The Greatest Works of E. E. Smith. E. E. Smith
then, again on the way, Blakeslee turned the board over to Crandall, the pilot, and went into Kinnison’s room.
There the Lensman withdrew his control, leaving intact the memory of everything that had happened. For minutes Blakeslee was almost in a daze, but struggled through it and held out his hand.
“Mighty glad to meet you, Lensman. Thanks. All I can say is that after I got sucked in I couldn’t .”
“Sure, I know all about it—that was one of the reasons I picked you out. Your subconscious didn’t fight back a bit, at any time. You’re to be in charge, from here to Tellus. Please go and chase everybody out of the control room except Crandall.”
“Say, I just thought of something!” exclaimed Blakeslee when Kinnison joined the two officers at the board. “You must be that particular Lensman who has been getting in Helmuth’s hair so much lately!”
“Probably—that’s my chief aim in life.”
“I’d like to see Halmuth’s face when he gets the report of this. I’ve said that before, haven’t I? But I mean it now, even more than I did before.”
“I’m thinking of Helmuth, too, but not that way.” The pilot had been scowling at his plate, and now turned to Blakeslee and the Lensman, glancing curiously from one to the other. “Oh I say . A Lensman, what? A bit of good old light begins to dawn; but that can wait. Helmuth is after us, foot, horse, and marines. Look at that plate!”
“Four of ’em already!” exclaimed Blakeslee. “And there’s another! And we haven’t got a beam hot enough to light a cigarette, nor a screen strong enough to stop a firecracker. We’ve got legs, but not as many as they’ve got. You knew all about that, though, before we started; and from what you’ve pulled off so far you’ve got something left on the hooks. What is it? What’s the answer?”
“For some reason or other they can’t detect us. All you have to do is to stay out of range of their electros and drill for Tellus.”
“Some reason or other, eh? Nine ships on the plate now—all Boskonians and all looking for us—and not seeing us—some reason! But I’m not asking questions .”
“Just as well not to. I’d rather you’d answer one. Who or what is Boskone?”
“Nobody knows. Helmuth speaks for Boskone, and nobody else ever does, not even Boskone himself—if there is such a person. Nobody can prove it, but everybody knows that Helmuth and Boskone are simply two names for the same man. Helmuth, you know, is only a voice—nobody ever saw his face until today.”
“I’m beginning to think so, myself,” and Kinnison strode away, to call at the office of Head Nurse MacDougall.
“Mac, here’s a small, but highly important box,” he told her, taking the neutralizer from his pocket and handing it to her. “Put it in your locker until you get to Tellus. Then take it, yourself, in person, and give it to Haynes, himself, in person, and to nobody else. Just tell him I sent it—he knows all about it.”
“But why not keep it and give it to him yourself? You’re coming with us, aren’t you?”
“Probably not all the way. I imagine I’ll have to do a flit before long.”
“But I want to talk to you!” she exclaimed. “Why, I’ve got a million questions to ask you!”
“That would take a long time,” he grinned at her, “and time is just what we ain’t got right now, neither of us,” and he strode back to the board.
There he labored for hours at a calculating machine and in the tank; finally to squat down upon his heels, staring at two needle-like rays of light in the tank and whistling softly between his teeth. For those two lines, while exactly in the same plane, did not intersect in the tank at all! Estimating as carefully as he could the point of intersection of the lines, he punched the “cancel” key to wipe out all traces of his work and went to the chart-room. Chart after chart he hauled down, and for many minutes he worked with calipers, compass, goniometer, and a carefully-set adjustable triangle. Finally he marked a point—exactly upon a numbered dot already upon the chart—and again whistled. Then:
“Huh!” he grunted. He rechecked all his figures and retraversed the chart, only to have his needle pierce again the same tiny hole. He stared at it for a full minute, studying the map all around his marker.
“Star cluster AC 257-4736,” he ruminated. “The smallest most insignificant, least-known star-cluster he could find, and my largest possible error can’t put it anywhere else . kind of thought it might be in a cluster, but I never would have looked there. No wonder it took a lot of stuff to trace his beam—it would have to be four numbers Brinnell harder than a diamond drill to work from there.”
Again whistling tunelessly to himself he rolled up the chart upon which he had been at work, stuck it under his arm, replaced the others in their compartments, and went back to the control room.
“How’s tricks, fellows?” he asked.
“QX,” replied Blakeslee. “We’re through them and into clear ether. Not a ship on the plate, and nobody gave us even a tumble.”
“Fine! You won’t have any trouble, then, from here in to Prime Base. Glad of it, too—I’ve got to flit. That’ll mean long watches for you two, but it can’t very well be helped.”
“But I say, old bird, I don’t mind the watches, but .”
“Don’t worry about that, either. This crew can be trusted, to a man. Not one of you joined the pirates of your own free will, and not one of you has ever taken active part .”
“What are you, a mind-reader or something?” Crandall burst out.
“Something like that,” Kinnison assented with a grin, and Blakeslee put in:
“More than that, you mean. Something like hypnosis, only more so. You think I had something to do with this, but I didn’t—the Lensman did it all himself.”
“Um . m.” Crandall stared at Kinnison, new respect in his eyes. “I knew that Unattached Lensmen were good, but I had no idea they were that good. No wonder Helmuth has been getting his wind up about you. I’ll string along with any one who can take a whole base, single-handed, and make such a bally ass to boot out of such a keen old bird as Helmuth is. But I’m in a bit of a dither, not so say a funk, about what’s going to happen when we pop into Prime Base without you. Every man jack of us, you know, is slated for the lethal chamber without trial. Miss MacDougall will do her bit, of course, but what I mean is has she enough jets to swing it, what?”
“She has, but to avoid all argument I’ve fixed that up, too. Here’s a tape, telling all about what happened. It ends up with my recommendation for a full pardon for each of you, and for a job at whatever he is found best fitted for. Signed with my thumb-print. Give it or send it to Port Admiral Haynes as soon as you land. I’ve got enough jets, I think, so that it will go as it lays.”
“Jets? You? Right-o! You’ve got jets enough to lift fourteen freighters off the North Pole of Valeria. What next?”
“Stores and supplies for my speedster. I’m doing a long flit and this ship has supplies to burn, so load me up, Plimsoll down.”
The speedster was stocked forthwith. Then, with nothing more than a casually waved salute in the way of farewell, Kinnison boarded his tiny space-ship and shot away toward his distant goal. Crandall, the pilot, sought his bunk; while Blakeslee started his long trick at the board. In an hour or so the head nurse strolled in.
“Kim?” she queried, doubtfully.
“No, Miss MacDougall—Blakeslee. Sorry .”
“Oh, I’m glad of that—that means that everything’s settled. Where’s the Lensman—in bed?”
“He has gone, Miss.”
“Gone! Without a word? Where?”
“He