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

must any and all planets whose peoples wish to adhere to Civilization instead of to tyranny and despotism. To further these ends, we Lensmen suggest that you reform your fleet and proceed to Arisia.⁠ ⁠…”

“Arisia!” Ohlanser did not like the idea.

“Arisia,” Samms insisted. “Upon leaving Arisia, knowing vastly more than you do now, you will return to your home planet, where you will take whatever steps you will then know to be necessary.”

“We were told that your Lenses are hypnotic devices,” Ohlanser sneered, “designed to steal away and destroy the minds of any who listen to you. I believe that, fully. I will not go to Arisia, nor will any part of Petrine’s Grand Fleet. I will not attack my home planet. I will not do battle against my own people. This is final.”

“I am not saying or implying that you should. But you continue to close your mind to reason. How about you, Vice-Admiral Corander? And you others?”

In the momentary silence Samms put himself en rapport with the other officers, and was overjoyed at what he learned.

“I do not agree with Vice-Admiral Ohlanser,” Corander said, flatly. “He commands, not Grand Fleet, but his sub-fleet merely, as do we all. I will lead my sub-fleet to Arisia.”

“Traitor!” Ohlanser shouted. He leaped to his feet and drew his blaster, but a tractor beam snatched it from his grasp before he could fire.

“You were allowed to wear side-arms, not to use them,” Samms said, quietly. “How many of you others agree with Corander; how many with Ohlanser?”

All nine voted with the younger man.

“Very well. Ohlanser, you may either accept Corander’s leadership or leave this meeting now and take your sub-fleet directly back to Petrine. Decide now which you prefer to do.”

“You mean you aren’t going to kill me, even now? Or even degrade me, or put me under arrest?”

“I mean exactly that. What is your decision?”

“In that case⁠ ⁠… I was⁠—must have been⁠—wrong. I will follow Corander.”

“A wise choice. Corander, you already know what to expect; except that four or five other Petrinos now in this room will help you, not only in deciding what must be done upon Petrine, but also in the doing of it. This meeting will adjourn.”

“But⁠ ⁠… no reprisals?” Corander, in spite of his newly acquired knowledge, was dubious, almost dumbfounded. “No invasion or occupation? No indemnities to your Patrol, or reparations? No punishment of us, our men, or our families?”

“None.”

“That does not square up even with ordinary military usage.”

“I know it. It does conform, however, to the policy of the Galactic Patrol which is to spread throughout our island universe.”

“You are not even sending your fleet, or heavy units of it, with us, to see to it that we follow your instructions?”

“It is not necessary. If you need any form of help you will inform us of your requirements via Lens, as I am conversing with you now, and whatever you want will be supplied. However, I do not expect any such call. You and your fellows are capable of handling the situation. You will soon know the truth, and know that you know it; and when your housecleaning is done we will consider your application for representation upon the Galactic Council. Goodbye.”

Thus the Lensmen⁠—particularly First Lensman Virgil Samms⁠—brought another sector of the galaxy under the aegis of Civilization.

XX

After the Rally there were a few days during which neither Samms nor Kinnison was on Earth. That the Cosmocrats’ presidential candidate and the First Lensman were both with the Fleet was not a secret; in fact, it was advertised. Everyone was told why they were out there, and almost everyone approved.

Nor was their absence felt. Developments, fast and terrific, were slammed home. Cosmocratic spellbinders in every state of North America waved the flag, pointed with pride, and viewed with alarm, in the very best tradition of North American politics. But above all, there appeared upon every newsstand and in every bookshop of the Continent, at opening time of the day following Rally Day, a book of over eighteen hundred pages of fine print; a book the publication of which had given Samms himself no little concern.

“But I’m afraid of it!” he had protested. “We know it’s true; but there’s material on almost every page for the biggest libel and slander suits in history!”

“I know it,” the bald and paunchy Lensman-attorney had replied. “Fully. I hope they do take action against us, but I’m absolutely certain they won’t.”

“You hope they do?”

“Yes. If they take the initiative they can’t prevent us from presenting our evidence in full; and there is no court in existence, however corrupt, before which we could not win. What they want and must have is delay; avoidance of any issue until after the election.”

“I see.” Samms was convinced.

The location of the Patrol’s Grand Fleet had been concealed from all inhabitants of the Solarian system, friends and foes alike; but the climactic battle⁠—liberating as it did energies sufficient to distort the very warp and woof of the fabric of space itself⁠—could not be hidden or denied, or even belittled. It was not, however, advertised or blazoned abroad. Then as now the newshawks wanted to know, instantly and via long-range communicators, vastly more than those responsible for security cared to tell; then as now the latter said as little as it was humanly possible to say.

Everyone knew that the Patrol had won a magnificent victory; but nobody knew who or what the enemy had been. Since the rank and file knew it, everyone knew that only a fraction of the Black fleet had actually been destroyed; but nobody knew where the remaining vessels went or what they did. Everyone knew that about ninety five percent of the Patrol’s astonishingly huge Grand Fleet had come from, and was on its way back to, the planet Bennett, and knew⁠—since Bennettans would in a few weeks be scampering gaily all over space⁠—in general what Bennett was; but nobody knew why it was.

Thus, when the North American Contingent