The Collected Novels of E. E. Smith. E. E. Smith

all the time, as close as that," he clasped his hands tightly together, "so I know what I'm talking about. And if you think she could ever learn anything from me, skip it. You know that nobody on Earth, or anywhere else, can read my face; and besides, she was playing coy right then—wasn't even looking at me. So count her out."

      "We'll have to, I guess." Morgan resumed his quiet drumming. "If there were any possibility that she pumped you I'd send you to the mines, but there's no sign ... that leaves the Lens. It has seemed, right along, more logical than the girl—but a lot more fantastic. Been able to find out anything more about it?"

      "No. Just what they've been advertising. Combination radio-phone, automatic language-converter, telepath, and so on. Badge of the top skimmings of the top-bracket cops. But I began to think, out there on the floor, that they aren't advertising everything they know."

      "So did I. You tell me."

      "Take the time zero minus three minutes. Besides the five Lensmen—and Jill Samms—the place was full of top brass; scrambled eggs all over the floor. Commodores and lieutenant-Commodores from all continental governments of the Earth, the other planets, and the colonies, all wearing full-dress side-arms. Nobody knew anything then; we agree on that. But within the next few seconds, somebody found out something and called for help. One of the Lensmen could possibly have done that without showing signs. BUT—at zero time all four Lensmen had their guns out—and not Lewistons, please note—and were shooting; whereas none of the other armed officers knew that anything was going on until after it was all over. That puts the finger on the Lens."

      "That's the way I figured it. But the difficulties remain unchanged. How? Mind-reading?"

      "Space-drift!" Herkimer snorted. "My mind can't be read."

      "Nor mine."

      "And besides, if they could read minds, they wouldn't have waited until the last possible split second to do it, unless ... say, wait a minute!... Did Brainerd act or look nervous, toward the last? I wasn't to look at him, you know."

      "Not nervous, exactly; but he did get a little tense."

      "There you are, then. Hired murderers aren't smart. A Lensman saw him tighten up and got suspicious. Turned in the alarm on general principles. Warned the others to keep on their toes. But even so, it doesn't look like mind-reading—they'd have killed him sooner. They were watchful, and mighty quick on the draw."

      "That could be it. That's about as thin and as specious an explanation as I ever saw cooked up, but it does cover the facts ... and the two of us will be able to make it stick ... but take notice, pretty boy, that certain parties are not going to like this at all. In fact, they are going to be very highly put out."

      "That's a nice hunk of understatement, boss. But notice one beautiful thing about this story?" Herkimer grinned maliciously. "It lets us pass the buck to Big Jim Towne. We can be—and will be—sore as hell because he picks such weak-sister characters to do his killings!"

      * * * * *

      In the heavily armored improvised ambulance, Virgil Samms sat up and directed a thought at his friend Kinnison, finding his mind a turmoil of confusion.

      "What's the matter, Rod?"

      "Plenty!" the big Lensman snapped back. "They were—maybe still are—too damn far ahead of us. Something has been going on that we haven't even suspected. I stood by, as innocent as a three-year-old girl baby, and let you walk right into that one—and I emphatically do not enjoy getting caught with my pants down that way. It makes me jumpy. This may be all, but it may not be—not by eleven thousand light-years—and I'm trying to dope out what is going to happen next."

      "And what have you deduced?"

      "Nothing. I'm stuck. So I'm tossing it into your lap. Besides, that's what you are getting paid for, thinking. So go ahead and think. What would you be doing, if you were on the other side?"

      "I see. You think, then, that it might not be good technique to take the time to go back to the spaceport?"

      "You get the idea. But—can you stand transfer?"

      "Certainly. They got my shoulder dressed and taped, and my arm in a sling. Shock practically all gone. Some pain, but not much. I can walk without falling down."

      "Fair enough. Clayton!" He Lensed a vigorous thought. "Have any of the observers spotted anything, high up or far off?"

      "No, sir."

      "Good. Kinnison to Commodore Clayton, orders. Have a 'copter come down and pick up Samms and myself on tractors. Instruct the Boise and the cruisers to maintain utmost vigilance. Instruct the Chicago to pick us up. Detach the Chicago and the Boise from your task force. Assign them to me. Off."

      "Clayton to Commissioner Kinnison. Orders received and are being carried out. Off."

      The transfers were made without incident. The two super-dreadnaughts leaped into the high stratosphere and tore westward. Half-way to the Hill, Kinnison called Dr. Frederick Rodebush.

      "Fred? Kinnison. Have Cleve and Bergenholm link up with us. Now—how are the Geigers on the outside of the Hill behaving?"

      "Normal, all of them," the physicist-Lensman reported after a moment. "Why?"

      Kinnison detailed the happenings of the recent past. "So tell the boys to unlimber all the stuff the Hill has got."

      "My God!" Cleveland exclaimed. "Why, that's putting us back to the days of the Interplanetary Wars!"

      "With one notable exception," Kinnison pointed out. "The attack, if any, will be strictly modern. I hope we'll be able to handle it. One good thing, the old mountain's got a lot of sheer mass. How much radioactivity will it stand?"

      "Allotropic iron, U-235, or plutonium?" Rodebush seized his slide-rule.

      "What difference does it make?"

      "From a practical standpoint ... perhaps none. But with a task force defending, not many bombs could get through, so I'd say ..."

      "I wasn't thinking so much of bombs."

      "What, then?"

      "Isotopes. A good, thick blanket of dust. Slow-speed, fine stuff that neither our ships nor the Hill's screens could handle. We've got to decide, first, whether Virgil will be safer there in the Hill or out in space in the Chicago; and second, for how long."

      "I see ... I'd say here, under the Hill. Months, perhaps years, before anything could work down this far. And we can always get out. No matter how hot the surface gets, we've got enough screen, heavy water, cadmium, lead, mercury, and everything else necessary to get him out through the locks."

      "That's what I was hoping you'd say. And now, about the defense ... I wonder ... I don't want everybody to think I've gone completely hysterical, but I'll be damned if I want to get caught again with...." His thought faded out.

      "May I offer a suggestion, sir?" Bergenholm's thought broke the prolonged silence.

      "I'd be very glad to have it—your suggestions so far haven't been idle vaporings. Another hunch?"

      "No, sir, a logical procedure. It has been some months since the last emergency call-out drill was held. If you issue such another call now, and nothing happens, it can be simply another surprise drill; with credit, promotion, and monetary awards for the best performances; further practice and instruction for the less proficient units."

      "Splendid, Dr. Bergenholm!" Samms' brilliant and agile mind snatched up the thought and carried it along. "And what a chance, Rod, for something vastly larger and more important than a Continental, or even a Tellurian, drill—make it the first maneuver of the Galactic Patrol!"

      "I'd like to, Virge, but we can't. My boys are ready, but you aren't. No top appointments and no authority."

      "That can be arranged in a very few minutes. We have been waiting for the psychological moment. This, especially if trouble should develop, is the time. You yourself expect an attack,