In the nearest barracks, even while the Lensman was arrowing up the stairways, a dog again deprived a sleeping man of his thought–screen. That man, however, instead of going to work, took up a pair of pliers and proceeded to cut the battery leads of every sleeper in the barracks, severing them so closely that no connection could be made without removing the armor.
As those leads were severed men woke up and dashed into the dome. Along catwalk after catwalk they raced, and apparently that was all they were doing. But each runner, as he passed a man on duty, flicked a battery plug out of its socket, and that observer, at Kinnison's command, opened the face–plate of his armor and breathed deeply of the now drug–laden atmosphere.
Thionite, as has been intimated, is perhaps the worst of all known habit– forming drugs. In almost infinitesimal doses it gives rise to a state in which the victim seems actually to experience the gratification of his every desire, whatever that desire may be. The larger the dose, the more intense the sensation, until—and very quickly—the dosage is reached at which he passes into an ecstasy so unbearable that death ensues forthwith.
Thus there was no alarm, no outcry, no warning. Each observer sat or stood entranced, holding exactly the pose he had been in at the instant of opening his faceplate. But now, instead of paying attention to his duty, he was plunging deeper and deeper into the paroxysmally ecstatic profundity of a thionite debauch from which there was to be no awakening. Therefore half of that mighty dome was unmanned before Helmuth even realized that anything out of order was going on.
As soon as he realized that something was amiss, however, he sounded the "all hands on duty" alarm and rapped out instructions to the officers in the barracks. But the cloud of death had arrived there first, and to his consternation not one–quarter of those officers responded. Quite a number of men did get into the dome, but every one of them collapsed before reaching the catwalks. And three–fourths of his working force died before he located Kinnison's speeding messengers.
"Blast them down!" Helmuth shrieked, pointing, gesticulating madly. Blast whom down? The minions of the Lensmen were themselves blasting away now, right and left, shouting contradictory but supposedly authoritative orders. "Blast those men not on duty!" Helmuth's rating voice now filled the dome. "You, at board 4791 Blast that man on catwalk 28, at board 4951"
With such detailed instructions, Kinnison's agents one by one ceased to be. But as one was beamed down another took his place, and soon every one of the few remaining living pirates in the dome was blasting indiscriminately at every other one. And then, to cap the Saturnalian climax, came the zero second.
* * * * *
The Galactic Patrol's Grand Fleet had assembled. Every cruiser, every battleship, every mauler hung poised above its assigned target. Every vessel was stripped for action. Every accumulator cell was full to its ultimate watt, every generator and every arm was tuned and peaked to its highest attainable efficiency. Every firing officer upon every ship, eat tensely at his board, his hand hovering near, but not touching, his firing key, his eyes fixed glaringly upon the second–hand of his precisely synchronized timer, his ears scarcely hearing the droning, soothing voice of Port Admiral Haynes.
For the Old Man had insisted upon giving the firing order himself, and he now sat at the master timer, speaking into the master microphone. Beside him sat von Hohendorff, the grand old Commandant of Cadets. Both of these veterans had thought long since that they were done with space–war forever, but only an order of the full Galactic Council could have kept either of them at home. They were grimly determined that they were going to be in at the death, even though they were not at all certain whose death it was to be. If it should turn out that it was to be Helmuth's, well and goodeverything would be on the green. If, on the other hand, young Kinnison had to go, they would in all probability have to go, too—and so be it.
"Now, remember, boys, keep your hands oft of those keys until I give you the word," Haynes' soothing voice droned on, giving no hint of the terrific strain he himself was under. "I'll give you lots of warning…I am going to count the last five seconds far you. I know that you all want to shoot the first bolt, but remember that I personally will strangle any and every one of you who beats my signal by a thousandth of a second. It won't be long now, the second hand is starting around an its last lap…Seep your hands off of those keys…keep away from them, I tell you, or I'll smack you down…fifteen seconds yet… stay away, boys, let 'em alone…. going to start counting now." His voice dropped lower and lower. "Five—four—three—two— one—FIRE! he yelled.
Perhaps some of the boys did beat the gun a trifle, but not many, or much. To all intents and purposes it was one simultaneous blast of destruction that flashed down from a hundred thousand projectors, each delivering the maximum blast of which it was capable. There was no thought now of service life of equipment or of holding anything back for a later effort. They had to hold that blast for only fifteen minutes, and if the task ahead of them could not be done yin those fifteen minutes it probably could not be done at all.
Therefore it is entirely useless even to attempt to describe what happened then, or to portray the spectacle that ensued when beam met screen. Why try to describe pink to a man born blind? Suffice it to say that those Patrol beams bid down, and that Helmuth's automatic screens resisted to the limit of their ability. Nor was that resistance small.
Had Helmuths customary staff of keen–eyed, quick–witted lieutenants been at their posts, to reenforce those Primary screens with the practically unlimited power which could have been put behind them, his defense would not have failed under even the unimaginable force of that Titanic thrust, but those lieutenants were not at their posts. The screens of the twenty–six primary objectives failed, and the twenty–six stupendous flotillas moved slowly, grandly, each along its designated line.
* * * * *
Every alarm in Helmuths dome had burst into frantic warning as the massed might of the Galactic Patrol was hurled against the twenty–six vital points of Grand Base, but those alarms clamored in vain. No hands were raised to the switches whose closing would unleash the hellish energies of Boskone's irresistible projectors, no eyes were upon the sighting devices which would align them against the attacking ships of war. Only Helmuth, in his Innershielded control compartment, was left, and Helmuth was the directing intelligence, the master mind, and not a mere operator. And, now that he had no operators to direct, he was utterly helpless. He could see the stupendous fleet of the Patrol, he could understand fully its dire menace, but he could neither stiffen his screens nor energize a single beam. He could only sit, grinding his teeth in helpless fury, and watch the destruction of the armament which, if it could only have been in operation, would have blasted those battleships and maulers from the skies as though they had been so many fluffy bits of thistledown.
Time after time he leaped to his feet, as if about to dash across to one of the control stations, but each time he sank back into his seat at the desk. One firing–station would be little, if any, better than none at all. Besides, that accursed Lensman was back of this. He was—must be right here in the dome, somewhere. He wanted him to leave this desk—that was what he was waiting fort As long as he stayed at the desk he himself was safe. For that matter, this whole dome was safe. The projector had never been mounted that could break down those screens. No—no matter what happened, he would stay at the desk!
Kinnison, watching, marveled at his fortitude. He himself could not have stayed there, he knew, and he also knew now that Helmuth was going to stay. Time was flying, five of the fifteen minutes were gone. He had hoped that Helmuth would leave that wellprotected inner sanctum, with its unknown potentialities, but if the pirate would not come out, the Lensman would go in. The storming of that inner stronghold was what his new armor was for.