Lensman from rigel, p.7
Lensman From Rigel, page 7
"Three-unit cluster," Commander Lzbert said, puzzling over the phrase. "I've heard of that. Isn't it some sort of religious secret which humanoids are not supposed to know about?"
"It's not delicate to mention it, that's all," Garner said. "It's an intimate detail in the life of a Rigellian."
"Ah, yes. Something about mélange-ou-ménage à trois?"
"Not the way you think. Sex doesn't have much to do" with it. Rigellians grow up as units of three. When Tregonsee was raised on Rigel IV his culture made him a part of a companionship with two other Rigellians of identical ages. The three of them were raised together. They were a very closely knit unit, known as a three-unit societal cluster. Sometimes there may be five-unit clusters, but that's another story. When they each reached the equivalent stage of adolescence, they were analyzed for their personalities and were given sexes. Two became male and one female. The third possibility is as a neuter. For the rest of their lives the units of the cluster keep close spiritual touch with each other. They do this even though they may never closely associate with each other again or develop anything in common except their foster relationship. Great sickness or death brings them back into psychic relationship. See what's happened?"
"I think I do," Commander Lzbert said, having absorbed all this information and more in a split second. "The report of Tregonsee's death, followed by his simulated death, drew the other two together."
"Yes, that's it," Garner continued. "The male was a retired, should one say a 'worn out'?, nuclear radiologist; the female was a Rigel culture coordinator. Under law they have the right to be present at his deathbed, to sort of make complete the cluster once more, so it is said. Under their religion it is essential, a clear duty. The two units even have the right to claim his coffin."
"If Boskone has a finger in the pie," said P'Keen, "then steps have already been taken to do just that."
Commander Lzbert held up his hand for silence. The scores of squeals and squeaks and whistles which had been softly permeating the cabin, constantly telling the ship's captain what was always happening in and around his closed world, were changing their tunes and tempos.
"There's a ship coming through the barrier," the Martian said. "It sounds like the Dauntless." He jumped up and beckoned the others to follow him into the pilot house.
He was right. The Dauntless--that magnificent odd cross-breed of rugged warship and sleek private cruiser, studded with the bulbous pods of a research vessel and staffed by over two thousand Patrolmen--swung slowly in synchronous turning with the Dronvire.
"Darn if I didn't miss the maneuver," he complained to everyone around the con, slapping both his thighs. "Breaking through and then matching intrinsics with us, I wanted to see their perfect performance. I saw it once before. They're experts. Beautiful! There are only two ships in the entire Patrol that Dronvire can't outshine: the Dauntless, there, and the Directrix, which is something else again. Oh, well, I'll see it on replay--save that recording!--but it won't be the same thing as the moment it happens." He saw P'Keen's quizzical look. "Everything Dronvire does is tro-taped every second, but most of it is discarded sooner or later."
A voiced message was coming in over all systems. The speaker was Kimball Kinnison himself. It was his custom, as a courtesy to all, never to use the Lens when it wasn't needed. The Lens, he felt, was much like whispering--if possible, it was always to be used politely.
"Sorry I'm late. There's been a rash of rumors about Tregonsee's death and I've been plagued with questions." Kinnison knew that Tregonsee had organized his own Patrol ship, Dronvire, almost as an extension of himself. The crew was considered as part of Tregonsee's family. In the light of what was going on with Tregonsee's real "family," such a thought was, to P'Keen and Garner, exceedingly ironic.
"Greetings to all you men of the Patrol. I expect to speak to each and every one of you before we part. Now, if you'll excuse me, there's work to be done. I'd like to go Lens-to-Lens with Captain Garner."
Garner made the narrow-band connection and informed him that it was P'Keen who was taking over as aide-de-camp and that, at the moment, they were both serving as ADCs and acting execs.
"We're in trouble, mates," Kinnison said. "No doubt you already know and have formulated your plans. But I'm not sure myself what's going on. I have reason to believe that Tregonsee isn't dead. I keep hoping against hope. But whatever game you boys are playing, I'll not queer it. That's why I think we're in trouble. Somebody seems to have overlooked Tregonsee's three-unit cluster. Know what I mean?"
Thank Klono for that alert Lensman on Rigel, P'Keen thought to himself. What a terrible embarrassment the intelligence services would have now had without prior knowledge.
"Yes, sir," P'Keen said. "That detail had been overlooked. But we are aware of it and expect to handle the problem." Should he tell Kinnison the whole truth? Galactic Coordinator though he was, he didn't need to know. He probably suspected the truth. Yet, after all, he was the great Kimball Kinnison, the legend. P'Keen had never met him as intimately as this before, so he felt somewhat nonplussed. "How have they contacted you, Kinnison, sir?" The Ordovik felt self-conscious about not using a title for the Galactic Coordinator, but the feeling was clear that Kinnison disliked titles and preferred to be like one of the boys.
"The Rigellian who this month is sort of the Minister of Culture contacted a Lensman on my local staff there and he's now in contact with me. That is, he's standing by for my answer. They want to know, is Tregonsee dead or mortally wounded? Is there any chance for recovery? Can they come to see him? In fact, they must come to see him or else have us send the body to Rigel for proper funeral arrangements. The Lensman has made it quite clear that they feel Tregonsee is not dead, but is being held captive. On the other hand, they also are making a discrepant claim that Tregonsee in disguise as a Lensman called Mepauhurrat is actually dead. I said I'd find out. But do what you must do. You're autonomous. Don't tell me anything you don't want me to know."
"Well, sir," P'Keen said. "You should know now, since we've come together safely. Tregonsee isn't dead. You'll be seeing him soon at the scheduled S.I.S. meeting at eleven hundred. Tell Rigel it will be another few hours before you know what is happening. Tell them the truth, that you haven't received a report from your staff yet. QX?"
"QX, P'Keen. I never doubted his indestructibility. But it sounds like you've got a humdinger of a deception going. See you at the meeting later this evening. Anything else? No? QX. Oh, incidentally, Worsel and Nadreck will both be here, no later than midnight. Kinnison out."
When Kinnison signed off, P'Keen and Garner exchanged knowing glances, without radiating any revealing thoughts. There was a problem they immediately recognized concerning the Rigellian three-unit cluster. Tregonsee's cluster was not a difficult problem to solve--Treg himself had told them what to do and how to handle it. It was Meppy's cluster, his two bereaved Rigellian units about to make their presence felt, who could crack the security and reveal the hoax.
To make good his promises, P'Keen tried immediately to contact his "highest authority"--Tregonsee. He took every precaution to make certain that he did not send Tregonsee unwittingly to his real death. Working as Garner's assistant, P'Keen checked out all security precautions, opened the coffin, and raised a right and left tentacle to expose the soft, flexible shell at the torso's joints. There, as directed earlier by Treg, he applied the drugs. Then, cautiously using insulated gloves to avoid a fatal touch, he took Treg's Lens, which had been recovered from the atmosuit, and disengaged it from the snap-around armlet into which it had been returned. The empty armlet he replaced on Treg's thick upper tentacle. The Lens he placed on Treg's forehead where it glued itself to the leathery shell by natural coadunation. While Garner applied the antidotes and restoratives and closely watched the various monitors, P'Keen began telepathic stimulation, both naturally and by Lens.
Tregonsee recovered slowly. His tentacles slid along the edge of padded sides and he tried to pull himself erect. Until he was strong enough to get out of the box under his own power, he would be trapped there, for it would have taken many more than two humanoids to lift the great bulk of the Rigellian.
P'Keen's mind managed to poke through the thick fog of disorientation.
"Tregonsee, sir! We're now aboard the Dauntless. Wake
up!"
Despite the great intellect and powerful brain of the Rigellian, it took many minutes before he became coherent.
At first Tregonsee came upright by rocking himself up on the rim of his base with two tentacles pulling, two tentacles pushing. Then he rolled himself out of his bed box and planted his feet on the deck. "I have calmed my cluster," was his first projection. The Lens in his forehead was pulsating with surges of mental power, sending out questions and receiving quick answers. The new problem was quickly grasped and a solution offered.
"Have the Dauntless's communications officer--the Rigellian's name is Cyclo, I believe--contact Meppy's cluster. He'll know how to do it, especially as they'll be expecting some kind of notification. Have him arrange for GP transportation for them to join Meppy. Have him warn them to keep utmost secrecy, which won't be difficult because the other units of a cluster have some understanding of the work their comrade does. Have him notify the Chaplain General and tell the general about an important Rigellian's funeral, standard procedure to be followed. I have just visualized a plan, in every detail, which I will tell you about before Meppy's survivors get here."
Very neat, thought P'Keen. The easy touch of a master thinker. P'Keen knew himself to be smart, knew he could cogitate along with the best brains around without faring too badly, but Tregonsee never ceased to amaze him, even in minor matters like this. The solemn, imperturbable placidity the Second Stage Lensman constantly exhibited, too infrequently punctuated by emotional responses with which his association with human types had corrupted him, was deceptive. Tregonsee was a hidden volcano of dynamic vitality. There was no doubt in P'Keen's very personal evaluation that Tregonsee, LENSMAN FROM RIGEL IV, was considerably smarter than Kimball Kinnison, the boss himself, or even Worsel, the dragon Lensman.
"Don't worry about the cluster complications, friends," Tregonsee said, not reading their masked thoughts under their strict orders of restricted communication, but intuitively sensing their concern. "Anyone familiar with the Rigellian culture will expect these muddles. They're natural. What stirs up trouble is the fact that Rigellians are so long-lived. Death, more often than not, is not peaceful. It's usually violence, such as an accident, not old age, which ends a life. So the cluster units are understandably agitated at times of death, and want the facts about their foster relative. It's good for our society. And it's also very good for our various secret Patrol operations. Killing a Rigellian, especially one in the S.I.S., is generally avoided by our enemies." Tregonsee tried a few faltering steps. "There's another situation that must be checked. What's the condition of my wife?"
P'Keen's face remained frozen in its smooth, white calmness. He didn't know the answer to that question. In fact, he didn't know there was a "condition" to worry about. Garner replied almost immediately. "She's been given the password by direct Lens. She won't take her life, although she's been reported as having already done so. That's a rumor no one will really accept until proved. That's just a standard reaction. She's being looked after, secretly hidden, by one of the boys." Then quickly in explanation to P'Keen: "That wasn't on your admin briefing tapes. Rigellian spouses usually commit suicide shortly after their mate's death, if the death is not a natural one. Tregonsee's mating took place untold years ago. The lifetime relationship that's formed at the time is extremely close for many years. But after fifty years or so, a wedded pair work their separate ways into their own personal patterns, no longer dependent on the other. Over several centuries there may be several such matings, forming a group of spouses, always for life and with friendship between all parties for ever--well, almost always. Sometimes after fifty years or so the sex may be changed or neutered. There's nothing like it in the cultures we were raised in." He paused as they both thought about the Rigellian mores.
Tregonsee projected a feeling of admiration to Garner. "I've never heard it expressed so clearly and so succinctly. But then, I don't hear it discussed. Nor do I ordinarily let it be discussed. This ship's sealed off. Therefore we can talk freely of many things. Let us get back to the subject of my faked death. I am satisfied at the way things have been stirred up. Let's get up to Kinnison's cabin and have a conference of war."
P'Keen's immediate impression of Kimball Kinnison, the Galactic Coordinator, was overpowering. As their hands clasped in a handshake, with that peculiar twist which signaled the special, fraternal recognition of one Lensman for another, P'Keen was reduced to an inferiority he had never felt in associating with Tregonsee. Perhaps he didn't remember the past accurately, but more likely it was that Kinnison was everything P'Keen would have liked to be: highest in intelligence, analytically outstanding, perfect in physique. Kinnison was, indeed, the larger-than-life epitome of the pre-eminent race of the Tellurians from the third planet in the solar system of Sol. He was the super-heroic representative, without question, of the species of Homo sapiens, pre-eminent descendents from the Arisian life spores. Kinnison was of modest height, about six feet tall, not as tall as P'Keen himself, but his vitality seemed to add inches on that height. His movements had the flowing grace of a wild animal, and his eyes had the sparkle of a man completely in touch with every part of every living moment, and enjoying it. It was a rugged and handsome head, the Ordovik thought, and exceptionally massive. Behind the warmth and friendliness of his features was the hard foundation of a savage and a repressed killer-- hunter and warrior. P'Keen felt himself immediately fall under his personal spell. Tregonsee would always command P'Keen's highest loyalty and respect, but from now on Kimball Kinnison would be his ideal Lensman.
"It's the mysteriousness of the attacks which bother me," Kinnison was saying. "Pow! They come. Zip! They go. We don't know they've arrived until all hell breaks loose. And the dark invaders aren't even scratched before pulling back, Trig."
Kinnison's use of the nickname "Trig" instead of "Treg" was an idiosyncrasy, P'Keen immediately realized, much more noticeable and distinctive to P'Keen now that he was for the first time actually in the presence of Kimball Kinnison.
"Why'd they do the hit-and-run attacks?" Kinnison continued. "They took great efforts to have a dozen or so of our very best scientists caught in five sneaky hyperspatial tube attacks, certain kidnap victims, and they seem to have simply dumped the whole project. Did they fail, or did they actually succeed? How were the attacks engineered? How can hyperspatial tubes be focused so accurately, right through all our defensive measures?"
Tregonsee was in front of Kinnison's large, notorious desk, the green-felted one which looked like a poker table. He couldn't sit in a chair like his two assistants, nor on the edge of the desk like Kinnison, and ordinarily he had no need to rest. But he was still shaky from his trance, so he wrapped a couple of tentacles around the bolted-down resting pole which was there for Worsel to drape his snake-like body around. And there Tregonsee half hung on.
"I think I can answer those questions. In my case they failed; in the other cases they won their unknown objectives. On Rohyl the operation was quick and slick, after sabotage had weakened our electronic defenses. An Ordovik crystal, pre-tuned and probably augmented, was brought into my room by Mando the Vegian cat burglar as a tube pathfinder. When they believed me dead, Mando was callously silenced and the crystal recovered to hide the method. The raiders were a highly specialized, well-trained team, no inside help indicated. Like Mando, the Manarkan leader was probably a renegade, most likely a notorious rival happy to eliminate his accomplice Mando.
"Our defensive measures weren't at fault--only a spectacular, stealthy operation such as that undertaken by Mando, using a new device to focus a tube, could have succeeded. Maybe the device isn't even new. Ordovik crystals are known to attract hyperspatial tubes, but there's always been an Ordovik or someone of similar powers around to detect a screeching-hot crystal. In confined spaces no noisy Orodovik crystal pulling in the end of a hyperspatial tube can ordinarily expect to avoid countermeasures. P'Keen's absence from my room represents meticulous planning of their timetable, and the odd silence of the crystal used exploited the chink in our armor. From now on, crystal-detectors will be mandatory for all high-security areas. And I've made P'Keen of Ordov my personal ADC."
Tregonsee's body rose eighteen inches into the air as his four elephantine feet thrust downward out of his barrel body. He was feeling much better.
"What the whole story is," Tregonsee continued, "we, of course, don't know. We have no clues, no names, no physical evidence. There is only one unexpected, fortuitous chance given to us--to exploit my assumed death by first concealing then revealing it, for the greatest confusion."
"Let me butt in here, Trig," Kinnison said. "Seems to me all this pretense about your death may be more than it's worth. It may be getting out of hand, with little troubles popping up all over the galaxy and growing bigger all the time. I know you're looking for talk linking you with assassination, but that's a mighty flimsy reason to bring unwarranted discredit on your staff. This all makes the S.I.S. look confused, disorganized and weak." Kinnison suddenly stopped. "Trig, you sly old bulging bag of leather, I'll be damned if that isn't precisely what you want! Right?"
"Yes, Kim. You know how I utilize jujitsu tactics."
"And I admire your cleverness, Trig. I appreciate that the S.I.S. could come out of this with new strength and great profit. But what about you? Should you risk your life or mind on such dangerous experiments with phony death?"
"There is no undue risk, Kim. I thank you for your concern. My personal plans are well defined in my focus on the name of Mando, our one solid clue. If the Mando attack seems a success and our opponents mention his name--by praising him or by making him a martyr to cover up their brutal betrayal of him, or by vilifying him for botching his job--then Mando's name will be heard. When the rumors are traced, I will be led directly to the conspirators."
