The Greatest Works of E. E. Smith. E. E. Smith
"Just a minute—going over this once will be enough." He Lensed call after call. Lensmen in various parts of space became en rapport with him and thus with each other.
"Lensmen—especially you, Rod—George Olmstead is here, and his brother Ray is available. I am going to work."
"I still don't like it!" Kinnison protested. "It's too dangerous. I told the Universe I was going to keep you covered, and I meant it!"
"That's what makes it perfectly safe. That is, if Bergenholm is sure that the duplication is close enough ..."
"I am sure." Bergenholm's deeply resonant pseudo-voice left no doubt at all in any one of the linked minds. "The substitution will not be detected."
"... and that nobody knows, George, or even suspects, that you got your Lens."
"I am sure of that." Olmstead laughed quietly. "Also, nobody except us and your secretary knows that I am here. For a good many years I have made a specialty of that sort of thing. Photos, fingerprints, and so on have all been taken care of."
"Good. I simply can not work efficiently here," Samms expressed what all knew to be the simple truth. "Dronvire is a much better analyst-synthesist than I am; as soon as any significant correlation is possible he will know it. We have learned that the Towne-Morgan crowd, Mackenzie Power, Ossmen Industries, and Interstellar Spaceways are all tied in together, and that thionite is involved, but we have not been able to get any further. There is a slight correlation—barely significant—between deaths from thionite and the arrival in the Solarian System of certain Spaceways liners. The fact that certain officials of the Earth-Screen Service have been and are spending considerably more than they earn sets up a slight but definite probability that they are allowing space-ships or boats from space-ships to land illegally. These smugglers carry contraband, which may or may not be thionite. In short, we lack fundamental data in every department, and it is high time for me to begin doing my share in getting it."
"I don't check you, Virge." None of the Kinnisons ever did give up without a struggle. "Olmstead is a mighty smooth worker, and you are our prime coordinator. Why not let him keep up the counter-espionage—do the job you were figuring on doing yourself—and you stay here and boss it?"
"I have thought of that, a great deal, and have...."
"Because Olmstead can not do it," a hitherto silent mind cut in, decisively. "I, Rularion of North Polar Jupiter, say so. There are psychological factors involved. The ability to separate and to evaluate the constituent elements of a complex situation; the ability to make correct decisions without hesitation; as well as many others not as susceptible to concise statement, but which collectively could be called power of mind. How say you, Bergenholm of Tellus? For I have perceived in you a mind approximating in some respects the philosophical and psychological depth of my own." This outrageously egotistical declaration was, to the Jovian, a simple statement of an equally simple truth, and Bergenholm accepted it as such.
"I agree. Olmstead probably could not succeed."
"Well, then, can Samms?" Kinnison demanded.
"Who knows?" came Bergenholm's mental shrug, and simultaneously:
"Nobody knows whether I can or not, but I am going to try," and Samms ended—almost—the argument by asking Bergenholm and a couple of other Lensmen to come into his office and by taking off his Lens.
"And that's another thing I don't like." Kinnison offered one last objection. "Without your Lens, anything can happen to you."
"Oh, I won't have to be without it very long. And besides, Virgilia isn't the only one in the Samms family who can work better—sometimes—without a Lens."
The Lensmen came in and, in a surprisingly short time, went out. A few minutes later, two Lensmen strolled out of Samms' inner office into the outer one.
"Good-bye, George," the red-headed man said aloud, "and good luck."
"Same to you, Chief," and the brown-haired one strode out.
Norma the secretary was a smart girl, and observant. In her position, she had to be. Her eyes followed the man out, then scanned the Lensman from toe to crown.
"I've never seen anything like it, Mr. Samms," she remarked then. "Except for the difference in coloring, and a sort of ... well, stoopiness ... he could be your identical twin. You two must have had a common ancestor—or several—not too far back, didn't you?"
"We certainly did. Quadruple second cousins, you might call it. We have known of each other for years, but this is the first time we have met."
"Quadruple second cousins? What does that mean? How come?"
"Well, say that once upon a time there were two men named Albert and Chester...."
"What? Not two Irishmen named Pat and Mike? You're slipping, boss." The girl smiled roguishly. During rush hours she was always the fast, cool, efficient secretary, but in moments of ease such persiflage as this was the usual thing in the First Lensman's private office. "Not at all up to your usual form."
"Merely because I am speaking now as a genealogist, not as a raconteur. But to continue, we will say that Chester and Albert had four children apiece, two boys and two girls, two pairs of identical twins, each. And when they grew up—half way up, that is...."
"Don't tell me that we are going to suppose that all those identical twins married each other?"
"Exactly. Why not?"
"Well, it would be stretching the laws of probability all out of shape. But go ahead—I can see what's coming, I think."
"Each of those couples had one, and only one, child. We will call those children Jim Samms and Sally Olmstead; John Olmstead and Irene Samms."
The girl's levity disappeared. "James Alexander Samms and Sarah Olmstead Samms. Your parents. I didn't see what was coming, after all. This George Olmstead; then, is your...."
"Whatever it is, yes. I can't name it, either—maybe you had better call Genealogy some day and find out. But it's no wonder we look alike. And there are three of us, not two—George has an identical twin brother."
The red-haired Lensman stepped back into the inner office, shut the door, and Lensed a thought at Virgil Samms.
"It worked, Virgil! I talked to her for five solid minutes, practically leaning on her desk, and she didn't tumble! And if this wig of Bergenholm's fooled her so completely, the job he did on you would fool anybody!"
"Fine! I've done a little testing myself, on the keenest men I know, without a trace of recognition so far."
His last lingering doubt resolved, Samms boarded the ponderous, radiation-proof, neutron-proof shuttle-scow which was the only possible means of entering or leaving the Hill. A fast cruiser whisked him to Nampa, where Olmstead's "accidentally" damaged transcontinental transport was being repaired, and from which city Olmstead had been gone so briefly that no one had missed him. He occupied Olmstead's space; he surrendered the remainder of Olmstead's ticket. He reached New York. He took a 'copter to Senator Morgan's office. He was escorted into the private office of Herkimer Herkimer Third.
"Olmstead. Of Alphacent."
"Yes?" Herkimer's hand moved, ever so little, upon his desk's top.
"Here." The Lensman dropped an envelope upon the desk in such fashion that it came to rest within an inch of the hand.
"Prints. Here." Samms made prints. "Wash your hands, over there." Herkimer pressed a button. "Check all these prints, against each other and the files. Check the two halves of the torn sheet, fiber to fiber." He turned to the Lensless Lensman, now standing quietly before his desk. "Routine; a formality, in your case, but necessary."
"Of course."
Then for long seconds the two hard men stared into the hard depths of each other's eyes.
"You may do, Olmstead. We have had very good reports of you. But you have never been in thionite?"