“You think I’m proof against recognition, then, as long as I don’t use my Lens?” Kinnison stuck to the issue.
“Absolutely so . You’re here, then, on thionite?” No other issue, Gerrond knew, could be grave enough to account for this man’s presence. “But your wrist? I studied it. You can’t have worn your Lens there for months—those Tellurian bracelets leave white streaks an inch wide.”
“I tanned it with a pencil-beam. Nice job, eh? But what I want to ask you about is a little cooperation—as you supposed, I’m here to work on this drug ring.”
“Surely—anything we can do. But Narcotics is handling that, not us—but you know that, as well as I do .” the officer broke off, puzzled.
“I know. That’s why I want you—that and because you handle the secret service. Frankly, I’m scared to death of leaks. For that reason I’m not saying anything to anyone except Lensmen, and I’m having no dealings with anyone connected with Narcotics. I have as unimpeachable an identity as Haynes could furnish. .”
“There’s no question as to its adequacy, then,” the Radeligian interposed.
“I’d like to have you pass the word around among your boys and girls that you know who I am and that I’m safe to play with. That way, if Boskone’s agents spot me, it will be for an agent of Haynes’s, and not for what I really am. That’s the first thing. Can do?”
“Easily and gladly. Consider it done. Second?”
“To have a boat-load of good, tough marines on hand if I should call you. There are some Valerians coming over later but I may need help in the meantime. I may want to start a fight—quite possibly even a riot.”
“They’ll be ready, and they’ll be big, tough, and hard. Anything else?”
“Not just now, except for one question. You know Countess Avondrin, the woman I was dancing with a while ago. Got any dope on her?”
“Certainly not—what do you mean?”
“Huh? Don’t you know even that she’s a Boskonian agent of some kind?”
“Man, you’re crazy! She isn’t an agent, she can’t be. Why, she’s the daughter of a Planetary Councillor, the wife of one of our most loyal officers.”
“She would be—that’s the type they like to get hold of.”
“Prove it!” the Admiral snapped. “Prove it or retract it!” He almost lost his poise, almost looked toward the distant corner in which the bewhiskered gentleman was sitting so idly.
“QX. If she isn’t an agent, why is she wearing a thought-screen? You haven’t tested her, of course.”
Of course not. The amenities, as has been said, demanded that certain reserves of privacy remain inviolate. The Tellurian went on:
“You didn’t, but I did. On this job I can recognize nothing of good taste, of courtesy, of chivalry, or even of ordinary common decency. I suspect everyone who does not wear a Lens.”
“A thought-screen!” exclaimed Gerrond. “How could she, without armor?”
“It’s a late model—brand new. Just as good and just as powerful as the one I myself am wearing,” Kinnison explained. “The mere fact that she’s wearing it gives me a lot of highly useful information.”
“What do you want me to do about her?” the Admiral asked. He was mentally a-squirm, but he was a Lensman.
“Nothing whatever—except possibly, for our own information, to find out how many of her friends have become thionite-sniffers lately. If you do anything you may warn them, although I know nothing definite about which to caution you. I’ll handle her. Don’t worry too much, though; I don’t think she’s anybody we really want. Afraid she’s small fry—no such luck as that I’d get hold of a big one so soon.”
“I hope she’s small fry,” Gerrond’s thought was a grimace of distaste. “I hate Boskonia as much as anybody does, but I don’t relish the idea of having to put that girl into the Chamber.”
“If my picture is half right she can’t amount to much,” Kinnison replied. “A good lead is the best I can expect . I’ll see what I can do.”
For days, then, the searching Lensman pried into minds: so insidiously that he left no trace of his invasions. He examined men and women, of high and low estate. Waitresses and ambassadors, flunkeys and bankers, ermined prelates and truck-drivers. He went from city to city. Always, but with only a fraction of his brain, he played the part of Chester Q. Fordyce; ninety-nine percent of his stupendous mind was probing, searching, and analyzing. Into what charnel pits of filth and corruption he delved, into what fastnesses of truth and loyalty and high courage and ideals, must be left entirely to the imagination; for the Lensman never has spoken and never will speak of these things.
He went back to Ardith and, late at night, approached the dwelling of Count Avondrin. A servant arose and admitted the visitor, not knowing then or ever that he did so. The bedroom door was locked from the inside, but what of that? What resistance can any mechanism offer to a master craftsman, plentifully supplied with tools, who can perceive every component part, however deeply buried?
The door opened. The Countess was a light sleeper, but before she could utter a single scream one powerful hand clamped her mouth, another snapped the switch of her supposedly carefully concealed thought-screen generator. What followed was done very quickly.
Mr. Fordyce strolled back to his hotel and Lensman Kinnison directed a thought at Lensman Gerrond.
“Better fake up some kind of an excuse for having a couple of guards or policemen in front of Count Avondrin’s town house at eight twenty-five this morning. The Countess is going to have a brainstorm.”
“What have . er, what will she do?”
“Nothing much. Scream a bit, rush out-of-doors half dressed, and fight anything and everybody that touches her. Warn the officers that she’ll kick, scratch, and bite. There will be plenty of signs of a prowler having been in her room, but if they can find him they’re good—very good. She’ll have all the signs and symptoms, even to the puncture, of having been given a shot in the arm of something the doctors won’t be able to find or to identify. But there will be no question raised of insanity or of any other permanent damage—she’ll be right as rain in a couple of months.”
“Oh, that mind-ray machine of yours again, eh? And that’s all you’re going to do to her?”
“That’s all. I can let her off easy and still be just, I think. She’s helped me a lot. Shell be a good girl from now on, too; I’ve thrown a scare into her that will last her the rest of her life.”
“Fine business, Gray Lensman! What else?”
“I’d like to have you at the Tellurian Ambassador’s Ball day after tomorrow, if it’s convenient.”
“I’ve been planning on it, since it’s on the ‘must’ list. Shall I bring anything or anyone special?”
“No. I just want you on hand to give me any information you can on a person who will probably be there to investigate what happened to the Countess.”
“I’ll be there,” and he was.
It was a gay and colorful throng, but neither of the two Lensmen was in any mood for gayety. They acted, of course. They neither sought nor avoided each other; but, somehow, they were never alone together.
“Man or woman?” asked Gerrond.
“I don’t know. All I’ve got is the recognition.”
The Radeligian did not ask what that signal was to be. Not that he was not curious; but if the Gray Lensman wanted him to know it he would tell him—if not, he wouldn’t tell him even if he asked.
Suddenly