First Lensman, E. E. Smith [top 100 novels of all time .txt] 📗

you to Rularion, who has had this matter under consideration.”

“Yes, John Kinnison, I have considered the matter and have taken action,” the Jovian’s calmly assured thought rolled into the minds of all, even Lensless Jill’s. “The point, youth, was well taken. It was your thought that some thousands⁠—perhaps five⁠—of spy-ray operators and other operatives will be required to insure that the Grand Rally will not be marred by episodes of violence.”

“It was,” Jack said, flatly. “It still is.”

“Not having considered all possible contingencies nor the extent of the field of necessary action, you err. The number will approach nineteen thousand very nearly. Admiral Clayton has been so advised and his staff is now at work upon a plan of action in accordance with my recommendation. Your suggestions, Conway Costigan, in the matter of immediate protection of Roderick Kinnison’s person, are now in effect, and you are hereby relieved of that responsibility. I assume that you four wish to continue at work?”

The Jovian’s assumption was sound.

“I suggest, then, that you confer with Admiral Clayton and fit yourselves into his program of security. I intend to make the same suggestion to all Lensmen and other qualified persons not engaged in work of more pressing importance.”

Rularion cut off and Jack scowled blackly. “The Grand Rally is going to be held three weeks before election day. I still don’t like it. I’d save it until the night before election⁠—knock their teeth out with it at the last possible minute.”

“You’re wrong, Jack; the Chief is right,” Costigan argued. “Two ways. One, we can’t play that kind of ball. Two, this gives them just enough rope to hang themselves.”

“Well⁠ ⁠… maybe.” Kinnison-like, Jack was far from being convinced. “But that’s the way it’s going to be, so let’s call Clayton.”

“First,” Costigan broke in. “Jill, will you please explain why they have to waste as big a man as Kinnison on such a piffling job as president? I was out in the sticks, you know⁠—it doesn’t make sense.”

“Because he’s the only man alive who can lick Morgan’s machine at the polls,” Jill stated a simple fact. “The Patrol can get along without him for one term, after that it won’t make any difference.”

“But Morgan works from the sidelines. Why couldn’t he?”

“The psychology is entirely different. Morgan is a boss. Pops Kinnison isn’t. He’s a leader. See?”

“Oh⁠ ⁠… I guess so.⁠ ⁠… Yes. Go ahead.”

Outwardly, New York Spaceport did not change appreciably. At any given moment of day or night there were so many hundreds of persons strolling aimlessly or walking purposefully about that an extra hundred or so made no perceptible difference. And the spaceport was only the endpoint. The Patrol’s activities began hundreds or thousands or millions or billions of miles away from Earth’s metropolis.

A web was set up through which not even a grain-of-sand meteorite could pass undetected. Every spaceship bound for Earth carried at least one passenger who would not otherwise have been aboard; passengers who, if not wearing Lenses, carried Service Special equipment amply sufficient for the work in hand. Geigers and other vastly more complicated mechanisms flew toward Earth from every direction in space; streamed toward New York in Earth’s every channel of traffic. Every train and plane, every bus and boat and car, every conveyance of every kind and every pedestrian approaching New York City was searched; with a search as thorough as it was unobtrusive. And every thing and every entity approaching New York Spaceport was combed, literally by the cubic millimeter.

No arrests were made. No package was confiscated, or even disturbed, throughout the ranks of public check boxes, in private offices, or in elaborate or casual hiding-places. As far as the enemy knew, the Patrol had no suspicion whatever that anything out of the ordinary was going on. That is, until the last possible minute. Then a tall, lean, space-tanned veteran spoke softly aloud, as though to himself:

“Spy-ray blocks⁠—interference⁠—umbrella⁠—on. Report.”

That voice, low and soft as it was, was picked up by every Service Special receiver within a radius of a thousand miles, and by every Lensman listening, wherever he might be. So were, in a matter of seconds, the replies.

“Spy-ray blocks on, sir.”

“Interference on, sir.”

“Umbrella on, sir.”

No spy-ray could be driven into any part of the tremendous port. No beam, communicator or detonating, could operate anywhere near it. The enemy would now know that something had gone wrong, but he would not be able to do anything about it.

“Reports received,” the tanned man said, still quietly. “Operation Zunk will proceed as scheduled.”

And four hundred seventy one highly skilled men, carrying duplicate keys and/or whatever other specialized apparatus and equipment would be necessary, quietly took possession of four hundred seventy one objects, of almost that many shapes and sizes. And, out in the gathering crowd, a few disturbances occurred and a few ambulances dashed busily here and there. Some women had fainted, no doubt, ran the report. They always did.

And Conway Costigan, who had been watching, without seeming even to look at him, a porter loading a truck with opulent-looking hand-luggage from a locker, followed man and truck out into the concourse. Closing up, he asked:

“Where are you taking that baggage, Charley?”

“Up Ramp One, boss,” came the unflurried reply. “Flight Ninety will be late taking off, on accounta this jamboree, and they want it right up there handy.”

“Take it down to the.⁠ ⁠…”

Over the years a good many men had tried to catch Conway Costigan off guard or napping, to beat him to the punch or to the draw⁠—with a startlingly uniform lack of success. The Lensman’s fist traveled a bare seven inches: the supposed porter gasped once and traveled⁠—or rather, staggered backward⁠—approximately seven feet before he collapsed and sprawled unconscious upon the pavement.

“Decontamination,” Costigan remarked, apparently to empty air, as he picked the fellow up and draped him limply over the truckful of suitcases. “Deke. Front and center. Area forty-six. Class Eff-ex⁠—hotter than the middle tailrace of hell.”

“You called Deke?” A man came running up. “Eff-ex six⁠—nineteen. This it?”

“Check. It’s yours, porter and