the First Galaxy.
They did not, however, come blindly. They came knowing that Klovia was to be
primarily a military base, the most supremely powerful base that had ever been built.
They knew that it would bear the brunt of the most furious attacks that Boskone could
possibly deliver; they knew full well that it might fall. Nevertheless, men and women,
they came in their multitudes. They came with high courage and high determination,
glorying in that which they were to do. People who could and did so glory were the only
ones who came; which fact accounts in no small part for what Klovia is today.
People came, and worked, and stayed. Ships came, and trafficked. Trade and
commerce increased tremendously. And further and further abroad, as there came into
being upon that formerly almost derelict planet some seventy-odd gigantic defensive
establishments, there crept out an ever-widening screen of scout-ships, with all their
high-powered feelers hotly outstretched.
Meanwhile Kinnison and frigid-blooded Nadreck had worked their line, leg by
tortuous leg, to Onlo and thence to Thrale. A full spool should be devoted to that
working alone: but, unfortunately, as space here must be limited to the barest
essentials, it can scarcely be mentioned. As Kinnison and Haynes had foreseen, that
line was heavily trapped. Luckily, however, it had not been moved so radically that the
searchers could not re-discover it; the zwilniks were, as Haynes had promised, very
busily engaged with other and more important matters. All of those traps were deadly,
and many of them were ingenious indeed—so ingenious as to test to the utmost the
“cowardly” Palainian’s skill and mental scope. All, however, failed. The two Lensmen
held to the line in spite of the pitfalls and followed it to the end. Nadreck stayed upon or
near Onlo, to work in its frightful environment against the monsters to whom he was
biologically so closely allied, while the Tellurian went on to try conclusions with Alcon,
the Tyrant of Thrale.
Again he had to build up an unimpeachable identity and here there were no
friendly thousands to help him do it. He had to get close—really close—to Alcon, without
antagonizing him or in any way arousing his hair-trigger suspicions. Kinnison had
studied that problem for days. Not one of his previously-used artifices would work, even
had he dared to repeat a procedure. Also, time was decidedly of the essence.
There was a way. It was not an easy way, but it was fast and, if it worked at all, it
would work perfectly. Kinnison would not have risked it even a few months back, but
now he was pretty sure that he had jets enough to swing it.
He needed a soldier of about his own size and shape— details were unimportant.
The man should not be in Alcon’s personal troops, but should be in a closely-allied
battalion, from which promotion into that select body would be logical. He should be
relatively inconspicuous, yet with a record of accomplishment, or at least of initiative,
which would square up with the rapid promotions which were to come.
The details of that man-hunt are interesting, but not of any real importance here,
since they did not vary in any essential from other searches which have been described
at length. He found him—a lieutenant in the Royal Guard—and the ensuing mind-study
was as assiduous as it was insidious. In fact, the Lensman memorized practically every
memory-chain in the fellow’s brain. Then the officer took his regular -furlough and
started for home—but he never got there.
Instead, it was Kimball Kinnison who wore the Thralian’s gorgeous full-dress
uniform and who greeted in exactly appropriate fashion the Thralian’s acquaintances
and life-long friends. A few of these, who chanced to see the guardsman first, wondered
briefly at his changed appearance or thought that he was a stranger. Very few,
however, and very briefly; for the Lensman’s sense of perception was tensely alert and
his mind was strong. In moments, then, those chance few forgot that they had ever had
the slightest doubt concerning this soldiers’ identity; they knew calmly and as a matter of
fact that he was the Traska Gannel whom they had known so long.
Living minds presented no difficulty except for the fact that of course he could not
get in touch with everyone who had ever known the real Gannel. However, he did his
best. He covered plenty of ground and he got most of them—all that could really matter.
Written records, photographs, and tapes were something else again. He had
called Worsel in on that problem long since, and the purely military records of the Royal
Guard were QX before Gannel went on leave. Although somewhat tedious, that task
had not proved particularly difficult. Upon a certain dark night a certain light-circuit had
gone dead, darkening many buildings. Only one or two sentries or guards saw anything
amiss, and they never afterward recalled having done so. And any record that has ever
been made can be remade to order by the experts of the Secret Service of the Patrol!
And thus it was also with the earlier records. He had been bora in a hospital.
QX—that hospital was visited, and thereafter Gannel’s baby foot-prints were actually
those of infant Kinnison. He had gone to certain schools—those schools’ records also
were made to conform to the new facts.
Little could be done, however, about pictures. No man can possibly remember
how many times he has had his picture taken, or who has the negatives, or to whom he
had given photographs, or in what papers, books, or other publications his likeness has
appeared.
The older pictures, Kinnison decided, did not count. Even if the likenesses were
good, he looked enough like Gannel so that the boy or the callow youth might just about
as well have developed into something that would pass for Kinnison in a photograph as
into the man which he actually did become. Where was the dividing line? The Lensman
decided—or rather, the decision was forced upon him—that it was at his graduation
from the military academy.
There had been an annual, in which volume appeared an individual picture, fairly
large, of each member of the graduating class. About a thousand copies of the book
had been issued, and now they were scattered all over space. Since it would be idle
even to think of correcting them all, he could not correct any of them. Kinnison studied
that picture for a long time. He didn’t like it very well. The cub was just about grown up,
and this photo looked considerably more like Gannel than it did like Kinnison. However,
the expression was self-conscious, the pose strained—and, after all, people hardly ever
looked at old annuals. He’d have to take a chance on that. Later poses—formal
portraits, that is; snap-shots could not be considered—would have to be fixed up.
Thus it came about that certain studios were raided very surreptitiously. Certain
negatives were abstracted and were deftly re-touched. Prints were made therefrom, and
in several dozens of places in Gannel’s home town, in albums and in frames, stealthy
substitutions were made.
The furlough was about to expire. Kinnison had done everything that he could do.
There were holes, of course—there couldn’t help but be—but they were mighty small
and, if he played his cards right, they would never show up. Just to be on the safe side,
however, he’d have Worsel stick around for a couple of weeks or so, to watch
developments and to patch up any weak spots that might develop. The Velantian’s
presence upon Thrale would not create suspicion—there were lots of such folks flitting
from planet to planet—and if anybody did get just a trifle suspicious of Worsel, it might
be all the better.
Mentor of Arisia, however, knew many things that Kinnison of Tellus did not; he
had powers of which Kinnison would never dream. Mentor knew exactly what entity
stood behind Tyrant Alcon’s throne; knew exactly what it could and would do; knew that
this was one of the most critical instants of Civilization’s long history.
Wherefore every negative of every picture that had ever been taken of Traska
Gannel, and every print and reproduction made therefrom, was made to conform;
nowhere, throughout the reaches of space or the vistas of time, was there any iota of
evidence that the present Traska Gannel had not borne that name since infancy.
So it was done, and Lieutenant Traska Gannel of the Royal Guard went back to
duty.
CHAPTER 16
Gannel Fights a Duel
Nadreck, the furtive palainian, had prepared as thoroughly in his own queerly
underhanded fashion as had Kinnison in his bolder one. Nadreck was cowardly, in
Earthly eyes, there can be no doubt of that; as cowardly as he was lazy. To his race,
however, those traits were eminently sensible; and those qualities did in fact underlie
his prodigious record of accomplishment. Being so careful of his personal safety, he had