be a good man. He would marry. He did not think so now, of course-in his own mind his
life was consecrate-but he would. If necessary, the Patrol itself would see to it that he
did. There were ways, and such stock was altogether too good not to be propagated.
And, fifteen years from now-if he lived-when he was no longer fit for the grinding,
grueling life to which he now looked forward so eagerly, he would select the Earth-
bound job for which he was best fitted and would become a good executive. For such
were the executives of the Patrol. But this day-dreaming was getting him nowhere, fast,
he shook himself and plunged again into his work.
Kinnison reached his quarters at last, realizing with a thrill that they were no
longer his. He now had no quarters, no residence, no address. Wherever he might be,
throughout the whole of illimitable space, there was his home. But, instead of being
dismayed by the thought of the life he faced, he was filled by a fierce eagerness to be
actually living it.
There was a tap at his door and an orderly entered, carrying a bulky package.
“Your Grays, sir,” he announced, with a crisp salute.
“Thanks.” Kinnison returned the salute as smartly, and, almost before the door
had closed, he was yanking off the space-black-and-silver-and-gold gorgeousness of
the uniform he wore.
Stripped bare, he made the quick, meaningful gesture he had not really expected
ever to be able to make. Gray Seal. No entity has ever donned or ever will don the Gray
unmoved, -nor without dedicating himself anew to that for which it stands.
The Gray-the unadorned, neutral-colored leather that was the proud garb of that
branch of the Patrol to which he was thenceforth to belong. It had been tailored to his
measurements, and he could not help studying with approval his reflection in the mirror.
The round, almost visorless cap, heavily and softly quilted in protection against the
helmet of his armor. The heavy goggles, opaque to all radiation harmful to the eyes.
The short jacket, emphasizing broad shoulders and narrow waist. The trim breeches
and high boots, encasing powerful, tapering legs.
“What an outfit-what an outfit!” he breathed. “And Maybe I ain’t such a bad-
looking ape, at that, in these Grays.”
He did not then, and never did realize that he was wearing the plainest,
drabbest, most strictly utilitarian uniform in existence, for to him, as to all others who
knew it, the sheer, stark simplicity f the Unattached Lensman’s plain gray leather
transcended by far the gaudy trappings of the other branches of the Service. He had
admired him. self boyishly, as men do, feeling a trifle ashamed in so doing, but he did
not then and never did appreciate what a striking figure of a man he really was as he
strode out of Quarters and down the wide avenue toward the Britannia’s dock.
He was glad indeed that there had been no ceremony or public show connected
with this, his real and only Important graduation. For as his fellows-not only his own
crew, but also his friends from all over the Reservation-thronged about him, mauling
and pummeling him in congratulation and acclaim, he knew that he couldn’t stand much
more. If there were to be much more of it, he discovered suddenly, he would either
pass out cold or cry like a baby-he didn’t quite know which.
That whole howling, chanting mob clustered about him, and. considering it an
honor to carry the least of his personal belongings, formed a yelling, cap-tossing escort.
Traffic meant nothing whatever to that pleasantly mad crew, nor, temporarily, did
regulations. Let traffic detour-let pedestrians no matter how august, cool their heels-let
cars, trucks, yes, even trains, wait until they got past – let everything wait, or turn
around and go back, or go some other way. Here comes Kinnison ! Kimball Kinnison !
Kimball Kinnison Gray Lensmanl Make way! And way was made, from the Brittania’s
dock clear across the base to the slip in which the Lensman’s new speedster lay.
And what a ship this little speedster was! Trim, trig, streamlined to the ultimate
she lay there, quiescent but surcharged with power. Almost sentient she was, this
powerpacked, ultraracy little fabrication of space-Toughened alloy, instantly ready at his
touch to liberate those tremendous energies which were to hurl him through the infinite
reaches of the cosmic void.
None of the mob came aboard of course. They backed off, still frantically waving
and throwing whatever came closest to hand, and as Kinnison touched a button and
shot into the air he swallowed several times in a vain attempt to dispose of an amazing
lump which had somehow appeared in his throat.
CHAPTER 15
The Decoy
It so happened that for many long weeks there had been lying in New York Spaceport
an urgent shipment for Alsakan, and that urgency was not merely a one-way affair. For,
with the possible exception of a few packets whose owners had locked them in vaults
and would not part with them at any price, there was not a single Alsakanite cigarette
left on Earth!
Luxuries, then as now, soared feverishly in price with scarcity. Only the rich
smoked Alsakanite cigarettes, and to those rich the price of anything they really wanted
was a matter of almost complete indifference. And plenty of them wanted, and wanted
badly, their Alsakanite cigarettesthere was no doubt of that. The current market report
upon them was.
“Bid, one thousand credits per packet of ten. Offered, none at any price.”
With that ever-climbing figure in mind, a merchant prince named Matthews had
been trying to get an Alsakan-bound ship into the ether. He knew that one cargo of
Alsakanite cigarettes safely landed in any Tellurian spaceport would yield more profit
than could be made by his entire fleet in ten years of normal trading. Therefore he had
for weeks been pulling every wire, and even every string, that he could reach, political,
financial, even at times verging altogether too close for comfort upon the criminal -but
without results.
For, even if he could find a crew willing to take the risk, to launch the ship without
an escort would be out of the question. There would be no profit in a ship that did not
return to Earth. The ship was his, to do with as he pleased, but the escorting maulers
were assigned solely by the Galactic Patrol, and the Patrol would not give his ship an
escort.
In answer to his first request, he had been informed that only cargoes classed as
“necessary” were being escorted at all regularly, that “semi-necessary” loads were
escorted occasionally, when of a particularly useful or desirable commodity and if
opportunity offered, that “luxury” loads such as his were not being escorted at all, that
he would be notified if, as, and when the Prometheus could be given escort. Then the
merchant prince began’ his siege.
Politicians of high rank, local and national, sent in “requests” of varying degrees
of diplomacy. Financiers first offered inducements, then threatened to “bear down,”
then put on all the various kinds of pressure known to their pressure-loving ilk. Pleas,
demands, threats, and pressures were alike, however, futile. The Patrol could not be
coaxed or bullied, cajoled, bribed, or cowed, and all further communications upon the
subject, from whatever source originating were ignored.
Having exhausted his every resource of diplomacy, politics, guile, and finance,
the merchant prince resigned himself to the inevitable and stopped trying to get his ship
off the ground. Then New York Base received from Prime Base an open message, not
even coded, which read.
“Authorize space-ship Prometheus to clear for Alsakan at will, escorted by Patrol
ship B 42 TC 838, whose present orders are hereby cancelled. Signed, Haynes.”
A demolition bomb dropped into that sub-base would not have caused greater
excitement than did that message. No one could explain it-the base commander, the
mauler’s captain, the captain of the Prometheus, or the highly pleased but equally
surprised Matthews-but all of them did whatever they could to expedite the departure of
the freighter. She was, and had been for a long time, practically ready to sail.
As the base commander and Matthews sat in the office, shortly before the
scheduled time of departure, Kinnison arrived-or, more correctly, let them know that he
was there. He invited them both into the control-room of his speedster, and invitations
from Gray Lensmen were accepted without question or demur.
“I suppose you are wondering what this is all about,” he began. “I’ll make it as
short as I can. I asked you in here because this is the only convenient place in which I
know that what we say will not be overheard. There are lots of spy-rays around here,
whether you know it or not. The Prometheus is to be allowed to go to Alsakan, because
that is where pirates seem to be most numerous, and we do not want to waste time