Authors: E. E. Smith
"Cardynge says it's simple. Maybe it is, but I'm a technician myself, not a mathematician.
As near as I can get it, the Overlords and their stuff were treated or conditioned with an oscillatory of some kind, so that under the combined action of the fields generated by the ship and the shore station all their substance was rotated almost out of space. Not out of space, exactly, either, more like, say, very nearly one hundred eighty degrees out of phase; so that two bodies—one untreated, our stuff—could occupy the same place at the same time without perceptible interference. The failure of either force, such as your cutting the ship's generators, would relieve the strain."
"It did more than that—it destroyed the vortex . . . but it might, at that," the Lensman went on, thoughtfully. "It could very well be that only that one special force, exerted in the right place relative to the home-station generator, could bring the vortex into being. But how about that heavy stuff, common to both planes, or phases, of matter?"
"Synthetic, they say. They're working on it now."
"Thanks for the dope. I've got to flit—got a date with Haynes. I'll see Cardynge later and let him get it off his chest," and the Lensman strode away toward the Port Admiral's office.
*
"QX," he said, wearily. "If we have to go over this again, unload it, Kim."
"Twenty two good men," Kinnison said, harshly. "I murdered them. Just as surely, if not quite as directly, as though I brained them with a space-axe."
"In one way, if you look at it fanatically enough, yes," the older man admitted, much to Kinnison's surprise. "I'm not asking you to look at it in a broader sense, because you probably can't—yet. Some things you can do alone; some things you can do even better alone than with help. I have never objected, nor shall I ever object to your going alone on such missions, however dangerous they may be. That is, and will be, your job. What you are forgetting in the luxury of giving way to your emotions is that the Patrol comes first. The Patrol is of vastly greater importance than the lives of any man or group of men in it."
"But I know that, sir," protested Kinnison. "I. . ."
"You have a peculiar way of showing it, then," the admiral broke in. "You say that you killed twenty two men. Admitting it for the moment, which would you say was better for the Patrol—to lose those twenty two good men in a successful and productive operation, or to lose the life of one Unattached Lensman without gaining any information or any other benefit whatever thereby?"
"Why . . . I . . . If you look at it that way, sir . . ." Kinnison still knew that he was right, but in that form the question answered itself.
"That is the only way it can be looked at," the old man returned, flatly. "No heroics on your part, no maudlin sentimentality. Now, as a Lensman, is it your considered judgment that it is best for the Patrol that you traverse that hyperspatial vortex alone, or with all the resources of the
Dauntless
at your command?"
Kinnison's face was white and strained. He could not lie to the Port Admiral. Nor could he tell the truth, for the dying agonies of those fiendishly tortured boys still racked him to the core.
"But I
can't
order men into any such death as that," he broke out, finally.
"You must," Haynes replied, inexorably. "Either you take the ship as she is or else you call for volunteers—and you know what that would mean."
Kinnison did, too well. The surviving personnel of the two
Brittanias,
the full present complement of the
Dauntless,
the crews of every other ship in Base, practically everybody on the Reservation—Haynes himself certainly, even Lacy and old von Hohendorff, everybody, even or especially if they had no business on such a trip as that—would volunteer; and every man jack of them would yell his head off at being left out Each would have a thousand reasons for going.
"QX, I suppose. You win." Kinnison submitted, although with ill grace, rebelliously.
"But I don't like it, nor any part of it. It clogs my jets."
"I know it, Kim," Haynes put a hand upon the boy's shoulder, tightening his fingers. "We all have it to do; it's part of the job. But remember always, Lensman, that the Patrol is not an army of mercenaries or conscripts. Any one of them, just as would you yourself, would go out there,
knowing
that it meant death in the torture-chambers of the Overlords, if in so doing he knew that he could help to end the torture and the slaughter of noncombatant men, women, and children that is now going on."
Kinnison walked slowly back to the field; silenced, but not convinced. There was something screwy somewhere, but he couldn't. . ."
"Just a moment, young man!" came a sharp, irritated voice. "I have been looking for you.
At what time do you propose to set out for that which is being so loosely called the 'hyperspatial vortex'?"
He pulled himself out of his abstraction to see Sir Austin Cardynge. Testy, irascible, impatient, and vitriolic of tongue, he had always reminded Kinnison of a frantic hen attempting to mother a brood of ducklings.
"Hi, Sir Austin! Tomorrow—hour fifteen. Why?" The Lensman had too much on his mind to be ceremonious with this mathematical nuisance.
"Because I find that I must accompany you, and it is most damnably inconvenient, sir.
The Society meets Tuesday week, and that ass Weingarde will. . ."
"Huh?" Kinnison ejaculated. "Who told you that you had to go along, or that you even
could,
for that matter?"
"Don't be a fool, young man!" the peppery scientist advised. "It should be apparent even to your feeble intelligence that after your fiasco, your inexcusable negligence in not reporting even the most elementary vectorial-tensorial analysis of that extremely important phenomenon, someone with a brain should . . ."
"Hold on, Sir Austin!" Kinnison interrupted the harangue, "You want to come along just to study the
mathematics
of that damn . . . ?"
"Just
to study it!" shrieked the old man, almost tearing his hair. "You dolt—you blockhead! My God, why should anything with such a brain be permitted to live? Don't you even know, Kinnison, that in that vortex lies the solution of one of the greatest problems in all science?"
"Never occurred to me," the Lensman replied, unruffled by the old man's acid fury. He had had weeks of it, at the Conference.
"It is imperative that I go," Sir Austin was still acerbic, but the intensity of his passion was abating. "I must analyze those fields, their patterns, interactions and reactions, myself.
Unskilled observations are useless, as you learned to your sorrow, and this opportunity is priceless—possibly it is unique. Since
the
data must be not only complete but also entirely authoritative, I myself must go. That is clear, is it not, even to you?"
"No. Hasn't anybody told you that everybody aboard is simply flirting with the undertaker?"
"Nonsense! I have subjected the affair, every phase of it, to a rigid statistical analysis.
The probability is significantly greater than zero—oh, ever so much greater, almost point one nine, in fact—that the ship will return, with my notes."
"But listen, Sir Austin," Kinnison explained patiently. "You won't have time to study the generators at the other end, even if the folks there felt inclined to give us the chance. Our object is to blow the whole thing clear out of space."
"Of course, of course—certainly! The mere generating mechanisms are immaterial.
Analyses of the forces themselves are the sole desiderata. Vectors—tensors—performance of mechanisms in reception—etheral and sub-ethereal
phenomena—propagation—extinction—phase angles—complete and accurate data upon hundreds of such items— slighting even one would be calamitous. Having this material, however, the mechanism of energization becomes a mere detail—complete solution and design inevitable, absolute—childishly simple."
"Oh." The Lensman was slightly groggy under the barrage. "The ship may get back, but how about you, personally?" "What difference does that make?" Cardynge snapped fretfully.
"Even if, as is theoretically probable, we find that communication is impossible, my notes have a very good chance—very good indeed—of getting back. You do not seem to realize, young man, that to science that data is
necessary.
I
must
accompany you."
Kinnison looked down at the wispy little man in surprise. Here was something he had never suspected. Cardynge was a scientific wizard, he knew. That he had a phenomenal mind there was no shadow of doubt, but the Lensman bed never thought of him as being physically brave. It was not merely courage, he decided. It was something bigger—better. Transcendent. An utter selflessness, a devotion to science so complete that neither physical welfare nor even life itself could be given any consideration whatever.
"You think, then, that this data is worth sacrificing the lives of four hundred men, including yours and mine, to get?" Kinnison asked, earnestly.
"Certainly, or a hundred times that many," Cardynge snapped, testily. "You heard me say, did you not, that this opportunity is priceless, and may very well be unique?"
"QX, you can come," and Kinnison went on into the
Dauntless.
He went to bed wondering. Maybe the chief was right He woke up, still wondering.
Perhaps he was taking himself too seriously. Perhaps he was, as Haynes had more than intimated, indulging in mock heroics.
He prowled about. The two ships of space were still locked together. They would fly together to and along that dread tunnel, and he had to see that everything was on the green.
He went into the wardroom. One young officer was thumping the piano right tunefully and a dozen others were rending the atmosphere with joyous song. In that room any formality or
"as you were" signal was unnecessary; the whole bunch fell upon their commander gleefully and with a complete lack of restraint, in a vociferous hilarity very evidently neither forced nor assumed.
Kinnison went on with his tour. "What was it?" he demanded of himself. Haynes didn't feel guilty. Cardynge was worse—he would kill forty thousand men, including the Lensman and himself, without batting an eye. These kids didn't give a damn. Their fellows had been slain by the Overlords, the Overlords had in turn been slain. All square— QX. Their turn next? So what?
Kinnison himself did not want to die—he wanted to live—but if his number came up that was part of the game.
What was it, this willingness to give up life itself for an abstraction? Science, the Patrol, Civilization—notoriously ungrateful mistresses. Why? Some inner force—some compensation defying sense, reason, or analysis?
Whatever it was, he had it, too. Why deny it to others? What in all the nine hells of Valeria was he griping about?
"Maybe
I'm
nuts!" he concluded, and gave the word to blast off.
To blast off—to find and to traverse wholly that awful hyper-tube, at whose far terminus there would be lurking no man knew what
Out in open space Kinnison called the entire crew to a mass meeting, in which he outlined to them as well as he could that which they were about to face.
"The Boskonian ship will undoubtedly return automatically to her dock," he concluded.
"That there is probably docking-space for only one ship is immaterial, since the
Dauntless
will remain free. That ship is not manned, as you know, because no one knows what is going to happen when the fields are released in the home dock. Consequences may be disastrous to any foreign, untreated matter within her. Some signal will undoubtedly be given upon landing, although we have no means of knowing what that signal will be and Sir Austin has pointed out that there can be no communication between that ship and her base until her generators have been cut.
"Since we also will be in hyper-space until that time, it is clear that the generator must be cut from within the vessel. Electrical and mechanical relays are out of the question. Therefore two of our personnel will keep alternate watches in her control-room, to pull the necessary switches. I am not going to order any man to such a duty, nor am I going to ask for volunteers. If the man on duty is not killed outright— this is a distinct possibility, although perhaps not a probability —speed in getting back here will be decidedly of the essence. It seems to me that the best interests of the Patrol will be served by having the two fastest members of our force on watch. Time trials from the Boskonian panel to our airlock are, therefore, now in order."
This was Kinnison's device for taking the job himself. He was, he knew, the fastest man aboard, and he proved it. He negotiated the distance in seven seconds flat, over half a second faster than any other member of the crew. Then:
"Well, if you small, slow runts are done playing creepie-mousie, get out of the way and let folks run that really can," vanBuskirk boomed. "Come on, Worsel, I see where you and I are going to get ourselves a job."
"But see here, you can't!" Kinnison protested, aghast "I said members of the crew."
"No, you didn't," the Valerian contradicted. "You said 'two of our personnel,' and if Worsel and I ain't personnel, what are we? We'll leave it to
Sir
Austin."
"Indubitably 'personnel,'" the arbiter decided, taking a moment from the apparatus he was setting up. "Your statement that speed is a prime requisite is also binding."
Whereupon the winged Velantian flew and wriggled the distance in two seconds, and the giant Dutch-Valerian ran it in three!
"You big, knot-headed Valerian ape!" Kinnison hissed a malevolent thought; not as the expedition's commander to a subordinate, but as an outraged friend speaking plainly to friend.
"You knew I wanted that job myself, you clunker— damn your thick, hard crust!"
"Well, so did I, you poor, spindly little Tellurian wart, and so did Worsel," vanBuskirk shot back in kind. "Besides, it's for the good of the Patrol—you said so yourself! Comb
that
out of your whiskers, half-portion!" he added, with a wide and toothy grin, as he swaggered away, lightly brandishing his ponderous mace.