Space forbids any detailed account of what the Ninth of Boskone and his fellows did, although that story of itself would be no mean epic. Suffice it to say, then, that they became well acquainted with the friendly Velantians; they studied and they learned. Particularly did they seek information concerning the noisome Overlords of Delgon, although the natives did not care to dwell at any length upon the subject.
“Their power is broken,” they were wont to inform the questioners, with airy flirtings of tail and wing. “Every known cavern of them, and not a few hitherto unknown caverns, have been blasted out of existence. Whenever one of them dares to obtrude his mentality upon any one of us he is at once hunted down and slain. Even if they are not all dead, as we think, they certainly are no longer a menace to our peace and security.”
Having secured all the information available upon Velantia, the Eich went to Delgon, where they devoted all the power of their admittedly first-grade minds and all the not inconsiderable resources of their ship to the task of finding and uniting the remnants of what had once been a flourishing race, the Overlords of Delgon.
The Overlords! That monstrous, repulsive, amoral race which, not excepting even the Eich themselves, achieved the most universal condemnation ever to have been given in the long history of the Galactic Union. The Eich, admittedly deserving of the fate which was theirs, had and have their apologists. The Eich were wrong-minded, all admit. They were anti-social, blood- mad, obsessed with an insatiable lust for power and conquest which nothing except complete extinction could extirpate. Their evil attributes were legion. They were, however, brave. They were organizers par excellence. They were, in their own fashion, creators and doers. They had the courage of their convictions and followed them to the bitter end.
Of the Overlords, however, nothing good has ever been said. They were debased, cruel, perverted to a degree starkly unthinkable to any normal intelligence, however housed. In their native habitat they had no weapons, nor need of any. Through sheer power of mind they reached out to their victims, even upon other planets, and forced them to come to the gloomy caverns in which they had their being. There the victims were tortured to death in numberless unspeakable fashions, and while they died the captors fed, ghoulishly, upon the departing life-principle of the sufferers.
The mechanism of that absorption is entirely unknown; nor is there any adequate evidence as to what end was served by it in the economy of that horrid race. That these orgies were not essential to their physical well-being is certain, since many of the creatures survived for a long time after the frightful rites were rendered impossible.
Be that is it may, the Eich sought out and found many surviving Overlords. The latter tried to enslave the visitors and to bend them to their hideously sadistic purposes, but to no avail.
Not only were the Eich protected by thought-screens; they had minds stronger even than the Overlord’s own. And, after the first overtures had been made and channels of communication established, the alliance was a natural.
Much has been said and written of the binding power of love. That, and other noble emotions, have indeed performed wonders. It seems to this historian, however, that all too little has been said of the effectiveness of pure hate as a cementing material. Probably for good and sufficient moral reasons; perhaps because—and for the best—its application has been of comparatively infrequent occurrence. Here, in the case in hand, we have history’s best example of two entirely dissimilar peoples working efficiently together under the urge, not of love or of any other lofty sentiment, but of sheer, stark, unalloyed and corrosive, but common, hate.
Both hated Civilization and everything pertaining to it. Both wanted revenge; wanted it with a searing, furious need almost tangible: a gnawing, burning lust which neither countenanced palliation nor brooked denial. And above all, both hated vengefully, furiously, esuriently—every way except blindly—an as yet unknown and unidentified wearer of the million-times-accursed Lens of the Galactic Patrol!
The Eich were hard, ruthless, cold; not even having such words in their language as “conscience,”
“mercy,” or “scruple.” Their hatred of the Lensman was then a thing of an intensity unknowable to any human mind. Even that emotion however, grim as it was and fearsome, paled beside the passionately vitriolic hatred of the Overlords of Delgon for the being who had been the Nemesis of their race.
And when the sheer mental power of the Overlords, unthinkably great as it was and operative withal in a fashion utterly incomprehensible to us of Civilization, was combined with the ingenuity, resourcefulness, and drive, as well as with the scientific ability of the Eich, the results would in any case have been portentous indeed.
In this case they were more than portentous, and worse. Those prodigious intellects, fanned into fierce activity by fiery blasts of hatred, produced a thing incredible.
CHAPTER 15 – OVERLORDS OF DELGON
Before his ship was serviced for the flight into the unknown Kinnison changed his mind.
He was vaguely troubled about the trip. It was nothing as definite as a “hunch”; hunches are, the Gray Lensman knew, the results of the operation of an extra-sensory perception possessed by all of us in greater or lesser degree. It was probably not an obscure warning to his super-sense from an other, more pervasive dimension. It was, he thought, a repercussion of the doubt in Xylpic’s mind that the fading out of the men’s bodies had been due to simple invisibility.
“I think I’d better go alone, chief,” he informed the Port Admiral one day. “I’m not quite as sure as I was as to just what they’ve got.”
“What difference does that make?” Haynes demanded.
“Lives,” was the terse reply.
“Your life is what I’m thinking about You’ll be safer with the big ship, you can’t deny that.”
“We-ll, perhaps. But I don’t want. . .”
“What you want is immaterial.”
“How about a compromise? I’ll take Worsel and van-Buskirk. When the Overlords hypnotized him that time it made Bus so mad that he’s been taking treatments from Worsel.
Nobody can hypnotize him now, Worsel says, not even an Overlord.”
“No compromise. I can’t order you to take the Dauntless, since your authority is transcendent. You can take anything you like. I can, however, and shall, order the Dauntless to ride your tail wherever you go.”
“QX, I’ll have to take her then.” Kinnison’s voice grew somber. “But suppose half the crew don’t get back . . . and that I do?”
“Isn’t that what happened on the Brittania?”
“No,” came flat answer. “We were all taking the same chance then—it was the luck of the draw. This is different.”
“How different?”
“I’ve got better equipment than they have . . . I’d be a murderer, cold.”
“Not at all, no more than then. You had better equipment then, too, you know, although not as much of it. Every commander of men has that same feeling when he sends men to death.
But put yourself in my place. Would you send one of your best men, or let him go, alone on a highly dangerous mission when more men or ships would improve his chances? Answer that, honestly.”
“Probably I wouldn’t,” Kinnison admitted, reluctantly.
“QX. Take all the precautions you can—but I don’t have to tell you that. I know you will.”
Therefore it was the Dauntless in which Kinnison set out a day or two later. With him were Worsel and vanBuskirk, as well as the vessel’s full operating crew of Tellurians. As they approached the region of space in which Xylpic’s vessel had been attacked every man in the crew got his armor in readiness for instant use, checked his sidearms, and took his emergency battle-station. Kinnison turned then to Worsel.
“How d’you feel, fellow old snake?” he asked.
“Scared,” the Velantian replied, sending a rippling surge of power the full length of the thirty-foot-long cable of supple, leather-hard flesh that was his body. “Scared to the tip of my tail. Not that they can treat me as they did before—we three, at least, are safe from their minds—but at what they will do. Whatever it is to be, it will not be what we expect. They certainly will not do the obvious.”
“That’s what’s clogging my jets,” the Lensman agreed. “As a girl told me once, I’m getting the screaming meamies.”
“That’s what you mugs get for being so brainy,” vanBuskirk put in. With a flick of his massive wrist he brought his thirty-pound space-axe to the “ready” as lightly as though it were a Tellurian dress saber. “Bring on your Overlords— squish! Just like that!” and a whistling sweep of his atrocious weapon was illustration enough.
“May be something in that, too, Bus,” he laughed. Then, to the Velantian, “About time to tune in on ‘em, I guess.”