untrustworthy false teeth removed as fast as my therapists can operate upon their
minds.”
“Nevertheless, you are even now guilty of underestimating,” Alcon reproved him
sharply, energizing a force-ball communicator. “It is quite eminently possible that he
who wrought so upon Lonabar may have been enabled—by pure chance, perhaps—to
establish a linkage between that planet and Lyrane . . .”
The cold, crisply incisive thought of an Eich answered the Tyrant’s call.
“Have you of Lyrane perceived or encountered any unusual occurrences or
indications?” Alcon demanded.
“We have not.”
“Expect them, then,” and the Thrallian despot transmitted in detail all the new
developments.
“We always expect new and untoward things,” the Eich more than half sneered.
“We are prepared momently for anything that can happen, from a visitation by Star A
Star and any or all of his Lensmen up to an attack by the massed Grand Fleet of the
Galactic Patrol. Is there anything else, Your Supremacy?”
“No. I envy you your self-confidence and assurance, but I mistrust exceedingly
the soundness of your judgment. That is all.” Alcon turned his attention to the
psychologist. “Have you operated upon the minds of those Eich and those self-styled
Overlords as you did upon that of Menjo Bleeko?”
“No!” the mind-surgeon gasped. “Impossible! Not physically, perhaps, but would
not such a procedure interfere so seriously with the work that it. . .”
“That is your problem—solve it,” Alcon ordered, curtly. “See to it, however it is
solved, that no traceable linkage exists between any of those minds and us. Any mind
capable of thinking such thoughts as those which we have just received is not to be
trusted.”
As has been said, Kinnison-ex-Cartiff was en route for Lyrane II while the
foregoing conference was taking place. Throughout the trip he kept in touch with
Clarrissa. At first he tried, with his every artifice of diplomacy, cajolery, and downright
threats, to make her lay off; he finally invoked all his Unattached Lensman’s
transcendental authority and ordered her summarily to lay off.
No soap. How did he get that way, she wanted furiously to know, to be ordering
her around as though she were an uncapped probe? She was a Lensman, too, by
Klono’s curly whiskers! Solving this problem was her job—nobody else’s— and she was
going to do it. She was on a definite assignment —his own assignment, too,
remember—and she wasn’t going to be called off of it just because he had found out all
of a sudden that it might not be quite as safe as dunking doughnuts at a down-river
picnic. What kind of a sun-baked, space-tempered crust did he have to pull a crack like
that on her? Would he have the bare-faced, unmitigated gall to spring a thing like that
on any other Lensman in the whole cock-eyed universe?
That stopped Dim—cold. Lensmen always went in; that was the Code. For any
Tellurian Lensman, anywhere, to duck or to dodge because of any personal danger was
sheerly, starkly unthinkable. The fact that she was, to him, the sum total of all the
femininity of the galaxy could not be allowed any weight whatever; any more than the
converse aspect had ever been permitted to sway him. Fair enough. Bitter, but
inescapable. This was one—just one—of the consequences which Mentor had
foreseen. He had foreseen it, too, in a dimly unreal sort of way, and now that it was here
he’d simply have to take it. QX.
“But be careful, anyway,” he surrendered. “Awfully careful —as careful as I would
myself.”
“I could be ever so much more careful than that and still be pretty reckless.” Her
low, entrancing chuckle came through as though she were present in person. “And by
the way, Kim, did I ever tell you that I am fast getting to be a gray Lensman?”
“You always were, ace—you couldn’t very well be anything else.”
“No—I mean actually gray. Did you ever stop to consider what the laundry
problem would be on this heathenish planet?”
“Cris, I’m surprised at you—what do you need of a laundry?” he derided her,
affectionately. “Here you’ve been blasting me to a cinder about not taking your
Lensmanship seriously enough, and yet you are violating one of the prime tenets—that
of conformation to planetary customs. Shame on you!”
He felt her hot blush across all those parsecs of empty space. “I tried it at first,
Kim, but it was just simply terrible.'”
“You’ve got to learn how to be a Lensman or else quit throwing your weight
around like you did a while back. No back chat, either, you insubordinate young jade, or
I’ll take that Lens away from you and heave you into the clink.”
“You and what regiment of Valerians? Besides, it didn’t make any difference,”
she explained, triumphantly. “These matriarchs don’t like me one bit better, no matter
what I wear or don’t wear.”
Time passed, and in spite of Kinnison’s highly disquieting fears, nothing
happened. Right on schedule the Patrol ship eased down to a landing at the edge of the
Lyranian airport. Clarrissa was waiting; dressed now, not in nurse’s white, but in
startlingly nondescript gray shirt and breeches.
“Not the gray leather of my station, but merely dirt color,” she explained to
Kinnison after the first fervent greetings. “These women are clean enough physically,
but I simply haven’t got a thing fit to wear. Is your laundry working?”
It was, and very shortly Sector Chief Nurse Clarrissa MacDougall appeared in
her wonted immaculately-white, stiffly-starched uniform. She would not wear the Grays
to which she was entitled; nor would she—except when defying Kinnison—claim as her
right any one of the perquisites or privileges which were so indubitably hers. She was
not, never had been, and never would or could be a real Lensman, she insisted. At best,
she was only a synthetic—or an imitation—or a sort of amateur—or maybe a “Red”
Lensman— handy to have around, perhaps, for certain kinds of jobs, but absolutely and
definitely not a regular Lensman. And it was this attitude which was to make the Red
Lensman not merely tolerated, but loved as she was loved by Lensmen, Patrolmen, and
civilians alike throughout the length, breadth, and thickness of Civilization’s bounds.
The ship lifted from the airport and went north into the uninhabited temperate
zone. The matriarchs did not have anything the Tellurians either needed or wanted; the
Lyranians disliked visitors so openly and so intensely that to move away from the
populated belt was the only logical and considerate thing to do.
The Dauntless arrived a day later, bringing Worsel and Tregonsee; followed
closely by Nadreck in his ultra-refrigerated speedster. Five Lensmen, then, studied
intently a globular map of Lyrane II which Clarrissa had made. Four of them, the
oxygen-breathers, surrounded it in the flesh, while Nadreck was with them only in
essence. Physically he was far out in the comfortably sub-zero reaches of the
stratosphere, but his mind was en rapport with theirs; his sense of perception scanned
the markings upon the globe as carefully and as accurately as did theirs.
“This belt which I have colored pink,” the female Lensman explained,
“corresponding roughly to the torrid zone, is the inhabited area of Lyrane II. Nobody
lives anywhere else. Upon it I have charted every unexplained disappearance that I
have been able to find out about. Each of these black crosses is where one such person
lived. The black circle—or circles, for frequently there are more than one—connected to
each cross by a black line, marks the spot—or spots—where that person was seen for
die last time or times. If the black circle is around the cross it means that she was last
seen at home.”
The crosses were distributed fairly evenly all around the globe and throughout
the populated zone. The circles, however, tended markedly to concentrate upon the
northern edge of that zone; and practically all of the encircled crosses were very .close
to the northern edge of the populated belt.
“Almost all the lines intersect at this point here,” she went on, placing a finger-tip
near the north pole of the globe. “The few that don’t could be observational errors, or
perhaps the person was seen there before she really disappeared. If it is Overlords,
their cavern must be within about fifty kilometers of the spot I’ve marked here. However,
I couldn’t find any evidence that any Eich have ever been here; and if they haven’t I
don’t see how the Overlords could be here, either. That, gentlemen of the Second
Stage, is my report; which, I fear, is neither complete nor conclusive.”
“You err, Lensman MacDougall.” Nadreck was the first to speak. “It is both. A
right scholarly and highly informative piece of work, eh, friend Worsel?”
“It is so . . . it is indeed so,” the Velantian agreed, the while a shudder rippled
along the thirty-foot length of his sinuous body. “I suspected many things, but not this. . .
certainly not this, ever, away out here.”