Subject: Doomed Lensmen 3 & 4 Date: Fri, 10 Nov 2000 08:16:12 -0800 From: Lee Gold To: mobrien@dnaco.net Chapter 3: KINNISON KIDNAPPED AGAIN Mentor's last act before his final departure had been to restore Kim Kinnison to the arms of his loving wife. By an irony of fate, the Galactic Coordinator had been the only Lensman in existence who had not participated, even though unknowingly, in the Battle of Eddore. Only a short time before that awe-stirring clash of mentalities, he had been trapped in a hyper-spatial tube and thrown through the cosmos to a place beyond even Mentor's ability to locate him. He was found not by the Arisians but by his wife and children combined in a sixfold linkage of love. And Lensmen everywhere rejoiced at the news that Kimball Kinnison, the Keystone of Civilization, had returned to lead the Galactic Patrol once again. And so Kim and Clarrissa happily returned home to Klovia, secure in the knowledge that even the immaterial residuum of Ploor had been destroyed. Only a week later, however, Kim received a Lensed thought from Cliff Maitland, Vice Galactic Coordinator, who had been acting head of the Patrol during the last few days. "Hello, Kim," thought Maitland. "My apologies for breaking into your homecoming like this, but something rather interesting's come up. We've received word that Planetary President Renwood of Antigan IV has reappeared. You remember, the guy who vanished almost a year ago, probably through a hyper-spatial tube." "QX, I remember," replied Kinnison. "We never really figured out whether he was an innocent victim of a kidnapping or a Boskonian agent. When and where did he reappear?" "He's been back on Antigan IV for the last two days," said Maitland. "He's announced he plans to formally reassume the planetary presidency day after tomorrow. His successor doesn't seem to be too happy about the situation, but he's being graceful about it. Anyway, Renwood's requested us to send an official representative of the Patrol Administration to witness the re-inauguration. Have you got any suggestions as to who we should send?" "Don't be coy, Cliff," said Kinnison. "You know I want to follow this thing up. Either he's a genuine wooly white lamb who needs our protection or else he's a low man on the Boskonian totem pole who's daring us to come and get him. Either way I'm going to handle this mess personally." And so it came about that the Gray and the Red Lensmen parted once more. And less than a day later, Kim Kinnison disembarked once again on Antigan IV. He was met once more by Wainright, chief of the local Patrol unit. "QX, Wainright, fill me in on the situation," Kinnison directed briskly. "When and where did the president reappear?" "Renwood landed here at the planet's only spaceport two days ago," said the Patrol officer. "He came in a private spacecraft of unknown origin. He's already taken over control of the government again; the ceremony tomorrow is just a formality. When he got word of your coming, he said he wanted to talk to you and tell you all about what happened to you while he was gone. He hasn't said anything about it to us as yet. "I've got a shielded car waiting for you - with four other Patrolmen in it. Fontelray and Nambry, the two Rigellian Lensmen you assigned to the planet after the president's disappearance, stayed back at the Capitol Grounds to keep watch just in case someone tries pulling something fancy again." "QX," said Kinnison. "Let's go join them there. I'd like to meet the president personally." As the shielded Patrol car headed toward the Capitol Grounds, Kinnison noticed that the streets were practically deserted. "Why isn't there any traffic or any pedestrians?" he asked. "Is the planet panicking again?" "No, sir," replied Wainright. "First of all, this day of the week, it's called Wunzi in the local time system, is a working day. And those people who aren't working are staying home to follow the news. Renwood is going to be delivering a state of the planet address that's scheduled to go in about fifteen minutes. I can set up reception if you want to hear him." "Do that," aid Kinnison. Then, while Wainright adjusted the receptor controls, the Gray Lensmen attuned himself to the minds of the two Rigelian Lensmen stationed on the planet. "This is Kinnison," he said curtly. "I've come to town as official Patrol delegate to the re-inauguration. Has either of you noticed anything usual lately - particularly in connection with Renwood?" "Welcome, Galactic Coordinator Kinnison," Fontelray responded. "As far as either I or my companion are able to perceive, President Renwood appears to be sincerely on the side of Civilization. However, we do not have sufficient data to form a definite conclusion about this or any other matter relating to this entity, since he is possessed of some screen which blocks our sense of perception at what appears to be his skin." Kinnison did an abrupt mental double-take. He was encountering bigger game than he had expected. "I've experienced such a phenomenon only once," he told the two Rigelians. "It was in the case of Premier Fossten of Thrale, the renegade Arisian. What in the name of Klono's aluminum appendix is Renwood doing with one?" "Perhaps...." began an answering thought from Nambry, but then the Lensman's thought ceased, and Kinnison felt an indescribably agonizing mental blow that tortured every fiber of his being. Before he had fully recovered, a second such wave of anguish swept over him. And he knew with a shuddering certainty that while in the very act of communicating with him, the two Rigelian Lensmen had died. It had happened to him dozens of times before, but still Kinnison knew he would never be able to cease to respond to such an indescribable moment of utter tragedy. Kinnison now turned his attention again to Wainright, but barely had he started to inform the Patrolman of this new development when he became aware that the shielded car's progress had become marked by an ominous bumping sound. "I'm afraid, sir," said Wainright apologetically, "that we've developed a flat tire. Patrolman Van Dibble," he said to the husky Valerian who was driving, "pull over to the curb." Then Wainright turned to Kinnison and said respectfully, "Lensman, I'm not altogether certain this flat is purely accidental. Our course of action from here depends on your estimate of how much danger we're probably in right now. We can change tires and go on, but that involves someone's opening the door and leaving the car. Or you can Lens back to headquarters and have them send out some more Patrol units for extra safety value. But it'll take at least fifteen minutes for them to get here, and anything's liable to happen in the meantime. What do you think we should do?" But the Gray Lensman never answered. For even as Wainright finished speaking, in a truck a block away, three Nergalian henchmen happily smiled as a fourth opened an ultra-relay - and a capsule carefully hidden under the front seat of the Patrol car obediently let out a jet of compressed air which within seconds had filled the air of the vehicle with a volatile suspension of thionite. And trapped within that drug-laden atmosphere, every man in the car stiffened into the characteristic thionite muscle-lock. Even Kim Kinnison's powers of concentration were utterly dissipated by the effects of the drug as the entranced Gray Lensman suddenly realized that he had attained the ultimate satisfaction of all his desires. By this time, the Nergalian truck had pulled up alongside the Patrol car. Using a portable tractor beam, the leading henchman easily yanked open the shielded Patrol car's door, dragged Kinnison's passive body out into the street, and then hurriedly dumped the Lensman into a specially prepared, dureum-lined compartment in the back of the truck. Meanwhile two of the other Nergalians had gotten out of the truck and were amusing themselves by raying off the heads of the Patrol escort, who were too locked in ecstasy to recognize that they were being murdered, let alone to defend themselves against the attack. Now the fourth zwilnik called impatiently from the truck, "Come on, you imbeciles, we've got a deadline to meet." The three hurriedly got back into the truck which did a rapid U-turn and headed at a furious rate back to the spaceport. And inside the speeding vehicle, Kim Kinnison finally emerged from the ecstatic thionite trance. Resolutely the Gray Lensman forced himself to ignore both his humiliation at having been so easily captured and his body's insistent demand for more of the indescribably degrading joy he had just experienced. Instead, Kinnison doggedly concentrated on finding some loophole of escape from his present trap. In vain. The compartment was lined, as has been mentioned before, with dureum, that unbelievably strong synthetic metal which is the only known substance that can fully exist both in normal space and in the pseudo-space of the hyper-spatial tube. Kinnison's DeLameters were unable to even heat up the compartment's lock mechanism, let alone melt it. And worse still, the compartment was solidly screened. Kinnison's sense of perception was stopped a full inch away from the dureum lining. The telepathic spectrum was also impenetrably blocked. Try as he would, the Gray Lensman was unable to drive a thought beyond the imprisoning dureum. Suddenly there came a squeal of brakes, and the shock of the vehicle's deceleration flung Kinnison against the back of the compartment and knocked him into momentary unconsciousness. When he recovered, the scene had greatly changed. He was still in the same dureum-lined compartment, but now the air that he breathed was dense and viscous. And the Lensman's body again experienced the starkly indescribable nausea characteristic of inter-dimensional acceleration. "This makes the third time this year I've been trapped in a hyper-spatial tube," the Gray Lensman thought in disgust. "By Klono's lithium liver, it's getting monotonous." He rubbed his sore head, then made himself as comfortable as he could manage inside the bare compartment and prepared to wait until his captors decided to investigate him further. And so Kinnison waited, while the inter-dimensional acceleration died away and then, after several hours, was replaced by the equally indescribably sickening sensation of inter-dimensional deceleration. Finally that torture too ceased, the air became normal once more, and Kim Kinnison drew a deep sigh of relief. Surely he would not have to wait much longer. But still no one came to inspect the captive, and after a few minutes, Kinnison felt himself pressed tight to the floor of the compartment as if it were speedily accelerating upward. Then this motion too seemed to cease, and gravity became normal again. But it was not until an hour later that the lid of the compartment was finally raised, and Kinnison could sense the outer world again. He drew his DeLameters, but they were instantly yanked out of his hands by tractor beams. He tried to make use of the Worsel-Thorndyke projector of life-destroying vibrations, but found, as he had half-expected, that it was of no more use than it had been against the beings he had encountered in the hyper-spatial tube he had entered on Radelix nearly a year ago. He tried to move forward to attack his captors in hand-to-hand combat, but found himself unable to move either forward or back, helplessly caught in a tractor zone. And then a cold voice reached his ears: "I have permitted you these few minutes of folly to show you the futility of attempting to attack me or in any other way to resist my will. I trust you are now convinced." "Who are you?" asked Kinnison angrily. "You may call me President Renwood," answered the other. "And I am most gratified to meet you. I am only sorry that I am now unable to welcome you to Antigan IV, but two circumstances prevent me. First, we are not present on that planet but in space. And second, strictly speaking, Antigan IV no longer exists. That is, Antigan IV is now what used to be Antigan V. In short, Mr. Galactic Coordinator, one of your planets is missing." Kinnison's mind raced furiously. This ape looked exactly like Renwood down to twenty decimal places. But that proved exactly nothing when there was a skin-level screen against his sense of perception. Could he be a Plooran who'd been off-planet when his home world was destroyed? (Kinnison was never to know that the being he now confronted was in reality D'zillich, the chief of Nergal's corps of interstellar secret agents, a fiendishly clever master of stealth and disguise.) All Kinnison knew was that his only chance of escape lay in putting this self-styled Renwood off his guard. With intentional naivete, he demanded, "President Renwood, are you trying to tell me you blew up your own planet?" "Not at all," replied the other, "merely removed it - via hyper-spatial tube, of course. However, the planet is now without any effective source of solar heat and illumination. Also,. its inhabitants are incapable of leaving it, because a rather large duodec bomb totally destroyed the spaceport a few minutes after this ship's departure. In fact, even if I took no further action, most of the planetary population would probably be quite dead before the end of the day. "No more incredulous comments, Lensman?" he asked sardonically. "Well, suppose I tell you then what's going to happen next." The Nergalian glanced at his wrist chronometer. "Or better still, suppose I show you?" He turned to one of the side walls which was totally featureless except for a gray visiscreen. "Computer," he said quietly, "indicate the current progress of Operation K…. The K, of course," he explained to the Lensman, "stands for Klovia. The first step in this operation has already been completed. You have been decoyed off-planet." By this time, the visiscreen had sprung into life. D'zillich turned to one of his subordinates. "Explain the screen's symbolic system to the Lensman here, Borkle." "Yes, sir," the man responded. "The screen is now focused on the Klovian solar system and adjoining space. Our receptor is focused along the plane of the ecliptic, which is why the picture appears to be two-dimensional. The white dot represents the Klovian sun and the black dot is Klovia itself. The green dots indicate the Patrol's seventy-six defense bases and ships. Patrol-controlled planets and negaspheres are indicated by blue dots. "Most of our forces are not currently on the screen. When they appear, the pink dots will represent planets. The two red cylinders now on the screen are our hyper-spatial tubes. They have not yet entered normal space, and so are impossible for the Patrol to detect. Their entrance into normal space will be indicated by the appearance of a tip of purple at their front ends," Borkle turned to the visiscreen and asked, "What stage is the operation now at, computer?" A coldly unemotional voice from the visiscreen announced, "Step Two completed. Step Three in progress - to be completed in 310 seconds." "That means," said Borkle to the Lensman, "that our fleets have already begun moving into the hyper-spatial tubes. In approximately five minutes, the first of them should reach the mouths of the tubes. Three seconds before that happens, the tubes will emerge into normal space. We expect to give Klovia quite a series of surprises. Tube A here will be carrying over a hundred planets, and the computer estimates that at least thirty of them should get through before your Patrol is able to destroy the tube." "You seem to have left something out of your calculations," Kinnison said grimly. "Even if we don't stop your fleet of planets from emerging into normal space, we still have our sunbeam." "Ah yes, the sunbeam," D'zillich smiled. "We call it the astrobeam incidentally. A most fascinating weapon, enormously destructive, but really quite incapable of being rapidly maneuvered. A very unwieldy means of defense. "In any case, we don't greatly care what becomes of those planets. Most of them are merely cosmic clutter, totally useless except for purposes of destruction. There is, however, one exception. One of the planets is the ex-Antigan IV. And your Patrolmen will soon destroy it, either by blasting it with the astrobeam or else by destroying it within the hyper-spatial tube." The Nergalian chuckled at the thought of forcing the Patrol of Civilization to destroy one of their own planets, then became impassively quiet, watching the visiscreen. Time crawled by. The Lensman raged inwardly to be thus trapped at a time when Boskonia threatened Klovia itself, the center of Civilization, the world on which he and his family had lived so happily for over twenty years. And he was unable to do anything to stop it. He scanned the room frantically to see if there was any unshielded being that he could work through - a pet, a spider, a worm, even a fly. But the room was void of such lifeforms. Nergalians are too unsentimental to own pets and far too efficient to permit pests on board their spacecraft. Finally on the visiscreen, the red cylinder which Borkle had called Tube A acquired a purple tip, and instants later, there emerged through it a series of pink dots representing planets, all heading directly towards Klovia. After what seemed an eternity to the helpless Kinnison, three of the greet Patrol outposts swung towards the mouth of the tube and, seconds later, the tube vanished from the visiscreen. But still the line of pink dots remained, rapidly advancing towards Klovia. Then suddenly the white dot which was Klovia's sun elongated itself, put forth a thin line which reached out toward the invading planets. "The sun beam," Kinnison cried in triumph. "Your attack has failed." "Not at all," replied D'zillich coldly. "You have apparently not noticed that our second tube emerged into normal space some time ago, about ten seconds after the first was destroyed. Already some of its cargo of planets has advanced within the orbit of the outermost planet of this solar system. The tube itself will soon be destroyed, but the planets will get through. Your sunbeam is far too massive, too unmaneuverable, to be able to complete a 180 degree turn in the few seconds left before the planets reach their target." And Kinnison watched with horror as what the Nergalian had predicted came to pass. As the first of the massive planets struck the black dot which was Klovia, the Lensman felt an aching sense of loss in every fiber of his being and knew that the Boskonian had spoken truly. Hitherto he had tried to console himself with the thought that all of this might be a hoax, a delusion intended to break his spirit. But he knew that this overpowering sense of grief and deprivation which he now felt could have only one cause. Mac, Clarrissa, the Red Lensman, his wife for over twenty years, had just died. Not all the thought screens in the cosmos would have been able to prevent him from sharing with her the agony of that moment of her death. "And so Klovia is finally destroyed," observed D'zillich. "The last seconds of its inhabitants must indeed have been interesting to experience. The shock as that first planet struck home created a blast of pure energy, vibrating on all levels of the spectrum. Probably the last sensation that the inhabitants of Klovia experienced was that of a blinding flash and a deafening report. "But I should not waste time with these irrelevant details. Let us return to the duty of the day. Lensman Kinnison, your moment of death has come." D'zillich turned to Borkle. "Ray him down." Borkle smilingly picked up Kinnison's own DeLameters and turned them on the helpless Lensman. Two torrents of man-made lightning leapt forward from the two hand-projectors, and moments later Kinnison's charred body lay on the cold dureum floor. Yet a spark of vitality still remained within the Tellurian's rugged frame. Softly the Gray Lensman muttered his last words. "By Klono's thorium thalamus,… all alone now… Not even… a spider… to help." And so Kimball Kinnison, second stage Lensman, Galactic Coordinator of Civilization, died. "Vaporize the corpse, Borkle, while you're at it," said D'zillich briskly. "We don't want any mess aboard ship." And while Borkle impassively destroyed the final fragments of what had once Kim Kinnison, D'zillich contentedly removed the Renwood disguise he had been wearing. Then, with what for a Nergalian approximated light-heartedness, he went to the intercom and contacted the pilot. "Set course at once for Nergal," he ordered. "We've accomplished our mission here in full. And I have a pressing engagement to keep once we get back home." Chapter 4: Alarums and Incursions The destruction of Klovia plunged Civilization into a state of demoralized chaos. For over twenty years, people had been told that Klovia was the most securely guarded planet in the Two Galaxies. If it had now been obliterated, then no other world could be considered safe. Nor was there much the Galactic Patrol could do to bolster morale. Indeed, the Patrol was itself the chief victim of the attack. At one fell stroke, it had lost its prime headquarters, its central bureaucracy - and its top officers. Its Galactic Coordinator, Kim Kinnison, was missing - along with the entire planet of Antigan IV. Its Vice-Coordinator, Cliff Maitland, had died in the annihilation of Klovia. In fact, the Patrol's entire chain of command had been beheaded. It was indeed a tribute to the courage, self-reliance and initiative of the surviving Patrolmen that utter chaos did not immediately result. In that hour of need, each Lensman, each Patrolman, continued to do his best for Civilization - but the central, driving force that had previously coordinated those efforts now was gone. To the five young Kinnisons, the news came like a nightmarish bolt of lightning from a clear summer sky. They had spent the last week on Arisia, now a totally deserted world, all of its former inhabitants gone on to the next plane of existence. Yet the planet itself was still a beautiful one. The five Children of the Lens had planned to stay there for some time, fitting themselves to be Guardians of Civilization. For the first time in months, they had allowed themselves to partially relax, totally confident in Mentor's assertion that all the Eddorians were now totally destroyed. Kit, with the aid of his sisters, had devoted his first few days on Arisia to preparing transcripts of a history of that last momentous year of galactic intrigue and conflict, for the benefit of future third level mentalities. These transcripts were encased in containers of force which only a third-level mind could open and which radiated their presence on bands of thought that only a third-level mind could hear. Aside from this relatively minor task, the Five had done little those first few days, taking the time as a well-deserved vacation from the tensions of the last year. And so on the ninth day after the Battle of Eddore, the Five went to the beach - the eastern equatorial shore of Arisia's one ocean, to be exact. The air was warm, the water pleasantly cool, and the hours passed quickly. Constance had just finished ducking Kit's head under water for some fancied insult, when Kathryn pointedly remarked, "Children, I believe it's time for lunch." Gaily the five young redheads trooped to the shore. Then suddenly Kit became aware that Tregonsee was trying to Lens him. "Hello, Uncle Trig," called Kit. "What's up?" But at first there came no answer, only a strong wave of grief and sympathy. Then Tregonsee mastered himself and related, as concisely as possible, the tragic events of the last few days. Every fiber of Kit's being shook with shock at that dreadful news. Karen stood stunned. Camilla suddenly sat down on the damp sand and buried her head in her hands. Kathryn closed her eyes for a moment as if fighting against tears, then resolutely opened them and thought to Tregonsee, "If they've touched one hair on Dad's head, I'll-" "Kat," her brother interjected quickly, "we have to face facts. Mom's dead, and Dad may be too. I hope like anything he's not. But we'll have to assume that he is until we get some proof to the contrary." Kathryn answered defiantly, "And I'm going to assume he's alive until we get some proof to the contrary. Dad had plenty of jets going for him." She abruptly screened off her thoughts from the rest and retreated to the inner fastness of her own mind. "It's not fair," cried Constance. "We were told all the danger was over," and then the traumatized girl broke into hysterical tears. In that hour of sorrow, Kit Kinnison truly displayed his new maturity of viewpoint. He resolutely stifled his own grief, and walked over to his weeping sister and held her in his arms. "Don't cry, Con," he said gently. "We don't have time to cry. We've got to hurry and find out just who were the zwilniks that did these things - and then we'll have to destroy them. Otherwise, they aren't going to give us time to mourn for Mom and Dad. They'll just go ahead and destroy us." Tregonsee's thought broke in again. "I am glad to see that you are able to think so maturely. I have no doubt, Christopher Kinnison, that this must be Civilization's hour of greatest danger. I believe it would be wise for us surviving high level Lensmen to have a conference about what our course of action must now be…. Shall we meet together in thought again in an hour's time?" Kit assented, then - after Tregonsee had broken off contact - turned to his four sisters. "What I said just now to Con applies to all of us," he said grimly. "We've got no time for private griefs. We've got two galaxies to take care of." Constance said rebelliously, "We didn't do a perfect job of it before - or this wouldn't have happened. And that was when we had help. Now we're all alone. Even Mentor's gone. And Dad's...disappeared." "That's right," Kit said somberly. "We're the only Guardians that Civilization's got left - and we've got to live up to the responsibility. It's Lensman's Burden." He looked down tenderly at Constance's tear-stained face. "Done crying, sis?" he asked. She nodded mutely. He absent-mindedly reached for a handkerchief toward his swim trunks, then shrugged and kissed each of her wet eyelids briskly. Then he grasped her by the hand and pulled her up the sandy beach to where stood the other three Children of the Lens. "QX, kids," he said. "We've got less than an hour till that conference with Worsel, Tregonsee, and Nadreck. Now suppose we start thinking about what exactly went wrong and about what exactly we're going to do about it. Any first-order conclusions, anybody?" There was a long pause, then Karen said slowly, "The first thing we've got to face is that Mentor's whole scheme of visualization was somehow dead wrong. Remember his last words to us were that Dad and the Patrol could easily handle all of Eddore's leftover organization. Somehow, some way, someone must have managed to trick him, to hide some vital fact of information from him." "And," added Constance, "that's the someone that it's now up to us to outmaneuver." Kit nodded glumly, then said, "Well, first things first. Which one of the second stage Lensmen should we persuade to take over the Galactic Coordinatorship?" "Aren't you going to do it?" asked Kathryn. Kit shook his red-thatched head vigorously. "No. And for two reasons. First of all, I'm going to have no time for that kind of paperwork job. And second, it may have slipped your mind, Kat, but my chronological age is barely twenty-two. The Lensmen wouldn't mind a bit if I became Coordinator. The Patrol as a whole could probably take it without too much grumbling. But how do you think the average citizen would feel at the thought of a Galactic Coordinator barely old enough to vote? No, it's got to be one of the second stage Lensmen. The only question is which one." "Not Worsel," said Constance regretfully. "He's more human than most people - and a whole lot smarter - but he isn't detached enough to be a good administrator. He's a one-man fighter, not suited to directing group action. He's a leader, not an administrator." Kit looked inquiringly at Karen. "Not Nadreck," she said. "He's detached enough. Too detached. He doesn't have the scope of viewpoint to handle the job. Remember when he destroyed Kandron. He didn't find out what Kandron knew about the upper echelons - because it was out of his project focus." She turned to Camilla. "Cam, I hate to say it, but it's got to be Tregonsee. He's the only one left who can handle the job the way it's got to be done." Camilla nodded vigorously and added, "The very fact that he was the one the other two asked to notify us clinches it. It proves they'll be willing to work under him." "QX," said Kit. "Tregonsee it is. Now who for Vice-Coordinator?" "Better take a humanoid," said Karen. "Why not Port Admiral Raoul LaForge? He was off Klovia when.…". "Good idea," Kit hastily interjected into the dead silence. "Question number three: what kind of action do we Five take?" "First," said Kathryn, "let's clarify what we're going to be acting against. Our Enemy out there - whoever he is - favors the direct approach. So far he hasn't used any hallucinations like an Overlord would have, or any of that wheels within wheels approach that Kandron was so fond of. When this boy wants to destroy something, he strikes directly at it. And his targets so far have been Patrol Centers - and second-stage Lensmen." "Then maybe we should go back to our earlier strategy," said Constance. "One girl riding herd on each second-stage Lensman." "QX," said Camilla, "but that still leaves two of us unaccounted for -- Kat and Kit." "Not really," Kit said. "Listen, Con, Cam and Kay - you three tag after those second-stage proteges of yours as near as you can get without making them nervous. Guard them as close as is absolutely possible. Meanwhile, Kathryn and I will be keeping watch on the rest of the Two Galaxies. I'll take Galaxy Two," he said grimly, "since that's where the last attack was. Kat, you take the First Galaxy, and concentrate on Earth. If Klovia can be taken, then Tellus can too. And we can't let that happen. Them's my plans. QX, everyone?" Four red-thatched heads nodded approval, and the Five prepared themselves to subtly insinuate their plans into the minds of Worsel, Tregonsee, and Nadreck at the forthcoming conference. And only a few hours later, the five Children of the Lens left Arisia and once more took up their tasks as Guardians of Civilization. Their five speedsters flew at high velocities through the void, each with its own special mission, its own destination. They left behind a deserted planet, guarded only by mechanical screens now that its former inhabitants had voluntarily chosen to pass on to the next stage of existence. But Arisia did not stay deserted for long. Once, millennia before, the Eddorians had come into the Arisian time-space continuum, from a horribly different plenum. The Arisians had summoned all their power and ingenuity to combat the Eddorian menace, and they would indeed have totally succeeded had it not been for the duplicity of Gharlane. Now, only days after all but one of the Eddorians had been destroyed, by an ironic twist of fate, the plenum was invaded anew, this time not by a race of beings but by a single entity. Yet that worthy was in his own way as egocentric, as power-hungry, as hostile to the basic tenets of Civilization as any Eddorian. Nor was his mind potentially inferior in power to that of Gharlane himself. This being entered the space-time continuum on the outskirts of the First Galaxy. However, soon after his arrival, he became aware of the third-level emanations proceeding from the force field transcript containers on Arisia. He immediately drove his ship toward that distant world and, easily making his way through the unmanned screens set to repel anyone who was not a second- or third-level mentality, to obliterate the menace of any invader loyal to Eddore or Boskone, landed on the planet, the first being neither an Arisian nor a Lensman ever to do so. He then made his way to the transcript containers, and soon had one open. And as the interloper impassively scanned the contents of the transcript, trouble was already also brewing elsewhere in the nearby cosmos. On the desolate planet of Zabriska, a conference had just begun between Zagan, planetary dictator of Nergal, and Surgat, the ranking survivor of those Ploorans who had by various quirks of fate been off-planet at the time of the destruction of their home world. Surgat thus officially controlled what was left of the Boskonian organization, a force much diminished in power yet still one to be reckoned with. For the Galactic Patrol's policy of striking at the top of the enemy totem pole had left literally hundreds of lower echelon operations completely untouched. "Greetings, Zagan," began Surgat. "I am delighted to meet with you once again. How are your plans progressing for overthrowing Gharlane?" Without bothering to acknowledge the Plooran's greetings or his question, Zagan brusquely demanded, "Why did you call and ask me to meet you here? Don't you know how difficult it is for me to keep that Eddorian and his underlings from suspecting me? I'm certain D'zillich has planted dozens of spies on me. Just exactly what came up that's so important that our normal communications arrangements aren't secure enough?" "My news," said Surgat furiously, "is that our operatives are crossing each other up all over both galaxies. If our Plooran-Nergalian plan to conquer the Macrocosmic All is to succeed, we must have better coordination of efforts. For example, just five days ago, at a thionite auction, one of your agents and one of mine started bidding against one another for the drug till the price went up sky high. I believe it was my agent who ended up buying it, but that scarcely matters - such incidents indicate the present extremely inefficient state of our alliance. "Then, only three days ago, two of my Black Lensmen, Eichdur and Eichwight, spent over an hour destroying what they assumed was a fleet of Patrol ships before the accidentally found out that the camouflaged fleet was really Nergalian in origin. I'm afraid only a few hundred of your ships in the seventeenth sector survived. Another costly blunder due to lack of coordination. "Worse yet, one of my humanoid subordinates, a being by the name of Kartong, spent five years working his way into the position of planetary vice-president on Antigan IV. He had just spent the last year slowly shaking the planet's faith in the Patrol, and was about to maneuver it into being the first world to secede voluntarily from the ranks of Civilization. And then your accursed D'zillich spoiled the whole plan by disguising himself as Renwood and kidnapping the whole planet to use it to bombard Klovia - destroying my agent Kartong in the process. Zagan, something must be done to prevent instances like these from multiplying." The Nergalian nodded grimly, then said, "I agree wholeheartedly. When I get back to Nergal, I shall certainly speak severely to D'zillich about his actions." He turned to go back to his spaceship. "Don't leave quite so quickly," said Surgat. "You still haven't answered the question I asked you before - how are you planning on disposing of Gharlane? You know that we two can never become Joint Overlords of the Cosmic All as long as that Eddorian continues to exist." Zagan's always present suspicions about the Plooran's trustworthiness suddenly became greatly intensified. This matter of Plooran and Nergalian forces unintentionally sabotaging each other was only a routine problem, scarcely as urgent as Surgat's earlier coded message had implied. And the Plooran's curiosity about Zagan's plans for Gharlane seemed somewhat excessive. The Nergalian replied evasively, "I've been perfecting my plan for destroying Gharlane over the last twenty years, and I guarantee it'll be successful. Why do you ask? Was there any helpful suggestion you wished to contribute?" Surgat said, "Not at all. In fact, I admire your planning ability immensely. For instance, the way you maneuvered Kinnison into allowing himself to be killed by his own DeLameters. Magnificent." Zagan's countenance - and, more important, his outer thoughts - remained impassive at that remark, but his inner mind raced furiously. No one could know how Kim Kinnison had been slain except for himself, D'zillich, and the crew. Surgat couldn't have infiltrated spies as a member of the crew without D'zillich's knowledge. Ergo, Surgat's information came either directly from D'zillich or with D'zillich's knowledge. Could Surgat have become a spy for D'zillich and Gharlane? If that were the case, then this all too flimsily justified conference would be in reality merely a pretext to get him away from Nergal while Gharlane arranged for his successor, probably D'zillich, to take office. Surgat's all too obvious attempt to delay him here on Zabriska was probably intended to trap him while some unknown entity - Lensman, Plooran, or Nergalian - arranged for his execution. All these thoughts - so laborious to detail - flashed through the Nergalian's mind in less than a second, and it was with seemingly perfect composure that Zagan responded to Surgat's remark about Kinnison's death. "Yes, that was indeed a fitting end for such a perfidious creature as that hated Lensman. He was such an aberrant entity too. Always disguising himself as something or other. One of my psychologists has theorized he was probably subconsciously bored with his own personality. "And now," Zagan continued with apparent nonchalance, "let us return to the matter at hand. I deplore our lack of coordinated effort as deeply as you do. Furthermore," the Nergalian added with a calculated appearance of weakness, "I shall be pleased to consider any suggestions you may have for overcoming this situation. Meanwhile, I shall do my best to see that Nergalian forces will never again inadvertently attack Plooran ones. I am going back to Nergal immediately to see that no further such incidents ever occur. Farewell for now, O Surgat," and Zagan with outward calm left the conference spot and returned to his one-man speedster. Once safely out in deep space again, Zagan turned his thoughts to his next problem - where to go next. Nergal was definitely out. Not only had he told Surgat he was going there, but Gharlane had probably already determined to have him killed immediately upon his return. Nor could he count on his former subordinates' loyal against the Eddorian. For such entities as Nergalians, loyalty is given only to the powerful. It is axiomatic that the weak are the betrayed. Where then could he go? In former days, he might have considered becoming a renegade and joining the forces of Civilization. But now, thanks to the plans that he himself had helped devise, he knew that Civilization would not endure long enough to protect him from Gharlane's wrath. Nor were the uncommitted worlds a possible haven. Zagan knew only too well how easy it was to terrorize such a world into abject submission - particularly when the price for freedom from fear was merely the life of a worthless alien. No, there was only one place in the Two Galaxies where he might be safe - safe because it was the one place Gharlane would not dream of looking for him. With trembling fingers, Zagan drove his speedster at maximum speed - straight toward Arisia. And in a relatively short time, the former Nergalian potentate had reached the region of space in which Arisia lay. Conquering a reflexive shudder of dread at his closeness to the planet which had frustrated, tortured and destroyed so many of his co-ideologists, Zagan cautiously drove his shop forward, meeting little resistance from the merely mechanical screens which surrounded the system. Finally Zagan landed the ship and heaved a deep sigh of relief. He was at least temporarily safe from D'zillich's or Gharlane's pursuit. Slowly, he got up from the control board chair, stretched luxuriously, and then froze stark still. Suddenly, before his very eyes, a humanoid had materialized into the empty air of the control room. Zagan rubbed his eyes but found that the impossible sight had not disappeared. The being was tall with powerful build, his heavily bearded, saturnine face surmounted by thick, intensely black hair. His equally intensely black eyes radiated a sneering contempt for what he now surveyed. Not even Zagan's worst enemy would ever have termed the Nergalian a coward, yet even his arrogant spirit was slightly shaken as he turned the stranger and demanded, "Tell me your identity and your purpose in invading my ship; otherwise I will be forced to destroy you." The newcomer smiled coldly. "None of your weapons, whatever they may be," he replied, "could have any effect on me. What you see before you is not my actual body but merely a sixth-level projection, a phenomenon I have recently learned that your plenum is totally unfamiliar with. Now, you tell me - what is your name and what brings you here?" The Nergalian did not reply but snatched out his DeLameter and fired point blank at the intruder. He felt shaken to the very core of his being to see that the weapon's deadly rays had absolutely no effect on the figure before him. The man, in fact, was actually laughing at the attack. When his mirth died down, he spoke again. "As you now realize, you are totally powerless to destroy me. Nevertheless, I will be charitable enough to answer your questions. My purpose in entering your ship is to find out just which faction you belong to in this space-time continuum's political jigsaw puzzle. As for my identity - at the present my name would have no significance to any inhabitant of this plenum, although I plan to alter that situation before not very long. In fact," and the man's sardonic smile grew even broader, "you may congratulate yourself on being the very first person in this space-time continuum to make the acquaintance of Dr. Marc C. DuQuesne."