Epilogue
The murder of Senator Morgan, in his own private office, was never solved. If it had occurred before the election, suspicion would certainly have fallen upon Roderick Kinnison, but as it was it did not. By no stretch of the imagination could anyone conceive of “Rod the Rock” kicking a man after he had knocked him down. Not that Morgan did not have powerful and vindictive enemies in the underworld: he had so many that it proved impossible to fasten the crime to any one of them.
Officially, Kinnison was on a five-year leave of absence from the Galactic Patrol, the office of Port Admiral had been detached entirely from the fleet and assigned to the Office of the President of North America. Actually, however, in every respect that counted, Roderick Kinnison was still Port Admiral, and would remain so until he died or until the Council retired him by force.
Officially, Kinnison was taking a short, well-earned vacation from the job in which he had been so outstandingly successful. Actually, he was doing a quick flit to Petrine, to get personally acquainted with the new Lensmen and to see what kind of a job they were doing. Besides, Virgil Samms was already there.
He arrived. He got acquainted. He saw. He approved.
“How about coming back to Tellus with me, Virge?” he asked, when the visiting was done. “I’ve got to make a speech, and it’d be nice to have you hold my head.”
“I’d be glad to,” and the Chicago took off.
Half of North America was dark when they neared Tellus; all of it, apparently, was obscured by clouds. Only the navigating officers of the vessel knew where they were, nor did either of the two Lensmen care. They were having too much fun arguing about the talents and abilities of their respective grandsons.
The Chicago landed. A bug was waiting. The two Lensmen, without an order being given, were whisked away. Samms had not asked where the speech was to be given, and Kinnison simply did not realize that he had not told him all about it. Thus Samms had no idea that he was just leaving Spokane Spaceport, Washington.
After a few miles of fast, open-country driving the bug reached the city. It slowed down, swung into brightly-lighted Maple Street, and passed a sign reading “Cannon Hill” something-or-other—neither of which names meant anything to either Lensman.
Kinnison looked at his friend’s red-thatched head and glanced at his watch.
“Looking at you reminds me—I need a haircut,” he remarked. “Should have got one aboard, but didn’t think of it. Joy told me if I come home without it she’ll braid it in pigtails and tie it up with pink ribbons, and you’re shaggier than I am. You’ve got to get one or else buy yourself a violin. What say we do it now?”
“Have we got time enough?”
“Plenty.” Then, to the driver: “Stop at the first barber shop you see, please.”
“Yes, sir. There’s a good one a few blocks further along.”
The bug sped down Maple Street, turned sharply into plainly-marked Twelfth Avenue. Neither Lensman saw the sign.
“Here you are, sir.”
“Thanks.”
There were two barbers and two chairs, both empty. The Lensmen, noticing that the place was neatly kept and meticulously clean, sat down and resumed their discussion of two extremely unusual infants. The barbers went busily to work.
“Just as well, though—better, really—that the kids didn’t marry each other, at that,” Kinnison concluded finally. “The way it is, we’ve each got a grandson—it’d be tough to have to share one with you.”
Samms made no reply to this sally, for something was happening. The fact that this fair-skinned, yellow-haired blue-eyed barber was left-handed had not rung any bells—there were lots of left-handed barbers. He had neither seen nor heard the cat—a less-than-half-grown, gray, tiger-striped kitten—which, after standing up on its hind legs to sniff ecstatically at his nylon-clad ankles, had uttered a couple of almost inaudible “meows” and had begun to purr happily. Crouching, tensing its strong little legs, it leaped almost vertically upward. Its tail struck the barber’s elbow.
Hastily brushing the kitten aside, and beginning profuse apologies both for his awkwardness and for the presence of the cat—he had never done such a thing before and he would drown him forthwith—the barber applied a styptic pencil and recollection hit Samms a pile-driver blow.
“Well, I’m a … !” He voiced three highly un-Samms-like, highly specific expletives which, as Mentor had foretold so long before, were both self-derogatory and profane. Then, as full realization dawned, he bit a word squarely in two.
“Excuse me, please, Mr. Carbonero, for this outrageous display. It was not the scratch, nor was any of it your fault. Nothing you could have done would have. …”
“You know my name?” the astonished barber interrupted.
“Yes. You were … ah … recommended to me by a … a friend. …” Whatever Samms could say would make things worse. The truth, wild as it was, would have to be told, at least in part. “You do not look like an Italian, but perhaps you have enough of that racial heritage to believe in prophecy?”
“Of course, sir. There have always been prophets—true prophets.”
“Good. This event was foretold in detail; in such complete detail that I was deeply, terribly shocked. Even to the kitten. You call it Thomas.”
“Yes, sir. Thomas Aquinas.”
“It is actually a female. In here, Thomasina!” The kitten had been climbing enthusiastically up his leg; now, as he held a pocket invitingly open, she sprang into it, settled down, and began to purr blissfully. While the barbers and Kinnison stared pop-eyed Samms went on:
“She is determined to adopt me, and it would be a shame not to requite such affection. Would you part with her—for, say, ten credits?”
“Ten credits! I’ll be glad to give her to you for nothing!”
“Ten it is, then. One
