Galactic Patrol

14: Unattached

The enemy stronghold so insultingly close to Prime Base having been obliterated, Regional Fleets, in loose formations, began to scour the various Galactic Regions. For a few weeks game was plentiful enough. Hundreds of raiding vessels were overtaken and held by the Patrol cruisers, then blasted to vapor by the maulers.

Many Boskonian bases were also reduced. The locations of most of these had long been known to the Intelligence Service, others were detected or discovered by the fast–flying cruisers themselves. Marauding vessels revealed the sites of others by succeeding in reaching them before being overtaken by the cruisers. Others were found by the tracers and loops of the Signal Corps.

Very few of these bases were hidden or in any way difficult of access, and most of them fell before the blasts of a single mauler. But if one mauler was not enough, others were summoned until it did fall. One fortress, a hitherto unknown and surprisingly strong Sector Base, required the concentration of every mauler of Tellus, but they were brought up and the fortress fell. As had been said, this was a war of extinction and every pirate base that was found was wiped out.

But one day a cruiser found a base which had not even a spy–ray shield up, and a cursory inspection showed it to be completely empty. Machinery, equipment, stores, and personnel had all been evacuated. Suspicious, the Patrol vessels stood off and beamed it from afar, but there were no untoward occurrences. The structures simply slumped down into lava, and that was all.

Every base discovered thereafter was in the same condition, and at the same time the ships of Boskone, formerly so plentiful, disappeared utterly from space. Day after day the cruisers sped hither and thither throughout the vast reaches of the void, at the peak of their unimaginably high pace, without finding a trace of any Boskonian vessel. More remarkable still, and for the first time in years, the ether was absolutely free from Boskonian interference.

Following an impulse, Kinnison asked and received permission to take his ship on scouting duty. At maximum blast he drove toward the Velantian system, to the point at which he had picked up Helmuth's communication line. Along that line he drove for days, halting only when well outside the galaxy. Ahead of him there was nothing reachable except a few star–clusters. Behind him there extended the immensity of the galactic lens in all its splendor, but Captain Kinnison had no eye for astronomical beauty that day.

He held the Britannia there for an hour, while he mulled over in his mind what the apparent facts could mean. He knew that he had covered the line, from its point of determination out beyond the galaxy's edge. He knew that his detectors, operating as they had been in clear and undistorted ether, could not possibly have missed a thing as large as Helmuth's base must be, if it had been anywhere near that line, that their effective range was immensely greater than the largest possible error in the determination or the following of the line. There were, he concluded, four possible explanations, and only four.

First, Helmuth's base might also have been evacuated. This was unthinkable. From what he himself knew of Helmuth that base would be as nearly impregnable as anything could be made, and it was no more apt to be vacated than was Prime Base of the Patrol. Second, it might be subterranean, buried under enough metal– bearing rock to ground out all radiation. This possibility was just as unlikely as the first. Third, Helmuth might already have the device he himself wanted so badly, and upon which Hotchkiss and the other experts had been at work so long, a detector nullifier. This was possible distinctly so. Possible enough, at least, to warrant filing the idea for future consideration. Fourth, that base might not be in the galaxy at all, but in that starcluster out there straight ahead of him, or possibly in one even farther away. That idea seemed the best of the four. It would necessitate ultra–powerful communicators, of course, but Helmuth could very well have them. It squared up in other ways—its pattern fitted into the matrix very nicely.

But if that base were out there…it could stay there—for a while…a battle cruiser just wasn't enough ship for that job. Too much opposition out there—and not enoughship…Or too much ship? But he wasn't ready, yet, anyway. He needed, and would get, another line on Helmuth's base. Therefore, shrugging his shoulders, he whirled his vessel about and set out to rejoin the fleet.

While a full day short of junction, Kinnison was called to his plate to see upon its lambent surface the visage of Port Admiral Haynes.

"Did you find out anything on your trip?" he asked.

"Nothing definite, sir. Just a couple of things to think about, is all. But I can say that I don't like this at all—I don't like anything about it or any part of it."

"No more do I," agreed the admiral. "It looks very much as though your forecast of a stalemate might be about to eventuate. Where are you headed for now?"

"Back to the Fleet."

"Don't do it. Stay on scouting duty for a while longer. And, unless something more interesting turns up, report back here to me—we have something that may interest you. The boys have been…"

The admiral's picture was broken up into flashes of blinding light and his words became a meaningless, jumbled roar of noise. A distress call had begun to come in, only to be blotted out by a flood of Boskonian static interference, of which the ether had for so long been clear. The young Lensman used his Lens.

"Excuse me, sir, while I see what this is all about?"

"Certainly, son."

"Got its center located?" Kinnison yelped at his communications officer. "They're close—right in our laps!"

"Yes, sir!" and the radio man snapped out numbers.

"Blast!" the captain commanded, unnecessarily, for the alert pilot had already set the course and was kicking in full–blast drive. "If that baby is what I think it is, all hell's out for noon."

Toward the center of disturbance the Britannia flashed, emitting now a scream of peculiarly patterned interference which was not only a scrambler of all un– Lensed communication throughout that whole part of the galaxy, but also an imperative call for any mauler within range. So close had the cruiser been to the scene of depredation that for her to reach it required only minutes.

There lay the merchantman and her Boskonian assailant. Emboldened , by the cessation of piratical activities, some shipping concern had sent out a freighter, loaded probably with highly "urgent" cargo, and this was the result. The marauder, inert now, had gripped her with his tractors and was beaming her into submission. She was resisting, but feebly now, it was apparent that her screens were failing. Her crew must soon open ports in token of surrender or roast to a man, and they would probably prefer to roast.

Thus the situation obtaining in one instant. The next instant it was changed, the Boskonian discovering suddenly that his beams, instead of boring through the weak defenses of the freighter, were not even exciting to a glow the mighty protective envelopes of a battle–cruiser of the Patrol. He switched from the diffused heat–beam he had been using upon the merchantman to the hardest, hottest, most penetrating beam of annihilation he mounted—with but little more to show for it and with no better results. For the Britannia's screens had been designed to stand up almost indefinitely against the most potent beams of any ordinary war–ship, and they stood up.

Kinnison had tremendously powerful beams of his own, but he did not use them. It would take the super–powerful offense of a mauler to produce a definite answer to the question seething in his mind.

Increase power as the pirate would, to whatever ruinous overload, he could not break down Kinnison's screens, nor, dodge as he would, could he again get in position to attack his former prey. And eventually the mauler arrived, fortunately it, too, had been fairly close by. Out reached its mighty tractors. Out raved one of its tremendous beams, striking the Boskonian's defenses squarely amidships.

That beam struck and the pirate ship disappeared—but not in a hazily incandescent flare of volatilized metal. The raider disappeared bodily, and still all in one piece. He had put out super–shears of his own, snapping the mauler's supposedly unbreakable tractors like threads, and the velocity of his departure was due almost as much to the pressor effect of the Patrol beam as it was to the thrust of his own drivers.

It was the beginning of the stalemate Kinnison had foreseen.

"I was afraid of that," the young captain muttered, and, paying no attention whatever to the merchantman, he called the commander of the mauler. At this close range, of course, no ether scrambler could interfere with visual apparatus, and there on his plate he saw the face of Clifford Maitland, the man who had graduated number two in his own class.

"Hi, Kim, you old space–flea!" Maitland exclaimed in delight. "Oh, pardon me, sir," he went on in mock deference, with an exaggerated salute. "To a guy with four jets, I should say…"

"Seal that, Cliff, or I'll climb up you like a squirrel, first chance I get!" Kinnison retorted. "So they've got you skippering an El Ponderoso, huh? Think of a mere infant

like you being let play with so much high–power! What'll we do about this heap here?"

"Damfino. It isn't covered, so you'll have to tell me, Captain."

"Who'm I to be passing out orders? As you say, it Isn't covered in the book—it's against G I regs for them to be cutting our tractors. But he's all yours, not mine—I've got to flit. You might find out what he's carrying, from where, to where, and why. Then, if you want to, you can escort him either back where he came from or on to where he's going, which–ever you think best. If this interference doesn't let up, maybe you'd better Lens Prime Base for orders. Or use your own judgment, if any. Clear ether, Cliff, I've got to buzz along."

"Clear ether, spacehound!"

"Now, Hank," Kinnison turned to his pilot, "we've got urgent business at Prime Base—and when I say 'urgent' I don't mean perchance. Let's see you burn a hole in the ether."

The Britannia streaked Earthward, and scarcely had she touched ground when Kinnison was summoned to the office of the Port Admiral. As soon as he was announced, Haynes bruskly cleared his office and sealed it against any possible form of intrusion or eavesdropping. He had aged noticeably since these two had had that memorable conference in this same room. His face was lined and careworn, his eyes and his entire mien bore witness to days and nights of sleeplessly continuous work.

"You were right, Kinnison," he began, Lens to Lens. "A stalemate it is, a hopeless deadlock. I called you in to tell you that Hotchkiss has your nullifier done, and that it works perfectly against all long–range stuff. Against electromagnetics, however, it is not very effective. About all that can be done, it seems, is to shorten the range, and it doesn't interfere with vision at all."

"I can get by with that, I think—I will be out of electromagnetic range most of the time, and nobody watches their electos very close, anyway.— Thanks a lot. It's ready to install?"

"Doesn't need installation. It's such a little thing you can put it in your pocket. It's self–contained and will work anywhere."

"Better and better. In that case I'll need two of them—and a ship. I would like to have one of those new automatic speedsters. Lots of legs, cruising range, and screens. Only one beam, but I probably won't use even that one…"

"Going alone?" interrupted Haynes. "Better take your battle–cruiser, at least. I don't like the idea of you going into deep space alone."

"I don't particularly relish the prospect, either, but leg got to be that way. The whole fleet, maulers and all, isn't enough to do by force what's got to be done, and even two men is too many to do it in the only way it can be done. You see, sir…"

"No explanations, please. It's on the spool, where we can get it if we need it. Are you informed as to the latest developments?"

"No, sir. I heard a little coming in, but not much."

"We are almost back where we were before you took off in the first Britannia. Commerce is almost at a standstill. All shipping firms are practically idle. but that is neither all of it nor the worst of it. You may not realize how Important interstellar trade is, but as a result of its stoppage general business has slowed down tremendously. As is only. to be expected, perhaps, complaints are coming in by the thousand because we have not already blasted the pirates out of space, and demands that we do so at once. They do not understand the true situation, nor realize that we are doing everything we can. We cannot send a mauler with every freighter and liner, and mauler–escorted vessels are the only ones to arrive at their destinations."

"But why? With tractor shears on all ships, how can they hold them?" asked Kinnison.

"Magnets!" snorted Haynes. "Plain, old–fashioned electromagnets. No pull to speak of, at a distance, of course, but with the raider running free they don't need much. Close up—lock on—board and storm—all done!"

"Hm–m–m. That changes things. I've got to find a pirate ship. I was planning on following a freighter or liner out toward Alsakan, but if there aren't any to follow…I'll have to hunt around…"

"That is easily arranged. Lots of them want to go. We will let one go, with a mauler accompanying her, but well outside detector range." "That covers everything, then, except the assignment. I can't very well ask for leave, but maybe I could be put on special assignment, reporting direct to you?"

"Something better than that," and Haynes smiled broadly, in genuine pleasure. "Everything is fixed. Your Release has been entered in the books. Your commission as captain has been cancelled, so leave your uniform in your former quarters. Here is your credit book and here is the rest of your kit. You are now an Unattached Lensman."

The Release! The goal toward which all Lensmen strive, but which so few attain! He was now a free agent, responsible to no one and to nothing save his own conscience. He was no longer of Earth, nor of the Solarian System, but of the galaxy as a whole. He was no longer a tiny cog in the immense machine of the Galactic Patrol, wherever he might go, throughout the immensity of the entire Island Universe, he would be the Galactic Patrol!

"Yes, it's real." The older man was enjoying the youngster's stupefaction at his Release, reminding him as it did of the time, long years before, when he had won his own. "You go anywhere you please and do anything you please, for as long as you please. You take anything you want, whenever you want it, with or without giving reasons—although you will usually give a thumb– printed credit slip in return. You report if, as, when, where, how, and to whom you please—or not, as you please. You don't even get a salary any more. You help yourself to that, too, wherever you may be, as much as you want, whenever you want it."

"But, sir…I…you…I mean…that is…" Kinnison gulped three times before he could speak coherently. "I'm not ready, sir. Why, I'm nothing but a kid—I haven't got enough jets to swing it. Just the bare thought of it scares me into hysterics!"

"It would—it always does." Haynes was very much in earnest now, but it was a glad, proud earnestness. "You are to be as nearly absolutely free an agent as it is possible for a living, flesh–and–blood creature to be. To the man on the street that would seem to spell a condition of perfect bliss. Only a Gray Lensman knows what a frightful load it really is, but it is a load that such a Lensman is glad and proud to carry."

"Yes, sir, he would be, of course, if he…"

"That thought will bother you for a time—if it did not, you would not be here—but don't worry about it any more than you can help. All I can say is that in the opinion of those who should know, not only have you proved yourself ready for Release, but also you have earned It."

"How do they figure that out?" Kinnison demanded, hotly. "All that saved my bacon on that trip was luck—a burned–out Bergenholm—and at the time I thought it was bad luck, at that. And vanBuskirk and Worsel and the other boys and the Lord knows who else pulled me out of jam after jam. I'd like awfully well to believe that I'm ready, sir, but I'm not. I can't take credit for pure dumb luck and for other men's abilities."

"Well, cooperation is to be expected, and we like to make Gray Lensmen out of the lucky ones." Haynes laughed deeply. "It may make you feel better, though, if I tell you two more things. First, that so far you have made the best showing of any man yet graduated from Wentworth Hall. Second that we of the Court believe that you would have succeeded in that almost impossible mission without vanBuskirk, without Worsel, and without the lucky failure of the Bergenholm. In a different, and now of course unguessable fashion, but succeeded, nevertheless. Nor is this to be taken as in any sense a belittlement of the very real abilities of those others, nor a denial that luck, or chance, does exist. It is merely our recognition of the fact that you have what it takes to be an Unattached Lensman.

"Seal it now, and buzz off!" he commanded, as Kinnison tried to say something, and, clapping him on the shoulder, he turned him around and gave him a gentle shove. toward the door. "Clear ether, lad I"

"Same to you, sir—all of it there is. I still think that you and all the rest of the Court are cockeyed, but I'll try not to let you down," and the newly unattached Lensman blundered out. He stumbled over the threshold, bumped against a stenographer who was hurrying along the corridor, and almost barged into the jamb of the entrance door instead of going through the opening. Outside he regained his physical poise and walked on air toward his quarters, but he never could remember afterward what he did or whom he met on that long, fast hike. Over and over the one thought pounded in his brain, unattached! Unattached!! UNATTACHED!!!

And behind him, in the Port Admiral's office, that high official sat and mused, smiling faintly with lips and eyes, staring unseeingly at the still open doorway through which Kinnison had staggered. The boy had measured up in every particular. He would be a good man. He would marry. He did not think so now, of course—in his own mind his life was consecrate—but he would. If necessary, the Patrol itself would see to it that he did. There were ways, and such stock was altogether too good not to be propagated. And, fifteen years from now—if he lived—when he was no longer fit for the grinding, grueling life to which he now looked forward so eagerly, he would select the Earthbound job for which he was best fitted and would become a good executive. For such were the executives of the Patrol. But this day–dreaming was getting him nowhere, fast, he shook himself and plunged again into his work.

Kinnison reached his quarters at last, realizing with a thrill that they were no longer his. He now had no quarters, no residence, no address. Wherever he might be, throughout the whole of illimitable space, there was his home. But, instead of being dismayed by the thought of the life he faced, he was filled by a fierce eagerness to be actually living it.

There was a tap at his door and an orderly entered, carrying a bulky package. "Your Grays, sir," he announced, with a crisp salute. "Thanks." Kinnison returned the salute as smartly, and, almost before the door

had closed, he was yanking off the space–black–and–silver–and–gold gorgeousness of the uniform he wore.

Stripped bare, he made the quick, meaningful gesture he had not really expected ever to be able to make. Gray Seal. No entity has ever donned or ever will don the Gray unmoved, —nor without dedicating himself anew to that for which it stands.

The Gray—the unadorned, neutral–colored leather that was the proud garb of that branch of the Patrol to which he was thenceforth to belong. It had been tailored to his measurements, and he could not help studying with approval his reflection in the mirror. The round, almost visorless cap, heavily and softly quilted in protection against the helmet of his armor. The heavy goggles, opaque to all radiation harmful to the eyes. The short jacket, emphasizing broad shoulders and narrow waist. The trim breeches and high boots, encasing powerful, tapering legs.

"What an outfit—what an outfit!" he breathed. "And Maybe I ain't such a badlooking ape, at that, in these Grays."

He did not then, and never did realize that he was wearing the plainest, drabbest, most strictly utilitarian uniform in existence, for to him, as to all others who knew it, the sheer, stark simplicity f the Unattached Lensman's plain gray leather transcended by far the gaudy trappings of the other branches of the Service. He had admired him. self boyishly, as men do, feeling a trifle ashamed in so doing, but he did not then and never did appreciate what a striking figure of a man he really was as he strode out of Quarters and down the wide avenue toward the Britannia's dock.

He was glad indeed that there had been no ceremony or public show connected with this, his real and only Important graduation. For as his fellows—not only his own crew, but also his friends from all over the Reservation—thronged about him, mauling and pummeling him in congratulation and acclaim, he knew that he couldn't stand much more. If there were to be much more of it, he discovered suddenly, he would either pass out cold or cry like a baby—he didn't quite know which.

That whole howling, chanting mob clustered about him, and. considering it an honor to carry the least of his personal belongings, formed a yelling, cap– tossing escort. Traffic meant nothing whatever to that pleasantly mad crew, nor, temporarily, did regulations. Let traffic detour—let pedestrians no matter how august, cool their heels—let cars, trucks, yes, even trains, wait until they got past—let everything wait, or turn around and go back, or go some other way. Here comes Kinnison! Kimball Kinnison! Kimball Kinnison Gray Lensmanl Make way! And way was made, from the Brittania's dock clear across the base to the slip in which the Lensman's new speedster lay.

And what a ship this little speedster was! Trim, trig, streamlined to the ultimate she lay there, quiescent but surcharged with power. Almost sentient she was, this powerpacked, ultraracy little fabrication of space–Toughened alloy, instantly ready at his touch to liberate those tremendous energies which were to hurl him through the infinite reaches of the cosmic void.

None of the mob came aboard of course. They backed off, still frantically waving and throwing whatever came closest to hand, and as Kinnison touched a button and shot into the air he swallowed several times in a vain attempt to dispose of an amazing lump which had somehow appeared in his throat.