land. Be advised also that I myself shall be wearing full armor. Furthermore, no vessel
of the fleet will land until I, personally, from my private sanctum, order them to do so.”
This situation was another poser; but it, too, they had to take. There was no way
out of it, and it was still perfect Boskonian generalship. The welcoming arrangements
were therefore made precisely as Tyrant Gannel had directed.
The flagship settled toward ground, her under-jets blasting unusually viciously
because of her tremendous load; and as she descended Kinnison glanced briefly down
at the familiar terrain. There was the immense space-field, a dock-studded expanse of
burned, scarred, pock-marked concrete and steel. Midway of its extreme northern end,
that nearest the palace, was the berth of the flagship, Dock No. I. An eighth of a mile
straight north from the dock—the minimum distance possible because of the terrific fury
of the under-jets —was the entrance to the palace grounds. At the northern end of the
western side of the field, a good three-quarters of a mile from Dock No. I and somewhat
more than that distance from the palace gates, were the Stands of Ceremony. That
made the Lensman completely the master of the situation.
The flagship landed. Her madly blasting jets died out. A car of state rolled grandly
up. Airlocks opened. Kinnison and his bodyguards seated themselves in the car.
Helicopters appeared above the stands and above the massed crowds thronging the
western approaches to the field; hovering, flitting slowly and watchfully about.
Then from the flagship there emerged an incredible number of armed and
armored soldiers. One small column of these marched behind the slowly-moving car of
state, but by far the greater number went directly to and through the imposing portals of
the palace grounds. The people in general, gathered there to see a major spectacle,
thought nothing of these circumstances—who were they to wonder at what the Tyrant of
Thrale might choose to do?—but to Gannel’s Council of Advisers they were extremely
disquieting departures from the norm. There was, however, nothing they could do about
them, away out there in the grandstand; and they knew with a stark certainty what those
helicopters had orders to do in case of any uprising or commotion anywhere in the
crowd.
The car rolled slowly along before the fenced-back, wildly-cheering multitudes,
with blaring bands and the columns of armored spacemen marching crisply, swingingly
behind it. There was nothing to indicate that those selected men were not Thralians;
nothing whatever to hint that over a thousand of them were in fact Lensmen of the
Galactic Patrol. And Kinnison, standing stiffly erect in his car, acknowledged gravely,
with upraised right arm, the plaudits of his subjects.
The triumphal bus stopped in front of the most out-thrust, the most ornate stand,
and through loud-voiced amplifiers the Tyrant invited, as a signal honor, the twelve
members of his Advisory Cabinet to ride with him in state to the palace. There were
exactly twelve vacant seats in the great coach. The advisers would have to leave their
bodyguards and ride alone with the Tyrant: even had there been room, it was
unthinkable that any one else’s personal killers could ride with the Presence. This was
no honor, they knew chillingly, no matter what the mob might think—it looked much
more like a death-sentence. But what could they do? They glanced at their unarmored
henchmen; then at the armor and the semi-portables of Gannel’s own heelers; then at
the ‘copters now clustering thickly overhead, with the narrow snouts of needle-ray
projectors very much in evidence.
They accepted.
It was in no quiet frame of mind, then, that they rode into the pretentious grounds
of the palace. They felt no better when, as they entered the council chamber, they were
seized and disarmed without a word having been spoken. And the world fairly dropped
out from beneath them when Tyrant Gannel emerged from his armor with a Lens
glowing upon his wrist.
“Yes, I am a Lensman,” he gravely informed the stupefied but unshrinking
Boskonians. “That is why I know that all twelve of you tried while I was gone to cut me
down, in spite of everything I told you and everything you have seen me do. If it were
still necessary for me to pose as Traska Gannel I would have to kill you here and now
for your treachery. That phase is, however, past.
“1 am one of the Lensmen whose collective activities you have ascribed to ‘the’
Lensman or to Star A Star. All those others who came with me into the palace are
Lensmen. All those outside are either Lensmen or tried and seasoned veterans of the
Galactic Patrol. The fleet surrounding this world is the Grand Fleet of that Patrol. The
Boskonian force was completely destroyed—every man and every ship except your
flagship—before it reached Klovia. In short, the power of Boskonia is broken forever;
Civilization is to rule henceforth throughout both galaxies.
“You are the twelve strongest, the twelve ablest men of the planet, perhaps of
your whole dark culture. Will you help us to rule according to the principles of Civilization
that which has been the Boskonian Empire or will you die?”
The Thralians stiffened themselves rigidly against the expected blasts of death,
but only one spoke. “We are fortunate at least, Lensman, in that you do not torture,” he
said, coldly, his lips twisted into a hard, defiant sneer.
“Good!” and the Lensman actually smiled. “I expected no less. With that solid
bottom, all that is necessary is to wipe away a few of your misconceptions and
misunderstandings, correct your viewpoints, and . . .”
“Do you think for a second that your therapists can fit us into the pattern of your
Civilization?” the Boskonian spokesman demanded, bitingly.
“I don’t have to think, Lanion—I know,” Kinnison assured him. “Take them away,
fellows, and lock them up— you know where. Everything will go ahead as scheduled.”
It did.
And while the mighty vessels of war landed upon the space-field and while the
thronging Lensmen took over post after post in an ever-widening downward course,
Kinnison led Worsel and Tregonsee to the cell in which the outspoken Thralian chieftain
was confined.
“I do not know whether I can prevent you from operating upon me or not,” Lanion
of Thrale spoke harshly, “but I will try. I have seen the pitiful, distorted wrecks left after
such operations and I do not like them. Furthermore, I do not believe that any possible
science can eradicate from my subconscious the fixed determination to kill myself the
instant you release me. Therefore you had better kill me now, Lensman, and save your
time and trouble.”
“You are right, and wrong,” Kinnison replied, quietly. “It may very well be
impossible to remove such a fixation.” He knew that he could remove any such, but
Lanion must not know it. Civilization needed those twelve hard, shrewd minds and he
had no intention of allowing an inferiority complex to weaken their powers. “We do not,
however, intend to operate, but only and simply to educate. You will not be unconscious
at any time. You will be in full control of your own mind and you will know beyond
peradventure that you are so in control. We shall engrave, in parallel with your own
present knowledges of the culture of Boskonia, the equivalent or corresponding
knowledges of Civilization.”
They did so. It was not a short undertaking, nor an easy: but it was thorough and
it was finally done. Then Kinnison spoke.
“You now have completely detailed knowledge both of Boskonia and of
Civilization, a combination possessed by but few intelligences indeed. You know that we
did not alter, did not even touch, any track of your original mind. Being fully en rapport
with us, you know that we gave you as unprejudiced a concept of Civilization as we
possibly could. Also, you have assimilated completely the new knowledge.”
“That is all true,” Lanion conceded. “Remarkable, but true. I was, and remained
throughout, myself; I checked constantly to be sure of that. I can still kill myself at any
moment I choose.”
“Right.” Kinnison did not smile, even mentally, at the unconscious alteration of
intent. “The whole proposition can now be boiled down into one clear-cut question, to
which you can formulate an equally clear-cut reply. Would you, Lanion, personally,
prefer to keep on as you have been, working for personal power, or would you rather
team up with others to work for the good of all?”
The Thralian thought for moments, and as he pondered an expression of
consternation spread over his hard-hewn face. “You mean actually—personally—apart
from all consideration of your so-called altruism and your other infantile weaknesses?”
he demanded, resistantly.
“Exactly,” Kinnison assured him. “Which would you rather do? Which would you,
personally, get the most good—the most fun—out of?”
The bitter conflict was plainly visible in Lanion’s bronzed face; so was the
direction in which it was going.