The Greatest Works of E. E. Smith. E. E. Smith
many bombs could get through, so I'd say ..."
"I wasn't thinking so much of bombs."
"What, then?"
"Isotopes. A good, thick blanket of dust. Slow-speed, fine stuff that neither our ships nor the Hill's screens could handle. We've got to decide, first, whether Virgil will be safer there in the Hill or out in space in the Chicago; and second, for how long."
"I see ... I'd say here, under the Hill. Months, perhaps years, before anything could work down this far. And we can always get out. No matter how hot the surface gets, we've got enough screen, heavy water, cadmium, lead, mercury, and everything else necessary to get him out through the locks."
"That's what I was hoping you'd say. And now, about the defense ... I wonder ... I don't want everybody to think I've gone completely hysterical, but I'll be damned if I want to get caught again with...." His thought faded out.
"May I offer a suggestion, sir?" Bergenholm's thought broke the prolonged silence.
"I'd be very glad to have it—your suggestions so far haven't been idle vaporings. Another hunch?"
"No, sir, a logical procedure. It has been some months since the last emergency call-out drill was held. If you issue such another call now, and nothing happens, it can be simply another surprise drill; with credit, promotion, and monetary awards for the best performances; further practice and instruction for the less proficient units."
"Splendid, Dr. Bergenholm!" Samms' brilliant and agile mind snatched up the thought and carried it along. "And what a chance, Rod, for something vastly larger and more important than a Continental, or even a Tellurian, drill—make it the first maneuver of the Galactic Patrol!"
"I'd like to, Virge, but we can't. My boys are ready, but you aren't. No top appointments and no authority."
"That can be arranged in a very few minutes. We have been waiting for the psychological moment. This, especially if trouble should develop, is the time. You yourself expect an attack, do you not?"
"Yes. I would not start anything unless and until I was ready to finish it, and I see no reason for assuming that whoever it was that tried to kill you is not at least as good a planner as I am."
"And the rest of you...? Dr. Bergenholm?"
"My reasoning, while it does not exactly parallel that of Commissioner Kinnison, leads to the same conclusion; that an attack in great force is to be expected."
"Not exactly parallel?" Kinnison demanded. "In what respects?"
"You do not seem to have considered the possibility, Commissioner, that the proposed assassination of First Lensman Samms could very well have been only the first step in a comprehensive operation."
"I didn't ... and it could have been. So go ahead, Virge, with...."
The thought was never finished, for Samms had already gone ahead. Simultaneously, it seemed, the minds of eight other Lensmen joined the group of Tellurians. Samms, intensely serious, spoke aloud to his friend:
"The Galactic Council is now assembled. Do you, Roderick K. Kinnison, promise to uphold, in as much as you conscientiously can and with all that in you lies, the authority of this Council throughout all space?"
"I promise."
"By virtue of the authority vested in me its president by the Galactic Council, I appoint you Port Admiral of the Galactic Patrol. My fellow councillors are now inducting the armed forces of their various solar systems into the Galactic Patrol ... It will not take long ... There, you may make your appointments and issue orders for the mobilization."
The two super-dreadnaughts were now approaching the Hill. The Boise stayed "up on top"; the Chicago went down. Kinnison, however, paid very little attention to the landing or to Samms' disembarkation, and none whatever to the Chicago's reascent into the high heavens. He knew that everything was under control; and, now alone in his cabin, he was busy.
"All personnel of all armed forces just inducted into the Galactic Patrol, attention!" He spoke into an ultra-wave microphone, the familiar parade-ground rasp very evident in his deep and resonant voice. "Kinnison of Tellus, Port Admiral, speaking. Each of you has taken oath to the Galactic Patrol?"
They had.
"At ease. The organization chart already in your hands is made effective as of now. Enter in your logs the date and time. Promotions: Commodore Clayton of North America, Tellus...."
In his office at New York Spaceport Clayton came to attention and saluted crisply; his eyes shining, his deeply-scarred face alight.
"... to be Admiral of the First Galactic Region. Commodore Schweikert of Europe, Tellus ..."
In Berlin a narrow-waisted, almost foppish-seeming man, with roached blond hair and blue eyes, bowed stiffly from the waist and saluted punctiliously.
"... to be Lieutenant-Admiral of the First Galactic Region."
And so on, down the list. A marshal and a lieutenant-marshal of the Solarian System; a general and a lieutenant-general of the planet Sol Three. Promotions, agreed upon long since, to fill the high offices thus vacated. Then the list of commodores upon other planets—Guindlos of Redland, Mars; Sesseffsen of Talleron, Venus; Raymond of the Jovian Sub-System; Newman of Alphacent; Walters of Sirius; van-Meeter of Valeria; Adams of Procyon; Roberts of Altair; Barrtell of Fomalhout; Armand of Vega; and Coigne of Aldebaran—each of whom was actually the commander-in-chief of the armed forces of a world. Each of these was made general of his planet.
"Except for lieutenant-commodores and up, who will tune their minds to me—dismissed!" Kinnison stopped talking and went onto his Lens.
"That was for the record. I don't need to tell you, fellows, how glad I am to be able to do this. You're tops, all of you—I don't know of anybody I'd rather have at my back when the ether gets rough ..."
"Right back at you, chief!" "Same to you Rod!" "Rocky Rod, Port Admiral!" "Now we're blasting!" came a melange of thoughts. Those splendid men, with whom he had shared so much of danger and of stress, were all as jubilant as schoolboys.
"But the thing that makes this possible may also make it necessary for us to go to work; to earn your extra stars and my wheel." Kinnison smothered the welter of thoughts and outlined the situation, concluding: "So you see it may turn out to be only a drill—but on the other hand, since the outfit is big enough to have built a war-fleet alone, if it wanted one, and since it may have had a lot of first-class help that none of us knows anything about, we may be in for the damndest battle that any of us ever saw. So come prepared for anything. I am now going back onto voice, for the record.
"Kinnison to the commanding officers of all fleets, sub-fleets, and task-forces of the Galactic Patrol. Information. Subject, tactical problem; defense of the Hill against a postulated Black Fleet of unknown size, strength, and composition; of unknown nationality or origin; coming from an unknown direction in space at an unknown time.
"Kinnison to Admiral Clayton. Orders. Take over. I am relinquishing command of the Boise and the Chicago."
"Clayton to Port Admiral Kinnison. Orders received. Taking over. I am at the Chicago's main starboard lock. I have instructed Ensign Masterson, the commanding officer of this gig, to wait; that he is to take you down to the Hill."
"WHAT? Of all the damned...." This was a thought, and unrecorded.
"Sorry, Rod—I'm sorry as hell, and I'd like no end to have you along." This, too, was a thought. "But that's the way it is. Ordinary Admirals ride the ether with their fleets. Port Admirals stay aground. I report to you, and you run things—in broad—by remote control."
"I see." Kinnison then Lensed a fuming thought at Samms. "Alex couldn't do this to me—and wouldn't—and knows damn well that I'd burn him to a crisp if he had the guts to try it. So it's your doing—what in hell's the big idea?"
"Who's being heroic now, Rod?" Samms asked, quietly. "Use your brain. And then