he called, and even Jill could feel the Lensed thought speed.
"Yes, Knobos? Fletcher."
"That haul-in you made, out in the asteroids. Heroin, hadive, and ladolian, wasn't it? No thionite involved anywhere?"
"No thionite. However, you must remember that part of the gang got away, so all I can say positively is that we didn't see, or hear about, any thionite. There was some gossip, of course: but you know there always is."
"Of course. Thanks, Sid." Jill could feel the brilliant Martian's mental gears whirl and click. Then he went into such a flashing exchange of thought with the Venerian that the girl lost track in seconds.
"One more question, Miss Samms?" DalNalten asked. "Have you detected any indications that there may be some connection between either Ossmen or Morgan and any officer or executive of Interstellar Spaceways?"
"Spaceways! Isaacson?" Jill caught her breath. "Why ... nobody even thought of such a thing—at least, nobody ever mentioned it to me—I never thought of making any such tests."
"The possibility occurred to me only a moment ago, at your mention of thionite. The connection, if any exists, will be exceedingly difficult to trace. But since most, if not all, of the parties involved will probably be included in your Operation Mateese, and since a finding, either positive or negative, would be tremendously significant, we feel emboldened to ask you to keep this point in mind."
"Why, of course I will. I'll be very glad to."
"We thank you for your courtesy and your help. One or both of us will get in touch with you from time to time, now that we know the pattern of your personality. May immortal Grolossen speed the healing of your father's wound."
CHAPTER 7
Late that night—or, rather, very early the following morning—Senator Morgan and his Number One secretary were closeted in the former's doubly spy-ray-proofed office. Morgan's round, heavy, florid face had perhaps lost a little of its usual color; the fingers of his left hand drummed soundlessly upon the glass top of his desk. His shrewd gray eyes, however, were as keen and as calculating as ever.
"This thing smells, Herkimer ... it reeks ... but I can't figure any of the angles. That operation was planned. Sure fire, it couldn't miss. Right up to the last split second it worked perfectly. Then—blooie! A flat bust. The Patrol landed and everything was under control. There must have been a leak somewhere—but where in hell could it have been?"
"There couldn't have been a leak, Chief; it doesn't make sense." The secretary uncrossed his long legs, recrossed them in the other direction, threw away a half-smoked cigarette, lit another. "If there'd been any kind of a leak they would have done a lot more than just kill the low man on the ladder. You know as well as I do that Rocky Kinnison is the hardest-boiled character this side of hell. If he had known anything, he would have killed everybody in sight, including you and me. Besides, if there had been a leak, he would not have let Samms get within ten thousand miles of the place—that's one sure thing. Another is he wouldn't have waited until after it was all over to get his army there. No, Chief, there couldn't have been a leak. Whatever Samms or Kinnison found out—probably Samms, he's a hell of a lot smarter than Kinnison is, you know—he learned right there and then. He must have seen Brainerd start to pull his gun."
"I thought of that. I'd buy it, except for one fact. Apparently you didn't time the interval between the shots and the arrival of the tanks."
"Sorry, Chief." Herkimer's face was a study in chagrin. "I made a bad slip there."
"I'll say you did. One minute and fifty eight seconds."
"What!"
Morgan remained silent.
"The patrol is fast, of course ... and always ready ... and they would yank the stuff in on tractor beams, not under their own power ... but even so ... five minutes, is my guess, Chief. Four and a half, absolute minimum."
"Check. And where do you go from there?"
"I see your point. I don't. That blows everything wide open. One set of facts says there was a leak, which occurred between two and a half and three minutes before the signal was given. I ask you, Chief, does that make sense?"
"No. That's what is bothering me. As you say, the facts seem to be contradictory. Somebody must have learned something before anything happened; but if they did, why didn't they do more? And Murgatroyd. If they didn't know about him, why the ships—especially the big battlewagons? If they did think he might be out there somewhere, why didn't they go and find out?"
"Now I'll ask one. Why didn't our Mr. Murgatroyd do something? Or wasn't the pirate fleet supposed to be in on this? Probably not, though."
"My guess would be the same as yours. Can't see any reason for having a fleet cover a one-man operation, especially as well-planned a one as this was. But that's none of our business. These Lensmen are. I was watching them every second. Neither Samms nor Kinnison did anything whatever during that two minutes."
"Young Kinnison and Northrop each left the hall about that time."
"I know it. So they did. Either one of them could have called the Patrol—but what has that to do with the price of beef C. I. F. Valeria?"
Herkimer refrained tactfully from answering the savage question. Morgan drummed and thought for minutes, then went on slowly:
"There are two, and only two, possibilities; neither of which seem even remotely possible. It was—must have been—either the Lens or the girl."
"The girl? Act your age, Senator. I knew where she was, and what she was doing, every second."
"That was evident." Morgan stopped drumming and smiled cynically. "I'm getting a hell of a kick out of seeing you taking it, for a change, instead of dishing it out."
"Yes?" Herkimer's handsome face hardened. "That game isn't over, my friend."
"That's what you think," the Senator jibed. "Can't believe that any woman can be Herkimer-proof, eh? You've been working on her for six weeks now, instead of the usual six hours, and you haven't got anywhere yet."
"I will, Senator." Herkimer's nostrils flared viciously. "I'll get her, one way or another, if it's the last thing I ever do."
"I'll give you eight to five you don't; and a six-month time limit."
"I'll take five thousand of that. But what makes you think that she's anything to be afraid of? She's a trained psychologist, yes; but so am I; and I'm older and more experienced than she is. That leaves that yoga stuff—her learning how to sit cross-legged, how to contemplate her navel, and how to try to get in tune with the infinite. How do you figure that puts her in my class?"
"I told you, I don't. Nothing makes sense. But she is Virgil Samms' daughter."
"What of it? You didn't gag on George Olmstead—you picked him yourself for one of the toughest jobs we've got. By blood he's just about as close to Virgil Samms as Virgilia is. They might as well have been hatched out of the same egg."
"Physically, yes. Mentally and psychologically, no. Olmstead is a realist, a materialist. He wants his reward in this world, not the next, and is out to get it. Furthermore, the job will probably kill him, and even if it doesn't, he will never be in a position of trust or where he can learn much of anything. On the other hand, Virgil Samms is—but I don't need to tell you what he is like. But you don't seem to realize that she's just like him—she isn't playing around with you because of your overpowering charm...."
"Listen, Chief. She didn't know anything and she didn't do anything. I was dancing with her all the time, as close as that," he clasped his hands tightly together, "so I know what I'm talking about. And if you think she could ever learn anything from me, skip