First Lensman, page 11
part #2 of Lensman Series
“May I offer a suggestion, sir?” Bergenholm’s thought broke the prolonged silence.
“I’d be very glad to have it—your suggestions so far haven’t been idle vaporings. Another hunch?”
“No, sir, a logical procedure. It has been some months since the last emergency call-out drill was held. If you issue such another call now, and nothing happens, it can be simply another surprise drill; with credit, promotion, and monetary awards for the best performances; further practice and instruction for the less proficient units.”
“Splendid, Dr. Bergenholm!” Samms’ brilliant and agile mind snatched up the thought and carried it along. “And what a chance, Rod, for something vastly larger and more important than a Continental, or even a Tellurian, drill—make it the first maneuver of the Galactic Patrol!”
“I’d like to, Virge, but we can’t. My boys are ready, but you aren’t. No top appointments and no authority.”
“That can be arranged in a very few minutes. We have been waiting for the psychological moment. This, especially if trouble should develop, is the time. You yourself expect an attack, do you not?”
“Yes. I would not start anything unless and until I was ready to finish it, and I see no reason for assuming that whoever it was that tried to kill you is not at least as good a planner as I am.”
“And the rest of you … ? Dr. Bergenholm?”
“My reasoning, while it does not exactly parallel that of Commissioner Kinnison, leads to the same conclusion; that an attack in great force is to be expected.”
“Not exactly parallel?” Kinnison demanded. “In what respects?”
“You do not seem to have considered the possibility, Commissioner, that the proposed assassination of First Lensman Samms could very well have been only the first step in a comprehensive operation.”
“I didn’t … and it could have been. So go ahead, Virge, with. …”
The thought was never finished, for Samms had already gone ahead. Simultaneously, it seemed, the minds of eight other Lensmen joined the group of Tellurians. Samms, intensely serious, spoke aloud to his friend:
“The Galactic Council is now assembled. Do you, Roderick K. Kinnison, promise to uphold, in as much as you conscientiously can and with all that in you lies, the authority of this Council throughout all space?”
“I promise.”
“By virtue of the authority vested in me its president by the Galactic Council, I appoint you Port Admiral of the Galactic Patrol. My fellow councillors are now inducting the armed forces of their various solar systems into the Galactic Patrol … It will not take long … There, you may make your appointments and issue orders for the mobilization.”
The two superdreadnaughts were now approaching the Hill. The Boise stayed “up on top”; the Chicago went down. Kinnison, however, paid very little attention to the landing or to Samms’ disembarkation, and none whatever to the Chicago’s reascent into the high heavens. He knew that everything was under control; and, now alone in his cabin, he was busy.
“All personnel of all armed forces just inducted into the Galactic Patrol, attention!” He spoke into an ultra-wave microphone, the familiar parade-ground rasp very evident in his deep and resonant voice. “Kinnison of Tellus, Port Admiral, speaking. Each of you has taken oath to the Galactic Patrol?”
They had.
“At ease. The organization chart already in your hands is made effective as of now. Enter in your logs the date and time. Promotions: Commodore Clayton of North America, Tellus. …”
In his office at New York Spaceport Clayton came to attention and saluted crisply; his eyes shining, his deeply-scarred face alight.
“… to be Admiral of the First Galactic Region. Commodore Schweikert of Europe, Tellus …”
In Berlin a narrow-waisted, almost foppish-seeming man, with roached blond hair and blue eyes, bowed stiffly from the waist and saluted punctiliously.
“… to be Lieutenant-Admiral of the First Galactic Region.”
And so on, down the list. A marshal and a lieutenant-marshal of the Solarian System; a general and a lieutenant-general of the planet Sol Three. Promotions, agreed upon long since, to fill the high offices thus vacated. Then the list of commodores upon other planets—Guindlos of Redland, Mars; Sesseffsen of Talleron, Venus; Raymond of the Jovian Subsystem; Newman of Alphacent; Walters of Sirius; van-Meeter of Valeria; Adams of Procyon; Roberts of Altair; Barrtell of Fomalhout; Armand of Vega; and Coigne of Aldebaran—each of whom was actually the commander-in-chief of the armed forces of a world. Each of these was made general of his planet.
“Except for lieutenant-commodores and up, who will tune their minds to me—dismissed!” Kinnison stopped talking and went onto his Lens.
“That was for the record. I don’t need to tell you, fellows, how glad I am to be able to do this. You’re tops, all of you—I don’t know of anybody I’d rather have at my back when the ether gets rough …”
“Right back at you, chief!” “Same to you Rod!” “Rocky Rod, Port Admiral!” “Now we’re blasting!” came a melange of thoughts. Those splendid men, with whom he had shared so much of danger and of stress, were all as jubilant as schoolboys.
“But the thing that makes this possible may also make it necessary for us to go to work; to earn your extra stars and my wheel.” Kinnison smothered the welter of thoughts and outlined the situation, concluding: “So you see it may turn out to be only a drill—but on the other hand, since the outfit is big enough to have built a war-fleet alone, if it wanted one, and since it may have had a lot of first-class help that none of us knows anything about, we may be in for the damndest battle that any of us ever saw. So come prepared for anything. I am now going back onto voice, for the record.
“Kinnison to the commanding officers of all fleets, sub-fleets, and task-forces of the Galactic Patrol. Information. Subject, tactical problem; defense of the Hill against a postulated Black Fleet of unknown size, strength, and composition; of unknown nationality or origin; coming from an unknown direction in space at an unknown time.
“Kinnison to Admiral Clayton. Orders. Take over. I am relinquishing command of the Boise and the Chicago.”
“Clayton to Port Admiral Kinnison. Orders received. Taking over. I am at the Chicago’s main starboard lock. I have instructed Ensign Masterson, the commanding officer of this gig, to wait; that he is to take you down to the Hill.”
“What? Of all the damned. …” This was a thought, and unrecorded.
“Sorry, Rod—I’m sorry as hell, and I’d like no end to have you along.” This, too, was a thought. “But that’s the way it is. Ordinary Admirals ride the ether with their fleets. Port Admirals stay aground. I report to you, and you run things—in broad—by remote control.”
“I see.” Kinnison then Lensed a fuming thought at Samms. “Alex couldn’t do this to me—and wouldn’t—and knows damn well that I’d burn him to a crisp if he had the guts to try it. So it’s your doing—what in hell’s the big idea?”
“Who’s being heroic now, Rod?” Samms asked, quietly. “Use your brain. And then come down here, where you belong.”
And Kinnison, after a long moment of rebellious thought and with as much grace as he could muster, came down. Down not only to the Patrol’s familiar offices, but down into the deepest crypts beneath them. He was glum enough, and bitter, at first: but he found much to do. Grand Fleet Headquarters—his headquarters—was being organized, and the best efforts of the best minds and of the best technologists of three worlds were being devoted to the task of strengthening the already extremely strong defenses of the Hill. And in a very short time the plates of G.F.H.Q. showed that Admiral Clayton and Lieutenant-Admiral Schweikert were doing a very nice job.
All of the really heavy stuff was of Earth, the Mother Planet, and was already in place; as were the less numerous and much lighter contingents of Mars, of Venus, and of Jove. And the fleets of the outlying solar systems—cutters, scouts, and a few light cruisers—were neither maintaining fleet formation nor laying course for Sol. Instead, each individual vessel was blasting at maximum for the position in space in which it would form one unit of a formation englobing at a distance of light-years the entire Solarian System, and each of those hurtling hundreds of ships was literally combing all circumambient space with its furiously-driven detector beams.
“Nice.” Kinnison turned to Samms, now beside him at the master plate. “Couldn’t have done any better myself.”
“After you get it made, what are you going to do with it in case nothing happens?” Samms was still somewhat skeptical. “How long can you make a drill last?”
“Until all the ensigns have long gray whiskers if I have to, but don’t worry—if we have time to get the preliminary globe made I’ll be the surprisedest man in the system.”
And Kinnison was not surprised; before full englobement was accomplished, a loudspeaker gave tongue.
“Flagship Chicago to Grand Fleet Headquarters!” it blatted, sharply. “The Black Fleet has been detected. R.A. twelve hours, declination plus twenty degrees, distance about thirty light-years. …”
Kinnison started to say something; then, by main force, shut himself up. He wanted intensely to take over, to tell the boys out there exactly what to do, but he couldn’t. He was now a Big Shot—damn the luck! He could be and must be responsible for broad policy and for general strategy, but, once those vitally important decisions had been made, the actual work would have to be done by others. He didn’t like it—but there it was. Those flashing thoughts took only an instant of time.
“… which is such extreme range that no estimate of strength or composition can be made at present. We will keep you informed.”
“Acknowledge,” he ordered Randolph; who, wearing now the five silver bars of major, was his Chief Communications Officer. “No instructions.”
He turned to his plate. Clayton hadn’t had to be told to pull in his light stuff; it was all pelting hell-for-leather for Sol and Tellus. Three general plans of battle had been mapped out by Staff. Each had its advantages—and its disadvantages. Operation Acorn—long distance—would be fought at, say, twelve light-years. It would keep everything, particularly the big stuff, away from the Hill, and would make automatics useless … unless some got past, or unless the automatics were coming in on a sneak course, or unless several other things—in any one of which cases what a God-awful shellacking the Hill would take!
He grinned wryly at Samms, who had been following his thought, and quoted: “A vast hemisphere of lambent violet flame, through which neither material substance nor destructive ray can pass.”
“Well, that dedicatory statement, while perhaps a bit florid, was strictly true at the time—before the days of allotropic iron and of polycyclic drills. Now I’ll quote one: ‘Nothing is permanent except change.’ ”
“Uh-huh,” and Kinnison returned to his thinking. Operation Adack. Middle distance. Uh-uh. He didn’t like it any better now than he had before, even though some of the Big Brains of Staff thought it the ideal solution. A compromise. All of the disadvantages of both of the others, and none of the advantages of either. It still stunk, and unless the Black fleet had an utterly fantastic composition Operation Adack was out.
And Virgil Samms, quietly smoking a cigarette, smiled inwardly. Rod the Rock could scarcely be expected to be in favor of any sort of compromise.
That left Operation Affick. Close up. It had three tremendous advantages. First, the Hill’s own offensive weapons—as long as they lasted. Second, the new Rodebush-Bergenholm fields. Third, no sneak attack could be made without detection and interception. It had one tremendous disadvantage; some stuff, and probably a lot of it, would get through. Automatics, robots, guided missiles equipped with super-speed drives, with polycyclic drills, and with atomic warheads strong enough to shake the whole world.
But with those new fields, shaking the world wouldn’t be enough; in order to get deep enough to reach Virgil Samms they would damn near have to destroy the world. Could anybody build a bomb that powerful? He didn’t think so. Earth technology was supreme throughout all known space; of Earth technologists the North Americans were, and always had been, tops. Grant that the Black Fleet was, basically, North American. Grant further that they had a man as good as Adlington—or that they could spy-ray Adlington’s brain and laboratories and shops—a tall order. Adlington himself was several months away from a world-wrecker, unless he could put one a hundred miles down before detonation, which simply was not feasible. He turned to Samms.
“It’ll be Affick, Virge, unless they’ve got a composition that is radically different from anything I ever saw put into space.”
“So? I can’t say that I am very much surprised.”
The calm statement and the equally calm reply were beautifully characteristic of the two men. Kinnison had not asked, nor had Samms offered, advice. Kinnison, after weighing the facts, made his decision. Samms, calmly certain that the decision was the best that could be made upon the data available, accepted it without question or criticism.
“We’ve still got a minute or two,” Kinnison remarked. “Don’t quite know what to make of their line of approach. Coma Berenices. I don’t know of anything at all out that way, do you? They could have detoured, though.”
“No, I don’t.” Samms frowned in thought. “Probably a detour.”
“Check.” Kinnison turned to Randolph. “Tell them to report whatever they know; we can’t wait any …”
As he was speaking the report came in.
The Black Fleet was of more or less normal makeup; considerably larger than the North American contingent, but decidedly inferior to the Patrol’s present Grand Fleet. Either three or four capital ships …
“And we’ve got six!” Kinnison said, exultantly. “Our own two, Asia’s Himalaya, Africa’s Johannesburg, South America’s Bolivar, and Europe’s Europa.”
… Battle cruisers and heavy cruisers, about in the usual proportions; but an unusually high ratio of scouts and light cruisers. There were either two or three large ships which could not be classified definitely at that distance; long-range observers were going out to study them.
“Tell Clayton,” Kinnison instructed Randolph, “that it is to be Operation Affick, and for him to fly at it.”
“Report continued,” the speaker came to life again. “There are three capital ships, apparently of approximately the Chicago class, but teardrop-shaped instead of spherical …”
“Ouch!” Kinnison flashed a thought at Samms. “I don’t like that. They can both fight and run.”
“… The battle cruisers are also teardrops. The small vessels are torpedo-shaped. There are three of the large ships, which we are still not able to classify definitely. They are spherical in shape, and very large, but do not seem to be either armed or screened, and are apparently carriers—possibly of automatics. We are now making contact—off!”
Instead of looking at the plates before them, the two Lensmen went en rapport with Clayton, so that they could see everything he saw. The stupendous Cone of Battle had long since been formed; the word to fire was given in a measured two-second call. Every firing officer in every Patrol ship touched his stud in the same split second. And from the gargantuan mouth of the Cone there spewed a miles-thick column of energy so raw, so stark, so incomprehensibly violent that it must have been seen to be even dimly appreciated. It simply cannot be described.
Its prototype, Triplanetary’s Cylinder of Annihilation, had been a highly effective weapon indeed. The offensive beams of the fish-shaped Nevian cruisers of the void were even more powerful. The Cleveland-Rodebush projectors, developed aboard the original Boise on the long Nevian way, were stronger still. The composite beam projected by this fleet of the Galactic Patrol, however, was the sublimation and quintessence of each of these, redesigned and redesigned by scientists and engineers of ever-increasing knowledge, rebuilt and rebuilt by technologists of ever-increasing skill.
Capital ships and a few of the heaviest cruisers could mount screen generators able to carry that frightful load; but every smaller ship caught in that semisolid rod of indescribably incandescent fury simply flared into nothingness.
But in the instant before the firing order was given—as though precisely timed, which in all probability was the case—the ever-watchful observers picked up two items of fact which made the new Admiral of the First Galactic Region cut his almost irresistible weapon and break up his Cone of Battle after only a few seconds of action. One: those three enigmatic cargo scows had fallen apart before the beam reached them, and hundreds—yes, thousands—of small objects had hurtled radially outward, out well beyond the field of action of the Patrol’s beam, at a speed many times that of light. Two: Kinnison’s forebodings had been prophetic. A swarm of Blacks, all small—must have been hidden right on Earth somewhere!—were already darting at the Hill from the south.
“Cease firing!” Clayton rapped into his microphone. The dreadful beam expired. “Break cone formation! Independent action—light cruisers and scouts, get those bombs! Heavy cruisers and battle cruisers, engage similar units of the Blacks, two to one if possible. Chicago and Boise, attack Black Number One. Bolivar and Himalaya, Number Two. Europa and Johannesburg, Number Three!”
Space was full of darting, flashing, madly warring ships. The three Black superdreadnaughts leaped forward as one. Their massed batteries of beams, precisely synchronized and aimed, lashed out as one at the nearest Patrol super heavy, the Boise. Under the vicious power of that beautifully-timed thrust that warship’s first, second, and third screens, her very wall-shield, flared through the spectrum and into the black. Her Chief Pilot, however, was fast—very fast—and he had a fraction of a second in which to work. Thus, practically in the instant of her wall-shield’s failure, she went free; and while she was holed badly and put out of action, she was not blown out of space. In fact, it was learned later that she lost only forty men.
