He called Worsel, and, upon being informed that the recorders were ready, he started in.
Characteristically, he began with Prellin of Bronseca, and memorized the data covering that wight as he transmitted it. The next one to go down upon the steel tape was Crowninshield of Tressilia. Having exhausted all the filed information upon the organizations controlled by those two regional directors, he took the rest of them in order.
He had finished his real task and had practically finished a detailed survey of the entire base when the forceball communicator burst into activity. Knowing approximately the analysis of the beam and exactly its location in space, it took only seconds for Kinnison to tap it; but the longer the interview went on the more disappointed the Lensman grew. Orders, reports, discussions of broad matters of policy—it was simply a conference between two high executives of a vast business firm. It was interesting enough, but in it there was no grist for the Lensman’s mill, There was no new information except a name. There was no indication as to who Eich-mil was, or where, there was no mention whatever of Boskone. There was nothing even remotely of a personal nature until the very last “I assume from lack of mention that the Lensman has made no farther progress.” Eichmil concluded.
“Not so far as our best men can discover,” Jalte replied, carefully, and Kinnison grinned like the Cheshire cat in his secure, if uncomfortable, retreat It tickled his vanity immensely to be referred to so matter-of-factly as “the” Lensman, and he felt very smart and cagy indeed to be within a few hundred feet of Jalte as the Boskonian uttered the words. “Lensmen by the score are still working Prellin’s base in Cominoche. Some twelve of these—human or approximately so—have been, returning again and again. We are checking those with care, because of the possibility that one of them may be the one we want, but as yet I can make no conclusive report.”
The connection was broken, and the Lensman’s brief thrill of elated self-satisfaction died away.
“No soap,” he growled to himself in disgust “I’ve got to get into that guy’s mind, some way or other!”
How could he make the approach? Every man in the base wore a screen, and they were mighty careful. No dogs or other pet animals. There were a few birds,, but it would smell very cheesy indeed to have a bird flying around, pecking at screen generators. To anyone with half a brain that would tell the whole story, and these folks were really smart What, then?
There was a nice spider up there in a corner. Big enough to do light work, but not big enough to attract much, if any, attention. Did spiders have minds? He could soon find out The spider had more of a mind than he had supposed, and he got into it easily enough.
She could not really think at all, and at the starkly terrible savagery of her tiny ego the Lensman actually winced, but at that she had redeeming features. She was willing to work hard and long for a comparatively small return of food. He could not fuse his mentality with hers smoothly; as he could do in the case of creatures of greater brain power, but he could handle her after a fashion.
At least she knew that certain actions would result in nourishment.
Through the insect’s compound eyes the room and all its contents were weirdly distorted, but the Lensman could make them out well enough to direct her efforts. She crawled al^ng the ceiling and dropped upon a silken rope to Jalte’s belt. She could not pull the plug of the power- pack—it loomed before her eyes, a gigantic metal pillar as immovable as the Rock of Gibraltar—therefore she scampered on and began to explore the mazes of the set itself. She could not see the thing as a whole, it was far too immense a structure for that; so Kinnison, to whom the device was no larger than a hand, directed her to the first grid lead.
A tiny thing, thread-thin in gross; yet to the insect it was an ordinary cable of stranded soft-metal wire. Her powerful mandibles pried loose one of the component strands and with very little effort pulled it away from its fellows beneath the head of a binding screw. The strand bent easily, and as it touched the metal of the chassis the thought-screen vanished.
Instantly Kinnison insinuated his mind in Jalte’s and began to dig for knowledge. Eichmil was his chief—Kinnison knew that already. His office was in the Second Galaxy, on the planet Jarnevon. Jalte had been there . . . coordinates so and so, courses such and such . . . Eichmil reported to Boskone . . .
The Lensman stiffened. Here was the first positive evidence he had found that his deductions were correct—or even that there really was such an entity as Boskone! He bored anew.
Boskone was not a single entity, but a council . . . probably of the Eich, the natives of Jarnevon . . . weird impressions of coldly intellectual reptilian monstrosities, horrific, indescribable . . . Eichmil must know exactly who and where Boskone was. Jalte did not.
Kinnison finished his research and abandoned the Kalonian’s mind as insidiously as he had entered it. The spider opened the short, restoring the screen to usefulness. Then, before he did anything else, the Lensman directed his small ally to a whole family of young grubs just under the cover of his manhole. Lensmen paid their debts, even to spiders.
Then, with a profound sigh of relief, he dropped down into the sewer. The submarine journey to the river was made without incident, as was the flight to his speedster. Night fell, and through its blackness there darted the even blacker shape which was the Lensman’s little ship.
Out into inter-galactic space she flashed, and homeward. And as she flew the Tellurian scowled.
He had gained much, but not enough by far. He had hoped to get all the data on Boskone, so that the zwilniks’ headquarters could be stormed by Civilization’s armada, invincible in its newly-devised might.
No soap. Before he could do that he would have to scout Jarnevon . . . in the Second Galaxy . . . alone. Alone? Better not. Better take the flying snake along. Good old dragon! That was a mighty long flit to be doing alone, and one with some mighty high-powered opposition at the other end of it.
CHAPTER 19 – PRELLIN IS ELIMINATED
“Before you go anywhere; or, rather, whether you go anywhere or not, we want to knock down that Bronsecan base of Prellin’s,” Haynes declared to Kinnison in no uncertain voice. “It’s a galactic scandal, the way we’ve been letting them thumb their noses at us. Everybody in space thinks that the Patrol has gone soft all of a sudden. When are you going to let us smack them down? Do you know what they’ve done now?”
“No—what?”
“Gone out of business. We’ve been watching them so closely that they couldn’t do any queer business—goods, letters, messages, or anything—so they closed up the Bronseca branch entirely. ‘Unfavorable conditions,’ they said. Locked up tight—telephones disconnected, communicators cut, everything.”
“Hm . . . m . . . In that case we’d better take ‘em, I guess. No harm done, anyway, now—maybe all” the better. Let Boskone think that our strategy failed and we had to fall back on brute force.”
“You say it easy. You think it’ll be a push-over, don’t you?”
“Sure—why not?”
“You noticed the shape of their screens?”
“Roughly cylindrical,” in surprise. “They’re hiding a lot of tuflf, of course, but they can’t possibly. . . .”
“I’m afraid that they can, and will. I’ve been checking up on the building. Ten years old.
Plans and permits QX except for the fact that nobody knows whether or not the building Resembles the plans in any way.”
“Klono’s whiskers!” Kinnison was aghast, his mind was racing. “How could that be, chief? Inspections—builders— contractors—workmen?”
“The city inspector who had the job came into money later, retired, and nobody had seen him since. Nobody can locate a single builder or workman who saw it constructed. No competent inspector has been in it since. Cominoche is lax—all cities are, for that matter—with an outfit as big as Wembleson’s, who carries its own insurance, does its own inspecting, and won’t allow outside interference. Wembleson’s Isn’t alone in that attitude—they’re not all zwilniks, either.”
“You think it’s really fortified, then?”
“Sure of it. That’s why we ordered a gradual, but com- plete, evacuation of the city, beginning a couple of months ago.”
“How could you?” Kinnison was growing more surprised by the minute. “The businesses—the houses—the expense!”
“Martial law—the Patrol takes over in emergencies, you know. Businesses moved, and mostly carrying on very well. People ditto—very nice temporary camps, lake- and river-cottages, and so on. As for expense, the Patrol pays damages. We’ll pay for rebuilding the whole city if we have to—much rather that than leave that Boskonian base there alone.”