"You are—your progress has been highly satisfactory. Also, I note with approval that you are not asking for help in your admittedly difficult present problem."
"I know it wouldn't do me any good—and why." Kinnison grinned wryly. "But I'll bet that Worsel, when he comes up for his second treatment, will know on the spot what it has taken me all this time to find out."
"You deduce truly. He did."
"What? He has been back there already? And you told me…"
"What I told you was true and is. His mind is more fully developed and more responsive than yours; yours is of vastly greater latent capacity, capability, and force," and the line of communication snapped.
Calling a conveyance, Kinnison was whisked to Base, the spy–ray block full on all the way. There, in a private room, he put his heavily–insulated Lens and a full spool of tape into a ray–proof container, sealed it, and called in the base commander.
"Gerrond, here is a package of vital importance," he informed him. "Among other things, it contains a record of everything I have done to date. If I don't come back to 'claim it myself, please send it to Prime Base for personal delivery to Port Admiral Haynes. Speed, will be no object, but safety very decidedly of the essence."
"QX—we'll send it in by special messenger."
"Thanks a lot. Now I wonder if I could use your visi–phone a minute? I want to talk to the zoo."
"Certainly."
"Zoological Gardens?" and the image of an elderly, white–bearded man appeared upon the plate. "Lensman Kinnison of Tellus—Unattached. Have you as many as three oglons, caged together?"
"Yes. In fact, we have four of them in one cage."
"Better yet. Will you please send them over here to base at once? Lieutenant– Admiral Gerrond, here, will confirm."
"It is most unusual, sir," the graybeard began, but broke off at a curt word from Gerrond "Very well, sir," he agreed, and disconnected.
"Oglons?" the surprised commander demanded. "OGLONS!"
For the oglon, or Radeligian cateagle, is one of the fiercest, most intractable beasts of prey in existence; it assays more concentrated villainy and more sheerly vicious ferocity to the gram than any other creature known to science. It is not a bird, but a winged mammal; and is armed not only with the gripping, tearing talons of the eagle, but also with the heavy, cruel, needle– sharp fangs of the wildcat. And its mental attitude toward all other forms of life is antisocial to the nth degree.
"Oglons." Kinnison confirmed, shortly. "I can handle them."
"You can, of course. But…" Gerrond stopped. This Gray Lensman was forever doing amazing, unprecedented, incomprehensible things. But, so far, he had produced eminently satisfactory results, and he could not be expected to spend all his time in explanations.
"But you think I'm screwy, huh?"
"Oh, no, Kinnison, I wouldn't say that. I only…well…after all, there isn't much real evidence that we didn't mop up one hundred per cent."
"Much? Real evidence? There isn't any," the Tellurian assented, cheerfully enough. "But you've got the wrong slant entirely on these people. You are still thinking of them as gangsters, desperadoes, renegade scum of our own civilization. They're not. They are just as smart as we are; some of them are smarter. Perhaps I'm taking unnecessary precautions; but, if so, there's no harm done. On the other hand, there are two things at stake which, to me at least, are extremely important; this whole job of mine and my life: and remember this—the minute I leave this base both of those things are in your hands."
To that, of course, there could be no answer.
While the two men had been talking and while the oglons were being brought out, two trickling streams of men had been passing, one into and one out of the spy–ray–shielded confines of the base. Some of these men were heavily bearded, some were shaven clean, but all had two things in common. Each one was human in type and each one is some respect or other resembled Kimball Kinnison.
"Now remember, Gerrond," the Gray Lensman said impressively as he was about to leave, "They're probably right here in Ardith, but they may be anywhere on the planet. Keep a spy–ray on me wherever I go, and trace theirs if you can. That will take some doing, as he's bound to be an expert. Keep those oglons at least a mile—thirty seconds flying time—away from me; get all the Lensmen you can on the job; keep a cruiser and a speedster hot, but not too close. I may need any of them, or all, or none of them, I can't tell; but I do know this—if I need anything at all, I'll need it fast. Above all, Gerrond, by the Lens you wear, do nothing whatever, no matter what happens around me or to me, until I give you the word. QX?"
"QX, Gray Lensman. Clear ether!"
Kinnison took a ground–cab to the mouth of the narrow street upon which was situated his dock–walloper's mean lodging. This was a desperate, a foolhardy trick—but in its very boldness, in its insolubly paradoxical aspects, lay its strength. Probably Boskone could solve its puzzles, but—he hoped—this ape, not being Boskone, couldn't. And, paying off the cabman, he thrust his hands into his tattered pockets and, whistling blithely if a bit raucously through his stained teeth, he strode off down the narrow way as though he did not have a care in the world. But he was doing the finest job of acting of his short career; even though, for all he really knew, he might not have any audience at all. For inwardly, he was strung to highest tension. His sense of perception, sharply alert, was covering the full hemisphere around and above him; his mind was triggered to jerk any muscle of his body into instantaneous action.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, in a heavily guarded room, there sat a manlike being, humanoid to eight places. For two hours he had been sitting at his spy–ray plate, studying with ever–growing uneasiness the human beings so suddenly and so surprisingly numerously having business at the Patrol's base. For minutes he had been studying minutely a man in a ground–cab, and his uneasiness reached panic heights.
"It is the Lensman!" he burst out. "It's got to be, Lens or no Lens. Who else would have the cold nerve to go back there when he knows he's let the cat completely out of the bag!"
"Well, get him, then," advised his companion. "All set, ain't you?"
"But it can't be!" the chief went on, reversing himself in mid–flight. "A Lensman has got to have a Lens, and a Lens can't be invisible! And this fellow has not now, and never has had, a mind–ray machine. He hasn't got anything! And besides, the Lensman we're after wouldn't be sticking around—he disappears."
"Well, drop him and chase somebody else, then," the lieutenant advised, unfeelingly.
"But there's nobody nearly enough like him!" snarled the chief, in desperation. He was torn by doubt and indecision. This whole situation was a mess—it didn't add up right, from any possible angle. "It's got to be him—it can't be anybody else. I've checked and rechecked him. It is him, and not a double. He thinks he's safe enough; he can't know about us—can't even suspect. Besides, his only good double, Fordyce—and he's not good enough to stand the inspection I just gave him—hasn't appeared anywhere."
"Probably inside base yet. Maybe this is a better double. Perhaps this is the real Lensman pretending he isn't, or maybe the real Lensman is slipping out while you're watching the man in4he cab," the junior suggested, helpfully.
"Shut up!" the superior yelled. He started to reach for a switch, but paused, hand in air.
"Go ahead. That's it, call District and toss it into their laps, if it's too hot for you to handle. I think myself whoever did this job is a warm number—plenty warm."