The Greatest Works of E. E. Smith. E. E. Smith

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СКАЧАТЬ that has ever disgraced any so-called civilized government. Good night."

      "Wow!" Jack Kinnison yelped. "That's high, even for him!"

      "Just a minute, Jack," Jill cautioned. "The other side, too. Listen to this choice bit from Senator Morgan."

      "It is not exactly hypnotism, but something infinitely worse; something that steals away your very minds; that makes anyone listening believe that white is yellow, red, purple, or pea-green. Until our scientists have checked this menace, until we have every wearer of that cursed Lens behind steel bars, I advise you in all earnestness not to listen to them at all. If you do listen your minds will surely be insidiously decomposed and broken; you will surely end your days gibbering in a padded cell.

      "And murders? Murders! The feeble remnants of the gangs which our government has all but wiped out may perhaps commit a murder or so per year; the perpetrators of which are caught, tried, and punished. But how many of your sons and daughters has Roderick Kinnison murdered, either personally or through his uniformed slaves? Think! Read the record! Then make him explain, if he can; but do not listen to his lying, mind-destroying Lens.

      "Democracy? Bah! What does 'Rod the Rock' Kinnison—the hardest, most vicious tyrant, the most relentless and pitiless martinet ever known to any Armed Force in the long history of our world—know of democracy? Nothing! He understands only force. All who oppose him in anything, however small, or who seek to reason with him, die without record or trace; and if he is not arrested, tried, and executed, all such will continue, tracelessly and without any pretense of trial, to die.

      "But at bottom, even though he is not intelligent enough to realize it, he is merely one more in the long parade of tools of ruthless and predatory wealth, the MONIED POWERS. They, my friends, never sleep; they have only one God, one tenet, one creed—the almighty CREDIT. That is what they are after, and note how craftily, how stealthily, they have done and are doing their grabbing. Where is your representation upon that so-called Galactic Council? How did this criminal, this vicious, this outrageously unconstitutional, this irresponsible, uncontrollable, and dictatorial monstrosity come into being? How and when did you give this bloated colossus the right to establish its own currency—to have the immeasurable effrontery to debar the solidest currency in the universe, the credit of North America, from inter-planetary and inter-stellar commerce? Their aim is clear; they intend to tax you into slavery and death. Do not forget for one instant, my friends, that the power to tax is the power to destroy. THE POWER TO TAX IS THE POWER TO DESTROY. Our forefathers fought and bled and died to establish the principle that taxation without rep...."

      "And so on, for one solid hour!" Jill snarled, as she snapped the switch viciously. "How do you like them potatoes?"

      "Hell's—Blazing—Pinnacles!" This from Jack, silent for seconds, and:

      "Rugged stuff ... very, very rugged," from Northrop. "No wonder you look sort of pooped, Spud. Being Chief Bodyguard must have developed recently into quite a chore."

      "You ain't just snapping your choppers, bub," was Costigan's grimly flippant reply. "I've yelled for help—in force."

      "So have I, and I'm going to yell again, right now," Jack declared. "I don't know whether Dad is going to kill Morgan or not—and don't give a damn—but if Morgan isn't going all out to kill Dad it's because they've forgotten how to make bombs."

      He Lensed a call to Bergenholm.

      "Yes, Jack?... I will refer you to Rularion, who has had this matter under consideration."

      "Yes, John Kinnison, I have considered the matter and have taken action," the Jovian's calmly assured thought rolled into the minds of all, even Lensless Jill's. "The point, youth, was well taken. It was your thought that some thousands—perhaps five—of spy-ray operators and other operatives will be required to insure that the Grand Rally will not be marred by episodes of violence."

      "It was," Jack said, flatly. "It still is."

      "Not having considered all possible contingencies nor the extent of the field of necessary action, you err. The number will approach nineteen thousand very nearly. Admiral Clayton has been so advised and his staff is now at work upon a plan of action in accordance with my recommendation. Your suggestions, Conway Costigan, in the matter of immediate protection of Roderick Kinnison's person, are now in effect, and you are hereby relieved of that responsibility. I assume that you four wish to continue at work?"

      The Jovian's assumption was sound.

      "I suggest, then, that you confer with Admiral Clayton and fit yourselves into his program of security. I intend to make the same suggestion to all Lensmen and other qualified persons not engaged in work of more pressing importance."

      Rularion cut off and Jack scowled blackly. "The Grand Rally is going to be held three weeks before election day. I still don't like it. I'd save it until the night before election—knock their teeth out with it at the last possible minute."

      "You're wrong, Jack; the Chief is right," Costigan argued. "Two ways. One, we can't play that kind of ball. Two, this gives them just enough rope to hang themselves."

      "Well ... maybe." Kinnison-like, Jack was far from being convinced. "But that's the way it's going to be, so let's call Clayton."

      "First," Costigan broke in. "Jill, will you please explain why they have to waste as big a man as Kinnison on such a piffling job as president? I was out in the sticks, you know—it doesn't make sense."

      "Because he's the only man alive who can lick Morgan's machine at the polls," Jill stated a simple fact. "The Patrol can get along without him for one term, after that it won't make any difference."

      "But Morgan works from the side-lines. Why couldn't he?"

      "The psychology is entirely different. Morgan is a boss. Pops Kinnison isn't. He's a leader. See?"

      "Oh ... I guess so.... Yes. Go ahead."

      * * * * *

      Outwardly, New York Spaceport did not change appreciably. At any given moment of day or night there were so many hundreds of persons strolling aimlessly or walking purposefully about that an extra hundred or so made no perceptible difference. And the spaceport was only the end-point. The Patrol's activities began hundreds or thousands or millions or billions of miles away from Earth's metropolis.

      A web was set up through which not even a grain-of-sand meteorite could pass undetected. Every space-ship bound for Earth carried at least one passenger who would not otherwise have been aboard; passengers who, if not wearing Lenses, carried Service Special equipment amply sufficient for the work in hand. Geigers and other vastly more complicated mechanisms flew toward Earth from every direction in space; streamed toward New York in Earth's every channel of traffic. Every train and plane, every bus and boat and car, every conveyance of every kind and every pedestrian approaching New York City was searched; with a search as thorough as it was unobtrusive. And every thing and every entity approaching New York Spaceport was combed, literally by the cubic millimeter.

      No arrests were made. No package was confiscated, or even disturbed, throughout the ranks of public check boxes, in private offices, or in elaborate or casual hiding-places. As far as the enemy knew, the Patrol had no suspicion whatever that anything out of the ordinary was going on. That is, until the last possible minute. Then a tall, lean, space-tanned veteran spoke softly aloud, as though to himself:

      "Spy-ray blocks—interference—umbrella—on. Report."

      That СКАЧАТЬ