The Greatest Works of E. E. Smith. E. E. Smith

I have never even seen any."

      "What do you want to get into it for?"

      "Your scouts sounded me out; what did they tell you? The usual thing—promotion from the ranks into the brass—to get to where I can do myself and the organization some good."

      "Yourself first, the organization second?"

      "What else? Why should I be different from the rest of you?"

      This time the locked eyes held longer; one pair smoldering, the other gold-flecked, tawny ice.

      "Why, indeed?" Herkimer smiled thinly. "We do not advertise it, however."

      "Outside, I wouldn't, either; but here I'm laying my cards flat on the table."

      "I see. You will do, Olmstead, if you live. There's a test, you know."

      "They told me there would be."

      "Well, aren't you curious to know what it is?"

      "Not particularly. You passed it, didn't you?"

      "What do you mean by that crack?" Herkimer leaped to his feet; his eyes, smoldering before, now ablaze.

      "Exactly what I said, no more and no less. You may read into it anything you please." Samms' voice was as cold as were his eyes. "You picked me out because of what I am. Did you think that moving upstairs would make a boot-licker out of me?"

      "Not at all." Herkimer sat down and took from a drawer two small, transparent, vaguely capsule-like tubes, each containing a few particles of purple dust. "You know what this is?"

      "I can guess."

      "Each of these is a good, heavy jolt; about all that a strong man with a strong heart can stand. Sit down. Here is one dose. Pull the cover, stick the capsule up one nostril, squeeze the ejector, and sniff. If you can leave this other dose sitting here on the desk you will live, and thus pass the test. If you can't, you die."

      Samms sat, and pulled, and squeezed, and sniffed.

      His forearms hit the desk with a thud. His hands clenched themselves into fists, the tight-stretched tendons standing boldly out. His face turned white. His eyes jammed themselves shut; his jaw-muscles sprang into bands and lumps as they clamped his teeth hard together. Every voluntary muscle in his body went into a rigor as extreme as that of death itself. His heart pounded; his breathing became stertorous.

      This was the dreadful "muscle-lock" so uniquely characteristic of thionite; the frenzied immobility of the ultimately passionate satisfaction of every desire.

      The Galactic Patrol became for him an actuality; a force for good pervading all the worlds of all the galaxies of all the universes of all existing space-time continual. He knew what the Lens was, and why. He understood time and space. He knew the absolute beginning and the ultimate end.

      He also saw things and did things over which it is best to draw a kindly veil, for every desire—mental or physical, open or sternly suppressed, noble or base—that Virgil Samms had ever had was being completely satisfied. EVERY DESIRE.

      As Samms sat there, straining motionlessly upon the verge of death through sheer ecstasy, a door opened and Senator Morgan entered the room. Herkimer started, almost imperceptibly, as he turned—had there been, or not, an instantaneously-suppressed flash of guilt in those now completely clear and frank brown eyes?

      "Hi, Chief; come in and sit down. Glad to see you—this is not exactly my idea of fun."

      "No? When did you stop being a sadist?" The senator sat down beside his minion's desk, the fingertips of his left hand began soundlessly to drum. "You wouldn't have, by any chance, been considering the idea of...?" He paused significantly.

      "What an idea." Herkimer's act—if it was an act—was flawless. "He's too good a man to waste."

      "I know it, but you didn't act as though you did. I've never seen you come out such a poor second in an interview ... and it wasn't because you didn't know to start with just what kind of a tiger he was—that's why he was selected for this job. And it would have been so easy to give him just a wee bit more."

      "That's preposterous, Chief, and you know it."

      "Do I? However, it couldn't have been jealousy, because he isn't being considered for your job. He won't be over you, and there's plenty of room for everybody. What was the matter? Your bloodthirstiness wouldn't have taken you that far, under these circumstances. Come clean, Herkimer."

      "Okay—I hate the whole damned family!" Herkimer burst out, viciously.

      "I see. That adds up." Morgan's face cleared, his fingers became motionless. "You can't make the Samms wench and aren't in position to skin her alive, so you get allergic to all her relatives. That adds up, but let me tell you something." His quiet, level voice carried more of menace than most men's loudest threats. "Keep your love life out of business and keep that sadistic streak under control. Don't let anything like this happen again."

      "I won't, Chief. I got off the beam—but he made me so damn mad!"

      "Certainly. That's exactly what he was trying to do. Elementary. If he could make you look small it would make him look big, and he just about did. But watch now, he's coming to."

      Samms' muscles relaxed. He opened his eyes groggily; then, as a wave of humiliated realization swept over his consciousness, he closed them again and shuddered. He had always thought himself pretty much of a man; how could he possibly have descended to such nauseous depths of depravity, of turpitude, of sheer moral degradation? And yet every cell of his being was shrieking its demand for more; his mind and his substance alike were permeated by an over-mastering craving to experience again the ultimate thrills which they had so tremendously, so outrageously enjoyed.

      There was another good jolt lying right there on the desk in front of him, even though thionite-sniffers always saw to it that no more of the drug could be obtained without considerable physical exertion; which exertion would bring them to their senses. If he took that jolt it would kill him. What of it? What was death? What good was life, except to enjoy such thrills as he had just had and was about to have again? And besides, thionite couldn't kill him. He was a super-man; he had just proved it!

      He straightened up and reached for the capsule; and that effort, small as it was, was enough to bring First Lensman Virgil Samms back under control. The craving, however, did not decrease. Rather, it increased.

      Months were to pass before he could think of thionite, or even of the color purple, without a spasmodic catching of the breath and a tightening of every muscle. Years were to pass before he could forget, even partially, the theretofore unsuspected dwellers in the dark recesses of his own mind. Nevertheless, from the store of whatever it was that made him what he was, Virgil Samms drew strength. Thumb and forefinger touched the capsule, but instead of picking it up, he pushed it across the desk toward Herkimer.

      "Put it away, bub. One whiff of that stuff will last me for life." He stared unfathomably at the secretary, then turned to Morgan and nodded. "After all, he did not say that he ever passed this or any other test. He just didn't contradict me when I said it."

      With a visible effort Herkimer remained silent, but Morgan did not.

      "You talk too much, Olmstead. Can you stand up yet?"

      Gripping the desk with both hands, Samms heaved himself to his feet. The room was spinning and gyrating; every individual thing in it was moving in a different and impossible orbit; his already splintered skull threatened more and more violently to emulate a fragmentation bomb; black and white spots and vari-colored flashes filled his cone of vision. He wrenched one hand free, then the other—and collapsed back into the chair.

      "Not yet—quite," he admitted, through stiff lips.

      Although he was careful not to show it, Morgan was amazed—not that the man had collapsed, but that he had been able so soon to lift himself even an inch. "Tiger" was not the word; this Olmstead must be seven-eighths dinosaur.

      "It