But only once did he have to draw a deadly weapon— the news, as he had known it would, had spread abroad that with a DeLameter he was nobody to monkey with—and even then he didn’t have to kill the guy. Just winging him— a little bit of a burn through his gun-arm—had been enough.
So it went for days. And finally, it was in immense relief that the hilariously drunken Lensman, his money gone to the last millo, went roistering up the street with a two-quart bottle in each hand; swigging now from one, then from the other; inviting bibulously the while any and all chance comers to join him in one last, fond drink. The sidewalk was not wide enough for him, by half; indeed, he took up most of the street. He staggered and reeled, retaining any semblance of balance only by a miracle and by his rigorous spaceman’s training.
He threw away one empty bottle, then the other. Then, as he strode along, so purposefully and yet so futilely, he sang. His voice was not paricularly musical, but what it lacked in quality of tone it more than made up in volume. Kinnison had a really remarkable voice, a bass of tremendous power, timbre, and resonance; and, pulling out all the stops, tones audible for two thousand yards against the wind, he poured out his zestfully lusty reveler’s soul.
His song was a deep-space chanty that would have blistered the ears of any of the gentler spirits who had known him as Kimball Kinni-son, of Earth; but which, in Miners’ Rest, was merely a humorous and sprightly ballad.
Up the full length of the street he went. Then back, as he put it, to “Base.” Even if this final bust did make him sicker at the stomach than a ground-gripper going free for the first time, the Lensman reflected, he had done a mighty good job. He had put Wild Bill Williams, meteor- miner, of Aldebaran II, on the map in a big way. It wasn’t a faked and therefore fragile identity, either; it was solidly, definitely his own.
Staggering up to his friend Strongheart he steadied himself with two big hands upon the latter’s shoulders and breathed a forty-thousand-horsepower breath into his face.
“I’m boiled like a Tellurian hoot-owl,” he announced, still happily. “When I’m this stewed I can’t say ‘partic-hic-hicu-lar-ly’ without hic-hicking, but I would partic-hic-hicularty like just one more quart. How about me borrowing a hundred on what I’m going to bring in next time, or selling you. . .”
“You’ve had plenty, Bill. You’ve had lots of fun. How about a good chew of sleepy-happy, huh?”
“That’s a thought!” the miner exclaimed eagerly. “Lead me to it!”
A stranger came up unobstrusively and took him by one elbow. Strongheart took the other, and between them they walked him down a narrow hall and into a cubicle. And while he walked flabbily along Kinnison studied intently the brain of the newcomer. This was what he was after!
The ape had had a screen; but it was such a nuisance he took it off for a rest whenever he came here, No Lensmen on Euphrosyne! They had combed everybody, even this drunken bum here. This was one place that no Lensman would ever come to; or, if he did, he wouldn’t last long. Kinnison had been pretty sure that Strongheart would be in cahoots with somebody bigger than a peddler, and so it had proved. This guy knew plenty, and the Lensman was taking the information—all of it. Six weeks from now, eh? Just right— time to find enough metal for another royal binge here . . .
And during that binge he would really do things . . . Six weeks. Quite a while . . . but . . .
QX. It would take some time yet, anyway, probably, before the Regional Directors would, like this fellow, get over their scares enough to relax a few of their most irksome precautions. And, as has been intimated, Kinnison, while impatient enough at times, could hold himself in check like a cat watching a mousehole whenever it was really necessary.
Therefore, in the cell, he seated himself upon the bunk and seized the packet from the hand of the stranger. Tearing it open, he stuffed the contents into his mouth; and, eyes rolling and muscles twitching, he chewed vigorously; expertly allowing the potent juice to trickle down his gullet just fast enough to keep his head humming like a swarm of angry bees. Then, the cud sucked dry, he slumped down upon the mattress, physically dead to the world for the ensuing twenty four G-P hours.
He awakened; weak, flimsy, and supremely wretched. He made heavy going to the office, where Strongheart returned to him the keys of his boat.
“Feeling low, sir.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I’ll say so,” the Lensman groaned. He was holding his spinning head, trying to steady the gyrating universe. “I’d have to look up—‘way, ‘way up, with a number nine visi-plate—to see a snake’s belly in a swamp. Make that damn cat quit stomping his feet, can’t you?”
“Too bad, but it won’t last long.” The voice was unctuous enough, but totally devoid of feeling. “Here’s a pick-up— you need it.”
The Lensman tossed off the potion, without thanks, as was good technique in those parts.
His head cleared miraculously, although the stabbing ache remained.
“Come in again next time. Everything’s been on the green here, ain’t it, sir?”
“Uh-huh, very nice,” the Lensman admitted. “Couldn’t ask for better. I’ll be back in five or six weeks, if I have any luck at all.”
As the battered but staunch and powerful meteor-boat floated slowly upward a desultory conversation was taking place in the dive he had left. At that early hour-business was slack to the point of non-existence, and Strongheart was chatting idly with a bartender and one of the hostesses.
“If more of the boys was like him we wouldn’t have no trouble at all,” Strongheart stated with conviction. “Nice, quiet, easy-going—a right guy, I say.”
“Yeah, but at that maybe it’s a good gag nobody riled him up too much,” the barkeep opined. “He could be rough if he wanted to, I bet a quart. Drunk or sober, he’s chain lightning with them DeLameters.”
“He’s so refined, such a perfect gentleman,” sighed the woman. “He’s nice.” To her, he had been. She had had plenty of credits from the big miner, without having given anything save smiles and dances in return. “Them two guys he drilled must have needed killing, or he wouldn’t have burned ‘em.”
And that was that As the Lensman had intended, Wild Bill Williams was an old, known, and highly respected resident of Miners’ Rest!
Out among the asteroids again; more muscle-tearing, back-breaking, lonesome labor.
Kinnison did not find any more fabulously rich meteors—such things happen only once in a hundred lifetimes—but he was getting his share of heavy stuff. Then one day when he had about half a load there came screaming in upon the emergency wave a call for help; a call so loud that the ship broadcasting it must be very close indeed. Yes, there she was, right in his lap; startlingly large even upon the low-power plates of his space-tramp.
“Help! Space-ship ‘Kahlotus’, position . . .” a rattling string of numbers. “Bergenholm dead, meteorite screens practically disabled, intrinsic velocity throwing us into the asteroids.
Any space-tugs, any vessels with tractors—help! And hurry!”
At the first word Kinnison had shoved his blast-lever full over. A few seconds of free flight, a minute of inert maneuvering that taxed to the utmost his Lensman’s skill and powerful frame, and he was within the liner’s air-lock.
“I know something about Bergs!” he snapped. “Take this boat of mine and pull! Are you evacuating passengers?” he shot at the mate as they ran toward the engine room.
“Yes, but afraid we haven’t boats enough—overloaded,” was the gasped reply.
“Use mine—fill ‘er up!” If the mate was surprised at such an offer from a despised space- rat he did not show it. There were many more surprises in store.
In the engine room Kinnison brushed aside a crew of helplessly futile gropers and threw in switch after switch. He looked. He listened. Above all, he pried into that sealed monster of power with all his sense of perception. How glad he was now that he and Thorndyke had struggled so long and so furiously with a balky Bergenholm on that trip to tempestuous Trenco!
For as a result of that trip he did know Bergs, with a sure knowledge possessed by few other men in space.
“Number four lead is shot somewhere,” he reported. “Must be burned off where it clears the pilaster. Careless overhaul last time—got to take off the lower port third cover. No time for wrenches—get me a cutting beam, and get the lead out of your pants!”