The Greatest Works of E. E. Smith. E. E. Smith
"What do you mean?"
"Just what you were going to think about. You know the edge of the galaxy closest to Tellus, where that big rift cuts in?"
"Yes."
"Across that rift, where it won't be surveyed for a thousand years, there's a planet that could be Earth's twin sister. No atomic energy, no space-drive, but heavily industrialized and anxious to welcome us. Project Bennett. Very, very hush-hush. Nobody except Lensmen know anything about it. Two friends of Dronvire's—smart, smooth operators—are in charge. It's going to be the Navy Yard of the Galactic Patrol."
"But Rod ..." Samms began to protest, his mind leaping ahead to the numberless problems, the tremendous difficulties, inherent in the program which his friend had outlined so briefly.
"Forget it, Virge!" Kinnison cut in. "It won't be easy, of course, but we can do anything they can do, and do it better. You can go calmly ahead with your own chores, knowing that when—and notice that I say 'when', not 'if'—we need it we'll have a fleet up our sleeves that will make the official one look like a task force. But I see you're at the rendezvous, and there's Jill. Tell her 'hi' for me. And as the Vegians say—'Tail high, brother!'"
Samms was in the hotel's ornate lobby; a couple of uniformed "boys" and Jill Samms were approaching. The girl reached him first.
"You had no trouble in recognizing me, then, my dear?"
"None at all, Uncle George." She kissed him perfunctorily, the bell hops faded away. "So nice to see you—I've heard so much about you. The Marine Room, you said?"
"Yes. I reserved a table."
And in that famous restaurant, in the unequalled privacy of the city's noisiest and most crowded night spot, they drank sparingly; ate not-so-sparingly; and talked not sparingly at all.
"It's perfectly safe here, you think?" Jill asked first.
"Perfectly. A super-sensitive microphone couldn't hear anything, and it's so dark that a lip-reader, even if he could read us, would need a pair of twelve-inch night-glasses."
"Goody! They did a marvelous job, Dad. If it weren't for your ... well, your personality, I wouldn't recognize you even now."
"You think I'm safe, then?"
"Absolutely."
"Then we'll get down to business. You, Knobos, and DalNalten all have keen and powerful minds. You can't all be wrong. Spaceways, then, is tied in with both the Towne-Morgan gang and with thionite. The logical extension of that—Dal certainly thought of it, even though he didn't mention it—would be ..." Samms paused.
"Check. That the notorious Murgatroyd, instead of being just another pirate chief, is really working for Spaceways and belongs to the Towne-Morgan-Isaacson gang. But dad—what an idea! Can things be that rotten, really?"
"They may be worse than that. Now the next thing. Who, in your opinion, is the real boss?"
"Well, it certainly is not Herkimer Herkimer Third." Jill ticked him off on a pink forefinger. She had been asked for an opinion; she set out to give it without apology or hesitation. "He could—just about—direct the affairs of a hot-dog stand. Nor is it Clander. He isn't even a little fish; he's scarcely a minnow. Equally certainly it is neither the Venerian nor the Martian. They may run planetary affairs, but nothing bigger. I haven't met Murgatroyd, of course, but I have had several evaluations, and he does not rate up with Towne. And Big Jim—and this surprised me as much as it will you—is almost certainly not the prime mover." She looked at him questioningly.
"That would have surprised me tremendously yesterday; but after today—I'll tell you about that presently—it doesn't."
"I'm glad of that. I expected an argument, and I have been inclined to question the validity of my own results, since they do not agree with common knowledge—or, rather, what is supposed to be knowledge. That leaves Isaacson and Senator Morgan." Jill frowned in perplexity; seemed, for the first time, unsure. "Isaacson is of course a big man. Able. Well-informed. Extremely capable. A top-notch executive. Not only is, would have to be, to run Spaceways. On the other hand, I have always thought that Morgan was nothing but a windbag...." Jill stopped talking; left the thought hanging in air.
"So did I—until today," Samms agreed grimly. "I thought that he was simply an unusually corrupt, greedy, rabble-rousing politician. Our estimates of him may have to be changed very radically."
Samms' mind raced. From two entirely different angles of approach, Jill and he had arrived at the same conclusion. But, if Morgan were really the Big Shot, would he have deigned to interview personally such small fry as Olmstead? Or was Olmstead's job of more importance than he, Samms, had supposed?
"I've got a dozen more things to check with you," he went on, almost without a pause, "but since this leadership matter is the only one in which my experience would affect your judgment, I had better tell you about what happened today...."
* * * * *
Tuesday came, and hour fourteen hundred; and Samms strode into an office. There was a big, clean desk; a wiry, intense, gray-haired man.
"Captain Willoughby?"
"Yes."
"George Olmstead reporting."
"Fourth Officer." The captain punched a button; the heavy, sound-proof door closed itself and locked.
"Fourth Officer? New rank, eh. What does the ticket cover?"
"New, and special. Here's the articles; read it and sign it." He did not add "or else", it was not necessary. It was clearly evident that Captain Willoughby, never garrulous, intended to be particularly reticent with his new subordinate.
Samms read. "... Fourth Officer ... shall ... no duties or responsibilities in the operation or maintenance of said space-ship ... cargo ..." Then came a clause which fairly leaped from the paper and smote his eyes: "when in command of a detail outside the hull of said space-ship he shall enforce, by the infliction of death or such other penalty as he deems fit...."
The Lensman was rocked to the heels, but did not show it. Instead, he took the captain's pen—his own, as far as Willoughby was concerned, could have been filled with vanishing ink—and wrote George Olmstead's name in George Olmstead's bold, flowing script.
Willoughby then took him aboard the good ship Virgin Queen and led him to his cabin.
"Here you are, Mr. Olmstead. Beyond getting acquainted with the super-cargo and the rest of your men, you will have no duties for a few days. You have full run of the ship, with one exception. Stay out of the control room until I call you. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir." Willoughby turned away and Samms, after tossing his space-bag into the rack, took inventory.
The room was of course very small; but, considering the importance of mass, it was almost extravagantly supplied. There were shelves, or rather, tight racks, of books; there were sun-lamps and card-shelves and exercisers and games; there was a receiver capable of bringing in programs from almost anywhere in space. The room had only one lack; it did not have an ultra-wave visiplate. Nor was this lack surprising. "They" would scarcely let George Olmstead know where "they" were taking him.
Samms was surprised, however, when he met the men who were to be directly under his command; for instead of one, or at most two, they numbered exactly forty. And they were all, he thought at first glance, the dregs and sweepings of the lowest dives in space. Before long, however, he learned that they were not all space-rats and denizens of Skid Rows. Six of them—the strongest physically and the hardest mentally of the lot—were fugitives from lethal chambers; murderers and worse. He looked at the biggest, toughest one of the six—a rock-drill-eyed, red-haired giant—and asked:
"What did they tell you, Tworn, that your job was going to be?"
"They didn't say. Just that it was dangerous, but if I done exactly what my boss would tell me to do, and nothing else, I might not even get hurt. An' I was due