own. He had been afraid that some of them would think he was throwing his weight
around when he violated precedent by making her a Lensman. He had been afraid of
animosity and ill-will. He had been afraid that outraged masculine pride would set up a
sex antagonism. But if any of these things existed, the keenest use of his every
penetrant sense could not discover them.
Instead, the human Lensmen literally mobbed her as they took her to their
collective bosom. No party, wherever or for what reason held, was complete without
her. If she ever had less than ten escorts at once, she was slighted. They ran her
ragged, they danced her slippers off, they stuffed her to repletion, they would not let her
sleep, they granted her the privacy of a gold-fish—and she loved every tumultuous
second of it.
She had wanted, as she had told Haynes and Lacy so long ago, a big wedding;
but this one was already out of hand and was growing more so by the minute. The idea
of holding it in a church had been abandoned long since; now it became clear that the
biggest armory of Klovia would not hold even half of the Lensmen, to say nothing of the
notables and dignitaries who had come so far. It would simply have to be the Stadium.
Even that tremendous structure could not hold enough people, hence speakers
and plates were run outside, clear up to the space-field fence. And, although neither of
the principals knew it, this marriage had so fired public interest that Universal Telenews
men had already arranged the hook-up which was to carry it to every planet of
Civilization. Thus the number of entities who saw and heard that wedding has been
estimated, but the figures are too fantastic to be repeated here.
But it was in no sense a circus. No ceremony ever held, in home or in church or
in cathedral, was ever more solemn. For when half a million Lensmen concentrate upon
solemnity, it prevails.
The whole vast bowl was gay with flowers—it seemed as though a state must
have been stripped of blooms to furnish so many—and ferns and white ribbons were
everywhere. There was a mighty organ, which pealed out triumphal melody as the bridal
parties marched down the aisles, subsiding into a lilting accompaniment as the betrothal
couple ascended the white-brocaded stairway and faced the Lensman-Chaplain in the
heavily-garlanded little open-air chapel. The minister raised both hands. The massed
Patrolmen and nurses stood at attention. A profound silence fell.
“Dearly beloved . . .” The grand old service—short and simple, but utterly
impressive—was soon over. Then, as Kinnison kissed his wife, half a million Lensed
members were thrust upward in silent salute.
Through a double lane of glowing Lenses the wedding party made its way up to
the locked and guarded gate of the space-field where lay the Dauntless—the super-
dreadnought “yacht” in which the Kinnisons were to take a honeymoon voyage to
distant Tellus. The gate opened. The couple, accompanied by the Port Admiral and the
Surgeon Marshal, stepped into the car, which sped out to the battleship; and as it did so
the crowd loosed its pent-up feelings in a prolonged outburst of cheering.
And as the newlyweds walked up the gangplank Kinnison turned his head and
Lensed a thought to Haynes:
“You’ve been griping so long about Lyrane VIII, chief —I forgot to tell you—you
can go mop up on it now!”