E. E. Smith - Gray Lensman

“Marvelous—wonderful!” the thought beat into Kinnison’s brain as soon as he reestablished rapport with the being so far below. “We have recalled our ships. Will you please come down to our space-port at once, so that we can put into execution a plan which has been long in preparation?”

“As soon as your ships are down,” the Tellurian acquiesced. “Not sooner, as your landing conventions are doubtless very unlike our own and we do not wish to cause disaster. Give me the word when your field is entirely clear.”

That word came soon and Kinnison nodded to the pilots. Once more inertialess the Dauntless shot downward, deep into atmosphere, before her inertia was restored. Rematching velocity this time was a simple matter, and upon the towering, powerfully resilient pillars of her landing-jets the inconceivable mass of the Tellurian ship of war settled toward the ground, as lightly seeming as a wafted thistledown.

“Their cradles wouldn’t fit us, of course, even if they were big enough—which they aren’t, by half,” Schermerhorn commented, “Where do they want us to put her?”

“‘Anywhere,’ they say,” the Lensman answered, “but we don’t want to take that too literally—without a solid dock she’ll make an awful hole, wherever we set her down. Won’t hurt her any. She’s designed for it—we couldn’t expect to find cradles to fit her anywhere except on Tellus. I’d say to lay her down on her belly over there in that corner, out of the way; as close to that big hangar as you can work without blasting it out with your jets.”

As Kinnison had intimated, the lightness of the vessel was indeed only seeming. Superbly and effortlessly the big boat seeped downward into the designated corner; but when she touched the pavement she did not stop. Still easily and without jar or jolt she settled—a full twenty feet into the concrete, re-enforcing steel, and hard-packed earth of the field before she came to a halt.

“What a monster! Who are they? Where could they have come from?...” Kinnison caught a confusion of startled thoughts as the real size and mass of the visitor became apparent to the natives. Then again came the clear thought of the officer.

“We would like very much to have you and as many as possible of your companions come to confer with us as soon as you have tested our atmosphere. Come in space-suits if you must.”

The air was tested and found suitable. True, it did not match exactly that of Tellus, or Rigel IV, or Velantia; but then, neither did that of the Dauntless, since that gaseous mixture was a compromise one, and mostly artificial to boot.

“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, oil-drum-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 unmistakable 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.