practically all at war already—fighting either to tear down the one above or to resist die
attacks of those below. Every mind in it already hated, or feared, or distrusted, or was
suspicious of or jealous of some other.
And while Nadreck labored thus deviously his wonders to perform, Kinnison went
ahead in his much more conventional and straightforward fashion upon Thrale. His first
care, of course, was to surround himself with the usual coterie of spies and courtiers.
The selection of this group gave Kinnison many minutes of serious thought. It
was natural enough that he had not been able to place any of his own men in the secret
service of Alcon or the prime minister, since they both had minds of power. It would not
be natural, however, for either of them not to be able to get an agent into his. For to be
too good would be to invite a mental investigation which he simply could not as yet
permit. He would have to play dumb enough so that his hitherto unsuspected powers of
mind would remain unsuspected.
He could, however, do much. Since he knew who the spies were, he was able
quite frequently to have his more trusted henchmen discover evidence against them,
branding them for what they were. Assassinations were then, of course, very much in
order. And even a strong suspicion, even though it could not be documented, was
reason enough for a duel.
In this fashion, then, Kinnison built up his. entourage and kept it reasonably free
from subversive elements; and, peculiarly enough, those elements never happened to
learn anything which the Lensman did not want them to know.
Building up a strong personal organization was now easy, for at last Kinnison
was a real Boskonian big shot. As a major of the Household he was a power to be
toadied to and fawned upon. As a personal adviser to Alcon the Tyrant he was one
whose ill-will should be avoided at all costs. As a tactician who had so boldly and yet so
altruistically put the skids under the chiefs of staff, thereby becoming a favorite even of
the dreaded prime minister, he was marked plainly as a climber to whose coat-tails it
would be wise to cling. In short, Kinnison made good in a big—it might almost be said in
a stupendous—way.
With such powers at work the time of reckoning could not be delayed for long.
Alcon knew that Gunnel was working against him; learned very quickly, since he knew
exactly the personnel of Kinnison’s “private” secret service and could read at will any of
their minds, that Gannel held most of the trumps. The Tyrant had tried many times to
read the major’s mind, but the latter, by some subterfuge or other, had always managed
to elude his inquisitor without making an issue of the matter. Now, however, Alcon drove
in a solid questing beam which, he was grimly determined, would produce results of one
kind or another.
It did: but, unfortunately for the Thralian, they were nothing he could use. For
Kinnison, instead either of allowing the Tyrant to read his whole mind or of throwing up
an all-too-revealing barricade, fell back upon the sheer native power of will which made
him unique in his generation. He concentrated upon an all-inclusive negation; which in
effect was a rather satisfactory block and which was entirely natural.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to do, Alcon,” he informed his superior, stiffly,
“but whatever it is I do NOT like it. I think you’re trying to hypnotize me. If you are, know
now that you can’t do it. No possible hypnotic force can overcome my definitely and
positively opposed will.”
“Major Gannel, you will . . .” the Tyrant began, then stopped. He was not quite
ready yet to come openly to grips with this would-be usurper. Besides, it was now plain
that Gannel had only an ordinary mind. He had not even suspected all the prying that
had occurred previously. He had not recognized even this last powerful thrust for what it
really was; he had merely felt it vaguely and had supposed that it was an attempt at
hypnotism!
A few more days and he would cut him down. Hence Alcon changed his tone and
went on smoothly, “It is not hypnotism, Major Gannel, but a sort of telepathy which you
cannot understand. It is, however, necessary; for in the case of a man occupying such a
high position as yours, it is self-evident that we can permit no secrets whatever to be
withheld from us— that we can allow no mental reservations of any kind. You see the
justice and the necessity of that, do you not?”
Kinnison did. He saw also that Alcon was being super-humanly forbearing.
Moreover, he knew what the Tyrant was covering up so carefully—the real reason for
this highly unusual tolerance.
“I suppose you’re right; but I still don’t like it,” Gannel grumbled. Then, without
either denying or acceding to Alcon’s right of mental search, he went to his own
quarters.
And there—or thereabouts—he wrought diligently at a thing which had been long
in the making. He had known all along that his retinue would be useless against Alcon,
hence he had built up an organization entirely separate from, and completely unknown
to any member of, his visible following. Nor was this really secret outfit composed of
spies or sycophants. Instead, its members were hard, able, thoroughly proven men,
each one carefully selected for the ability and the desire to take the place of one of
Alcon’s present department heads. One at a time he put himself en rapport with them;
gave them certain definite orders and instructions.
Then he put on a mechanical thought-screen. Its use could not make the prime
minister any more suspicious than he already was, and it was the only way he could
remain in character. This screen was, like those of Lonabar, decidedly pervious in that it
had an open slit. Unlike Bleeko’s, however, which had their slits set upon a fixed
frequency, the open channel of this one could be varied, both in width and in wave-
length, to any setting which Kinnison desired.
Thus equipped, Kinnison attended the meeting of the Council of Advisers, and to
say that he disrupted the meeting is no exaggeration. The other advisers perceived
nothing out of the ordinary, of course, but both Alcon and the prime minister were so
perturbed that the session was cut very short indeed. The other members were
dismissed summarily, with no attempt at explanation. The Tyrant was raging, furious;
the premier was alertly, watchfully intent.
“I did not expect any more physical privacy than I have been granted,” Kinnison
grated, after listening quietly to a minute or two of Alcon’s unbridled language. “This
thing of being spied upon continuously, both by men and by mechanisms, while it is
insulting and revolting to any real man’s self-respect, can—just barely—be borne. I find
it impossible, however, to force myself to submit to such an ultimately degrading
humiliation as the surrender of the only vestiges of privacy I have remaining; those of
my mind. I will resign from the Council if you wish, I will resume my status as an officer
of the line, but I cannot and will not tolerate your extinction of the last spark of my self-
respect,” he finished, stubbornly.
“Resign? Resume? Do you think I’ll let you off that easily, fool?” Alcon sneered.
“Don’t you realize what I’m going to do to you? That, were it not for the fact that I am
going to watch you die slowly and hideously, I would have you blasted where you
stand?”
“I do not, no, and neither do you,” Gannel answered, as quietly as surprisingly. “If
you were sure of your ability, you would be doing something instead of talking about it.”
He saluted crisply, turned, and walked out.
Now the prime minister, as the student of this history already knows, was
considerably more than he appeared upon the surface to be. His, not Alcon’s, was the
voice of authority, although he worked so subtly that the Tyrant himself never did realize
that he was little better than a figure-head.
Therefore, as Gannel departed, the premier thought briefly but cogently. This
major was smart—too smart. He was too able, he knew too much. His advancement
had been just a trifle too rapid. That thought-screen was an entirely unexpected
development. The mind behind it was not quite right, either—a glimpse through the slit
had revealed a flash of something that might be taken to indicate that Major Gannel had
an ability which ordinary Thralians did not have. This open defiance of the Tyrant of
Thrale did not ring exactly true—it was not quite in character. If it had been a bluff, it
was too good—much too good. If it had not been a bluff, where was his support? How
could Gannel have grown so powerful without his, Fossten’s, knowledge?