Part 5 (1/2)

”Five seconds! Four...Three...Two...One...FIRE”'

Twelve primary batteries flamed forth as one, each ravening beam smas.h.i.+ng into, through, and past the already weakened s.h.i.+elds of the Boskonian battles.h.i.+ps. Like tissue paper in the flame of an oxyhydrogen torch, the dozen s.h.i.+ps dissolved into whitehot gas.

As far as his detectors could scan, Ginnison could see that there was not a single threat in the ether about the Dentless.

”Navigator,” he ordered crisply, ”continue toward Cadilax.”

From his coign of vantage, so many pa.r.s.ecs away, Banlon stared in unbelief at his instruments, knowing to the full what they had reported. But after that first momentary shock, the ultrahard logic of his ultracold brain rea.s.serted itself.

”s.h.i.+t,” he thought. And, flipping his speedster end-for-end, he turned around and ran.

Came, betimes, to Cadilax, a b.u.m. He showed up, un.o.btrusively, in the streets of Ardis, the capital of that disturbed planet. He was, apparently, a man approaching sixty-graying, flabby, rheumy-eyed, alcoholic, and not too bright. He was so typical of his kind that no one noticed him; he was merely one of ten thousand such who wandered about the streets of the various cities of Cadilax. He hung around the bars and bistros of the s.p.a.ceport, cadging drinks, begging for small change, leering innocuously at the hookers, and telling stories of the days of his youth, when he was ”somebody.” He claimed to have been a doctor, a lawyer, a pimp, a confidence man, a bartender, a judge, a police officer, a religious minister, and other such members of highly respected occupations, but he could never produce any proof that he had ever been anyone of them.

And no one expected him to, for that was the sine qua non of the s.p.a.ceport b.u.m. He was what he was, and no one expected more of him. He called himself Goniff, and, because of his vaguely erudite manner of speech, soon became known as ”Professor” Goniff.

He was never completely sober, and never completely drunk.

The student of this history has, of course, already surmised that beneath this guise lay the keen mind and brain of Gimble Ginnison, Gray Lensman, and he is right.

Throughout this time, Ginnison was searching out and finding a wight bedight Gauntluth.

It had taken time. The Gray Lensman's mind had probed into the depths of degradation, the valleys of vileness, the caverns of corruption, in the dregs of the noxious minds of the foulest folk of a planet before finding that name and that individual. He might have found him earlier, had he not been enjoying himself so much.

At first, only vaguely had he been able to construct from the clues available a picture of the all-powerful drug baron and pirate who ruthlessly ruled the underworld of Cadilax. Then, as time went on and more and more data came in, his visualization of Gauntluth became complete.

Gauntluth was tall, lean, and tough, with the all-pervading cadaverous blue of a Kalonian. His headquarters were in the Queen Ardis Hotel, the biggest luxury hotel on the planet, which catered only to the top fringe of the upper crust of the ultra-ultra.

There, in his superbly screened and s.h.i.+elded suite of offices, Gauntluth controlled, through an intricate webwork of communications' and by a highly efficiently organized army of minions, the drug traffic of half a dozen solar systems.

For long Ginninson pondered, and came to the obvious conclusion that ”Professor” Goniff could in no wise gain admission to the elite society of the Queen Ardis Hotel. Therefore Goniff the b.u.m vanished.

Instead, it was Lester Q. Twodyce, cosmopolitan, and wealthy playboy, who checked into the Queen Ardis with an entourage of flunkies and yes-men, not one of whom could easily be detected as an officer of the Galactic Patrol. As was de rigeur on Cadilax, everyone of Twodyce's men wore a thought-screen.

Carefully, step by step, Ginnison laid his trap. Through the highest ranks of Gauntluth's organization, it became known that Lester Q. Twodyce had something valuable that he was eager to sell.

It became clear, even to Gauntluth, that whatever it was Twodyce had, it was certainly worth investigating.

Thus it came about that one evening, when the impeccably dressed Mr. Twodyce was seated at a table in the grand dining room of the hotel with two of his hard-faced gunmen, he was approached by two equally well-dressed men who bowed politely and smiled pleasantly.

One of them said: ”Good evening, Mr. Twodyce. I trust we do not interrupt your repast?”

Twodyce looked up. ”Not at all,” he said. ”Will you be seated?”

Then, almost as an afterthought: ”May I order you drinks? Such distinguished men as yourselves deserve only the best, of course.”

”You know, then, who we are?” asked the spokesman.

”Certainly, Mr. Thord,” replied the Lensman suavely, ”you and Mr. Thield are hardly anonymous.”

Drinks were brought.

”These-” he gestured toward the men on either side of him. ”-are my a.s.sociates, Mr. Kokomo and Mr. De Katur.” After several minutes of preliminary conversation, the apefaced Thord finally broached the subject which they had all been antic.i.p.ating.

”I hear, Mr. Twodyce,” he said, ”you are here to do business.”

”Not primarily,” said the Lensman nonchalantly. ”I am here to enjoy myself. Business is not a primary concern of mine.”

”I understand,” said Thord, ”for such a man as yourself...”

”Nevertheless,” continued Ginnison, ”I do have a small trifle which I am willing to dispose of for a proper price.”

The lizard-like Mr. Thield spoke. ”And that is?”

Twodyce said off-handedly, ”Fifty grams of clear-quill thionite.”

There was a stunned silence from Thord and Thield.

Thionite! Thionite, that dreadful and dreadfully expensive drug which, in microgram doses, induces in the user clear, three-dimensional, stereosonic visions in which he indulges in his every desire to the point of ecstasy. Every desire, base or n.o.ble, mental or physical, conscious or subconscious. Whatever pleasurable experience he wishes for himself, he experiences. It is addictive to the nth degree. It is the ultimate high, but the slightest overdose is deadly.

It is also purple.

One milligram of that dire drug was enough for a thousand doses, and the insouciant Mr. Twodyce was offering fifty thousand times that amount!

”Gad!” murmured Mr. Thield.

”Indeed?” said Thord. ”If that is true, we are prepared to offer...”

”You will offer nothing,” Ginnison said calmly. ”I do not deal with underlings.”

Thord's face darkened. ”Underlings? Underlings? To whom do you think you are speaking, Mister Twodyce?”

”To underlings,” said the unruffled Twodyce. ”And you may tell Gauntluth I said so.”

There was a momentary silence from Thord and Thield as their eyes darted from Ginnison's face to those of the bodyguards. Each bodyguard was fingering his necktie, his right hand only inches away from the DeLameter that was undoubtedly in a shoulder holster concealed by the loose-fitting dress jacket that each man wore.

Thord and Thield rose, superficially regaining their composure. ”We will speak to you later, Mr.

Twodyce,” said Thord.

”You will not,” said Ginnison in a low, deadly voice. ”I have no desire to see either of you again.

Gauntluth may contact me if he so wishes. Tell Gauntluth that I caution him to think of a hamburger.”