“Well . . . I’ll . . . be . . . damned! You win, Lensman!” and the ex-Boskonian
executive held out his hand. Those were not his words, of course; but as nearly as
Tellurian English can come to it, that is the exact sense of his final decision.
And the same, or approximately the same, was the decision of each of his eleven
fellows, each in his turn.
Thus it was, then, that Civilization won over the twelve recruits who were so
potently instrumental in the bloodless conquest of Thrale, and who were later to be of
such signal service throughout the Second Galaxy. For they knew Boskonia with a sure
knowledge, from top to bottom and from side to side, in every aspect and ramification;
they knew precisely where and when and how to work to secure the desired ends. And
they worked—how they worked!—but space is lacking to go into any of their labors
here.
Specialists gathered, of a hundred different sorts; and when, after peace and
security had been gained, they began to attack the stupendous files of the Hall of
Records, Kinnison finally yielded to Haynes’ insistence and moved out to the Z9M9Z.
“It’s about time, young fellow!” the Port Admiral snapped. “I’ve gnawed my finger-
nails off just about to the elbow and I still haven’t figured out how to crack Onlo. Have
you got any ideas?”
“Thrale first,” Kinnison suggested. “Everything QX here, you sure?”
“Absolutely,” Haynes grunted. ‘A’s strongly held as Tellus or Klovia. Primaries,
helices, super-tractors, Bergenholms, sunbeam—everything. They don’t need us here
any longer, any more than a hen needs teeth. Grand Fleet is all set to go, but we
haven’t been able to work out a feasible plan of campaign. The best way would be not
to use the fleet at all, but a sunbeam—but we can’t move the sun and Thorndyke can’t
hold the beam together that far. I don’t suppose we could use a negasphere?”
“I don’t see how,” Kinnison pondered. “Ever since we used it first they’ve been
ready for it. I’d be inclined to wait and see what Nadreck works out. He’s a wise old owl,
that bird— what does he tell you?”
“Nothing. Nothing flat.” Haynes’ smile was grimly amused. “The fact that he is still
‘investigating’—whatever that means—is all he’ll say. Why don’t you try him? You know
him better than I do or ever will.”
“It wouldn’t do any harm,” Kinnison agreed. “Nor good, either, probably. Funny
egg, Nadreck. I’d tie fourteen of his arms into lover’s knots if it’d make him give, but it
wouldn’t—he’s really tough.” Nevertheless he sent out a call, which was acknowledged
instantly.
“Ah, Kinnison, greetings. I am even now on my way to Thrale and the Directrix to
report.”
“You are? Fine!” Kinnison exclaimed. “How did you come out?”
“I did not—exactly—fail, but the work was very incompletely and very poorly
done,” Nadreck apologized, the while the Tellurian’s mind felt very strongly the Palainian
equivalent of a painful blush of shame. “My report of the affair is going in under
Lensman’s Seal.”
“But what did you do?” both Tellurians demanded as one.
“I scarcely know how to confess to such blundering,” and Nadreck actually
squirmed. “Will you not permit me to leave my shame to the spool of record?”
They would not, they informed him.
“If you must have it, then, I yield. The plan was to make all Onlonians destroy
themselves. In theory it ‘was sound and simple, but my execution was pitifully imperfect.
My work was so poorly done that the commanding officer in each one of three of the
domes remained alive, making it necessary for me to slay those three commanders
personally, by the use of crude force. I regret exceedingly the lack of finish of this
undertaking, and I apologize profoundly for it. I trust that you will not allow this
information to become a matter of public knowledge,” and the apologetic, mentally
sweating, really humiliated Palainian broke the connection.
Haynes and Kinnison stared at each other, for moments completely at a loss for
words. The Port Admiral first broke the silence.
“Hell’s—jingling—bells!” he wrenched out, finally, and waved a hand at the points
of light crowding so thickly his tactical tank. ‘A thing that the whole damned Grand Fleet
couldn’t do, and he does it alone, and then he apologizes for it as though he ought to be
stood up in a corner or sent to bed without any supper!”
“Uh-huh, that’s the way he is,” Kinnison breathed, in awe. “What a brain! . . .
what a man!”
Nadreck’s black speedster arrived and a three-way conference was held. Both
Haynes and Kinnison pressed him for the details of his really stupendous achievement,
but he refused positively even to mention any phase of it “The matter is
closed—finished,” he declared, in a mood of anger and self-reproach which neither of
the Tellurians had ever supposed that the gently scientific monster could assume, “I
practically failed. It is the poorest piece of work of which I have been guilty since
cubhood, and I desire and I insist that it shall not be mentioned again. If you wish to4ay
plans for the future, I will be very glad indeed to place at your disposal my small ability–
which has now been shown to be even smaller than I had supposed—but if you insist
upon discussing my fiasco, 1 shall forthwith go home. I will not discuss it. The record of
it will remain permanently under Lensman’s Seal. That is my last word.”
And it was. Neither of the two Tellurians mentioned the subject, of course, either
then or ever, but many other persons—including your historian—have done so, with no
trace whatever of success. It is a shame, it is positively outrageous, that no details are
available of the actual fall of Onlo. No human mind can understand why Nadreck will not
release his seal, but the bitter fact of his refusal to do so has been made all too plain.
Thus, in all probability, it never will become publicly known how those monstrous
Onlonians destroyed each other, nor how Nadreck penetrated the defensive screens of
Onlo’s embattled domes, nor in what fashions he warred upon the three surviving
commanders. These matters, and many others of perhaps equal interest and value,
must have been of such an epic nature that it is a cosmic crime that they cannot be
recorded here; that this, one of the most important incidents of the campaign, must be
mentioned merely and baldly as having happened. But, unless Nadreck relents—and he
apparently never does—that is the starkly tragic fact.
Other Lensmen were called in then, and admirals and generals and other
personages. It was decided to man the fortifications of Onlo immediately, from the
several fleets of frigid-blooded poison-breathers which made up a certain percentage of
Civilization’s forces. This decision was influenced markedly by Nadreck, who said in
part:
“Onlo is a beautiful planet. Its atmosphere is perfect, its climate is ideal; not only
for us of Palain VII, but also for the inhabitants of many other planets, such as . . .” and
he mentioned some twenty names. “While I personally am not a fighter, there are some
who are; and while those of a more warlike disposition man Onlo’s defenses and
weapons, my fellow researchers and I might very well be carrying on with the same type
of work which you fire-blooded oxygen-breathers are doing elsewhere.”
This eminently sensible suggestion was adopted at once. The conference broke
up. The selected sub-fleets sailed. Kinnison went to see Haynes.
“Well, sir, that’s it. . . I hope . . . what do you think? Am I, or am I not, due for a
spot of free time?” The Gray Lensman’s face was drawn and grim.
“I wish I knew, son . . . but I don’t.” Eyes and voice were deeply troubled. “You
ought to be . . . I hope you are . . . but you’re the only judge of that, you know.”
“Uh-huh . . . that is, I know how to find out . . . but I’m afraid to—afraid he’ll say
no. However, I’m going to see Cris first—talk it over with her. How about having a gig
drop me down to the hospital?”
For he did not have to travel very far to find his fiancee. From the time of leaving
Lyrane until the taking over of Thrale she had as a matter of course been chief nurse of
the hospital ship Pasteur, and with the civilizing of that planet she had as automatically
become chief nurse of the Patrol’s Base Hospital there.
“Certainly, Kim—anything you want, whenever you please.”
“Thanks, chief . . . Now that this fracas is finally over— if it is—I suppose you’ll
have to take over as president of the Galactic Council?”
“I suppose so—after we clean up Lyrane VIII, that you’ve been holding me away
from so long—but I don’t relish the thought. And you’ll be Coordinator Kinnison.”