First Lensman by E. E. Smith (recommended books to read .txt) 📖

planned. Sure fire, it couldn't miss. Right up to the last split second it worked perfectly. Then—blooie! A flat bust. The Patrol landed and everything was under control. There must have been a leak somewhere—but where in hell could it have been?"

"There couldn't have been a leak, Chief; it doesn't make sense." The secretary uncrossed his long legs, recrossed them in the other direction, threw away a half-smoked cigarette, lit another. "If there'd been any kind of a leak they would have done a lot more than just kill the low man on the ladder. You know as well as I do that Rocky Kinnison is the hardest-boiled character this side of hell. If he had known anything, he would have killed everybody in sight, including you and me. Besides, if there had been a leak, he would not have let Samms get within ten thousand miles of the place—that's one sure thing. Another is he wouldn't have waited until after it was all over to get his army there. No, Chief, there couldn't have been a leak. Whatever Samms or Kinnison found out—probably Samms, he's a hell of a lot smarter than Kinnison is, you know—he learned right there and then. He must have seen Brainerd start to pull his gun."

"I thought of that. I'd buy it, except for one fact. Apparently you didn't time the interval between the shots and the arrival of the tanks."

"Sorry, Chief." Herkimer's face was a study in chagrin. "I made a bad slip there."

"I'll say you did. One minute and fifty eight seconds."

"What!"

Morgan remained silent.

"The patrol is fast, of course ... and always ready ... and they would yank the stuff in on tractor beams, not under their own power ... but even so ... five minutes, is my guess, Chief. Four and a half, absolute minimum."

"Check. And where do you go from there?"

"I see your point. I don't. That blows everything wide open. One set of facts says there was a leak, which occurred between two and a half and three minutes before the signal was given. I ask you, Chief, does that make sense?"

"No. That's what is bothering me. As you say, the facts seem to be contradictory. Somebody must have learned something before anything happened; but if they did, why didn't they do more? And Murgatroyd. If they didn't know about him, why the ships—especially the big battlewagons? If they did think he might be out there somewhere, why didn't they go and find out?"

"Now I'll ask one. Why didn't our Mr. Murgatroyd do something? Or wasn't the pirate fleet supposed to be in on this? Probably not, though."

"My guess would be the same as yours. Can't see any reason for having a fleet cover a one-man operation, especially as well-planned a one as this was. But that's none of our business. These Lensmen are. I was watching them every second. Neither Samms nor Kinnison did anything whatever during that two minutes."

"Young Kinnison and Northrop each left the hall about that time."

"I know it. So they did. Either one of them could have called the Patrol—but what has that to do with the price of beef C. I. F. Valeria?"

Herkimer refrained tactfully from answering the savage question. Morgan drummed and thought for minutes, then went on slowly:

"There are two, and only two, possibilities; neither of which seem even remotely possible. It was—must have been—either the Lens or the girl."

"The girl? Act your age, Senator. I knew where she was, and what she was doing, every second."

"That was evident." Morgan stopped drumming and smiled cynically. "I'm getting a hell of a kick out of seeing you taking it, for a change, instead of dishing it out."

"Yes?" Herkimer's handsome face hardened. "That game isn't over, my friend."

"That's what you think," the Senator jibed. "Can't believe that any woman can be Herkimer-proof, eh? You've been working on her for six weeks now, instead of the usual six hours, and you haven't got anywhere yet."

"I will, Senator." Herkimer's nostrils flared viciously. "I'll get her, one way or another, if it's the last thing I ever do."

"I'll give you eight to five you don't; and a six-month time limit."

"I'll take five thousand of that. But what makes you think that she's anything to be afraid of? She's a trained psychologist, yes; but so am I; and I'm older and more experienced than she is. That leaves that yoga stuff—her learning how to sit cross-legged, how to contemplate her navel, and how to try to get in tune with the infinite. How do you figure that puts her in my class?"

"I told you, I don't. Nothing makes sense. But she is Virgil Samms' daughter."

"What of it? You didn't gag on George Olmstead—you picked him yourself for one of the toughest jobs we've got. By blood he's just about as close to Virgil Samms as Virgilia is. They might as well have been hatched out of the same egg."

"Physically, yes. Mentally and psychologically, no. Olmstead is a realist, a materialist. He wants his reward in this world, not the next, and is out to get it. Furthermore, the job will probably kill him, and even if it doesn't, he will never be in a position of trust or where he can learn much of anything. On the other hand, Virgil Samms is—but I don't need to tell you what he is like. But you don't seem to realize that she's just like him—she isn't playing around with you because of your overpowering charm...."

"Listen, Chief. She didn't know anything and she didn't do anything. I was dancing with her 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