"You are the twelve strongest, the twelve ablest men of the planet, perhaps of your whole dark culture. Will you help us to rule according to the principles of Civilization that which has been the Boskonian Empire or will you die?"
The Thralians stiffened themselves rigidly against the expected blasts of death, but only one spoke. "We are fortunate at least, Lensman, in that you do not torture," he said, coldly, his lips twisted into a hard, defiant sneer.
"Good!" and the Lensman actually smiled. "I expected no less. With that solid bottom, all that is necessary is to wipe away a few of your misconceptions and misunderstandings, correct your viewpoints, and…"
"Do you think for a second that your therapists can fit us into the pattern of your Civilization?" the Boskonian spokesman demanded, bitingly.
"I don't have to think, Lanion—I know," Kinnison assured him. "Take them away, fellows, and lock them up—you know where. Everything will go ahead as scheduled."
It did.
And while the mighty vessels of war landed upon the space–field and while the thronging Lensmen took over post after post in an ever–widening downward course, Kinnison led Worsel and Tregonsee to the cell in which the outspoken Thralian chieftain was confined.
"I do not know whether I can prevent you from operating upon me or not," Lanion of Thrale spoke harshly, "but I will try. I have seen the pitiful, distorted wrecks left after such operations and I do not like them. Furthermore, I do not believe that any possible science can eradicate from my subconscious the fixed determination to kill myself the instant you release me. Therefore you had better kill me now, Lensman, and save your time and trouble."
"You are right, and wrong," Kinnison replied, quietly. "It may very well be impossible to remove such a fixation." He knew that he could remove any such, but Lanion must not know it. Civilization needed those twelve hard, shrewd minds and he had no intention of allowing an inferiority complex to weaken their powers. "We do not, however, intend to operate, but only and simply to educate. You will not be unconscious at any time. You will be in full control of your own mind and you will know beyond peradventure that you are so in control. We shall engrave, in parallel with your own present knowledges of the culture of Boskonia, the equivalent or corresponding knowledges of Civilization."
They did so. It was not a short undertaking, nor an easy: but it was thorough and it was finally done. Then Kinnison spoke.
"You now have completely detailed knowledge both of Boskonia and of Civilization, a combination possessed by but few intelligences indeed. You know that we did not alter, did not even touch, any track of your original mind. Being fully en rapport with us, you know that we gave you as unprejudiced a concept of Civilization as we possibly could. Also, you have assimilated completely the new knowledge."
"That is all true," Lanion conceded. "Remarkable, but true. I was, and remained throughout, myself; I checked constantly to be sure of that. I can still kill myself at any moment I choose."
"Right." Kinnison did not smile, even mentally, at the unconscious alteration of intent. "The whole proposition can now be boiled down into one clear–cut question, to which you can formulate an equally clear–cut reply. Would you, Lanion, personally, prefer to keep on as you have been, working for personal power, or would you rather team up with others to work for the good of all?"
The Thralian thought for moments, and as he pondered an expression of consternation spread over his hard–hewn face. "You mean actually—personally—apart from all consideration of your so– called altruism and your other infantile weaknesses?" he demanded, resistantly.
"Exactly," Kinnison assured him. "Which would you rather do? Which would you, personally, get the most good—the most fun—out of?"
The bitter conflict was plainly visible in Lanion's bronzed face; so was the direction in which it was going.
"Well…I'll…be…damned! You win, Lensman!" and the ex–Boskonian executive held out his hand. Those were not his words, of course; but as nearly as Tellurian English can come to it, that is the exact sense of his final decision.
And the same, or approximately the same, was the decision of each of his eleven fellows, each in his turn.
Thus it was, then, that Civilization won over the twelve recruits who were so potently instrumental in the bloodless conquest of Thrale, and who were later to be of such signal service throughout the Second Galaxy. For they knew Boskonia with a sure knowledge, from top to bottom and from side to side, in every aspect and ramification; they knew precisely where and when and how to work to secure the desired ends. And they worked—how they worked!—but space is lacking to go into any of their labors here.
Specialists gathered, of a hundred different sorts; and when, after peace and security had been gained, they began to attack the stupendous files of the Hall of Records, Kinnison finally yielded to Haynes' insistence and moved out to the Z9M9Z.
"It's about time, young fellow!" the Port Admiral snapped. "I've gnawed my fingernails off just about to the elbow and I still haven't figured out how to crack Onlo. Have you got any ideas?"
"Thrale first," Kinnison suggested. "Everything QX here, you sure?"
"Absolutely," Haynes grunted. 'A's strongly held as Tellus or Klovia. Primaries, helices, super–tractors, Bergenholms, sunbeam—everything. They don't need us here any longer, any more than a hen needs teeth. Grand Fleet is all set to go, but we haven't been able to work out a feasible plan of campaign. The best way would be not to use the fleet at all, but a sunbeam—but we can't move the sun and Thorndyke can't hold the beam together that far. I don't suppose we could use a negasphere?"
"I don't see how," Kinnison pondered. "Ever since we used it first they've been ready for it. I'd be inclined to wait and see what Nadreck works out. He's a wise old owl, that bird—what does he tell you?"
"Nothing. Nothing flat." Haynes' smile was grimly amused. "The fact that he is still 'investigating'—whatever that means—is all he'll say. Why don't you try him? You know him better than I do or ever will."
"It wouldn't do any harm," Kinnison agreed. "Nor good, either, probably. Funny egg, Nadreck. I'd tie fourteen of his arms into lover's knots if it'd make him give, but it wouldn't—he's really tough." Nevertheless he sent out a call, which was acknowledged instantly.
"Ah, Kinnison, greetings. I am even now on my way to Thrale and the Directrix to
report." "You are? Fine!" Kinnison exclaimed. "How did you come out?" "I did not—exactly—fail, but the work was very incompletely and very poorly
done," Nadreck apologized, the while the Tellurian's mind felt very strongly the Palainian equivalent of a painful blush of shame. "My report of the affair is going in under Lensman's Seal."
"But what did you do?" both Tellurians demanded as one. "I scarcely know how to confess to such blundering," and Nadreck actually
squirmed. "Will you not permit me to leave my shame to the spool of record?" They would not, they informed him. "If you must have it, then, I yield. The plan was to make all Onlonians destroy
themselves. In theory it 'was sound and simple, but my execution was pitifully imperfect. My work was so poorly done that the commanding officer in each one of three of the domes remained alive, making it necessary for me to slay those three commanders personally, by the use of crude force. I regret exceedingly the lack of finish of this undertaking, and I apologize profoundly for it. I trust that you will not allow this information to become a matter of public knowledge," and the apologetic, mentally sweating, really humiliated Palainian broke the connection.
Haynes and Kinnison stared at each other, for moments completely at a loss for words. The Port Admiral first broke the silence.