LITMIR.BIZ

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war of planets. Ships could battle ships, fleets fleets; but, postulating good tactics upon the other side, no fleet, however armed and powered, could stop a planet. That had been proved. A planet had a mass of the order of magnitude of one times ten to the twenty fifth kilograms, and an intrinsic velocity of somewhere around forty kilometers per second. A hundred probably, relative to Tellus, if the planet came from the Second Galaxy. Kinetic energy, roughly, about five times ten to the forty first ergs. No, that was nothing for any possible fleet to cope with.

      Also, the attacking planets would of course be inertialess until the last strategic instant. Very well, they must be made inert prematurely, when the Patrol wanted them that way, not the enemy. How? HOW? The Bergenholms upon those planets would be guarded with everything the Boskonians had.

      The answer to that question, as worked out by the engineers, was something they called a “super-mauler”. It was gigantic, cumbersome, and slow; but little faster, indeed, than a free planet. It was like Helmuth’s fortresses of space, only larger. It was like the special defense cruisers of the Patrol, except that its screens were vastly heavier. It was like a regular mauler, except that it had only one weapon. All of its incomprehensible mass was devoted to one thing—power! It could defend itself; and, if it could get close enough to its objective, it could do plenty of damage—its dreadful primary was the first weapon ever developed capable of cutting a Q-type helix squarely in two.

      And in various solar systems, uninhabitable and worthless planets were converted into projectiles. Dozens of them, possessing widely varying masses and intrinsic velocities. One by one they flitted away from their parent suns and took up positions—not too far away from our Solar System, but not too near.

      And finally Kinnison, worrying at his tantalizing thought as a dog worries a bone, crystallized it. Prosaically enough, it was an extremely short and flamboyantly waggling pink skirt which catalyzed the reaction; which acted as the seed of the crystallization. Pink—a Chickladorian—Xylpic the Navigator—Overlords of Delgon. Thus flashed the train of thought, culminating in:

      “Oh, so that’s it!” he exclaimed, aloud. “A TUBE—just as sure as hell’s a mantrap!” He whistled raucously at a taxi, took the wheel himself, and broke—or at least bent—most of the city’s traffic ordinances in getting to Haynes’ office.

      The Port Admiral was always busy, but he was never too busy to see Gray Lensman Kinnison; especially when the latter demanded the right of way in such terms as he used then.

      “The whole defense set-up is screwy,” Kinnison declared. “I thought I was overlooking a bet, but I couldn’t locate it. Why should they fight their way through inter-galactic space and through sixty thousand parsecs of planet-infested galaxy when they don’t have to?” he demanded. “Think of the length of the supply line, with our bases placed to cut it in a hundred places, no matter how they route it. It doesn’t make sense. They’d have to out-weigh us in an almost impossibly high ratio, unless they have an improbably superior armament.”

      “Check.” The old warrior was entirely unperturbed. “Surprised you didn’t see that long ago. We did. I’ll be very much surprised if they attack at all.”

      “But you’re going ahead with all this just as though .”

      “Certainly. Something may happen, and we can’t be caught off guard. Besides, it’s good training for the boys. Helps morale, no end.” Haynes’ nonchalant air disappeared and he studied the younger man keenly for moments. “But Mentor’s warning certainly meant something, and you said ‘when they don’t have to’. But even if they go clear around the galaxy to the other side—an impossibly long haul—we’re covered. Tellus is far enough in so they can’t possibly take us by surprise. So—spill it!”

      “How about a hyper-spatial tube? They know exactly where we are, you know.”

      “Um . m . m.” Haynes was taken aback. “Never thought of it . possible, distinctly a possibility. A duodec bomb, say, just far enough underground .”

      “Nobody else thought of it, either, until just now,” Kinnison broke in. “However, I’m not afraid of duodec—don’t see how they could control it accurately enough at this three-dimensional distance. Too deep, it wouldn’t explode at all. What I don’t like to think of, though, is a negasphere. Or a planet, perhaps.”

      “Ideas? Suggestions?” the admiral snapped.

      “No—I don’t know anything about that stuff. How about putting our Lenses on Cardynge?”

      “That’s a thought!” and in seconds they were in communication with Sir Austin Cardynge, Earth’s mightiest mathematical brain.

      “Kinnison, how many times must I tell you that I am not to be interrupted?” the aged scientist’s thought was a crackle of fury. “How can I concentrate upon vital problems if every young whippersnapper in the System is to perpetrate such abominable, such outrageous intrusions .”

      “Hold it, Sir Austin—hold everything!” Kinnison soothed. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have intruded if it hadn’t been a matter of life or death. But it would be worse intrusion, wouldn’t it, if the Boskonians sent a planet about the size of Jupiter—or a negasphere—through one of their extra-dimensional vortices into your study? That’s exactly what they’re figuring on doing.”

      “What-what-what?” Cardynge snapped, like a string of firecrackers. He quieted down, then, and thought. And Sir Austin Cardynge could think, upon occasion and when he felt so inclined; could think in the abstruse symbology of pure mathematics with a cogency equaled by few minds in the universe. Both Lensmen perceived those thoughts, but neither could understand or follow them. No mind not a member of the Conference of Scientists could have done so.

      “They can’t!” of a sudden the mathematician cackled, gleefully disdainful. “Impossible—quite definitely impossible. There are laws governing such things, Kinnison, my impetuous and ignorant young friend. The terminus of the necessary hyper-tube could not be established within such proximity to the mass of the sun. This is shown by .”

      “Never mind the proof—the fact is enough,” Kinnison interposed, hastily. “How close to the sun could it be established?”

      “I couldn’t say, off-hand,” came the cautiously scientific reply. “More than one astronomical unit, certainly, but the computation of the exact distance would require some little time. It would, however, be an interesting, if minor, problem. I will solve it for you, if you like, and advise you of the exact minimum distance.”

      “Please do so—thanks a million,” and the Lensmen disconnected.

      “The conceited old goat!” Haynes snorted. “I’d like to smack him down!”

      “I’ve felt like it more than once, but it wouldn’t do any good. You’ve got to handle him with gloves—besides, you can afford to make concessions to a man with a brain like that.”

      “I suppose so. But how about that infernal tube? Knowing that it can not be set up within or very near Tellus helps some, but not enough. We’ve got to know where it is—if it is. Can you detect it?”

      “Yes. That is, I can’t, but the specialists can, I think. Wise of Medon would know more about that than anyone else. Why wouldn’t it be a thought to call him over here?”

      “It would that,” and it was done.

      Wise of Medon and his staff came, conferred, and departed.

      Sir Austin Cardynge solved his minor problem, reporting that the minimum distance from the sun’s center to the postulated center of the terminus of the vortex—actually, the geometrical origin of the three-dimensional figure which was the hyper-plane of intersection—was one point two six four seven, approximately, astronomical units; the last figure being tentative and somewhat uncertain because of the rapidly-moving masses of Jupiter .

      Haynes cut the tape—he had no time for an hour of mathematical dissertation—and called in his execs.

      “Full-globe detection of hyper-spatial

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