"Not a thing in the universe. He might, at that," Kinnison confessed, bleakly.
"You've been afraid to ask him, haven't you?"
"But the job must be done!" he insisted, avoiding the question. "The prime minister—that Fossten—must have been the top; there couldn't possibly be anything bigger than an Arisian to be back of Boskone. It's unthinkable! They've got no military organization left—not a beam hot enough to light a cigarette or a screen that would stop a firecracker. We have all their records—everything. Why, it's just a matter of routine now for the boys to uproot them completely; system by system, planet by planet."
"Uh–huh." She eyed him shrewdly, there in the dark. "Cogent. Really pellucid. As clear as so much crystal—and twice as fragile. If you're so sure, why not call Mentor and ask him, right now? You're not afraid of just the calling part, like I am; you're afraid of what he'll say."
"I'm going to marry you before I do another lick of work of any kind, anywhere," he insisted, doggedly.
"I just love to hear you say that, even if I do know you're just popping off!" She snuggled deeper into the curve of his arm. "I feel that way too, but both of us know very well that if Mentor stops us…even at the altar…" her thought slowed, became tense, solemn. "We're Lensmen, Kim, you and I. We both know exactly what that means. We'll have to muster jets enough, some way or other, to swing the load. Let's call him now, Kim, together. I just simply can't stand this not knowing…I can't, Kim…I can't!" Tears come hard and seldom to such a woman as Clarrissa MacDougall; but they came then—and they hurt.
"QX, ace." Kinnison patted her back and her gorgeous head. "Let's go—but I tell you now that if he says 'no' I'll tell him to go out to the Rim and take a swan–dive off into inter–galactic space."
She linked her mind with his, thinking in affectionate half–reproach, "I'd like to, too, Kim, but that's pure balloon juice and you know it. You couldn't…" she broke off as he hurled their joint thought to Arisia the Old, going on frantically:
"You think at him, Kim, and I'll just listen. He scares me into a shrinking, quivering pulp!" "QX, ace," he said again. Then: "Is it permissible that we do what we are about to do?" he asked crisply of Arisia's ancient sage.
"Ah, 'tis Kinnison and MacDougall; once of Tellus, henceforth of Klovia," the calmly unsurprised thought rolled in. "I was expecting you at this time. Any mind, however far from competent, could have visualized this event in its entirety. That which you contemplate is not merely permissible; it has now become necessary," and as usual, without tapering off or leave–taking, Mentor broke the line.
The two clung together rapturously then for minutes, but something was obtruding itself disquietingly upon the nurse's mind. "But his thought was 'necessary', Kim?" she asked, rather than said. "Isn't there a sort of a sinister connotation in that, somewhere? What did he mean?"
"Nothing—exactly nothing," Kinnison assured her, comfortably. "He's got a complete picture of the macro–cosmic universe in his mind—his 'Visualization of the Cosmic AH', he calls it—and in it we get married now, just as I've been telling you we are going to. Since it gripes him no end to have even the tiniest thing not conform to his visualization, our marriage is NECESSARY, in capital letters. See?"
"Uh–huh…Oh, I'm glad!" she exclaimed. "That shows you how scared of him I am," and thoughts and actions became such that, although they were no doubt of much personal pleasure and satisfaction, they do not require detailed treatment here.
Clarrissa MacDougall resigned the next day, without formality or fanfare. That is, she thought that she did so then, and rather wondered at the frictionless ease with which it went through: it had simply not occurred to her that in the instant of being made an Unattached Lensman she had been freed automatically from every man–made restraint. That was one of the few lessons hard for her to learn; it was the only one which she refused consistently even to try to learn.
Nothing was said or done about the ten thousand credits which had been promised her upon the occasion of her fifteen–minutes–long separation from die Patrol following the fall of Jarnevon. She thought about it briefly, but with no real sense of loss. Some way or other, money did not seem important. Anyway, she had some—enough for a fairly nice, if limited, trousseau—in a Tellurian bank. She could undoubtedly get it through the Disbursing Office here.
She took off her Lens and stuffed it into a pocket. That wasn't so good, she reflected. It bulged, and besides, it might fall out; and anyone who touched it would die. She didn't have a bag; in fact, she had with her no civilian clothes at all. Wherefore she put it back on, pausing as she did so to admire the Manarkan star–drop flashing pale fire from the third finger of her left hand. Of Cartiff's whole stock of fine gems, this was the loveliest.
It was not far to the Disbursing Office, so she walked; window–shopping as she went. It was a peculiar sensation, this being out of harness—it felt good, though, at that—and upon arriving at the bank she found to her surprise that she was both well known and expected. An officer whom she had never seen before greeted her cordially and led her into his private office.
"We have been wondering why you didn't pick up your kit, Lensman MacDougall," he went on, briskly. "Sign here, please, and press your right thumb in this box here, after peeling off this plastic strip, so." She wrote in her boldly flowing script, and peeled, and pressed; and watched fascinatedly as her thumb– print developed itself sharply black against the bluish off–white of the Patrol's stationery. "That transfers your balance upon Tellus to the Patrol's general fund. Now sign and print this, in quadruplicate…Thank you. Here's your kit. When this book of slips is gone you can get another one at any bank or Patrol station anywhere. It has been a real pleasure to have met you, Lensman MacDougall; come in again whenever you happen to be upon Thrale," and he escorted her to the street as briskly as he had ushered her in.
Clarrissa felt slightly dazed. She had gone in there to get the couple of hundred credits which represented her total wealth; but instead of getting it she had meekly surrendered her savings to the Patrol and had been given—what? She leafed through the little book. One hundred blue–white slips; small things, smaller than currency bills. A little printing, two lines for description, a blank for figures, a space for signature, and a plastic–covered oblong area for thumb–print. That was all—but what an all! Any one of those slips, she knew, would be honored without hesitation or question for any amount of cash money she pleased to draw; for any object or thing she chose to buy. Anything—absolutely anything—from a pair of half–credit stockings up to and beyond a hundred–million–credit space–ship. ANYTHING! The thought chilled her buoyant spirit, took away her zest for shopping.
"Kim, I can't!" she wailed through her Lens. "Why didn't they give me my own money and let me spend it the way I please?" "Hold everything, ace—Til be with you in a sec." He wasn't—quite—but it was not
long. "You can get all the money you want, you know—just give them a chit." "I know, but all I wanted was my own money. I didn't ask for this stuff!" "None of that, Cris—when you get to be a Lensman you've got to take what goes
with it. Besides, if you spend money foolishly all the rest of your life, the Patrol knows that it will still owe you plenty for what you did on Lyrane II. Where do you want to begin?"
"Brenleer's," she decided, after she had been partially convinced. "They aren't the largest, but they give real quality at a fair price." At the shop the two Lensmen were recognized at sight and Brenleer himself did the honors. "Clothes," the girl said succinctly, with an all–inclusive wave of her hand. "All kinds of clothes, except white uniforms." They were ushered into a private room and Kinnison wriggled as mannequins began to appear in various degrees of enclothement. "This is no place for me," he declared. "I'll see you later, ace. How long—half an