DOOMED LENSMEN

by

Sybly Whyte

Originally serialized in The Third Foundation, beginning with issue #77 (the first issue of the fanzine) in 1967

Chapter One: GHARLANE'S ESCAPE

As the flagship of the Thralian Grand Fleet sped towards Klovia, the Eddorian energizing the body of Premier Fossten suspiciously questioned Gannel, Tyrant of Thrale. Suddenly he shouted, "Die then! I should have known from the sheer perfection of your work that you were what you really are — Star A Star!" Even as he spoke, he attacked. Gannel, in reality Second Stage Lensmen Kim Kinnison, met the mounting fury of that attack, never knowing that he was not alone in his battle against the apparent leader of the Boskonian forces. At length, his sight and sense of perception revealed to him his conquered foe in the image of a huge Brain, apparently identical to that of Mentor the Arisian. Nor was this similarity surprising, for both images were actually hallucinations produced in Kinnison's mind by the fourfold Arisian fusion which called itself Mentor.

So Kinnison relentlessly pummeled the illusion of a brain, while unbeknownst to him Mentor created such a screen of mental force around the captive Eddorian that that entity could neither communicate with its fellows nor escape the form of flesh it was then energizing. Finally, at Mentor's direction, Kinnison drew his ray-gun and, with apparently only that feeble instrument, succeeded in reducing what it was that lay before him to a smoking, shapeless heap.

But neither the dogged Lensman nor the subtle Arisians were aware or indeed ever became aware that there had been yet another witness to that titanic battle of mind. Back on Thrale, in the Premier's secret quarters, a spy-screen had relayed the entire struggle. And the entity who watched it was none other than Gharlane of Eddore himself!

Well was it for the Arisians' peace of mind that they never thought to check exactly which Eddorian had been cornered that day and forced to pass to the next plane of existence. Actually Gharlane had cautiously chosen to stay entirely away from the forefront of the battle. True, Premier Fossten had gone on the flagship of the Boskone Grant Fleet, but that worthy's body was then being energized not by Eddore's mighty Second-in-Command, but by one of his underlings — his ascosporic twin — differing from him only in strength of will and force of personality.

The Arisians had long known that the Eddorians were completely asexual entities who were immortal except for death by violence and who multiplied their numbers by asexual sporulation. By this means, when an Eddorian had reached its capacity to live and learn, it simply divided into two new individuals, each of which, in addition to possessing in full the parent's mind and memories and knowledge, had also a brand-new zest for living and a greatly increased capacity for knowledge.

This reproductive process in its purest form obviously produced two individuals equal in power and in competitive drive. But no Eddorian of the Innermost Circle was willing to allow such an equal to exist. These powerful minds, therefore, controlled the conditions of their self-reproduction so that of the two individuals produced, one was markedly the superior in vital force — and that one only was considered the true inheritor of the former personality.

Thus it was that Gharlane's personality had endured through the countless millennia since the original formation of Earth. And thus when the time came for a direct attack on the Klovian Patrol Headquarters, Gharlane, wishing to keep personal control of the battle but wary of treachery, deliberately twinned himself and sent in Fossten's body an entity with his own desires and hatreds, a stupendously capable mind inferior only to himself and to the All-Highest in stark power. No wonder then that the Arisians were so confident that Gharlane had been destroyed. One of him had been. But another still remained!

As he turned off the spy-screen, Gharlane was raging with barely controlled anger that he had been so nearly outmaneuvered. But instead of giving way to his almost incandescent fury, he deliberately forced himself to consider the implications of the scene he had just witnessed. The Grand Fleet was now for all intents and purposes already destroyed. The Patrol Headquarters would have little difficulty in demolishing it with one of their own Lensmen in control of the flagship. Indeed Thrale itself must now be temporarily conceded to the hated foe. He could most effectively oppose the Lensmen and their Civilization only by operating in secret, not by fighting a last ditch battle to keep control of a world of only tertiary importance.

Also, as Gharlane now began to realize, there were advantages to be drawn even from this wreck of his plans. The Arisians would now probably be sure that he was dead. Let them continue to think so. They based, he knew, all their calculations on a highly intellectual Visualization of the Cosmic All, a system of speculation so subtle and intricate that it could be blurred by even one major unknown fact. And the continued existence of Eddore's Second-in-Command was a major fact indeed!

So Gharlane cautiously retreated from Thrale, leaving the planet so quickly and so secretly that not a single mind there was ever aware that a second Eddorian had ever been there at all. He went, not to Eddore nor to any of the worlds which the Eddorians had already mobilized against Civilization, but to the very outskirts of the Second Galaxy, to the bleak world of Nergal, a world so far removed from the struggle between Civilization and the Eddorian Menace that no Arisian and, except for Gharlane, no Eddorian had ever spared time to investigate it thoroughly.

Gharlane, however, had long been aware that Nergal was inhabited by a race of humanoid beings with a set of ethics equivalent to that of the Delgonian Overlords — plus a capacity for disciplined intellectual. strategy such as no Overlord ever dreamed of possessing. Gharlane had chosen to keep this planet out of the grand scheme of Eddorian cosmic conquest, to keep its existence secret even from the All-Highest. He had built up an organization upon it loyal not to Eddore but to himself, an organization with only one aim: to gather every possible item of information about the Arisian plans — and to devise schemes of nullifying them. Nergal thus represented to Gharlane his own private intelligence organization.

As soon as the Eddorian had landed on that fortress world, he issued a summons for Zagan, the planetary chief, to attend him immediately. When the dictator arrived, Gharlane greeted him perfunctorily, then asked abruptly, "What is the state of your planetary defenses?"

Zagan, inwardly perturbed at the unexpected arrival of his master, replied with outward calm, "We have been studying the data you lately made available to us about hyper-spatial tubes and negaspheres. As you are doubtless aware, the latter can easily be dealt with by simply focusing the light of a star upon them, a technique which we call the astrobeam. Detecting and combating a hyper-spatial tube is a more interesting problem. We have, however, I believe, solved the problem to your satisfaction by construction of hyper-space screens which not only indicate the presence of such tubes but also can stop even the most powerful from penetrating into normal space. We are fully equipped then against both these varieties of attack."

"What about your defenses against mental attack?" the Eddorian demanded.

"As you know," Zagan answered, "our screening is an exact duplicate of the plans you gave us of Eddore's own defense systems. However, I must confess that I am not wholly satisfied with this set up. It is true that such screens prevent the entrance of an invader or group of invaders of minds with the capacity of one of the Eich or even that of a Plooran. But we have no reason not to hypothesize that some of the enemy possess minds with a capacity nearly equal to yours. And against an assemblage of such minds, such screens would be of relatively little use. I hope I have no offended you by this frankness."

"On the contrary," replied Gharlane, "a recent experience of mine has convinced me that our defenses must be even more powerful than those of Eddore. Now, by exactly what methods are you planning to repel a possible mental attack by such third-level minds?"

Zagan hesitated slightly, then answered, "Actually for some time we found ourselves to be totally incapable of devising any such mechanism. But we have recently achieved a breakthrough on this and several other lines of investigation due to our new device: the telepathic computer. I have not previously informed you about this project since I wished to wait until I was sure it would be successful.

"We have devised a computer capable not only of logically categorizing and extrapolating from data but also of gathering data by means of telepathic scrutiny of the cosmos. Only second- and third-level minds are immune to its sensors. Our first command to it was to assemble as much information as possible about the accursed Arisian Lens. As you know, the Lens is no mere artifact but a living entity, attuned to only one being, and when not in contact with that being immediately lethal to any other being who touches it. Our computer was able to give us such accurate data on the composition of this device that we are now capable of altering the Lens-Lensman relationship so that the Lens ceases to be attuned to its wearer and instantly kills him.

"Unfortunately," and the Nergalian spoke with genuine grief, "the energy required for this feat is so great that all our resources are capable of killing only a handful of Lensmen. We have therefore decided to reserve this device as a defense against a possible attack by third-level intellects. We have developed a type of atomic-powered thought screens capable of detecting and for a limited time of blocking all such attack. We have tied the anti-Lens projectors into this defense so that any Lensman who gets past these screens will instantly be destroyed by his own Lens. I hope you approve of our planning."

Gharlane complimented the tyrant brusquely, then remarked, "I should like to see this computer of yours. Where is it located?"

The Nergalian complacently replied, "I took the liberty of mounting one of its extensions here in your offices." He strode to a corner of the room and indicated a dullish-gray, circular visiplate one yard in diameter. "This extension is keyed to your personality pattern. Simply address it telepathically, and it will obey all your instructions to the limits of its capabilities. Was there anything else that you wished to discuss at this time?"

"No," Gharlane replied, "you may go, but be ready to return should I have need of you."

He watched the Nergalian leave, then turned with grim satisfaction to the computer extension and asked, "What lines of inquiry are you currently pursuing?"

The computer's answering thought was precise and dry, free from any personality overtones. "There are four projects in all. First, to collect all possible data about the entity or group of entities tentatively termed Star A Star. Second, assuming that Arisia ultimately aims at the conquest of Eddore, to determine in detail how it plans to achieve this end. Third, to determine what Arisia plans to do after the destruction of Eddore. Fourth, to determine what the possibilities are for Nergalian domination of the Material Cosmic All when Eddore is destroyed."

The Eddorian replied grimly, "Modify that last project. Seek instead to determine how Nergal under my leadership may come to dominate the Material Cosmos. Now," he continued, "give me a precis of your findings on those first three projects of yours."

For Gharlane was in no way perturbed that the machine should thus assume the total destruction of his home planet and of the rest of his species. The dominant, nay the only, drive of Eddorian psychology was for power, absolute power. No Eddorian ever felt any loyalty to any other. No Eddorian was capable of such emotions as pity, friendship or patriotism. For millennia, the Eddorians had indeed striven to kill each other. Now the survivors of those fierce battles cooperated — but for only one reason: to conquer enough galaxies so that each Eddorian could have as much power and authority as he could possible handle. And now Gharlane of Eddore dreamed of ruling the Macrocosmic All!

Chapter Two: THE INVADER INVADED

Nearly twenty years later, however, Gharlane seemed no nearer to his goal. The Nergalian scientists, in spite of all their attempts, had proven to be incapable of refining their telepathic computer to the point at which it could tap second or third level minds without alerting the individuals involved. As Ingleroy, the chief of the project, explained to Gharlane, "One of the chief characteristics of these higher level minds is a virtual fusion of the conscious and unconscious. Thus such individuals are able to function at top efficiency even when their bodies are asleep or drugged. And for the same reason, we are incapable of penetrating such a mind without in some way alerting it consciously to the fact that such a penetration is being attempted."

During this period, Gharlane had confined himself to the Nergalian neighborhood of space. Much as it irked that proud mind to appear to be in hiding from the accursed Arisians and the Lensmen, he still recognized that such a course of activity was necessary. The fact that his ascosporic twin, his near equal, had been totally destroyed indicated that the Arisians were preparing to move openly against Eddore in the relatively near future, probably within the next few Tellurian centuries.

Gharlane had been reluctantly forced to acknowledge the Arisians' highly perfected planning ability. He knew that he could upset their visualization only if that plan of action did not take his existence into account. Therefore, he would have to keep his survival unknown to them until the moment at which his reappearance would be most effective. For this reason, he never attempted to communicate directly or indirectly with the Innermost Circle of Eddore. Knowledge that he was still alive would certainly affect their actions, and so that knowledge could be induced as a second order variable by the observant Arisians.

So for twenty years Gharlane played a lone hand, devoting himself to masterminding the Nergalian researches as he had once masterminded the affairs of two galaxies. Nor was he yet completely isolated from those extra-Nergalian doings. The Nergalians' telepathic computer in effect had turned virtually the entire population of many planets into a huge corps of spies. None of these spies was aware of the importance of his mission, or indeed aware of his mission at all. No spy could betray the Nergalian project to either Eddore or Arisia because they were all totally unaware of its existence.

Gharlane himself analyzed all of the data thus gathered, but for all his efforts, he and the computer were able to solve only the first of the computer's four projects: the identity of Star A Star. It soon became clear to Gharlane that this hypothetical entity exhibited far too many inconsistencies to be possibly only one person. Instead there was, according to the computer, a probability of 97% that the activities ascribed to Star A Star resulted from those of at least three and no more than six second level minds, all with varying personalities, two of whom must be Kim Kinnison of Sol III and Nadreck of Palain VII.

No breakthrough had occurred on the other three projects, however, until nearly twenty years after Gharlane's arrival on Nergal. At that time, Gharlane was digesting the latest reports on Kandron's success in creating a Civilization-wide epidemic of psychoses and mass hysteria, when he was notified that Ingleroy urgently desired to speak to him. Gharlane gave his permission, and the Nergalian scientist excitedly entered the room.

"As you know, Master," he began without preamble, "we have been long searching for some means of probing the thoughts of high level mentalities. We met with utter failure because we had confined ourselves to seeking to tap these minds directly. But, on the other hand, I have found it to be quite easy to create a device which would indirectly probe the mind of even a third-level mentality — provided that that individual was wearing a Lens. We know that the Arisians have already built such a function into the Lens for their own purposes, that the Lens not only catalyses the wearer's mental power but also enables any Arisian to observe in complete detail anything that its wearer senses or thinks.

"Obviously," the Nergalian continued, "under normal circumstances, the Arisians would be capable of observing any attempt of ours to make use of this same Lens function. But we do not need to confine ourselves to normal circumstances. The Arisians are clearly grooming the five Kinnison children for some kind of major attack, probably against Eddore itself. The boy in particular is known to have visited Arisia over ten times. He is undoubtedly privy to most of the Arisians' plans. All that we need to do is wait and watch for a time when his Arisian guardians are distracted, and then probe his mind through his Lens. Because this procedure is wholly indirect, no effect will be left on the brat's mind to alert either his siblings or his Arisian teachers."

"That's all very well, but how do you know your device will work?" asked Gharlane.

"I have already had it field-tested," Ingleroy replied. "First one of my subordinates used it on a first level Lensman, one of the recent graduating class."

"That's hardly significant," retorted the Eddorian. "Our computer is also effective against such mentalities. What makes you think your device will work on second or third level minds?"

"Once I knew that the device worked," Ingleroy continued imperturbably, "I tested it myself on two occasions. First I used it to probe the mind of a being at present at the first level of development although capable of advancing to second level if given the proper training. I refer, Master, to Clarissa Kinnison, wife of one second-stage Lensman and mother of five third-stage Lensmen. Since the second-stage Lensmen are, of course, under full Arisian scrutiny at all times, I did not attempt to probe any of their minds. Instead, I then trained the device on Dur of the Eich, a second-stage mentality who is one of the Boskonian Black Lensmen.

"In both cases, the results were completely successful. Transmission was clear and intact, nor was there any perception by the individuals involved or by others of their society that such invasion had taken place. If you would like me to conduct any other tests, I would be perfectly willing to do so, but I consider the efficiency of the device to be fully proven.

"In any case, there is one other matter of importance that I would like to raise, if you have time," the scientist continued. "Are you aware that Zagan has been plotting to seize ultimate control from you immediately after we have conquered the Arisians?"

"And you want to become tyrant in his stead," Gharlane said curtly.

"That's right. I—"

"Well, you won't," said the Eddorian flatly. "I have known about his schemes for the last century and foresee no difficulty whatsoever in forestalling them. Nor have I any illusions that you would be any more loyal a subordinate. However, that's not the reason why I'm refusing your request. Ingleroy, you're a scientist — and Zagan's an administrator — and as far as I'm concerned, you are both my tools, which I am using to achieve a specific desired end. I am not going to use you to perform an administration function of which you are not capable, no matter how much it might please your petty ego to get the title of tyrant. However, if your dissatisfaction with your present job seems unbearable, I would be quite willing to have you executed in order to give you peace of mind. Is that clear?" he demanded coldly, and the shaken Ingleroy indicated his assent.

Gharlane continued in a mollified tone, "Very well. Now I want you to work with Zagan to set up an organization to watch those five Kinnison brats, particularly the boy. I want them watched so closely that we can be ready to pull off that Lens-tap trick of yours with only a minute's notice. Now go away, and don't come back unless you have something else new to report or unless I summon you." The scientist silently left.

Time passed. Kandron of Onlo was destroyed by the coolly calculating Nadreck of Palain VII. The five young Kinnisons, children no longer, recognized their own limitations and returned one by one to Mentor for the treatment that would enable them to become mature third level minds. Their mother, Clarissa Kinnison, the Red Lensman, finally became a second stage Lensman through the aid of her son Kit. And finally one day, two years after his last visit, Ingleroy returned to Gharlane's office with news that Kit Kinnison seemed to be preparing to attempt an invasion of Eddore. "Zagan has remained in the Communications Room to monitor the reports," the scientist informed Gharlane. "We believe that conditions will soon be optimum for a Lens-tap and judged that you would want to supervise the proceedings yourself."

Gharlane signified his approval and followed Ingleroy to the Communications Room where he found everything in readiness for the delicate task of mental invasion that was about to be performed. Zagan greeted him effusively as he entered the room, then said, "The Tellurian is currently within a light year of the star cluster within which Eddore lies; he is still outside the furthermost defense screens. We will be observing him by means of several of our agents who are mining artifacts and rare elements in the remains of the near-by systems destroyed in the Ancient Wars before the Eddorians chose to cooperate with one another."

Slowly the dot of light representing the young Lensman's ship on the visiscreen moved closer to the Eddorian sun. "He must be through the first four screens by now," commented Ingleroy tensely. "According to the computer estimate, there is a probability of 83% that he will reach the lowest level and escape. We intend to let him get as far as possible into the Eddorian defense network before tapping. After all, every new bit of information he gains will also advance our own knowledge of the situation."

Far away, Kit Kinnison doggedly drove his tiny spaceship forward until he reached a point inside of Eddore's innermost defensive screen. Here he knew he would be safe only as long as he did nothing; the slightest crack in his shield would leave him open to detection. For a moment, he panicked. Then he regained his self control and continued to drive the ship straight downward toward the planet through the noxious mixture of gaseous substances which composed the Eddorian atmosphere.

When low enough, he halted the ship's downward motion and commenced to probe the planet with every one of his perceptive senses. Within almost a second, however, an Eddorian had detected him and came to investigate the intruder. Kit blasted him out of existence — and before the completely surprised monster had died, the young Lensman learned all that that entity had ever known about the Eddorian culture — its history, its ideals and ideologists, its organization, its military strategies — in short, its goals, strengths and weaknesses. He knew now exactly how, if Civilization were to triumph at all, the victory had to be achieved.

Little did the young Klovian realize, however, that even as he had absorbed this incredible amount of information, a relay had been momentarily opened up that had connected his Lens to far-off Nergal, that all of his hard-won knowledge and conclusions had already been broadcast to Civilization's deadliest enemies!

And so, completely unaware that his mind had been indirectly probed, Kit Kinnison, Child of the Lens, desperately hung on and slugged his way up into clear space as an entire planet furiously attempted his destruction. At long last, the young Lensman's ship passed through the second Eddorian screen and into an impenetrable protective sphere of Arisian thought.

At the shock of his sudden relief from mental torment, Kit fainted in his control chair. He lay there in a stupor which changed gradually into a deep and natural sleep — slumped, inert, with his Lens shining brightly on one brawny forearm. Ominous was it for the forces of Civilization on that day that neither the young Lensman nor his four fair sisters nor his Arisian protectors were ever to guess that the Lens which had aided the advancement of Civilization so greatly had now betrayed it in the penultimate hour of need.

And as Kit lay tranquilly sleeping, on far-off Nergal, Zagan impassively remarked, "I believe the computer should have fully digested the new data by this time." He turned to one of the machine's extensions and said, "Summarize your findings on your four areas of inquiry as modified by this new body of information."

The computer emotionlessly replied, "The first project concerned the identity of the so-called Star A Star. As indicated by previous findings, the actions attributed to this being resulted from the life patterns of several individuals. Those individuals are four in number: Kim Kinnison of Klovia, Nadreck of Palain VII, Worsel of Velantia, and Tregonsee of Rigel IV.

"The second project concerned the Arisian plans for conquering Eddore. It now appears that they intend to use three major forces in this battle: first, the Arisian world mind; second, a Lensman group mind; third, a fivefold fusion of the Kinnison children, which the entity being probed termed the Unit. This last will be a weapon of great power, since all the cooperating entities have third level minds

and were furthermore bred to have personalities that would ensure an almost perfectly efficient fused group mind. Therefore, I predict a probability of 98% that such an invasion, unhindered by us, would be successful."

Zagan began to make a remark, but Gharlane curtly silenced him and told the computer to continue.

"The third project," said the machine, "concerned the actions of the Arisians after the destruction of Eddore. The mind being probed was not consciously aware of such plans but did contain several pieces of data relevant to them. I compute a probability of 96% that the Arisians plan to pass collectively on to the next stage of existence after, as they think, ensuring the survival of Civilization by the total destruction of the Eddorians.

"The fourth project, as modified by the command of Gharlane, is to ascertain the chances that Nergal under his leadership might successfully dominate the Material Cosmic All once Eddore is destroyed. I have insufficient data to give even a tentative solution at this time to the probabilities for such a scope of conquest. However, I do compute a probability of 85% that Eddorian-led Nergalian forces can successfully dominate the entire First and Second Galaxies by following a certain optimum course of action."

Stark silence reigned in the Communications Room when the computer had finished. Finally Zagan again emboldened himself to speak. "Of course, the computer's estimate of a 989% probability of Arisian victory applies only in the event that we ourselves take no part in the struggle. Since the Arisians are not aware of our existence, a surprise attack would probably be capable of totally disrupting their plan of action. The anti-Lens device in particular would enable us to destroy the five third stage Lensmen and thus deprive the Arisians of their most valuable weapon, plus wreaking great psychological damage among their forces."

"You are totally correct," said Gharlane coldly. "However, we shall take no action whatsoever. If the other members of the Innermost Circle are foolish enough to allow themselves to be destroyed, let them die. I see no advantage to be gained by rescuing them. Instead, we shall continue to wait and watch. Only if new information is gathered which tends to disprove the computer's present findings shall we take any part in the forthcoming battles."

And so again time passed without any overt action from Nergal. Arisia was defended against the attacking forces of Boskonia. Ploor fell, destroyed by its own sun, in a supernova produced by the Arisians throwing a loose planet through a hyper-spatial tube deep into that variable star. And finally Eddore itself was totally conquered, all its monstrous inhabitants exterminated by the incredible driving force produced by the cooperation of the Arisians and the Lensmen, as led and coordinated by the Unit itself.

Less than a day later, the five Children of the Lens spoke again with that fourfold fusion of personalities which they knew as Mentor. Their first concern was to prevent Civilization from ever realizing the true nature of that last battle. The official story was to be that Ploor had been the top of Boskone and that it had been destroyed through the efforts of the four second stage Lensmen. The titanic Battle of Eddore would be spoken of only as a mopping-up mission, necessary to eradicate a residue of non-material malignancy left by the destruction of Ploor.

But then, after they had agreed on this version of events, Mentor surprisingly announced that the Arisians now planned to resign their Guardianship of Civilization into the hands of the Unit. As the Five incredulously listened, they became aware that all the rest of the Arisians had already vanished from the cosmos, gone to explore the possibilities of the next stage of existence.

Mentor reassured them that despite the resent chaotic condition of both galaxies, all hostile activity was completely disorganized, well within the ability of the Galactic Patrol as headed by their father to handle. They listened to him, still half-unbelievingly, as he said, "You may believe implicitly that what I now tell you is the truth, that even though we Arisians are no longer here, all shall be will: with us, with you, and with all Civilization." And thus, deluded into confidence by their false visualization, the four Moulders of Civilization departed to the next stage of existence; the last of the Arisians were gone.

And on Nergal, Gharlane perceived that all of his hated enemies had now finally died. The triumphant Eddorian contemplated the future with an indescribably malignant pleasure, in an ecstasy of evil. Two forces had curbed his vaulting ambition for millennia: the Arisians and that one among the Eddorians who was his superior, that entity who was called the All-Highest. Now both were destroyed. and every atom of Gharlane's being rejoiced in the satisfaction of being the most powerful mind in the known universe, able to realize his dreams of infinite power unhindered by any effective opposition whatsoever!

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 Clarissa 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 Rigelian 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 response 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 o 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?"

Bit 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 of 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 out 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 filed."

"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, Clarissa, 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 get 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 approximately 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 t he 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.Kit stayed 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 again in an hour's time?" Deep in thought, Kit assented, and 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 Lensmen."

"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."

Chapter 5: Lensman DuQuesne

For one brief moment, Zagan nearly gave way to total despair. To sink in one day from High Tyrant of Nergal to a hunted refugee fleeing from Gharlane's vengeance had been no short fall. Yet the mysterious arrival of this arrogant being who called himself DuQuesne seemed to presage still greater disasters in store. And then suddenly the full possibilities of his present situation dawned on the cunning Nergalian. All was not yet lost. On the contrary, this situation, if properly handled, could yet ensure his eventual triumph.

He unhurriedly replaced the useless DeLameter in his holster, then said calmly, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. DuQuesne. My most sincere apologies for having thoughtlessly attempted to attack you. My name is Zagan, Emperor of Nergalia, and in what you have termed this plenum's political jigsaw puzzle, my allegiance is — to myself.

"I have come here alone to make a personal inspection of this once-powerful world in order to see what, if any, fruits of Arisian science have survived the fall of Arisia."

He paused briefly, studied DuQuesne's impassive countenance, then continued, "To tell the truth, I have come here searching for a weapon which would enable me to preserve my Empire from the hands of an invader, a pirate chieftain of Boskonia who dreams of becoming Supreme Ruler of the Macrocosmic All. Already four of my outlying worlds have fallen under his attack."

He hesitated, unsure of how best to proceed. DuQuesne remarked coldly, "An interesting story. Why haven't you asked the Galactic Patrol to repel this invader?"

"Because I would rather die than beg for their help," Zagan said haughtily. "They have tried too often to absorb Nergalia into their sphere of influence, to violate our sovereign rights as an independent stellar empire. I will never appeal to that gang of warmongering imperialists for help."

He paused once more, then continued in a changed tone of voice, "I do, however, greatly need allies in my fight. Tell me, how many others of your people have you brought with you into this plenum?"

"I am alone here at the present," said DuQuesne. "Just as you are. Do emperors commonly travel undefended in this plenum?"

"I can understand how my mode of travel might well seem strange to an outsider," replied Zagan. "Actually, this ship is equipped with every means of defensive and offensive weaponry known to my people. I am in no danger whatsoever from any conventional form of attack. Your projector, of course, as you yourself have already said, has not been invented in this plenum. It sounds like a very interesting device. What is its range of operation?"

"Its practical limit is roughly a thousand times the long diameter of this galaxy," said DuQuesne. Why do you ask? Are you thinking of renting it?" he asked bluntly.

"It might come in handy," said Zagan unabashed. "I'd be willing to offer you a position in my realm second only to my own, if you'd allow me to use it during this present time of crisis."

DuQuesne laughed derisively. "You expect me to become your subject? Being a small-time emperor must have given you delusions of grandeur. Maybe you don't realize it, but I could kill you right now with my b are hands, and there isn't a thing you could do to stop me. The only reason I've let you live this long is because I want to learn a little more about the power structure of this universe before I start upsetting it.

"You say you need an ally. Well, I need a base of operations. I can't stay here on Arisia indefinitely. I don't want the Patrol to find out about me until I'm fully prepared to deal with them. So we might be able to strike some kind of bargain — but there's one condition. If you want my help, if you want to be able to use my projector of any of the other devices I've brought over here with me, you're going to have to start taking your orders from me. You're going to do what I tell you and like it — or else there's no deal. That okay with you?"

"Under the present circumstances, yes," said Zagan. "And now that we are agreed, I should like to get out of my ship and have a closer look at what remains of Arisia."

"All in good time," said DuQuesne. "First I want to have a closer look at you — in person."

And Zagan abruptly found himself no longer standing in the familiar control room of his space cruiser. Instead, he now stood in the center of a large room, one end of which was evidently some kind of scientific laboratory. At the other end of the room, seated beside a highly intricate control panel, was DuQuesne, this time presumably in the flesh. And on a nearby table, only a few inches away from the stranger's elbow, was a LENS!!!

The Lens, to Zagan's expert eye, was obviously a genuine Arisian one, differing in rhythm, chroma and aura from the Boskonian variety. DuQuesne's first action after he had finished absorbing Kinnison's account of the War against Eddore had been to cause the automatic Lensmaker to produce a Lens for him. Zagan, however, could not know that though DuQuesne's Lens was in truth an Arisian artifact, it had only been in existence for a few short hours. Instead, the uninformed Nergalian immediately concluded that the being he now confronted was not an intruder from another plenum but a LENSMAN with a new kind of transportation device called a projector.

Without hesitation, Zagan reached for his DeLameter, but before he could fire it, a second DuQuesne had materialized beside him, wrestled the weapon from his hands, and rayed the hapless Nergalian in two with his own weapon.

A few moments later, the projected image disappeared, letting the DeLameter drop to the floor with a thud. Then DuQuesne got up from his spaceship's control board chair and walked over to where Zagan's corpse lay. He carefully picked up the DeLameter and stuck it in his belt, then lifted up the Nergalian's head and carried it across the room to where the mechanical educator stood.

Once there, he placed a thought transfer helmet on Zagan's head and began methodically exploring the labyrinthine intricacies of that worthy's brain.

After several hours, he removed the headset, stretched, then went back to the control console and activated his fourth dimensional matter transporter, the same device that he had used only a short time before to transport Zagan instantaneously aboard his spaceship. Now, after having taken all the information he wanted from the dead Nergalian's brain, DuQuesne used the instrument once more, this time to transport Zagan's corpse back to that hapless wight's own spaceship.

Then DuQuesne returned to the project he had had in hand before Zagan's arrival, outfitting his spaceship, recently renamed the Ultraviolet, with a Bergenholm inertialess space drive — a relatively simple task when all of the work of construction and installation could be accomplished by projector.

And so, only a few hours later, DuQuesne's ship soared out into space toward its faraway destination, and Arisia was left uninhabited once more. The only mark left by the past day's events was the small Nergalian spaceship and within it the mutilated body of the luckless entity who only two days ago had been High Tyrant of Nergal.

Meanwhile, back in the Tellurian solar system, selected representatives of the news media of the Two Galaxies gathered in the Grand Assembly Hall of the Directrix. They were there to witness the swearing in of the new Coordinator and Vice-Coordinator of the Galactic Patrol. The ceremony slowly unfolded with the simple dignity that characterized all Patrol activities. First was heard the stirring sound of the Patrol's own anthem, "Our Patrol." Then Tregonsee, who like all members of his species could neither hear nor produce atmospheric vibrations, took the oath of office telepathically amid a dead silence. Then, after the stocky Rigelian had sworn to uphold the authority of the Galactic Council throughout all space, Tellurian Raoul LaForge, formerly Port Admiral, stepped forward to take his own oath of office as Vice-Coordinator.

After the formal ceremony was over, Gray Lensman Flewellen who had administered the oaths of office, informed the newsmen that a short press conference would now be permitted. There was a sudden change from absolute silence to hubbub as almost a hundred newsmen leapt to their feet, each crying out Tregonsee's name or his question. After a brief period of disorder, a Universal Telenews reporter was recognized; he asked, "Coordinator Tregonsee, do you have any idea yet who is responsible for these late attacks on Klovia and Antigan?"

"As yet we have insufficient evidence to draw any valid conclusion about the source of these attacks," Tregonsee answered. "You can be sure, however, that neither I nor any other officer of the Patrol will give up until we have identified and destroyed the beings responsible for these two outrages."

Another newsman hurriedly arose and, after being recognized, asked, "Coordinator Tregonsee, why were you and Vice-Coordinator LaForge sworn in out here in space instead of on Earth, in the Hill? Is this an indication that you feel that Earth's defenses are insufficient to protect the first Galaxy's Grand Fleet Headquarters, just as Klovia's defenses were unable two days ago to protect the Second Galaxy's Patrol Headquarters?"

"The Directrix is also a Grand Fleet Patrol Headquarters," answered Tregonsee patiently. "The difference is that it is a Patrol headquarters not for the First Galaxy nor for the Second Galaxy but for the whole of Civilization. Lensman LaForge and I chose to be sworn in aboard the Directrix to show that, according to the recent decision of the Galactic Council, our authority extends over both of the Civilized Galaxies.

"In regard to your second question, there is no evidence to indicate that Earth's defenses are inadequate. In the recent Defense of Arisia, the Patrol was proved able to protect a planet against a far greater attack than that recently directed against Klovia. The forces which protected Arisia have already been summoned to protect the four chief planets of Civilization in the First Galaxy: Rigel IV, Sol III, Velantia III, and Palain VII." The newsman sat down again, with a decidedly dissatisfied expression.

And a galaxy away, second stage Lensman Worsel of Velantia grimly drove his mightily armed dreadnought, the Velan, through what had two days ago been the Klovian planetary system, but which could now be best described as a gigantic asteroid belt made up of pieces of worlds disintegrated in the recent battle, none of which had yet settled down into any regular orbit. Beside him in the control room stood Constance Kinnison. And together the two concentrated, to the exclusion of all other sensations, on scanning in fine detail the cosmic wreckage of Klovia for some clues to the parties responsible for the recent catastrophe.

Suddenly Worsel detected, amid the celestial flotsam, a wildly orbiting piece of planetary crust, its surface covered by a layer of fused rubble that had evidently once been some kind of artificial structure. He broke the mental silence of the control room, directing Constance's attention to the fragment. "This may be of some importance — depending on whether it comes from Klovia or from some other once-inhabited planet."

"The evidence shows it comes from some other planet," the girl replied after a careful analysis of the gyrating chunk. "The percentage of carbon-14 is all wrong for Klovia. Besides, the surface has been melted by some intense heat. A fragment of Klovia might show signs of having been battered by other masses but not of having been melted. This must be a piece from one of the planets that the sunbeam was focused on. But the surface rubble can't have come from any kind of space-drive machinery; the percentage of metal is too small. Apparently the Unknown Enemy attacked Klovia by hurling inhabited planets at it."

"There's nothing in this piece that indicates what planet it came from," commented Worsel, "but odds are that the sunbeam didn't have time to melt down all of the world's surface. Let's see if we can find another piece of it."

Their twinned receptors sped out, scanning the entire Klovian solar system. And then Constance spotted what must — from its matching composition — have been the fragment's parent, a misshapen body that had evidently once been a planet but which was now less than a third of what must have been its former size. It bore the marks of countless collisions with the other worlds which had been used to bombard Klovia. For long moments the Velantia and his slim redheaded companion studied this world; then Worsel said grimly, "This was Antigan IV."

Constance nodded curtly. "This confirms our earlier assumption that the same Unknown was behind both attacks."

"All the other planets used to attack this system appear to be uninhabited ones," said Worsel. "The Unknown probably chose to use Antigan IV because—" and then the Velantian fell silent, for he had just sensed a Lensed message emanating from a totally incredible source.

"Hello, Worsel of Velantia. Can you hear me?" It was — it seemed to be — Kim Kinnison.

"Hello, Worsel," Kimball Kinnison's voice seemed to call. "I don't know whether or not you can hear me. My Lens got banged up a couple of days ago, and it only seems to work erratically now. Worsel, I need some taxi service. I'm stuck on a klevous planet called Dunster, and the only spaceship in sight is the Boskonian one I just got finished wrecking. How's about a lift?"

"Worsel, old snake," interrupted Constance, "aren't you going to bother to finish your sentence? Boskonia chose to kidnap Antigan IV because of what?"

Worsel disregarded her. "Kim," he Lensed, "your daughter Constance is here with me. You'd better speak to her. She's been afraid you were dead."

"For a while back there, I almost thought I was dead myself," came back the answer. Then, "Constance honey, how are you? Think you've got time enough to make a detour and pick me up? I'm marooned over on Dunli II. I managed to take over the ship that kidnapped me off of Antigan IV, but its space drive and life support system got pretty much wrecked in the process, so I set her down here on Dunster. I'd have called you before and told you, but my Lens was on the blink. It got banged up in the last few moments of the melee, and just got started working properly a couple of minutes ago."

"Dad! You're alive!" Constance gasped in incredulous delight. "Are you all right?"

"There's nothing wrong with me that a few days rest won't fix, but I'll feel considerably better once I get off of this planet. Dunli's a long-term variable, remember. Well, right now it's summer — and the temperature where I am is 120 degrees in the shade."

Worsel, who had been consulting with the Velan's navigator, now resumed his place in the conversation. "We should be able to get there in about five hours, Kim. I know that sounds slow, but we'll have to spend nearly an hour picking ourselves out of a system-sized asteroid belt before we can start breaking the speed of light."

"QX… You know, I haven't had any sleep for the last forty-eight hours — too busy fighting pirates. I'm going to put myself to sleep now with an alarm clock set to ring in four hours. Give my love to the rest of the kids, Con, and tell them they needn't have worried. Good night, all." And the voice died away in a not very successful telepathic rendition of a snore.

And on Dunster, second planet of the long-term variable star of Dunli, D'zillich of Nergal glowed with satisfaction at a job well done. For a moment he luxuriated in the prospect of destroying yet another of the hated Lensmen. Then the voice of his aide Borkle burst in on his contemplations. "High Tyrant, the computer has requested an interim report on the current progress of the operation."

"Very well." D'zillich turned his attention to a dullish-gray circular visiscreen on the far side of the room, one of the many communications extensions of the Nergalian Prime Computer. He thought into the visiscreen, "D'zillich, High Tyrant of Nergal, with an interim report on the progress of Operation W. Step Two — personal contact — completed. Success estimate of Step Two — 100%.

"My impersonation met with total success. I simulated the dead Lensman's personality perfectly, down to his last side-band of thought. They were both completely deceived. They've promised to be here in no more than five hours from now, and they'll be completely off-guard when the attack comes."

And the computer thought back, "The girl is aboard then. The probability of her presence was only 85."

"She is definitely aboard. I spoke to her personally. It would have been out of character not to do so. I told her to pass on the news that Kim Kinnison was alive to her brother and sisters. Who knows, we may be able to make them all believe that their father is still alive — even after the ambush. After all, Kinnison could have been hypnotized into thinking he was alone on Dunster, made into a decoy without his knowledge."

"I estimate the probability of making all of his children believe that at about 15%," replied the computer dryly.

"And what are your estimates of the probability of this operation's success?" demanded D'zillich.

"Current probabilities estimate for Operation W: 98% that you will be able to destroy the second stage Lensman; 44% that you will be able to destroy the third stage Lensman."

"Very well. I have no further questions." D'zillich turned back to Borkle. "Go tell the crew that our visitors are estimated to arrive between four and five hours from now. Make sure that we're ready to greet them properly. Borkle obediently left, and D'zillich allowed himself once more to revel in the contemplation of the woe that he was so soon to wreak on the forces of Civilization.

And only a little more than four hours later, the Velan, racing furiously through space, arrived in the neighborhood of Dunli II. Two eager calls went forth from the ship. "Dad!" "Kim, we're here!" There was no answer.

"Maybe his Lens is malfunctioning again," said Worsel. "We could try to—´ And at that instant the Velan's screen's suddenly flared brilliant violet, as the space around the mighty dreadnought pulsed with deadly beams.

"He's attacking us!" Constance gasped.

"They're attacking us," Worsel corrected her. "Kim's call for help must have been some kind of trick to get us out here into firing range. And it doesn't look as if we're going to be able to hold out much longer. We're going to have to turn tail and get out of here."

Hastily, the Velantian took over tricky job of piloting the Velan out of the jaws of destruction. The massive ship executed a set of incredibly high speed evasive maneuvers, maneuvers that placed a maximum strain on the Velantian ability to stand up to high acceleration, a strain that would have crushed any ordinary human being to pulp. He did this secure in the knowledge that Constance Kinnison had had the foresight to put on a gravity damper before boarding the Velan.

The mighty dreadnought twisted at seemingly impossible angles in its attempt to elude the destructive beams from Dunster. The Nergalian forces tried to imprison the ship in a tractor zone, but the wildly whirling Velan moved too quickly for the tractor beam operators to focus the zone. And as the slow moments passed away, the Velan drew steadily away from Dunster.

"I'd hoped to dispose of them more easily," said D'zillich, "but I suppose there's no alternative. We can't let them get away. It would destroy the atmosphere of despair and doom that I've worked so hard to build up. Borkle, order the operators to use the anti-Lens projector."

The aide obeyed, and a moment later the most insidious of all of Nergal's weapons was focused on the fleeing ship, a weapon that turned the Lens of Civilization against its symbiotic wearer. The Lens is, of course, no mere artifact but a living entity, attuned to only one being and lethal when not in direct contact with that being. The effect of the Nergalian anti-Lens projector was to alter the relationship between Lens and Lensman so that the Lens ceased to be attuned to its wearer - and therefore killed him instantly.

And so, only a few moments after D'zillich's order, as the operator of the anti-Lens projector swept its beam steadily across the sky, the sweep of its focus intercepted the Velan. And Worsel of Velantia died at the helm of his own mighty ship, died in utter agony, every atom of his being pulsating with pain, struck down by his own Lens.

For a moment the Velan raced through space without direction. And then a new hand was laid on the navigation controls, and the ship again began its wildly variable evasive maneuvers under the direction of Constance Kinnison. In that hour of peril, the youngest Child of the Lens truly showed what metal she was made of. Unflinchingly she piloted the Velan out of the enemy's range of attack. And only when the moment of immediate danger was over did she permit herself to grieve for Worsel of Velantia, who had been closer to her than any other being in the two galaxies except for her parents, her sisters, and her brother.

"We got the Velantian second stage Lensman," Borkle told D'zillich, "but the Kinnison brat got away safe. The anti-Lens projector didn't affect her because she wasn't wearing a Lens. She materializes her Lens when she wants it, and doesn't wear it the rest of the time. We've got to figure out some more effective way of taking care of those third stage Lensmen."

And Constance grimly reported to her brother Kit, "The Enemy's struck again. This time they used Father's voice to lure Worsel and me into an ambush. And they managed to kill Worsel somehow — I don't know how. The only significant thing I noticed is that his Lens stopped glowing just before he died, not afterwards. I think somehow they killed him through his Lens."

"Any sign of pursuit from Dunster?"

"No. It looks as if this was a one-shot plan of action. Kit, did you notice anything funny about that 'message from Dad' when I sent it to you?"

"Not at the time, but let's go over it again. After all, it's our first piece of direct contact with the Enemy."

Slowly the two analyzed the message in detail. Finally Kit said, "It's almost a perfect job of impersonation. There are a couple of funny points, but I'd never have noticed them unless I was looking for trouble. If they've got somebody that good,…we're going to have to start using a couple of teaspoons of salt to every Lensed message — that and get in the habit of expecting big, small and medium-sized traps wherever we go.

"You take the Velan back to Klovia, Con. I'll take a fleet and investigate Dunster. We'll probably get there too late for any action, but we've got to try."

"In that case," Constance said spiritedly, "the Velan is going to stop right here and wait for your fleet. Were you actually thinking of trying to exterminate those things without inviting me?"

"I wasn't quite sure you'd be in the mood for action right now," Kit apologized, "but you're certainly more than welcome to join the party. I can't think of many people I'd rather have on my side in a fight."

"Well, you're not so bad yourself, brother." What a wealth of meaning there was heterodyned on that seemingly light exchange.

"Clear ether, Con."

"Clear ether, Kit."

And the two sped towards their rendezvous, unaware of the political powder keg that had already been secretly set alight a galaxy away on Tellus.

Chapter 6: DuQuesne Goes to Work

As the Ultraviolet sped from Arisia to its far-off destination, DuQuesne busied himself with investigating his degree of mastery over his recently acquired artifact of Arisian biochemistry — the Lens. He had already found out that he was able to make use of its powers even when not in physical contact with it. He chuckled grimly as he remembered how Zagan had been kindled into murderous fury at the very sight of him with the quasi-living device. DuQuesne was far too callused to feel either pity for the hapless Nergalian or regret at having been forced to kill a possible henchman. Instead, he devoted himself to methodically and meticulously investigating the capabilities and limitations of the Lens of Arisia.

Then, as the ship drove steadily onward through the interstellar void, DuQuesne turned his attention to integrating the knowledge he had lately acquired from the dead Zagan's brain with what he had previously learned about this new plenum by studying the records left by Kit Kinnison on Arisia. One thing was clear on the basis of even a preliminary assessment of his present knowledge: neither the remnants of the Boskonian Empire nor the Patrol nor the Nergalians were presently assured of the eventual domination of the Two Galaxies.

The Boskonian Empire, currently under the leadership of Surgat and the other Plooran survivors, had been incapable of defeating the forces of Civilization even with the aid of Eddore. It had even less chance to succeed now, with Eddore destroyed. The Patrol was laboring under two severe handicaps: the loss of Galactic Coordinator Kinnison and his headquarters at Klovia and — even more important — its ignorance of the nature of its true enemy, Gharlane of Eddore. And the Nergalians, under Gharlane's leadership, were themselves laboring under an equally significant ignorance, unaware that Dr. Marc C. DuQuesne had decided to take a part in the power struggle.

DuQuesne smiled mirthlessly at the thought of the consternation that the news of his arrival would someday soon create on Nergal. Then he turned his attention once again to his plans for conquest. And as he darkly frowned in concentration, the Ultraviolet raced at incredible multiples of light speed toward his first target for conquest, the far-off world of TELLUS!

And soon DuQuesne approached the Solarian planetary system, in this plenum as in his native one the primal home of the species of homo sapiens. Despite his customary preference for direction action, the scientist elected not to land on Tellus itself or any of the other planets of the system, but instead to set his ship down on the back side of Luna. "Borrowing a trick from the Jelmi," he thought to himself reminiscently, as he set his ship's screens to camouflage all its energies — from the visible light spectrum down to the subtle spectrum of thought itself, thus rendering itself invisible to any routine monitoring of the area.

Once that was done, he sat down at the projector to study this new Tellus and see what differences and similarities it bore to the one he had formerly known. During the course of this investigation, he did not thicken the projector's pattern into visibility, studying the world below him with cool detachment while remaining totally unobserved.

He had already ascertained in his initial scan of this plenum that there existed no counterparts of himself nor of the never-to-be-sufficiently-detested Richard Seaton nor of the high and mighty Norlaminians. But now his major concern was with the economic structure of Tellus. Where was a nexus of corruption though which he could work?

First, for old time's sake, DuQuesne investigated Steel, Incorporated, a company similar in its ostensible purpose to what World Steel had been on his home world. But he found this corporation not only strictly honest but of minor economic importance. Steel had long since become too scarce on this Tellus to be anything but a luxury metal, a collector's item. Now steel for commercial purposes was imported — like uranium and most other metals — from other worlds which were as yet richer in natural resources.

Next DuQuesne turned his attention to the automobile industry — to the DeKhotiner and Crownover firms. These companies held a greater place in the Tellurian economy than Steel., Inc., but they too proved to be relatively honest and straightforward in their business dealings.

True scientist that he was, DuQuesne felt neither annoyance nor bafflement at this turn of events. When an idea failed to work, he merely abandoned it and turned to a new plan without rancor or repining. Now he decided to give up his examination of Earth's businesses for the moment and instead inspect the local planetary government. Here he struck pay dirt almost at once in the office of Carl Wallis, Senator from New England — and Majority Leader of the Tellurian Senate.

But Wallis, it soon proved, was comparatively small fry, merely an errand boy for such powerful business cartels as the Tellurian Import-Export Corporation or Central Spaceways or….

DuQuesne suddenly tensed. Surely he had heard something interesting about Central Spaceways. He frowned blackly in concentration, then remembered. According to the Kinnison transcripts, one of the beings killed by Kandron of Onlo in his attempt to spread panic among the forces of Civilization had been one Dillway of Tellus, Operations Chief of Central Spaceways. Was it possible, DuQuesne wondered, that Kandron had had another purpose behind his action, that his choice of victims had been more than merely random? Just what kind of person was this George Hayland who had moved into Dillway's sixtieth floor office and taken over the management of Central Spaceways, Tellus' largest commercial space service? Who, for that matter, were the people who had succeeded to the jobs — or fortunes — of Kandron's other Tellurian victims? DuQuesne spent three days finding out.

And soon a web emerged. A web of subtle graft and bribery, of conspiracies and corruption. A web of evil spun by Kandron of Onlo but abandoned since that being's death at the hands of Nadreck of Palain VII. A web that Nadreck's failure to probe his victim's mind had left unrevealed. There was Wallis, the organization's political errand boy; Hayland of Central Spaceways, and —

Back of Hayland and above him —

Jake Briggs, Chairman of the Board for Universal Telenews and heir to the fabulous fortune of Alexander Edmundson, the business tycoon who slightly more than a year ago had thrown fifteen women overboard from his yacht during an ocean voyage and then jumped after them dressed only in a lifejacket stuffed with lead — at the urging of Kandron of Onlo.

In the center of this web, then, DuQuesne drove his projector and listened. He listened and spied, studied and planned, until he had not only grasped every nuance of this new and yet strangely familiar Tellus but had also meticulously planned the course of action he would pursue to conquer it. Then, one night, he drove his projection into Jake Briggs' inner sanctum, cut in his audio, and spoke:

"For someone who's planning on becoming Master of Tellus, you are just about the most incompetent, nitwitted idiot I have ever had the opportunity of meeting."

When he heard the sneering, caustic tone of the scientist's voice, Briggs seemed to shrink bodily, his face turning a pasty gray as the blood receded from it. "Who is that?" he gasped. "Where — are you?"

"I'm right here beside