Praise for E. E. ‘Doc’ Smith

‘Smith [has the] ability to create planets with truly original climates and inhabitants’ New York Times

‘What John Ford is to horse-opera – Grade A, homogenized Doc Smith is to space-opera’ Astounding Science Fiction

‘With the exception of the works of H. G. Wells, possibly those of Jules Verne – and almost no other writer – it has inspired more imitators and done more to change the nature of all the science fiction written after it than almost any other single work’ Frederik Pohl

‘Adventure of an unprecedented kind . . . the first great “classic” of American science fiction’ Isaac Asimov

Galactic Patrol

E.E. ‘DOC’ SMITH

To Clarrissa M. MacD. Hamnett
and
Clarrissa MacD. S. Wilcox

INTRODUCTION

I discovered the Lensman series back in the 1970s, when I was in my mid-teens. My sci-fi habit was hitting its first big peak, and I was perpetually hungry for something new to read. I prowled the bookshops of Liverpool on a daily basis. Actually, I mostly scoured the newsagents, which were nearer to hand and generally had a spinner-rack stuffed full of paperbacks. The selection changed unpredictably, though, so whenever you found anything that was even halfway interesting, the best tactic was to grab it and sweat the details afterwards.

One day in the middle of February, I grabbed Triplanetary. I was bemused at first by its stop-start structure, as it compressed thousands of years of history (and millions of years of prehistory) into a series of staccato set pieces. But then I got my eye in and I was hooked. I worked my way through the entire series, quickly catching up to their publishing schedule so I was searching out each title as it appeared. These were the Panther paperback reprints, with all-but-irresistible Chris Foss covers.

I was pretty much omnivorous back then. If a story had a cool premise or some exciting action, that was enough for me. I didn’t worry about fripperies like style or characterisation. I knew what it was that gave me the hit I craved. It was both very simple and fairly abstract. I wanted big, insane ideas, unfeasible vistas, vast distances from the everyday. E. E. Smith delivered. How could he fail? The Lensman series starts with two galaxies colliding and it just goes on getting bigger from there.

I enjoyed the books enough to re-read them, more than once. In fact, there aren’t many novel cycles that I’ve re-read so many times. At a rough estimate, I’d say there are three. The other authors in that short, prestigious list are Ursula Le Guin (Earthsea), Gene Wolfe (the Torturer quartet) and China Miéville (Bas-Lag).

Smith is the odd one out, in a number of ways. With those other three series, I’ve re-read the works at regular intervals throughout my life. Most of my re-readings of Smith came when I was still in my teens and twenties. And whereas my love for Le Guin, Wolfe and Miéville has never wavered, I had a period of deep ambivalence about Smith’s writing.

Reading the Lensman books as a grown-up was different from reading them as a teen. On later visits, I raised my eyebrows at things that had slipped under my radar as a kid. The dodgy politics, the addiction to superlatives and to a set of adjectives describing the brightness of energy weapons ( lambent and coruscating, I’m looking at you), the two-fisted heroes who were more or less interchangeable, and most of all the general absence of female characters (there are six of any substance, across the entire series). For a while – a long while – Smith was a guilty pleasure, and whenever I discussed him I’d always throw out a defensive array of criticism of his gender politics, his innate conservatism and his unvaryingly perfect male protagonists.

It wasn’t the first time I’d had this experience. I’d already gone through it with another favourite series, Mary Norton’s Borrowers books. There too, I found that my enjoyment of the books came to be modulated by a wariness about the world view they expressed. Norton, like Smith, struggled with her female characters. She made Arrietty her main protagonist, but never seemed at ease with giving her full agency. The girl who trains under her father to be the chief provider for her hunter-gatherer family has her story truncated, finally, to a romantic liaison with an acceptably middle-class suitor (in the fifth book, after Spiller has been ushered off-stage).

For much of the Lensman series, Smith is more unequivocal in focusing entirely on his male protagonists – but there’s a reverie going on under the surface, and it resolves in a fascinating way. To begin with, Smith just sidesteps the whole issue. He doesn’t want to write about women, and he rules them out with an immaculate piece of straight-faced nonsense. You just can’t wear a lens if you’re a woman. There’s a fundamental incompatibility, full stop.

Then he gives us Clarissa MacDougall, the red lensman. But he’s at pains to make it clear that she’s a unique exception, the result of literally millions of years of Arisian breeding programs. And having brought her into the story, he never finds very much to do with her. She’s a hostage victim a few times, a shoulder to cry on for Helen of Lyrane, and a sort of pin-up girl for the men (and other male entities) of the Galactic Patrol. Then she hangs up her lens, marries and becomes a stay-at-home mother.

Clarissa’s four daughters are much more satisfying, in terms of the role they play in the series. It’s significant that only one of the children of the lens is male, and that he’s the only one who graduates from the Academy and goes into the Patrol. His four sisters have to work in secret, their abilities unknown and unrecognised. They strive to save the universe without ever blowing their cover as demure, proper young women.

By this point, Smith has put gender at the heart of the story in an unexpected way, which I won’t discuss here for fear of spoilers. There’s a sense in which you can see him pushing back against his own prejudices in the later books, and it’s very gratifying when it comes.

When I last returned to the series, for the purposes of writing this introduction, I’d stopped believing that guilty pleasures were really a valid concept. You either enjoy something or you don’t, and since everyone’s fave is problematic there’s no point in apologising for the texts (books, TV series, movies, whatever) that happen to float your boat. There is very much a point in interrogating those texts, and unpicking the attitudes that underpin them. But pleasure isn’t a moral response, even in moral people. You like the things you like, and the argument comes afterwards.

However that may be, on this most recent outing with the Lensman Corps, I had a different reaction both to the style of the stories and to their substance – and in some ways I appreciated them more than ever.

Smith’s spaceships may run on valves and transistors, but his space battles are immersive and enthralling. Whether he’s describing a ship-on-ship dogfight, a cat-and-mouse pursuit, a siege or a mass engagement, he puts you in the action and he follows through relentlessly on his ideas. He’s also realistic about how arms races work – how a small advantage has to be exploited quickly, before the other side figures out what you’re doing and retro-engineers it.

As for Smith’s style, it may be highly coloured but it’s wonderfully fit for purpose. His repetitions are a bit like the repetitions of Homer, who had a store of stock phrases that he used again and again so he could keep his powder dry for the bits where he really wanted to cut loose. That may seem like a pretty outrageous comparison, but Smith’s main business wasn’t that different from Homer’s. They were both aiming to narrate epic events as evocatively as possible. And in that respect the Lensman novels deliver again and again. They tell a huge story against a huge backdrop, in a way that induces the same sense of awe and wonder in me now as they did when I first encountered them more than forty years ago.

Mike Carey

2018

CHAPTER ONE
Graduation

Dominating twice a hundred square miles of campus, parade-ground, airport, and spaceport, a ninety-storey edifice of chromium and glass sparkled dazzlingly in the bright sunlight of a June morning. This monumental pile was Wentworth Hall, in which the Tellurian candidates for the Lens of the Galactic Patrol live and move and have their being. One wing of its topmost floor seethed with tense activity, for that wing was the habitat of the lordly Five-Year Men, this was Graduation Day, and in a few minutes Class Five was due to report in Room A.

Room A, the private office of the Commandant himself; the dreadful lair into which an undergraduate was summoned only to disappear from the Hall and from the Cadet Corps; the portentous chamber into which each year the handful of graduates marched and from which they emerged, each man in some subtle fashion changed.

In their cubicles of steel the graduates scanned each other narrowly, making sure that no wrinkle or speck of dust marred the space-black and silver perfection of the dress uniform of the Patrol; that not even the tiniest spot of tarnish or dullness violated the glittering golden meteors upon their collars or the resplendently polished ray-pistols and other equipment at their belts. The microscopic mutual inspection over, the kit-boxes were snapped shut and racked, and the embryonic Lensmen made their way out into the assembly hall.

In the wardroom Kimball Kinnison, Captain of the Class by virtue of graduating at its head, and his three lieutenants, Clifford Maitland, Raoul LaForge, and Widel Holmberg, had inspected each other minutely and were now simply awaiting, in ever-increasing tension, the zero minute.

‘Now, fellows, remember that drop!’ the young Captain jerked out. ‘We’re dropping the shaft free, at higher velocity and in tighter formation than any class ever tried before. If anybody hashes the formation – our last show and with the whole Corps looking on . . .’

‘Don’t worry about the drop, Kim,’ advised Maitland. ‘All three platoons will take that like clockwork. What’s got me all of a dither is what is really going to happen in Room A.’

‘You can play that across the board for the whole Class,’ Kinnison agreed. ‘Well, we’ll soon know – it’s time to get going,’ and the four officers stepped out into the assembly hall; the Class springing to attention at their approach.

Kinnison, now all brisk Captain, stared along the mathematically exact lines and snapped:

‘Report!’

‘Class Five present in full, sir!’ The sergeant-major touched a stud at his belt and all vast Wentworth Hall fairly trembled under the impact of an all-pervading, lilting, throbbing melody as the world’s finest military band crashed into ‘Our Patrol’.

‘Squads left – March!’ Although no possible human voice could have been heard in that gale of soul-stirring sound and although Kinnison’s lips scarcely moved, his command was carried to the very bones of those for whom it was intended – and to no one else – by the tight-beam ultra-communicators strapped upon their chests. ‘Close formation – Forward – March!’

In perfect alignment and cadence the little column marched down the hall. In their path yawned the shaft – a vertical pit some twenty feet square extending from main floor to roof of the Hall; more than a thousand sheer feet of unobstructed air, cleared now of all traffic by flaring red lights. Five left heels clicked sharply, simultaneously upon the lip of the stupendous abyss. Five right legs swept out into emptiness. Five right hands snapped to belts and five bodies, rigidly erect, arrowed downward at such an appalling velocity that to unpractised vision they simply vanished.

Six-tenths of a second later, precisely upon a beat of the stirring march, those ten heels struck the main floor of Wentworth Hall, but not with a click. Dropping with a velocity of almost two thousand feet per second though they were at the instant of impact, yet those five husky bodies came from full speed to an instantaneous, shockless, effortless halt at contact, for the drop had been made under complete neutralization of inertia – ‘free’, in space parlance. Inertia restored, the march was resumed – or rather continued – in perfect time with the band. Five left feet swung out, and as the right toes left the floor the second rank, with only bare inches to spare, plunged down into the space its predecessor had occupied a moment before.

Rank after rank landed and marched away with machine-like precision. The dread door of Room A opened automatically at the approach of the cadets and closed behind them.

‘Column right – March!’ Kinnison commanded inaudibly, and the Class obeyed in clockwork perfection. ‘Column left – March! Squad right – March! Company – Halt! Salute!’

In company front, in a huge, square room devoid of furniture, the Class faced the Ogre – Lieutenant-Marshal Fritz von Hohendorff, Commandant of Cadets. Martinet, tyrant, dictator – he was known throughout the System as the embodiment of soullessness; and, insofar as he had ever been known to show emotion or feeling before any undergraduate, he seemed to glory in his repute of being the most pitilessly rigid disciplinarian that Earth had ever known. His thick, white hair was roached fiercely upward into a stiff pompadour. His left eye was artificial and his face bore dozens of tiny, threadlike scars; for not even the marvellous plastic surgery of that age could repair entirely the ravages of space-combat. Also, his right leg and left arm, although practically normal to all outward seeming, were in reality largely products of science and art instead of nature.

Kinnison faced, then, this reconstructed potentate, saluted crisply, and snapped:

‘Sir, Class Five reports to the Commandant.’

‘Take your post, sir.’ The veteran saluted as punctiliously, and as he did so a semi-circular desk rose around him from the floor – a desk whose most striking feature was an intricate mechanism surrounding a splint-like form.

‘Number One, Kimball Kinnison!’ von Hohendorff barked. ‘Front and centre – March! . . . The oath, sir.’

‘Before the Omnipotent Witness I promise never to lower the standard of the Galactic Patrol,’ Kinnison said reverently; and, baring his arm, thrust it into the hollow form.

From a small container labelled ‘No. 1, Kimball Kinnison’ the Commandant shook out what was apparently an ornament – a lenticular jewel fabricated of hundreds of tiny, dead-white gems. Taking it up with a pair of insulated forceps he touched it momentarily to the bronzed skin of the arm before him, and at that fleeting contact a flash as of many-coloured fire swept over the stones. Satisfied, he dropped the jewel into a recess provided for it in the mechanism, which at once burst into activity.

The forearm was wrapped in thick insulation, moulds and shields snapped into place, and there flared out an instantly-suppressed flash of brilliance intolerable. Then the moulds fell apart, the insulation was removed, and there was revealed the LENS. Clasped to Kinnison’s brawny wrist by a bracelet of imperishable, almost unbreakable, metal in which it was imbedded it shone in all its lambent splendour – no longer a whitely inert piece of jewellery, but a lenticular polychrome of writhing, almost fluid radiance which proclaimed to all observers in symbols of ever-changing flame that here was a Lensman of the GALACTIC PATROL.

In similar fashion each man of the Class was invested with the symbol of his rank. Then the stern-faced Commandant touched a button and from the bare metal floor there arose deeply-upholstered chairs, one for each graduate.

‘Fall out!’ he commanded, then smiled almost boyishly – the first intimation any of the Class ever had that the hard-boiled old tyrant could smile – and went on in a strangely altered voice:

‘Sit down, men, and smoke up. We have an hour in which to talk things over, and now I can tell you what it is all about. Each of you will find his favourite refreshment in the arm of his chair.

‘No, there’s no catch to it,’ he continued in answer to amazedly doubtful stares, and lighted a huge black cigar of Venerian tobacco as he spoke. ‘You are Lensmen now. Of course you have yet to go through the formalities of Commencement, but they don’t count. Each of you really graduated when his Lens came to life.

‘We know your individual preferences, and each of you has his favourite weed, from Tilotson’s Pittsburgh stogies up to Snowden’s Alsakanite cigarettes – even though Alsakan is just about as far away from here as a planet can be and still lie within the galaxy.

‘We also know that you are all immune to the lure of noxious drugs. If you were not, you would not be here today. So smoke up and break up – ask any questions you care to, and I will try to answer them. Nothing is barred now – this room is shielded against any spy-ray or communicator beam operable upon any known frequency.’

There was a brief and rather uncomfortable silence, then Kinnison suggested, diffidently:

‘Might it not be best, sir, to tell us all about it, from the ground up? I imagine that most of us are in too much of a daze to ask intelligent questions.’

‘Perhaps. While some of you undoubtedly have your suspicions, I will begin by telling you what is behind what you have been put through during the last five years. Feel perfectly free to break in with questions at any time. You know that every year one million eighteen-year-old boys of Earth are chosen as cadets by competitive examinations. You know that during the first year, before any of them see Wentworth Hall, that number shrinks to less than fifty thousand. You know that by Graduation Day there are only approximately one hundred left in the class. Now I am allowed to tell you that you graduates are those who have come with flying colours through the most brutally rigid, the most fiendishly thorough process of elimination that it has been possible to develop.

‘Every man who can be made to reveal any real weakness is dropped. Most of these are dismissed from the Patrol. There are many splendid men, however, who, for some reason not involving moral turpitude, are not quite what a Lensman must be. These men make up our organization, from grease-monkeys up to the highest commissioned officers below the rank of Lensman. This explains what you already know – that the Galactic Patrol is the finest body of intelligent beings yet to serve under one banner.

‘Of the million who started, you few are left. As must every being who has ever worn or who ever will wear the Lens, each of you has proven repeatedly, to the cold verge of death itself, that he is in every respect worthy to wear it. For instance, Kinnison here once had a highly adventurous interview with a lady of Aldebaran II and her friends. He did not know that we knew all about it, but we did.’

Kinnison’s very ears burned scarlet, but the Commandant went imperturbably on:

‘So it was with Voelker and the hypnotist of Karalon; with LaForge and the bentlam-eaters; with Flewelling when the Ganymede-Venus thionite smugglers tried to bribe him with ten million in gold . . .’

‘Good Heavens, Commandant!’ broke in one outraged youth. ‘Do you – did you – know everything that happened?’

‘Not quite everything, perhaps, but it is my business to know enough. No man who can be cracked has ever worn, or ever will wear, the Lens. And none of you need be ashamed, for you have passed every test. Those who did not pass them were those who were dropped.

‘Nor is it any disgrace to have been dismissed from the Cadet Corps. The millions who started with you were the pick of the planet, yet we knew in advance that of that selected million scarcely one in ten thousand would measure up in every essential. Therefore it would be manifestly unfair to stigmatize the rest of them because they were not born with that extra something, that ultimate quality of fibre which does, and of necessity must, characterize the wearers of the Lens. For that reason not even the man himself knows why he was dismissed, and no one save those who wear the Lens knows why they were selected – and a Lensman does not talk.

‘It is necessary to consider the history and background of the Patrol in order to bring out clearly the necessity for such care in the selection of its personnel. You are all familiar with it, but probably very few of you have thought of it in that connection. The Patrol is of course an outgrowth of the old Planetary Police systems; and, until its development, law enforcement always lagged behind law violation. Thus, in the old days following the invention of the automobile, state troopers could not cross state lines. Then when the National Police finally took charge, they could not follow the rocket-equipped criminals across the national boundaries.

‘Still later, when interplanetary flight became a common-place, the Planetary Police were at the same old disadvantage. They had no authority off their own worlds, while the public enemies flitted unhampered from planet to planet. And finally, with the invention of the inertialess drive and the consequent traffic between the worlds of many solar systems, crime became so rampant, so utterly uncontrollable, that it threatened the very foundations of Civilization. A man could perpetrate any crime imaginable without fear of consequences, for in an hour he could be so far away from the scene as to be completely beyond the reach of the law.

‘And helping powerfully towards utter chaos were the new vices which were spreading from world to world; among others the taking of new and horrible drugs. Thionite, for instance; occurring only upon Trenco, a drug as much deadlier than heroin as that compound is than coffee, and which even now commands such a fabulous price that a man can carry a fortune in one hollow boot-heel.

‘Thus the Triplanetary Patrol and the Galactic Patrol came into being. The first was a pitiful enough organization. It was handicapped from without by politics and politicians, and honey-combed from within by the usual small but utterly poisonous percentage of the unfit – grafters, corruptionists, bribe-takers, and out-and-out criminals. It was hampered by the fact that there was then no emblem or credential which could not be counterfeited – no one could tell with certainty that the man in uniform was a Patrolman and not a criminal in disguise.

‘As everyone knows, Virgil Samms, then Head of the Triplanetary Patrol, became First Lensman Samms and founded our Galactic Patrol. The Lens, which, being proof against counterfeiting or even imitation, makes identification of Lensmen automatic and positive, was what made our Patrol possible. Having the Lens, it was easy to weed out the few unfit. Standards of entrance were raised ever higher, and when it had been proved beyond question that every Lensman was in fact incorruptible, the Galactic Council was given more and ever more authority. More and ever more solar systems, having developed Lensmen of their own, voted to join Civilization and sought representation on the Galactic Council, even though such a course meant giving up much of their systemic sovereignty.

‘Now the power of the Council and its Patrol is practically absolute. Our armament and equipment are the ultimate; we can follow the law-breaker wherever he may go. Furthermore, any Lensman can commandeer any material or assistance, wherever and whenever required, upon any planet of any solar system adherent to Civilization; and the Lens is so respected throughout the galaxy that any wearer of it may be called upon at any time to be judge, jury, and executioner. Wherever he goes, upon, in, or through any land, water, air, or space anywhere within the confines of our Island Universe, his word is LAW.

‘That explains what you have been forced to undergo. The only excuse for its severity is that it produces results – no wearer of the Lens has ever disgraced it.

‘Now as to the Lens itself. Like every one else, you have known of it ever since you could talk, but you know nothing of its origin or its nature. Now that you are Lensmen, I can tell you what little I know about it. Questions?’

‘We have all wondered about the Lens, sir, of course,’ Maitland ventured. ‘The outlaws apparently keep up with us in science. I have always supposed that what science can build, science can duplicate. Surely more than one Lens has fallen into the hands of the outlaws?’

‘If it had been a scientific invention or discovery it would have been duplicated long ago,’ the Commandant made surprising answer. ‘It is, however, not essentially scientific in nature. It is almost entirely philosophical, and was developed for us by the Arisians.

‘Yes, each of you was sent to Arisia quite recently,’ von Hohendorff went on, as the newly commissioned officers stared, dumbfounded, at him and at each other. ‘What did you think of them, Murphy?’

‘At first, sir, I thought that they were some new kind of dragon; but dragons with brains that you could actually feel. I was glad to get away, sir. They fairly gave me the creeps, even though I never did see one of them so much as move.’

‘They are a peculiar race,’ the Commandant went on. ‘Instead of being mankind’s worst enemies, as is generally believed, they are the sine qua non of our Patrol and of Civilization. I cannot understand them; I do not know of anyone who can. They gave us the Lens; yet Lensmen must not reveal that fact to any others. They make a Lens to fit each candidate; yet no two candidates, apparently, have ever seen the same things there, nor is it believed that anyone has ever seen them as they really are. To all except Lensmen they seem to be completely anti-social; and even those who become Lensmen go to Arisia only once in their lives. They seem – although I caution you that this seeming may contain no more of reality than the physical shapes you thought you saw – to be supremely indifferent to all material things.

‘For more generations than you can understand they have devoted themselves to thinking; mainly of the essence of life. They say that they know scarcely anything fundamental concerning it; but even so they know more about it than does any other known race. While ordinarily they will have no intercourse whatever with outsiders, they did consent to help the Patrol, for the good of all intelligence.

‘Thus, each being about to graduate into Lensmanship is sent to Arisia, where a Lens is built to match his individual life force. While no mind other than that of an Arisian can understand its operation, thinking of your Lens as being synchronized with, or in exact resonance with, your own vital principle or ego will give you a rough idea of it. The Lens is not really alive, as we understand the term. It is, however, endowed with a sort of pseudo-life, by virtue of which it gives off its strong, characteristically changing light as long as it is in metal-to-flesh circuit with the living mentality for which it was designed. Also by virtue of that pseudo-life, it acts as a telepath through which you may converse with other intelligences, even though they may possess no organs of speech or of hearing.

‘The Lens cannot be removed by anyone except its wearer without dismemberment; it glows as long as its rightful owner wears it; it ceases to glow in the instant of its owner’s death and disintegrates shortly thereafter. Also – and here is the thing that renders completely impossible the impersonation of a Lensman – not only does the Lens not glow if worn by an impostor; but if a Lensman be taken alive and his Lens removed, that Lens kills in a space of seconds any living being who attempts to wear it. As long as it glows – as long as it is in circuit with its living owner – it is harmless; but in the dark condition its pseudo-life interferes so strongly with any life to which it is not attuned that that life is destroyed forthwith.’

A brief silence fell, during which the young men absorbed the stunning import of what their Commandant had been saying. More, there was striking into each young consciousness a realization of the stark heroism of the grand old Lensman before them; a man of such fibre that although physically incapacitated and long past the retirement age, he had conquered his human emotions sufficiently to accept deliberately his ogre’s role because in that way he could best further the progress of his Patrol!

‘I have scarcely broken the ground,’ von Hohendorff continued. ‘I have merely given you an introduction to your new status. During the next few weeks, before you are assigned to duty, other officers will make clear to you the many things about which you are still in the dark. Our time is growing short, but we perhaps have time for one more question.’

‘Not a question, sir, but something more important,’ Kinnison spoke up. ‘I speak for the Class when I say that we have misjudged you grievously, and we wish to apologize.’

‘I thank you sincerely for the thought, although it is unnecessary. You could not have thought otherwise of me than as you did. It is not a pleasant task that we old men have; that of weeding out those who do not measure up. But we are too old for active duty in space – we no longer have the instantaneous nervous responses that are for that duty imperative – so we do what we can. However, the work has its brighter side, since each year there are about a hundred found worthy of the Lens. This, my one hour with the graduates, more than makes up for the year that precedes it; and the other oldsters have somewhat similar compensations.

‘In conclusion, you are now able to understand what kind of mentalities fill our ranks. You know that any creature wearing the Lens is in every sense a Lensman, whether he be human or, hailing from some strange and distant planet, a monstrosity of a shape you have as yet not even imagined. Whatever his form, you may rest assured that he has been tested even as you have been; that he is as worthy of trust as are you yourselves. My last word is this – Lensmen die, but they do not fold up: individuals come and go, but the Galactic Patrol goes on!’

Then, again all martinet:

‘Class Five, attention!’ he barked. ‘Report upon the stage of the main auditorium!’

The Class, again a rigidly military unit, marched out of Room A and down the long corridor towards the great theatre in which, before the massed Cadet Corps and a throng of civilians, they were formally to be graduated.

And as they marched along the graduates realized in what way the wearers of the Lens who emerged from Room A were different from the candidates who had entered it such a short time before. They had gone in as boys; nervous, apprehensive, and still somewhat unsure of themselves, in spite of their survival through the five long years of gruelling tests which now lay behind them. They emerged from Room A as men: men knowing for the first time the real meaning of the physical and mental tortures they had undergone; men able to wield justly the vast powers whose scope and scale they could even now but dimly comprehend.