together in his con room for an ultra-private conference. Worsel, it appeared, was still in
surgery.
” ‘Smaller, Doc?” Kinnison asked, casually. He knew that there was nothing really
serious the matter—Worsel had come out of the cavern under his own power, and a
Velantian recovers with startling rapidity from any wound which does not kill him outright
“Having trouble with your stitching?”
“I’ll say we are!” the surgeon grunted. “Have to bore holes with an electric drill
and use linemen’s pliers. Just about through now, though—he’ll be with you in a couple
of minutes,” and in a very little more than the stipulated time the Velantian joined the
other Lensmen.
He was bandaged and taped, and did not move at his customary headlong pace,
but he fairly radiated self-satisfaction, bliss, and contentment. He felt better, he
declared, than he had at any time since he cleaned out the last of Delgon’s caverns.
Kinnison stopped the inter-play of thoughts by starting up his Lensman’s
projector. This mechanism was something like a tri-di machine, except that instead of
projecting sound and three-dimensional color, it operated via pure thought. Sometimes
the thoughts of one or more Overlords, at other times the thoughts of the Eich or other
beings as registered upon the minds of the Overlords, at still others the thoughts of
Nadreck or of Worsel amplifying a preceding thought-passage or explaining some detail
of the picture which was being shown at the moment. The spool of tape now being run,
with others, formed the Lensmen’s record of what they had done. This record would go
to Prime Base under Lensman’s Seal; that is, only a Lensman could handle it or see it.
Later, after the emergency had passed, copies of it would go to various Central
Libraries and thus become available to properly accredited students. Indeed, it is only
from such records, made upon the scene and at the time by keen-thinking, logical, truth-
seeking Lensmen, that such a factual, minutely-detailed history as this can be compiled;
and your historian is supremely proud that he was the first person other than a Lensman
to be allowed to study a great deal of this priceless data.
Worsel knew the gist of the report, Nadreck the compiler knew it all; but to
Kinnison, Clarrissa, and Tregonsee the unreeling of the tape brought shocking news.
For, as a matter of fact, the Overlords had known more, and there was more in the
Lyranian solar system to know, than Kinnison’s wildest imaginings had dared to
suppose. That system was one of the main focal points for the zwilnik business of an
immense volume of space; Lyrane II was the meeting-place, the dispatcher’s office, the
nerve-center from which thousands of invisible, immaterial lines reached out to
thousands of planets peopled by warm-blooded oxygen-breathers. Menjo Bleeko had
sent to Lyrane II not one expedition, but hundreds of them; the affair of Illona and her
escorts had been the veriest, the most trifling incident.
The Overlords, however, did not know of any Boskonian group in the Second
Galaxy. They had no superiors, anywhere. The idea of anyone or any thing anywhere
being superior to an Overlord was unthinkable. They did, however, cooperate
with—here came the really stunning fact—certain of the Eich who lived upon eternally
dark Lyrane VIII, and who managed things for the frigid-blooded, poison-breathing
Boskonians of the region in much the same fashion as the Overlords did for the warm-
blooded, light-loving races. To make the cooperation easier and more efficient, the two
planets were connected by a hyper-spatial tube.
“Just a sec!” Kinnison interrupted, as he stopped the machine for a moment.
“The Overlords were kidding themselves a bit there, I think—they must have been. If
they didn’t report to or get orders from the Second Galaxy or some other higher-up
office, the Eich must have; and since the records and plunder and stuff were not in the
cavern, the Eich must have them on Eight. Therefore, whether they realized it or not,
the Overlords must have been inferior to the Eich and under their orders. Check?”
“Check,” Nadreck agreed. “Worsel and I concluded that they knew the facts, but
were covering up even in their own minds, to save face. Our conclusions, and the data
from which they were derived, are in the introduction—another spool. Shall I get it?”
“By no means—just glad to have the point cleared up, is all. Thanks,” and the
showing went on.
The principal reason why the Lyranian system had been chosen for that
important headquarters was that it was one of the very few outlying solar systems,
completely unknown to the scientists of the Patrol, in which both the Eich and the
Overlords could live in their natural environments. Lyrane VIII was, of course, intensely,
bitterly cold. This quality is not rare, since nearly all Number Eight planets are; its
uniqueness lay in the fact that its atmosphere was almost exactly like that of Jarnevon.
And Lyrane II suited the Overlords perfectly. Not only did it have the correct
temperature, gravity, and atmosphere, but also it offered that much rarer thing without
which no cavern of Overlords would have been content for long—a native life-form
possessing strong and highly vital minds upon which they could prey.
There was more, much more; but the rest of it was not directly pertinent to the
immediate questions. The tape ran out, Kinnison snapped off the projector, and the
Lensmen went into a five-way.
Why was not Lyrane II defended? Worsel and Kinnison had already answered
that one. Secretiveness and power of mind, not armament, had always been the natural
defenses of all Overlords. Why hadn’t the Eich interfered? That was easy, too. The Eich
looked after themselves—if the Overlords couldn’t, that was just too bad. The two ships
that had come to aid and had remained to revenge had certainly not come from
Eight—their crews had been oxygen-breathers. Probably a rendezvous—immaterial
anyway. Why wasn’t the whole solar system ringed with outposts and screens? Too
obvious. Why hadn’t the Dauntless been detected? Because of her nullifiers; and if she
had been spotted by any short-range stuff she had been mistaken for another zwilnik
ship. They hadn’t detected anything out of the way on Eight because it hadn’t occurred
to anybody to swing an analyzer toward that particular planet. If they did they’d find that
Eight was defended plenty. Had the Eich had time to build defenses? They must have
had, or they wouldn’t be there—they certainly were not taking that kind of chances. And
by the way, hadn’t they better do a bit of snooping around Eight before they went back
to join the Z9M9Z and the Fleet? They had.
Thereupon the Dauntless faced about and retraced her path toward the now
highly important system of Lyrane. In their previous approaches the Patrolmen had
observed the usual precautions to avoid revealing themselves to any zwilnik vessel
which might have been on the prowl. Those precautions were now intensified to the
limit, since they knew that Lyrane VIII was the site of a base manned by the Eich
themselves.
As the big cruiser crept toward her goal, nullifiers full out and every instrument of
detection and reception as attentively out-stretched as the whiskers of a tomcat slinking
along a black alley at midnight, the Lensmen again pooled their brains in conference.
The Eich. This was going to be NO pushover. Even the approach would have to
be figured to a hair; because, since the Boskonians had decided that it would be poor
strategy to screen in their whole solar system, it was a cold certainty that they would
have their own planets guarded and protected by every device which their inhuman
ingenuity could devise. The Dauntless would have to stop just outside the range of
electro-magnetic detection, for the Boskonians would certainly have a five hundred
percent overlap. Their nullifiers would hash up the electros somewhat, but there was no
use in taking too many chances. Previously, on right-line courses to and from Lyrane II,
that had not mattered, for two reasons—not only was the distance extreme for accurate
electro work, but also it would have been assumed that their ship was a zwilnik. Laying
a course for Eight, though, would be something else entirely. A zwilnik would take the
tube, and they would not, even if they had known where it was.
That left the visuals. The cruiser was a mighty small target .at interplanetary
distances; but there were such things as electronic telescopes, and the occupation of
even a single star might prove disastrous. Kinnison called the chief pilot.
“Stars must be thin in certain regions of the sky out here, Hen. Suppose you can
pick us out a line of approach along which we will occult no stars and no bright
nebulae?”
“I should think so, Kim—just a sec; I’ll see . . . Yes, easily. There’s a lot of black
background, especially to the nadir,” and the conference was resumed.