under the urgings of their now thoroughly scared commanders.
Again, while millions upon millions of tensely straining Patrol officers stared into their plates, haggard Thorndyke and his sweating crews got the sunbeam under control—and, in a heart-stopping wavering fashion, held it together. It flared—sputtered—ballooned out—but very shortly, before they could get out of its way, the planets began to glow. Ice-caps melted, then boiled. Oceans boiled, their surfaces almost exploding into steam. Mountain ranges melted and flowed sluggishly down into valleys. The Boskonian domes of force went down and stayed down.
“QX, Kim—let be,” Haynes ordered. “No use overdoing it. Not bad-looking planets; maybe we can use them for something.”
The sun brightened to its wonted splendor, the planets began visibly to cool—even the Titanic forces then at work had heated those planetary masses only superficially.
The battle was over.
“What in all the purple hells of Palain did you do, Haynes, and how?” demanded the Z9M9Z’s captain.
“He used the whole damned solar system as a vacuum tube!” Haynes explained, gleefully. “Those power stations out there, with all their motors and intake screens, are simply the power leads. The asteroid belts, and maybe some of the planets, are the grids and plates. The sun is .”
“Hold on, chief!” Kinnison broke in. “That isn’t quite it. You see, the directive field set up by the .”
“Hold on yourself!” Haynes ordered, briskly. “You’re too damned scientific, just like Sawbones Lacy. What do Rex and I care about technical details that we can’t understand anyway? The net result is what counts—and that was to concentrate upon those planets practically the whole energy output of the sun. Wasn’t it?”
“Well, that’s the main idea,” Kinnison conceded. “The energy equivalent, roughly, of four million one hundred and fifty thousand tons per second of disintegrating matter.”
“Whew!” the captain whistled. “No wonder it frizzled ’em up.”
“I can say now, I think, with no fear of successful contradiction, that Tellus is strongly held,” Haynes stated, with conviction. “What now, Kim old son?”
“I think they’re done, for a while,” the Gray Lensman pondered. “Cardynge can’t communicate through the tube, so probably they can’t; but if they managed to slip an observer through they may know how almighty close they came to licking us. On the other hand, Verne says that he can get the bugs out of the sunbeam in a couple of weeks—and when he does, the next zwilnik he cuts loose at is going to get a surprise.”
“I’ll say so,” Haynes agreed. “We’ll keep the surveyors on the prowl, and some of the Fleet will always be close by. Not all of it, of course—we’ll adopt a schedule of reliefs—but enough of it to be useful. That ought to be enough, don’t you think?”
“I think so—yes,” Kinnison answered, thoughtfully. “I’m just about positive that they won’t be in shape to start anything here again for a long time. And I had better get busy, sir, on my own job—I’ve got to put out a few jets.”
“I suppose so,” Haynes admitted.
For Tellus was strongly held, now—so strongly held that Kinnison felt free to begin again the search upon whose successful conclusion depended, perhaps, the outcome of the struggle between Boskonia and Galactic Civilization.
CHAPTER 3
Lyrane the Matriarchy
When the forces of the Galactic Patrol blasted Helmuth’s Grand Base out of existence and hunted down and destroyed his secondary bases throughout this galaxy, Boskone’s military grasp upon Civilization was definitely broken. Some minor bases may have escaped destruction, of course. Indeed, it is practically certain that some of them did so, for there are comparatively large volumes of our Island Universe which have not been mapped, even yet, by the planetographers of the Patrol. It is equally certain, however, that they were relatively few and of no real importance. For warships, being large, cannot be carried around or concealed in a vest-pocket—a war-fleet must of necessity be based upon a celestial object not smaller than a very large asteroid. Such a base, lying close enough to any one of Civilization’s planets to be of any use, could not be hidden successfully from the detectors of the Patrol.
Reasoning from analogy, Kinnison quite justifiably concluded that the back of the drug syndicate had been broken in similar fashion when he had worked upward through Bominger and Strongheart and Crowninshield and Jalte to the dread council of Boskone itself. He was, however, wrong.
For, unlike the battleship, thionite is a vest-pocket commodity. Unlike the space-fleet base, a drug-baron’s headquarters can be and frequently is small, compact, and highly mobile. Also, the galaxy is huge, the number of planets in it immense, the total count of drug addicts utterly incomprehensible. Therefore it had been found more efficient to arrange the drug hook-up in multiple series-parallel, instead of in the straight en-cascade sequence which Kinnison thought that he had followed up.
He thought so at first, that is, but he did not think so long. He had thought, and he had told Haynes, as well as Gerrond of Radelix, that the situation was entirely under control; that with the zwilnik headquarters blasted out of existence and with all of the regional heads and many of the planetary chiefs dead or under arrest, all that the Enforcement men would have to cope with would be the normal bootleg trickle. In that, too, he was wrong. The lawmen of Narcotics had had a brief respite, it is true; but in a few days or weeks, upon almost as many planets as before, the illicit traffic was again in full swing.
After the Battle of Tellus, then, it did not take the Gray Lensman long to discover the above facts. Indeed, they were pressed upon him. He was, however, more relieved than disappointed at the tidings, for he knew that he would have material upon which to work. If his original opinion had been right, if all lines of communication with the now completely unknown ultimate authorities of the zwilniks had been destroyed, his task would have been an almost hopeless one.
It would serve no good purpose here to go into details covering his early efforts, since they embodied, in principle, the same tactics as those which he had previously employed. He studied, he analyzed, he investigated. He snooped and he spied. He fought; upon occasion he killed. And in due course—and not too long a course—he cut into the sign of what he thought must be a key zwilnik. Not upon Bronseca or Radelix or Chickladoria, or any other distant planet, but right upon Tellus!
But he could not locate him. He never saw him on Tellus. As a matter of cold fact, he could not find a single person who had ever seen him or knew anything definite about him. These facts, of course, only whetted Kinnison’s keenness to come to grips with the fellow. He might not be a very big shot, but the fact that he was covering himself up so thoroughly and so successfully made it abundantly evident that he was a fish well worth landing.
This wight, however, proved to be as elusive as the proverbial flea. He was never there when Kinnison pounced. In London he was a few minutes late. In Berlin he was a minute or so too early, and the ape didn’t show up at all. He missed him in Paris and in San Francisco and in Shanghai. The guy sat down finally in New York, but still the Gray Lensman could not connect—it was always the wrong street, or the wrong house, or the wrong time, or something.
Then Kinnison set a snare which should have caught a microbe—and almost caught his zwilnik. He missed him by one mere second when he blasted off from New York Space-Port. He was so close that he saw his flare, so close that he could slap onto the fleeing vessel the beam of the CRX tracer which he always carried with him.
Unfortunately, however, the Lensman was in mufti at the time, and was driving a rented flitter. His speedster—altogether too spectacular and obvious a conveyance to be using in a hush-hush investigation—was at Prime Base. He didn’t want the speedster, anyway, except inside