“Worsel, Tregonsee, and I will go to this conference,” Kinnison decided. “The rest of you sit tight. I don’t need to tell you to keep on your toes, that anything is apt to happen, anywhere, without warning. Keep your detectors full out and keep your noses clean—be ready, like the good little Endeavorers you are, ‘to do with your might what your hands find to do.’ Come on, fellows,” and the three Lensmen strode, wriggled, and waddled across the field, to and into a spacious room of the Administration Building.
“Strangers, or, I should say friends, I introduce you to Wise, our President,” Kinnison’s acquaintance said, clearly enough, although it was plain to all three Lensmen that he was shocked at the sight of the Earthman’s companions.
“I am informed that you understand our language .” the President began, doubtfully.
He too was staring at Tregonsee and Worsel. He had been told that Kinnison, and therefore, supposedly the rest of the visitors, were beings fashioned more or less after his own pattern. But these two creatures!
For they were not even remotely human in form. Tregonsee, the Rigellian, with his leathery, multi-appendaged, oildrum-like body, his immobile dome of a head and his four blocky pillars of legs must at first sight have appeared fantastic indeed. And Worsel, the Velantian, was infinitely worse. He was repulsive, a thing materialized from sheerest nightmare—a leather-winged, crocodile-headed, crooked-armed, thirty-foot-long, pythonish, reptilian monstrosity!
But the President of Medon saw at once that which the three outlanders had in common. The Lenses, each glowingly aflame with its own innate pseudo-vitality—Kinnison’s clamped to his brawny wrist by a band of metallic alloy; Tregonsee’s embedded in the glossy black flesh of one mighty, sinuous arm; Worsel’s apparently driven deep and with cruel force into the horny, scaly hide squarely in the middle of his forehead, between two of his weirdly stalked, repulsively extensible eyes.
“It is not your language we understand, but your thoughts, by virtue of these our Lenses which you have already noticed.” The President gasped as Kinnison bulleted the information into his mind. “Go ahead . Just a minute!” as an unmistakeable sensation swept through his being. “We’ve gone free; the whole planet, I perceive. In that respect, at least, you are in advance of us. As far as I know, no scientist of any of our races has even thought of a Bergenholm big enough to free a world.”
“It was long in the designing; many years in the building of its units,” Wise replied. “We are leaving this sun in an attempt to escape from our enemy and yours, Boskone. It is our only chance of survival. The means have long been ready, but the opportunity which you have just made for us is the first that we have had. This is the first time in many, many years that not a single Boskonian vessel is in position to observe our flight.”
“Where are you going? Surely the Boskonians will be able to find you if they wish.”
“That is possible, but we must run that risk. We must have a respite or perish; after a long lifetime of continuous warfare our resources are at the point of exhaustion. There is a part of this galaxy in which there are very few planets, and of those few none are inhabited or habitable. Since nothing is to be gained, ships seldom or never go there. If we can reach that region undetected, the probability is that we shall be unmolested long enough to recuperate.”
Kinnison exchanged flashing thoughts with his two fellow Lensmen, then turned again to Wise.
“We come from a neighboring galaxy,” he informed him, and pointed out to his mind just which galaxy he meant. “You are fairly close to the edge of this one. Why not move over to ours? You have no friends here, since you think that yours may be the only remaining independent planet. We can assure you of friendship. We can also give you some hope of peace—or at least semi-peace—in the near future, for we are driving Boskonia out of our galaxy.”
“What you think of as ‘semi-peace’ would be tranquility incarnate to us,” the old man replied with feeling. “We have in fact considered long that very move. We decided against it for two reasons: first, because we knew nothing about conditions there, and hence might be going from bad to worse; and second and more important, because of lack of reliable data upon the density of matter in inter-galactic space. Lacking that, we could not estimate the time necessary for the journey, and we could have no assurance that our sources of power, great as they are, would be sufficient to make up the heat lost by radiation.”
“We have already given you an idea of conditions and we can give you the data you lack.”
They did so, and for a matter of minutes the Medonians conferred. Meanwhile Kinnison went on a mental expedition to one of the power-plants. He expected to see super-colossal engines; bus-bars ten feet thick, perhaps cooled in liquid helium; and other things in proportion. But what he actually saw made him gasp for breath and call Tregonsee’s attention. The Rigellian sent out his sense of perception with Kinnison’s, and he also was almost stunned.
“What’s the answer, Trig?” the Earthman asked, finally. “This is more down your alley than mine. That motor’s about the size of my foot, and if it isn’t eating a thousand pounds an hour I’m Klono’s maiden aunt. And the whole output is going out on two wires no bigger than number four, jacketed together like ordinary parallel pair. Perfect insulator? If so, how about switching?”
“That must be it, a substance of practically infinite resistance,” the Rigellian replied, absently, studying intently the peculiar mechanisms. “Must have a better conductor than silver, too, unless they can handle voltages of ten to the fifteenth or so, and don’t see how they could break such potentials . Guess they don’t use switches—don’t see any—must shut down, the prime sources . No, there it is—so small that I overlooked it completely. In that little box there. Sort of a jam-plate type; a thin sheet of insulation with a knife on the leading edge, working in a slot to cut the two conductors apart—kills the arc by jamming into the tight slot at the end of the box. The conductors must fuse together at each make and burn away a little at each break, that’s why they have renewable tips. Kim, they’ve really got something! I certainly am going to stay here and do some studying.”
“Yes, and we’ll have to rebuild the Dauntless .”
The two Lensmen were called away from their study by Worsel—the Medonians had decided to accept the invitation to move to the First Galaxy. Orders were given, the course was changed and the planet, now a veritable space-ship, shot away in the new direction.
“Not as many legs as a speedster, of course, but at that, she’s no slouch—we’re making plenty of lights,” Kinnison commented, then turned to the president. “It seems rather presumptious for us to call you simply ‘Wise,’ especially as I gather that that is not your name .”
“That is what I am called, and that is what you are to call me,” the oldster replied. “We of Medon do not have names. Each has a number; or, rather, a symbol composed of numbers and letters of our alphabet—a symbol which gives his full classification. Since these things are too clumsy for regular use, however, each of us is given a nickname, usually an adjective, which is supposed to be more or less descriptive. You of Earth we could not give a complete symbol; your two companions we could not give any at all. However, you may be interested in knowing that you three have already been named?”
“Very much so.”
“You are to be called ‘Keen.’ He of Rigel IV is ‘Strong,’ and he of Velantia is ‘Agile’.”
“Quite complimentary to me, but .”
“Not bad at all, I’d say,” Tregonsee broke in. “But hadn’t we better be getting on with more serious business?”
“We should indeed,” Wise agreed. “We have much to discuss with you; particularly the weapon you used.”
“Could you get an analysis of it?” Kinnison asked, sharply.
“No. No one beam was in operation long enough. However, a study of the recorded data, particularly the figures for intensity—figures so