Not fair fighting, no; nor clubby. Lensmen did not and do not fight according to the tenets of the square ring. They use the weapons provided by Mother Nature only when they must; but they can and do use them with telling effect indeed when body–to–body brawling becomes necessary. For they are skilled in the art—every Lensman has a completely detailed knowledge of all the lethal tricks of foul combat known to all the dirty fighters of ten thousand planets for twice ten thousand years.
And then the doors and windows crashed in, admitting those whom no other bifurcate race has ever faced willingly in hand–to–hand combat—full armed Valerians, swinging their space–axes!
The gangsters broke, then, and fled in panic disorder; but escape from Narcotics' finemeshed net was impossible. They were cut down to a man.
"QX, Kinnison?" came two hard, sharp thoughts. The Lensmen did not see the Tellurian, but Lieutenant Peter vanBuskirk did. That is, he saw him, but did not look at him.
"Hi, Kim, you little Tellurian wart!" That worthy's thought was a yell. "Ain't we got fun?"
"QX, fellows—thanks," to Gerrond and to Winstead, and "Ho, Bus! Thanks, you big, Valerian ape!" to the gigantic Dutch–Valerian with whom he had shared so many experiences in the past. "A good clean–up, fellows?"
"One hundred percent, thanks to you. We'll put you…"
"Don't, please. You'll clog my jets if you do. I don't appear in this anywhere—it's just one of your good, routine jobs of mopping up. Clear ether, fellows, I've got to do a flit."
"Where?" all three wanted to ask, but they didn't—the Gray Lensman was gone.
7: Ambuscade
Kinnison did start his flit, but he did not get far. In fact, he did not even reach his squalid room before cold reason told him that the job was only half done—yes, less than half. He had to give Boskone credit for having brains, and it was not at all likely that even such a comparatively small unit as a planetary headquarters would have only one string to its bow. They certainly would have been forced to install duplicate controls of some sort or other by the trouble they had had after Helmuth's supposedly impregnable Grand Base had been destroyed.
There were other straws pointing the same way. Where had those five strange thoughtscreened men come from? Bominger hadn't known of them apparently. If that idea was sound, the other headquarters would have had a spy–ray on the whole thing. Both sides use3 spy–rays freely, of course, and to block them was, ordinarily, worse than to let mem come. The enemies' use of the thought–screen was different. They realized that it made it easy for the unknown Lensman to discover their agents, but they were forced to use it because of the deadliness of the supposed mind–ray. Why hadn't he thought of this sooner, and had the whole area blocked off? Too late to cry about it now, though.
Assume the idea correct. They certainly knew now that he was a Lensman; probably were morally certain that he was the Lensman. His instantaneous change from a drunken dockwalloper to a cold–sober, deadly–skilled rough–and–tumble brawler…and the unexplained deaths of half–a–dozen agents, as well as that of Bominger himself…this was bad. Very, very bad…a flare–lit tip–off, if there ever was one. Their spy–rays would have combed him, millimeter by plotted –cubic millimeter: they knew exactly where his Lens was, as well as he did himself. He had put his tail right into the wringer…wrecked the whole job right at the start…unless he could get that other headquarters outfit, too, and get them before they reported in detail to Boskone.
In his room, then, he sat and thought, harder and more Intensely than he had ever thought before. No ordinary method of tracing would do. It might be anywhere on the planet, and it certainly would have no connection whatever with the thionite gang. It would be a small outfit; just a few men, but under smart direction. Their purpose would bet to watch the business end of the organization, but not to touch it save in an emergency. All that the two groups would have in common would be recognition signals, so that the reserves could take over in case anything happened to Bominger—as it already had. They had him, Kinnison, cold…What to do? WHAT TO DO? ft The Lens. That must be the answer—it had to be. The Lens—what was it, really, anyway? Simply an aggregation of crystalloids. Not really alive; just a pseudo–life, a sort of reflection of his own life…he wondered…Great Klono's tungsten teeth, could that be it? An idea had struck him, an idea so stupendous in its connotations and ramifications that he gasped, shuddered, and almost went faint at the shock. He started to reach for his Lens, then forced himself to relax and shot a thought to Base.
"Gerrond! Send me a portable spy–ray block, quick!"
"But that would give everything away—that's why we haven't been using them."
"Are you telling me?" the Lensman demanded. "Shoot it along—I'll explain while it's on the way." He went on to tell the Radeligian everything he thought it well for him to know, concluding: "I'm as wide open as inter–galactic space— nothing but fast and sure moves will do us a bit of good."
The block arrived, and as soon as the messenger had departed Kinnison set it going. He was now the center of a sphere into which no spy–ray beam could penetrate. He was also an object of suspicion to anyone using a spy–ray, but that fact made no difference, then. Snatching off his shoe, he took out his Lens, wrapped it in a handkerchief, and placed it on the floor. Then, just as though he still wore it, he directed a thought at Winstead.
"All serene, Lensman?" he asked, quietly. "Everything's on the beam," came instant reply. "Why?"
"Just checking, is all." Kinnison did not specify exactly what he was checking!
He then did something which, so far as he knew, no Lensman had^ever before even thought of doing. Although he felt stark naked without his Lens, he hurled a thought threequarters of the way across the galaxy to that dread planet Arisia; a thought narrowed down to the exact pattern of Mentor himself—the gigantic, fearsome Brain who had been his teacher and his sponsor.
"Ah, 'tis Kimball Kinnison, of Earth," that entity responded, in precisely the same modulation it had employed once before. "You have perceived, then, youth, that the Lens is not the supremely important thing you have supposed it to be?"
"I…you…I mean…" the flustered Lensman, taken completely aback, was cut off by a sharp rebuke.
"Stop! You are thinking muddily—conduct ordinarily inexcusable! Now, youth, to redeem yourself, you will explain the phenomenon to me, instead of asking me to explain it to you. I realize that you have just discovered another facet of the Cosmic Truth; I know what a shock it has been to your immature mind; hence for this once it may be permissible for me to overlook your crime. But strive not to repeat the offense, for I tell you again in all possible seriousness—I cannot urge upon you too strongly the fact—that in clear and precise thinking lies your only safeguard through that which you are attempting. Confused, wandering thought will assuredly bring disaster inevitable and irreparable."
"Yes, sir," Kinnison replied meekly; a small boy reprimanded by his teacher.
"It must be this way. In the first stage of training the Lens is a necessity; just as is the crystal ball or some other hypnotic object in a seance. In the more advanced stage the mind is able to work without aid. The Lens, however, may be—in fact, it must be—endowed with uses other than that of a symbol of identification; uses about which I as yet know nothing. Therefore, while I can work without it, I should not do so except when it is absolutely necessary, as its help will be imperative if I am to advance to any higher stage. It is also clear that you were expecting my call. May I ask if I am on time?"