sprayed, and Tregonsee came out. "Why the spray?" thought Kinnison, as the Rigellian entered his control–room. "Trencos. Much of the life of this planet starts from almost imperceptible spores.
It develops rapidly, attains considerable size, and consumes anything organic it touches. This port was depopulated time after time before the lethal spray was developed. Now turn your spy–ray again to the lee of the port."
During the few minutes that had elapsed the wind had increased in fury to such an extent that the very ground was boiling away from the trailing edge in the tumultuous eddy formed there, ultra–streamlined though the space–port was. And that eddy, far surpassing in violence any storm known to Earth, was to the denizens of Trenco a miraculously appearing quiet spot in which they could stop and rest, eat and be eaten.
A globular monstrosity had thrust pseudopodia deep into the boiling dirt. Other limbs now shot out, grasping a tumble–weed–like growth. The latter fought back viciously, but could make no impression upon the rubbery integument of the former. Then a smaller creature, slipping down the polished curve of the shield, was enmeshed by the tumbleweed. There ensued the amazing spectacle of one–half of the tumbleweed devouring the newcomer, even while its other half was being devoured by the globe!
"Now look out farther…still. farther," directed Tregonsee. "I can't. Things take on impossible motions and become so distorted as to be
unrecognizable." "Exactly. If you saw a zwilnik out there, where would you shoot?" "At him, I suppose—why?" "Because if you shot at where you think you see him, not only would you miss
him, but the beam might very well swing around and enter your own back. Many men have been killed by their own weapons in precisely that fashion. Since we know, not only what the object is, but exactly where it is, we can correct our lines of aim for the then existing values of distortion. This is of course the reason why we Rigellians and other races possessing the sense of perception are the only ones who can efficiently police this planet."
"Reason enough, I'd say, from what I've seen," and silence fell.
For minutes the two Lensmen watched, while creatures of a hundred kinds streamed into the lee of the space–port and killed and ate each other. Finally something came crawling up wind, against that unimaginable gale, a flatly streamlined creature resembling somewhat a turtle, but shaped as was the ground– car. Thrusting down long, hooked flippers into the dirt it inched along, paying no attention. to the scores of lesser creatures who hurled themselves upon its armored back, until it was close beside the largest football–shaped creature in the eddy. Then, lightning–like, it drove a needlesharp organ at least eight inches into the leathery mass of its victim. Struggling convulsively, the stricken thing lifted the turtle a fraction of an inch—and both were hurled instantly out of sight, the living ball still eating a luscious bit of prey despite the fact that it was impaled upon the poniard of the turtle and was certainly doomed.
"Good Lord, what was that?" exclaimed Kinnison. "The flat? That was a representative of Trenco's highest life–form. It may develop a civilization in time—it is quite intelligent now." "But the difficulties!" protested the Tellurian. "Building cities, even homes…"
"Neither cities nor homes are necessary here, nor even desirable. Why build? Nothing is or can be fixed on this planet, and since one place is exactly like every other place, why wish to remain in any one particular spot? They do very well, in their own mobile way. Here, you will notice, comes the rain."
The rain came—forty–four inches per hour of rain—and the incessant lightning. The dirt became first mud, then muddy water being driven in fiercely flying gouts and masses. Now, in the lee of the space–port, the outlandish denizens of Trenco were burrowing down into the mud—still eating each other and anything else that came within reach.
The water grew deeper and deeper, its upper surface now whipped into frantic sheets of spray. The structure was now afloat, and Kinnison saw with astonishment that, small as was the exposed surface and flatly curved, yet it was pulling through the water at frightful speed the wide–spreading steel sea– anchors which were holding its head to the gale.
"With no reference points how do you know where you're going?" he demanded.
"We neither know nor care," responded Tregonsee, with a mental shrug. "We are like the natives in that. Since one spot is like every other spot, why choose between them?"
"What a world—what a world! However, I am beginning to understand why thionite is so expensive," and, overwhelmed by the ever–increasing fury raging outside, Kinnison sought his bunk.
Morning came, a reversal of the previous evening. The liquid evaporated, the mud dried, the flat–growing vegetation sprang up with shocking speed, the animals emerged and again ate and were eaten.
And eventually came Tregonsee's announcement that it was almost noon, and that now, for half an hour or so, it would be calm enough for the space–ship to leave the port.
"You are sure that I would be of no help to you?" asked the Rigellian, halfpleadingly.
"Sorry, Tregonsee, but I'm afraid you wouldn't fit into my matrix any better than I would into yours. But here's the spool I told you about. If you will take it to your base on your next relief you will do civilization and the Patrol more good than you could by coming with us. Thanks for the Bergenholm, which is covered by credits, and thanks a lot for your help and courtesy, which can't be covered. Goodbye," and the now entirely space–worthy craft shot out through the port, through Trenco's noxiously peculiar atmosphere, and into the vacuum of space.
11: Grand Base
At some little distance from the galaxy, yet shackled to it by the flexible yet powerful bonds of gravitation, the small but comfortable planet upon which was Helmuth's base circled about its parent sun. This planet had been chosen with the utmost care, and its location was a secret guarded jealously indeed. Scarcely one in a million of Boskone's teeming myriads knew even that such a planet existed, and of the chosen few who had ever been asked to visit it, fewer still by far had been allowed to leave it.
Grand Base covered hundreds of square miles of that planet's surface. It was equipped with all the arms and armament known to the military genius of the age, and in the exact center of that immense citadel there arose a glittering metallic dome.
The inside surface of that dome was lined with visiplates and communicators, hundreds of thousands of them. Miles of catwalks clung precariously to the inwardcurving wail. Control panels and instrument boards covered the floor in banks and tiers, with only narrow runways between them. And what a personnel! There were Solarians, Crevenians, Sirians. There were Antareans, Vandemarians, Arcturians. There were representatives of scores, yes, hundreds of other solar systems of the galaxy.
But whatever their external form they were all breathers of oxygen and they were all nourished by warm, red blood. Also, they were all alike mentally. Each had won his present high place by trampling down those beneath him and by pulling down those above him in the branch to which he had first belonged of the "pirate" organization. Each was characterized by a total lack of scruple, by a coldly ruthless passion for power and place.
Kinnison had been eminently correct in his belief that Boskone's was not a "pirate outfit" in any ordinary sense of the word, but even his ideas of its true nature fell far short indeed of the truth. It was a culture already inter– galactic in scope, but one built upon ideals diametrically opposed to those of the civilization represented by the Galactic Patrol.