Gray Lensman.”
“Good. Can you get me about fifty logons?”
“Logons?” Lensed the base commander in astonishment. “LOGONS!”
There was reason for his astonishment, for the logon, or Cadiligian rateagle, is one of the nastiest, most vicious, and intractable beasts in the galaxy. Its warped mind is capable of containing but one emotion: HATRED! The Cadiligian rateagle hates anything and everything living, the only desire in the small compass of its mind being to reduce that life to something edible.
The logon resembles the Tellurian rat at its worst, but it is the size of a Tellurian terrier and has the wings and claws of an eagle. Logons do not make nice pets.
“Yes, logons,” Ginnison replied. “I can control them.”
“With your superior mental equipment,” the base commander thought humbly, “I am sure you can. How do you want them packaged?”
“Put them in a ‘copter. Have the pilot ready to release them on my order, within one kilometer of the roof of the Queen Ardis Hotel.”
“Certainly. Clear ether, Gray Lensman.”
“Clear ether, Partisipple.”
Then, another Lensed thought to Woozle, in the Dentless, hovering invisibly in orbit high above the surface of Cadilax. “Woozle, old serpent, here’s the story so far.” And in flashing thoughts he told the reptilian Lensman his plans. “So have Lieutenant Hess von Baschenvolks and his company of Dutch Valerians down here and ready to go.”
“Will do, Ginnison. Clear ether.”
“Clear ether.”
In the office on the top floor of the Queen Ardis Hotel, the inscrutable face of Gauntluth stared thoughtfully at the banks of screens, meters, switches, dials, indicators, knobs, buttons, and flickering lights on the panels and control boards which surrounded him.
Finally, after long pondering, he touched a button on one of his control panels. “Give me suite 3305,” he said.
Ginnison was waiting for the call when it came. The cadaverous blue face of the gaunt Gauntluth appeared on his visiscreen. “Yes?” he said calmly.
“I am told,” came Gauntluth’s rasping voice, “that you are in a position to deal with me concerning a certain—ah—article.”
“As long as the deal is on the up-and-up, I am,” replied Ginnison. “Of course, the usual precautions must be taken on both sides.”
“Of course, my dear fellow,” Gauntluth said agreeably. “Shall we, then, make arrangements that are agreeable to both sides?”
“Let us do so,” said Ginnison.
On cold and distant Jugavine, the planet of the Meich, the First of the frightful Council, Meichfrite, radiated harshly to the others: “you have all scanned the tapes containing the report of our agent, Banlon of Downlo. Somehow, by what means we know not, the Lensman, Ginnison, escaped the trap Banlon set for him. Twelve of our ships have vanished utterly, and Banlon’s report is neither complete nor conclusive. I would now like to hear your comments. Meichrobe.”
“It seems to me,” that worthy radiated, “that the strawberries are—”
“Forget the goddam strawberries!” Meichfrite riposted. “ What about Ginnison?”
“Well, then,” Meichrobe thought raspingly, “our computers have calculated that with a probability of point oh oh four, Gimble Ginnison has either gone to Cadilax or somewhere else.”
“Indeed,” Meichfrite thought thoughtfully. “Meichrodot, Fifth of the Meich, give us your thoughts on this subject.”
“Our reports from Cadilax,” informed Meichrodot, “indicate that all is going smoothly. There is no trace of the Lensman on or near the planet. However, Banlon’s agent Gauntluth has reported through Banlon that he is running short of thionite. He wants to make a buy.”
Meichfrite turned his attention to the Sixth of the Meich. “Meichroft, this is your department.”
“Banlon,” Meichroft emitted, “must go to Trenco.”
Trenco! That planet was, and is, unique. Its atmosphere and its liquid are its two outstanding
“Good. Can you get me about fifty logons?”
“Logons?” Lensed the base commander in astonishment. “LOGONS!”
There was reason for his astonishment, for the logon, or Cadiligian rateagle, is one of the nastiest, most vicious, and intractable beasts in the galaxy. Its warped mind is capable of containing but one emotion: HATRED! The Cadiligian rateagle hates anything and everything living, the only desire in the small compass of its mind being to reduce that life to something edible.
The logon resembles the Tellurian rat at its worst, but it is the size of a Tellurian terrier and has the wings and claws of an eagle. Logons do not make nice pets.
“Yes, logons,” Ginnison replied. “I can control them.”
“With your superior mental equipment,” the base commander thought humbly, “I am sure you can. How do you want them packaged?”
“Put them in a ‘copter. Have the pilot ready to release them on my order, within one kilometer of the roof of the Queen Ardis Hotel.”
“Certainly. Clear ether, Gray Lensman.”
“Clear ether, Partisipple.”
Then, another Lensed thought to Woozle, in the Dentless, hovering invisibly in orbit high above the surface of Cadilax. “Woozle, old serpent, here’s the story so far.” And in flashing thoughts he told the reptilian Lensman his plans. “So have Lieutenant Hess von Baschenvolks and his company of Dutch Valerians down here and ready to go.”
“Will do, Ginnison. Clear ether.”
“Clear ether.”
In the office on the top floor of the Queen Ardis Hotel, the inscrutable face of Gauntluth stared thoughtfully at the banks of screens, meters, switches, dials, indicators, knobs, buttons, and flickering lights on the panels and control boards which surrounded him.
Finally, after long pondering, he touched a button on one of his control panels. “Give me suite 3305,” he said.
Ginnison was waiting for the call when it came. The cadaverous blue face of the gaunt Gauntluth appeared on his visiscreen. “Yes?” he said calmly.
“I am told,” came Gauntluth’s rasping voice, “that you are in a position to deal with me concerning a certain—ah—article.”
“As long as the deal is on the up-and-up, I am,” replied Ginnison. “Of course, the usual precautions must be taken on both sides.”
“Of course, my dear fellow,” Gauntluth said agreeably. “Shall we, then, make arrangements that are agreeable to both sides?”
“Let us do so,” said Ginnison.
On cold and distant Jugavine, the planet of the Meich, the First of the frightful Council, Meichfrite, radiated harshly to the others: “you have all scanned the tapes containing the report of our agent, Banlon of Downlo. Somehow, by what means we know not, the Lensman, Ginnison, escaped the trap Banlon set for him. Twelve of our ships have vanished utterly, and Banlon’s report is neither complete nor conclusive. I would now like to hear your comments. Meichrobe.”
“It seems to me,” that worthy radiated, “that the strawberries are—”
“Forget the goddam strawberries!” Meichfrite riposted. “ What about Ginnison?”
“Well, then,” Meichrobe thought raspingly, “our computers have calculated that with a probability of point oh oh four, Gimble Ginnison has either gone to Cadilax or somewhere else.”
“Indeed,” Meichfrite thought thoughtfully. “Meichrodot, Fifth of the Meich, give us your thoughts on this subject.”
“Our reports from Cadilax,” informed Meichrodot, “indicate that all is going smoothly. There is no trace of the Lensman on or near the planet. However, Banlon’s agent Gauntluth has reported through Banlon that he is running short of thionite. He wants to make a buy.”
Meichfrite turned his attention to the Sixth of the Meich. “Meichroft, this is your department.”
“Banlon,” Meichroft emitted, “must go to Trenco.”
Trenco! That planet was, and is, unique. Its atmosphere and its liquid are its two outstanding
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