurely scrutinies of his objective failed to reveal a single fact of value. Ethan D.
Wembleson and Sons, Inc., did a tremendous business, but every ounce of it was legitimate!
That is, the files in the outer offices covered only legitimate transactions, and the men and women busily at work there were all legitimately employed. And the inner offices—vastly more extensive than the outer, to judge by the number of employees entering in the morning and leaving at the close of business—were sealed against his prying, every second of every day.
He tapped in turn the minds of dozens of those clerks, but drew only blanks. As far as they were concerned, there was nothing “queer” going on anywhere in the organization. The “Old Man”—Howard Wembleson, a grand-nephew or something of Ethan—had developed a complex lately that his life was in danger. Scarcely ever left the building—not that he had any need to, as he had always had palatial quarters there—and then only under heavy guard.
A good many thought-screened persons came and went, but a careful study of them and their movements convinced the Gray Lensman that he was wasting his time.
“No soap,” he reported to a Lensman at Bronseca’s Base. “Might as well try to stick a pin quietly into a cateagle. He’s been told that he’s the next link in the chain, and he’s got the jitters right. I’ll bet he’s got a dozen loose observers, instead of only one. I’ll save time, I think, by tracing another line. I have thought before that my best bet is in the asteroid dens instead of on the planets. I let them talk me out of it—it’s a dirty job and I’ve got to establish an identity of my own, which will be even dirtier—but it looks as though I’ll have to go back to it.”
“But the others are warned, too,” suggested the Bron-secan. “They’ll probably be just as bad. Let’s blast it open and take a chance on finding the data you want.”
“No,” Kinnison said, emphatically. “Not a chance—that’s not the way to get anything I’m looking for. The others are probably warned, yes, but since they aren’t on my direct line to the throne, they probably aren’t taking it as seriously as this Prellin—or Wembleson—is. Or if they are, they won’t keep it up as long. They can’t, and get any joy out of life at all.
“And you can’t say a word to Prellin about his screens, either,” the Tellurian went on in reply to a thought. “They’re legal enough; just as much so as spy-ray blocks. Every man has a right to privacy. Just one question here, or just one suspicious move, is apt to blow everything into a cocked hat. You fellows keep on working along the lines we laid out and I’ll try another line. If it works I’ll come back and we’ll open this can the way you want to. That way, we may be able to get the low-down on about four hundred planetary organizations at one haul.”