no avail: the attacker knew exactly what to do to certain nerves and ganglia to paralyze
all such activity. Mental resistance was equally futile against the overwhelmingly
superior power of the Tellurian’s mind. Then, his subject quietly passive, Kinnison tuned
in and began his search for information. Began it—and swore soulfully. This couldn’t be
so . . . it didn’t make any kind of sense . . . but there it was.
The ape simply didn’t know a thing about any ramification whatever of the vast
culture to which Civilization was opposed. He knew all about Lonabar and the rest of the
domain which he had ruled with such an iron hand. He knew much—altogether too
much—about humanity and Civilization, and plainly to be read in his mind were the
methods by which he had obtained those knowledges and the brutally efficient
precautions he had taken to make sure that Civilization would not in turn learn of him.
Kinnison scowled blackly. His deductions simply couldn’t be that far off . . . and
besides, it wasn’t reasonable that this guy was the top or that he had done all that work
on his own account . . . He pondered deeply, staring unseeing at Bleeko’s placid face;
and as he pondered, some of the jigsaw blocks of the puzzle began to click into a
pattern.
Then, ultra-carefully, with the utmost nicety of which he was capable, he again
fitted his mind to that of the dictator and began to trace, one at a time, the lines of
memory. Searching, probing, coursing backward and forward along those deeply-buried
time-tracks, until at last he found the breaks and the scars. For, as he had told Illona, a
radical mind-operation cannot be performed without leaving marks. It is true that upon
cold, unfriendly Jarnevon, after Worsel had so operated upon Kinnison’s mind, Kinnison
himself could not perceive that any work had been done. But that, be it remembered,
was before any actual change had occurred; before the compulsion had been applied.
The false memories supplied by Worse] were still latent, non-existent; the true memory
chains, complete and intact, were still in place.
The lug’s brain had been operated upon, Kinnison now knew, and by an expert.
What the compulsion was, what combination of thought-stimuli it was that would restore
those now non-existent knowledges, Kinnison had utterly no means of finding out.
Bleeko himself, even subconsciously, did not know. It was, it had to be, something
external, a thought-pattern impressed upon Bleeko’s mind by the Boskonian higher-up
whenever he wanted to use him; and to waste time in trying to solve that problem would
be the sheerest folly. Nor could he discover how that compulsion had been or could be
applied. If he got his orders from the Boskonian high command direct, there would have
to be an inter-galactic communicator; and it would in all probability be right here, in
Bleeko’s private rooms. No force-ball, or anything else that could take its place, was to
be found. Therefore Bleeko was, probably, merely another Regional Director, and took
orders from someone here in the First Galaxy.
Lyrane? The possibility jarred Kinnison. No real probability pointed that way yet,
however; it was simply a possibility, born of his own anxiety. He couldn’t worry about
it—yet.
His study of the zwilnik’s mind, unproductive although it was of the desired details
of things Boskonian, had yielded one highly important fact. His Supremacy of Lonabar
had sent at least one expedition to Lyrane II; yet there was no present memory in his
mind that he had ever done so. Kinnison had scanned those files with surpassing care,
and knew positively that Bleeko did not now know even that such a planet as Lyrane II
existed.
Could he, Kinnison, be wrong? Could somebody other than Menjo Bleeko have
sent that ship? Or those ships, since it was not only possible, but highly probable, that
that voyage was not an isolated instance? No, he decided instantly. Illona’s knowledge
was far too detailed and exact Nothing of such importance would be or could be done
without the knowledge and consent of Lonabar’s dictator. And the fact that he did not
now remember it was highly significant. It meant—it must mean—that the new Boskone
or whoever was back of Boskone considered the solar system of Lyrane of such vital
importance that knowledge of it must never, under any circumstances, get to Star A
Star, the detested, hated, and feared Director of Lensmen of the Galactic Patrol! And
Mac was on Lyrane II—ALONE! She had been safe enough so far, but . . .
“Cris!” he sent her an insistent thought.
“Yes, Kim?” came flashing answer.
“Thank Klono and Noshabkeming! You’re QX, then?”
“Of course. Why shouldn’t I be, the same as I was this morning?”
“Things have changed since then,” he assured her, grimly. “I’ve finally cracked
things open here, and I find that Lonabar is simply a dead end. It’s a feeder for Lyrane,
nothing else.
It’s not a certainty, of course, but there’s a very distinct possibility that Lyrane is
FT. If it is, I don’t need to tell you that you’re on a mighty hot spot So I want you to quit
whatever you’re doing and run. Hide. Crawl into a hole and pull it in after you. Get into
one of Helen’s deepest crypts and have somebody sit on the lid. And do it right
now—five minutes ago would have been better.”
“Why, Kim!” she giggled. “Everything here is exactly as it has always been. And
surely, you wouldn’t have a Lensman hide, would you? Would you, yourself?”
That question was, they both knew, unanswerable. “That’s different,” he of
course protested, but he knew that it was not. “Well, anyway, be careful,” he insisted.
“More careful than you ever were before in your life. Use everything you’ve got, every
second, and if you notice anything, however small, the least bit out of the way, let me
know, right then.”
“Ill do that. You’re coming, of course.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Ill say I am—in force! ‘Bye, Cris—BE CAREFUL!” and he snapped the line. He
had a lot to do. He had to act fast, and had to be right—and he couldn’t take all day in
deciding, either.
His mind flashed back over what he had done. Could he cover up? Should he
cover up, even if he could? Yes and no. Better not even try to cover Cartiff up, he
decided. Leave that trail just as it was; wide and plain—up to a certain point. This point,
right here. Cartiff would disappear here, in Bleeko’s palace.
He was done with Cartiff, anyway. They would smell a rat, of course—it stunk to
high heaven. They might not—they probably would not—believe that he had died in the
ruins of the palace, but they wouldn’t know that he hadn’t. And they would think that he
hadn’t found out a thing, and he would keep them thinking so as long as he could. The
young thug in Cartiff’s would help, too, all unconsciously. He would assume the name
and station, of course, and fight with everything Kinnison had taught him. That would
help—Kinnison grinned as he realized just how much it would help.
The real Cartiff would have to vanish as completely, as absolutely without a trace
as was humanly possible. They would figure out in time that Caitiff had done whatever
was done in the palace, but it was up to him to see to it that they could never find out
how it was done. Wherefore he took from Menjo’s mind every iota of knowledge which
might conceivably be of use to him thereafter. Then Menjo Bleeko died and the
Lensman strode along corridors and down stairways. And wherever he went, there went
Death.
This killing griped Kinnison to the core of his being, but it had to be. The fate of
all Civilization might very well depend upon the completeness of his butchery this day;
upon the sheer mercilessness of his extermination of every foe who might be able to
cast any light, however dim, upon what he had just done.
Straight to the palace arsenal he went, where he labored briefly at the filling of a
bin with bombs. A minute more to set a timer and he was done. Out of the building he
ran. No one stayed him; nor did any, later, say that they had seen him go. He dumped a
dead man out of a car and drove it away at reckless speed. Even at that, however, he
was almost too slow—hurtling stones from the dynamited palace showered down
scarcely a hundred feet behind his screeching wheels.
He headed for the space-port; then, changing his mind, braked savagely as he
sent Lensed instructions to Watson. He felt no compunction about fracturing the rules
and regulations made and provided for the landing of space-ships at space-ports
everywhere by having his vessel make a hot-blast, unauthorized, and quite possibly