going to phrase his question. He had done it very neatly, by tossing the buck right back
at him. But he wouldn’t go sloppy, either. This “untarnished-meteors-upon-the-collars-of-
our-heroes” stuff was QX for swivel-tongued spellbinders, but not for anybody else. So:
“As far as I know—and I bashfully admit that I know it all —the answer is yes.”
“Great!” Henderson came to life with a snap. “Now, if . . . but I don’t suppose
you’d . . .” the thought died away.
‘Til say I wouldn’t. Unethical no end. I might cheat just a little bit, though. She
probably won’t do much worse than beat your brains out with a two-inch spanner if you
ask her. And only about half of the twenty one hundred or so other guys aboard this
heap are laying awake nights trying to figure out ways of beating your time.”
“Huh? Those apes? Watch my jets!” Henderson strode away, doubts all resolved;
and Kinnison, seeing that hour twenty was very near, went to his own room.
It is difficult for any ordinary mind to conceive of its being in complete accord with
any other, however closely akin. Consider, then, how utterly impossible it is to envision
that merging of a hundred thousand, or five hundred thousand, or a million—nobody
ever did know how many Lensmen tuned in that day—minds so utterly different that no
one human being can live long enough even to see each of the races there
represented! Probably less than half of them were even approximately human. Many
were not mammals, many were not warm-blooded. Not all, by far, were even oxygen-
breathers— oxygen, to many of those races, was sheerest poison. Nevertheless, they
had much in common. All were intelligent; most of them very highly so; and all were
imbued with the principles of freedom and equality for which Galactic Civilization stood
and upon which it was fundamentally based.
That meeting was staggering, even to Kinnison’s mind. It was appalling—yet it
was ultimately thrilling, too. It was one of the greatest, one of the most terrific thrills of
the Lensman’s long life.
“Thanks, fellows, for coming in,” he began simply. “I will make my message very
short. As Haynes may have told you, I am Kinnison of Tellus. It will help greatly in
locating the head of the Boskonian culture if I can find a certain planet, known to me
only by the name of Lonabar. Its people are human beings to the last decimal; its rarest
jewels are these,” and he spread in the collective mind a perfect, exactly detailed and
pictured description of the gems. “Does any one of you know of such a planet? Has any
one of you ever seen a stone like any of these?”
A pause—a heart-breakingly long pause. Then a faint, soft, diffident thought
appeared; appeared as though seeping slowly from a single cell of that incredibly linked,
million-fold-composite Lensman’s BRAIN.
“I waited to be sure that no one else would speak, as my information is very
meager, and unsatisfactory, and old,” the thought apologized.
Kinnison started, but managed to conceal his surprise from the linkage. That
thought, so diamond-clear, so utterly precise, must have come from a Second-Stage
Lensman—and since it was neither Worsel nor Tregonsee, there must be another one
he had never heard of!
“Whatever its nature, any information at all is very welcome,” Kinnison replied,
without perceptible pause. “Who is speaking, please?”
“Nadreck of Palain VII, Unattached. Many cycles ago I secured, and still have in
my possession, a crystal—or rather, a fragment of a super-cooled liquid—like one of the
red gems you showed us; the one having practically all its transmittance in a very
narrow band centering at point seven zero zero.”
“But you do not know what planet it came from—is that it?”
“Not exactly,” the soft thought went on. “I saw it upon its native planet, but
unfortunately I do not now know just what or where that planet was. We were exploring
at the time, and had visited many planets. Not being interested in any world having an
atmosphere of oxygen, we paused but briefly, nor did we map it. I was interested in the
fusion because of its peculiar filtering effect. A scientific curiosity merely.”
“Could you find that planet again?”
“By checking back upon the planets we did map, and by retracing our route, I
should be able to—yes, I am certain that I can do so.”
“And when Nadreck of Palain VII admits to being certain of anything,” another
thought appeared, “nothing in the macrocosmic universe is more certain.”
“I thank you, Twenty Four of Six, for the expression of confidence.”
“And I thank both of you particularly, as well as all of you collectively,” Kinnison
broadcast. Intelligences by the millions broke away from the linkage. As soon as the two
were alone:
“You’re Second Stage, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I felt a need. I was too feeble. A certain project was impossible, since it was
so dangerous as to involve a distinct possibility of personal harm. Therefore Mentor
gave me advanced treatment, to render me somewhat less feeble than I theretofore
was.”
“I see.”
Kinnison didn’t see, at all, since this was his first contact with a Palainian mind.
Who ever heard of a Lensman refusing a job because of personal risk? Lensmen
always went in . . . no matter how scared he was, of course he went in . . . that was the
Code . . . human Lensmen, that is . . . There were a lot of things he didn’t know, and
other races could be—must be—different. He was astounded that there could be that
much difference; but after all, since the guy was an L2, he certainly had enough of what
it took to more than make up for any lacks. How did he know how short of jets he
himself looked, in the minds of other Second Stage Lensmen? These thoughts flashed
through his mind, behind his impervious shield, and after only the appropriate slight
pause his thought went smoothly on:
“I had known of only Worsel of Velantia and Tregonsee of Rigel Four, besides
myself. I don’t need to tell you how terrifically glad I am that there are four of us instead
of three. But at the moment the planet Lonabar is, I believe, more important to my job
than anything else in existence. You will map it for me, and send the data to me at
Prime Base?”
“I will map the planet and will myself bring the data to you at Prime Base. Do you
want some of the gems, also?”
“I don’t think so.” Kinnison thought swiftly. “No, better not. They’ll be harder to get
now, and it might tip our hand too much. I’ll get them myself, later. Will you inform me,
through Haynes, when to expect you?”
“I will so inform you. I will proceed at once, with speed.” “Thanks a million,
Nadreck—clear ether!” The ship sped on, and as it sped Kinnison continued to think. He
attended the “blowout”. Ordinarily he would have been right in the thick of it; but this
time, young though he was and enthusiastic, he simply could not tune in. Nothing fitted,
and until he could see a picture that made some kind of sense he could not let go. He
listened to the music with half an ear, he watched the stunts with only half an eye.
He forgot his problem for a while when, at the end, Illona Potter danced. For
Lonabarian acrobatic dancing is not like the Tellurian art of the same name. Or rather, it
is like it, except more so—much more so. An earthly expert would be scarcely a novice
on Lonabar, and Illona was a Lonabarian expert. She had been training, intensively, all
her life, and even in Lonabar’s chill social and psychological environment she had loved
her work. Now, reveling as she was in the first realization of liberty of thought and of
person, and inspired by the heart-felt applause of the space-hounds so closely packed
into the hall, she put on something more than an exhibition of coldly impersonal skill and
limberness. And the feelings, both of performer and of spectators, were intensified by
the fact that, of all the repertoire of the Dauntless1 superb orchestra, Illona liked best to
dance to the stirring strains of “Our Patrol”. “Our Patrol”, which any man who has ever
worn the space-black-and-silver will say is the greatest, grandest, most glorious, most
terrific piece of music that ever was or ever will be written, played, or sung! Small
wonder, then, that the dancer really “gave”; or that the mighty cruiser’s walls almost
bulged under the applause of Illona’s “boys” at the end of her first number.
They kept her at it until the captain stopped it, to keep the girl from killing herself.
“She’s worn down to a nub,” he declared, and she was. She was trembling. She was
panting, her almost-lacquered-down hair stood out in wild disorder. Her eyes were