“Yes?” Samms was receptive, but not impressed.
“Interstellar Spaceways, you know. We’ve been trying to see you for two weeks, but we couldn’t get past your secretaries, so I decided to buttonhole you here, myself. But we’re just as much alone here as we would be in either one of our offices—yes, more so. What I want to talk to you about is having our exclusive franchise extended to cover the outer planets and the colonies.”
“Just a minute, Mr. Isaacson. Surely you know that I no longer have even a portfolio in the Council; that practically all of my attention is, and for some time to come will be, directed elsewhere?”
“Exactly—officially.” Isaacson’s tone spoke volumes. “But you’re still the Boss; they’ll do anything you tell them to. We couldn’t try to do business with you before, of course, but in your present position there is nothing whatever to prevent you from getting into the biggest thing that will ever be. We are the biggest corporation in existence now, as you know, and we are still growing—fast. We don’t do business in a small way, or with small men; so here’s a check for a million credits, or I will deposit it to your account. …”
“I’m not interested.”
“As a binder,” the other went on, as smoothly as though his sentence had not been interrupted, “with twenty-five million more to follow on the day that our franchise goes through.”
“I’m still not interested.”
“No … o … o … ?” Isaacson studied the Lensman narrowly: and Samms, Lens now wide awake, studied the entrepreneur. “Well … I … while I admit that we want you pretty badly, you are smart enough to know that we’ll get what we want anyway, with or without you. With you, though, it will be easier and quicker, so I am authorized to offer you, besides the twenty six million credits …” he savored the words as he uttered them: “twenty two and one-half percent of Spaceways. On today’s market that is worth fifty million credits; ten years from now it will be worth fifty billion. That’s my high bid; that’s as high as we can possibly go.”
“I’m glad to hear that—I’m still not interested,” and Samms strode away, calling his friend Kinnison as he did so.
“Rod? Virgil.” He told the story.
“Whew!” Kinnison whistled expressively. “They’re not pikers, anyway, are they? What a sweet setup—and you could wrap it up and hand it to them like a pound of coffee. …”
“Or you could, Rod.”
“Could be. …” The big Lensman ruminated. “But what a hookup! Perfectly legitimate, and with plenty of precedents—and arguments, of a sort—in its favor. The outer planets. Then Alpha Centauri and Sirius and Procyon and so on. Monopoly—all the traffic will bear. …”
“Slavery, you mean!” Samms stormed. “It would hold Civilization back for a thousand years!”
“Sure, but what do they care?”
“That’s it … and he said—and actually believed—that they would get it without my help. … I can’t help wondering about that.”
“Simple enough, Virge, when you think about it. He doesn’t know yet what a Lensman is. Nobody does, you know, except Lensmen. It will take some time for that knowledge to get around. …”
“And still longer for it to be believed.”
“Right. But as to the chance of Interstellar Spaceways ever getting the monopoly they’re working for, I didn’t think I would have to remind you that it was not entirely by accident that over half of the members of the Solarian Council are Lensmen, and that any Galactic Councillor will automatically have to be a Lensman. So go right ahead with what you started, my boy, and don’t give Isaacson and Company another thought. We’ll bend an optic or two in that direction while you are gone.”
“I was overlooking a few things, at that, I guess.” Samms sighed in relief as he entered the main office of the Patrol.
The line at the receptionist’s desk was fairly short, but even so, Samms was not allowed to wait. That highly decorative, but far-from-dumb blonde, breaking off in mid-sentence her business of the moment, turned on her charm as though it had been a battery of floodlights, pressed a stud on her desk, and spoke to the man before her and to the Lensman:
“Excuse me a moment, please. First Lensman Samms, sir … ?”
“Yes, Miss Regan?” her communicator—“squawk-box,” in every day parlance—broke in.
“First Lensman Samms is here, sir,” the girl announced, and broke the circuit.
“Good evening, Sylvia. Lieutenant-Commander Wagner, please, or whoever else is handling clearances,” Samms answered what he thought was to have been her question.
“Oh, no, sir; you are cleared. Commodore Clayton has been waiting for you … here he is, now.”
“Hi, Virgil!” Commodore Clayton, a big, solid man with a scarred face and a shock of iron-gray hair, whose collar bore the two silver stars which proclaimed him to be the commander-in-chief of a continental contingent of the Patrol, shook hands vigorously. “I’ll zip you out. Miss Regan, call a bug, please.”
“Oh, that isn’t necessary, Alex!” Samms protested. “I’ll pick one up outside.”
“Not in any Patrol base in North America, my friend; nor, unless I am very badly mistaken, anywhere else. From now on, Lensmen have absolute priority, and the quicker everybody realizes exactly what that means, the better.”
The “bug”—a vehicle something like a jeep, except more so—was waiting at the door. The two men jumped aboard.
“The Chicago—and blast!” Clayton ordered, crisply.
The driver obeyed—literally. Gravel flew from beneath skidding tires as the highly maneuverable little ground-car took off. A screaming turn into the deservedly famous Avenue of Oaks. Along the Avenue. Through the Gate, the guards saluting smartly as the bug raced past them. Past the barracks. Past the airport hangars and strips. Out into the space-field, the scarred and blackened area devoted solely to the widely-spaced docks of the tremendous vessels which plied the vacuous reaches of interplanetary and interstellar space. Spacedocks were, and are, huge and sprawling structures; built of concrete and steel and asbestos and ultra-stubborn refractory and insulation and vacuum-breaks; fully air-conditioned and having refrigeration equipment of thousands of tons per hour
