'We've got to do something,' another man said. 'As soon as our report gets to Issacson, we're all dead men anyway.'

'You're right, we have to do something,' the leader of the group said. 'I'm not going to appeal to your patriotism but your own personal self interest Copernicus must be destroyed before the 5758

fleet attacks. The meteor proved that external force is out. Our previous setups have been negated. They were meant to look like accidents. We can no longer afford that luxury. The a.s.sa.s.sination is only six or seven hours off and the attack about 10 hours away. Too short a time for it to make any difference whether Copernicus is destroyed by accident or by deliberate attempt. The question remains: how do we do it?'

There was a long silence.

'Hasla had a good idea under these conditions,' one of the men said. 'It won't matter now, since a poison can't be any thing except deliberate, and it would be easy to get past the Custom's gate.'

'It would work if we had time,' another man said. 'But we don't have that time.'

'I left 10 cylinders of V2 gas back there.'

'The only thing that stuff is good for is to close airtight doors,' another commented sarcastically.

'It's obvious that no one single attack is going to put Copernicus out of business at this late date,' the leader said. 'We left behind enough equipment to make a whole series of different attacks. We can use it. But first we must get there. Hasla, schedule us on the next three flights as tourists. Make it two groups of four individuals, and then Mossby. Mossby, you will go alone on the last flight with your atomic bomb, and at worse cause a distraction. How many men will you require to get past Customs?'

'Four.'

'The last group will be five men. Contact Aspen for suitable gunmen,' the leader said. 'Now let's work out how many ways we can attack the critical facilities of Copernicus directly, what we will need to do it, what we will have available, set up a list of priorities and make out a time schedule for our operations.'

[LARRY MCQUEEN?] Larry heard his name as plainly as if someone had been standing beside him and had called it except he hadn't 'heard' it and there was no one around him. [Larry. Where on that G.o.dforsaken, airless ball of rock are you?]

For an instant Larry thought he had cracked up. He thought that he had recognized the voice, but ... a mental one? He finally responded, [Copernicus.]

[Good. I'll be right down. Meet you at the Solarian Patrol field office. Oh,] the voice continued, recognizing Larry's puzzlement. [This is Tom, Tom Ellik. I'm using my Lens. Tell you about it when I get there.]

Larry knew Tom from those days in the Triplanetary Patrol when he had been tapped by the Service to go through special training. Tom had been in the group just before Larry. He hadn't heard from him since they had been sent out on their first a.s.signments. 'Lens' he had said. Samms' Lensmen.

Fairchild had mentioned them when he had called in his report. Either he was going crazy, or WOW!

Mental telepathy!

Half an hour later Larry was sitting on a park bench in front of the Solarian Patrol field office, when another figure in s.p.a.ce black and silver, the uniform of the Solarian Patrol, showed up.

'Hey, Tom,' Larry stood up, and greeted him. Tom looked exactly the same as he had when Larry first saw him. The years hadn't touched him.

'Hi, Larry,' Tom greeted him, and the voice spoke in his mind again. [Let's go somewhere and have a cup of coffee.]

A little nervous, Larry started to speak. Tom cut him off with the thought, [It's all right. I can read your surface thoughts. Where do you want to go?]

Larry indicated a little sidewalk restaurant farther along the wall of the Dome. As they walked along Larry felt like one very large question mark. [What, where, why, since when and HOW?]

Tom Ellik laughed. [Larry, you sound just like me when I was first introduced to the Lens. They come from Arisia. Samms has adopted them as the identification of the new organization he's forming soon, because no one else can duplicate them. They're mental ... everythings: Telepathic device, translator, communicator, ID, all rolled into one. You name it and it'll probably do it.]

He pulled back the sleeve of his blouse and there on his arm was a shining, metal bracelet with a pulsating lenticular something on it. The Lens of Arisia!

'Fantastic!' Larry said in awe. It made the flashiest piece of fire opal he had ever seen look like an ordinary brown pebble. Thousands of little specks of light flashed and moved around inside. [They must cost a fortune!]

[No, the Arisians give them to people who qualify. There are no strings, except one,] Tom's thought hesitated, and he smiled knowingly. [It's called the Lensman's load. It means that in the fullest sense you are responsible for all of your actions. You are the chosen representative of Civilization and all that means to the rest of the universe. Your ethics, your sense of justice, 5859

are all above reproach. You are the embodiment of the highest possible integrity and reliability.

That is the Lensman's load.]

Larry looked at Tom for a long while without comment, letting the words and what they meant soak in. Trying to understand them in his own terms and referents. Finally he asked, [All right, where do I go to get one?]

Tom smiled like a squirrel who had just been given a bag of walnuts. They sat down at the table and verbally ordered. A moment later, back on the Lens, Tom thought, barteringly, [You're in luck, Larry. I've just come back from Arisia and guess what they gave me to give you?]

[A hard time?]

[Nope. Two more guesses.]

[A bottle of Rhoot Bheer?] Larry thought, referring to a long standing joke between Tom and his friends.

[Nope. But you're warm. And for beer that's bad but for guessing that's good. One more guess.]

[A Lens of my very own to treasure always.]

[Right! Very right!]

They turned off the humor as fast as it started. For all of Tom's irrepressible personality, Larry could think of few other men he would prefer to have at his back in a time of crisis. Tom brought an insulated case out of his pocket and opened it. Inside was another bracelet ... and a Lens.

This one was a dull, grayish-white, lifeless jewel that somehow gave one the impression that it was absorbing light and the things around it. Careful not to touch even the band, Tom pointed at It.

[In this state they are dangerous. If you touch a dark Lens that isn't yours, it will jolt you like a high tension wire never could. If you try to wear it, you'll be dead in seconds. Touch this one lightly and let's check if it's yours.]

The Lens jumped into life for a brief moment as Larry's finger tips brushed the surface of the band.

[Good,] Tom thought. [This is a solemn moment, Larry. From now on you pick up your load and go forth with it.]

Larry McQueen took out the Lens-carrying bracelet and snapped it around his wrist. The polychrome light flashed brightly, and suddenly he could see, hear and understand Tom better.

[Larry, the hardest, coldest cat I've ever met handed this to me and told me to deliver it immediately. He said you needed it. I commandeered the Bolivar itself to get it to you. It's waiting to take me back to Tellus, so I've got to run.

Keep in touch, and turn in your Golden Meteor. QX?]

[QX.].

Tom Ellik hurried away, leaving before his coffee came, leaving Larry infinitely better equipped to handle the situation with which he would soon be confronted but no better off in determining what it would be.

Larry sat there feeling a twinge that an agent of the Triplanetary Service often feels when another agent leaves his presence, a little alone and a little lost. A thought intruded. [Pardon me, Larry. Congratulations !] an old friend and Lensman on Mercury thought. [The same,] came from another one in a s.p.a.ceship circling Saturn.

[Thank you,] Larry replied. [Is there any limit to the range of these Lenses?]

[Yes, but it's quite a way out,] came the answer. [Any ability you can conceive of and develop is yours. Good luck.]

[Now get your f.a.n.n.y out of there and tear h.e.l.l out of them,] came the final message from Larry's previous Sector Chief. [What do you think this is, a party?] The fact that he was in a bawdy house on Alphacent gave his words a little extra meaning.

Larry went back to work.

The first group of four 'tourists' entered Copernicus with out incident. Their papers were in order. They came in with others who were honestly tourists. Everything went smoothly, or so it seemed.

When the second group hit Customs there was a problem. The long arm of coincidence had been twisted too far. One of the Customs officers acted. They temporarily closed the Customs gate, leaving the entrants sitting, waiting, and reported by visiphone to Hanovich.

'I don't like to think about who we might have pa.s.sed,' he reported. 'We've got a 20 per cent increase in tourists and a 200 per cent increase in tourists without luggage.'

'How many is that?'

'Well, about an hour ago three went past. That's about a day's limit. I've seen all of them go by in one batch like that before but now we have six more of them out there and something smells.'

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'All right, hold on for a couple minutes and I'll send someone right down,' Hanovich said. He called the Security control center and got Larry.

'I'll go out and check them,' Larry said. 'I just might be able to find out what's happening.'

Larry looked at Hanovich for a moment. He sent out a probing thought toward him. Yes, Hanovich was tired. A reaction from the excitement of the afternoon. 'How tired are you?' Larry asked.

Hanovich shrugged. 'Why?'

If Customs is right, if this is only the tag end of a group that entered Copernicus earlier, we are in trouble!' Larry answered. 'I'd like to get you, or some other really capable person, down here in the control center to handle things.' That was spreading the oil a little thick but Larry was certain now that if he needed help and asked for it, Hanovich would swing every bit of authority he had to do what Larry wanted done; That was worth having available.

'All right,' Hanovich said. 'I'll be right down.'

'I'll be at Customs,' Larry said, and left.

He caught one of the transporters that were being used to move people while the travel tunnels were out of service. While getting into it he noticed a peculiar smell. It seemed familiar but he couldn't immediately place it. He asked the driver about it.

'Ethyl,' the driver said, and wiggled his eyebrows. Seeing Larry's still puzzled look, he explained further. 'We use pure grain ethyl alcohol for fuel. Its fumes aren't poisonous like gasoline. But the air isn't the only thing that gets polluted around here.'

They made out to Customs without accident or incident.

Larry met the Customs officer in charge and had the subjects pointed out to him through a one-way window in the official's office. They looked like ordinary enough people. They decided to interrogate them in the office, one at a time. Larry leaned against a book rack at the side of the office, one hand on his holster.

There was no difficulty about the first man brought into the office. He was a little puzzled by the delay but quite cooperative. He was actually there on business, but for political reasons within his company he had described himself as a tourist. He was let out the side door. The next man was a different case. He took one look at Larry in his uniform and radiated hate. It came over so strong that one really didn't need a Lens to feel it.

Curious, Larry probed further with his Lens. He got nothing verbal, just [ANGER/HATE]. The Customs officer flipped through the man's pa.s.sport. 'Would you sit down, Mr. Herdman?' he asked. The man didn't seem to hear. 'Mr. Herdman?'

Suddenly the man came flying at Larry. He was screaming, and waving his fists. In his mind Larry saw him waving a knife with the same kind of hate and hacking at someone with it. Larry came off the bookcase, dodged one wild swing and planted a solid, hard blow in the man's diaphragm. Herman doubled up and went down with a crash, trying to breathe. 'Handcuffs,' Larry ordered. 'This man's a psychotic. He tried to kill someone down on Tellus and may have succeeded.'

Moments later two officers hauled him away with his hands fastened behind him.

'If I were to tap 10 people at random on the shoulder, one would probably run like h.e.l.l because of something he had done and the rest would probably have something on their conscience that would make them feel nervous,' Larry said. 'Ready for the next one?'

The next man radiated fear but it was a different kind of fear. It wasn't polite watchfulness or hostility. The man saw Larry and for an instant froze inwardly. Nothing appeared on the outside.

He walked over to the chair offered and sat down. The Customs officer asked the usual questions.

'Name?' 'Is this address correct?' 'Place of birth?' All were from the pa.s.sport. Then he picked up a clipboard with a bunch of telegrams on it. He flipped through until he came to what he pretended was the right one. He looked at it, looked up at the man and asked, 'Mr. Lee. What was your mother's maiden name?'

There was a long silence as they waited for the answer. Larry probed. [Confusion/Fear.]

The man licked his lips and said, 'King.'

When the Customs man glanced over at Larry, Larry sent the thought, [No. He's lying. It's word a.s.sociation. He knows me as McQueen. McQueen - King.]

'I'm sorry,' the Customs officer said. 'That isn't what we have recorded here. We're going to have to wait until this is cleared up.'

Rather than gently probing the barriers put up by fear, Larry sent a hard, solid thought at the man. [Who are you??]

The man jumped up and looked at Larry in terror. His hand went to his mouth. Larry jumped for him but even as he made the few steps across the room, the man was dying. Larry probed as hard as he could but it did no good. The man was terrified that he might reveal something. In a few more seconds he had faded away.

Larry knelt at the dead man's side where he had fallen, looking at him, puzzled by his reaction.

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He hadn't done any thing that would give any rational person cause to commit suicide. Yet the man was dead. He had killed himself by knowingly swallowing poison. A fear of revealing something? A fear so great that the man would commit suicide? That was unusual. Yet, now there were three men who had done similar things.

The gunman in the Sanctuary.

The gunman in the Consular Suite.

And now this man.

Why - and how? Pick a dozen people. Have someone give them information that they considered essential to be kept secret. Now try to get it away from them and none of them would fear you.

They'd be hostile. They'd fight you, even unto the death. But they wouldn't fear you so much that they'd commit suicide.

'Call the Security control center and ask them to send an ambulance for this man in about an hour,' Larry said. 'Is there somewhere we can put him until then? I don't want to scare the people out in the stockade by their seeing an ambulance drive up.'

The Customs officer called and made the necessary arrangements. They put the dead man in a closet in the office.

'Can you imagine what's going to happen?' the Customs officer said, watching Larry with a smile.

'The Security officer will come in here and ask where the body is and we'll open the closet door and out will fall a body. Just like a grade B murder mystery.'