After the Rally there were a days which neither Samms Kinnison was on Earth. That the Cosmocrats' presidential candidate and the First Lensman were with the Fleet was not a secret; in fact, it was advertised. Everyone was told why they were out there, and almost approved.
Nor was their felt. Developments, fast and terrific, were home. Cosmocratic in every of North America the flag, pointed with pride, and viewed with alarm, in the very best of North American politics. But above all, there appeared upon every news-stand and in every book-shop of the Continent, at opening time of the day Rally Day, a book of over eighteen hundred pages of print; a book the of which had Samms himself no little concern.
"But I'm of it!" he had protested. "We know it's true; but there's material on almost every page for the biggest and in history!"
"I know it," the and paunchy Lensman-attorney had replied. "Fully. I they do take action against us, but I'm they won't."
"You they do?"
"Yes. If they take the they can't prevent us from our in full; and there is no in existence, corrupt, which we not win. What they want and must have is delay; of any issue until after the election."
"I see." Samms was convinced.
The of the Patrol's Grand Fleet had been from all of the Solarian system, friends and alike; but the battle—liberating as it did to the very and of the of space itself—could not be or denied, or belittled. It was not, however, or abroad. Then as now the wanted to know, and long-range communicators, more than those for security to tell; then as now the said as little as it was possible to say.
Everyone that the Patrol had a victory; but nobody who or what the enemy had been. Since the rank and file it, that only a of the Black had actually been destroyed; but nobody where the or what they did. Everyone that about ninety five of the Patrol's Grand Fleet had come from, and was on its way to, the Bennett, and knew—since Bennettans would in a be all over space—in what Bennett was; but nobody why it was.
Thus, when the North American Contingent at New York Spaceport, the was mobbed. However, in with the to the wise old owl, those who the least said the most. But the Telenews who had once Kinnison and Samms no time upon small fry. He on the two top Lensmen, and on until he did see them.
"Nothing to say," Kinnison said curtly, no that he meant it. "All talking—if any—will be done by First Lensman Samms."
"Now, all you millions of Telenews listeners, I am First Lensman Samms himself. A little closer to the mike, please, First Lensman. Now, sir, what wants to know is—who are the Blacks?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know? On the Lens, sir?"
"On the Lens. I still don't know."
"I see. But you have or ideas? You can guess?"
"I can guess; but that's all it would be—a guess."
"And my guess, folks, is that his would be a very guess. Will you tell the public, First Lensman Samms, what your is?"
"I will." If this reply the newshawk, it Kinnison and the others who Samms best. It was, however, a calculated political move. "While it will be we can and proof, it is my opinion that the Black was and by the Morgan-Towne-Isaacson machine. That they, all unknown to any of us, enticed, corrupted, and a world, or worlds, to their program of and enslavement. That they by to take over the Continent of North America and through it the whole earth and all the other to Civilization. That they to and kill every Lensman, and to the Galactic Council to their own ends. This is what you wanted?"
"That's fine, sir—just what we wanted. But just one more thing, sir." The had more than he had to get; yet, good newsmanlike, he wanted more. "Just a word, if you will, Mr. Samms, as to these and the White Book?"
"I can add very little, I'm afraid, to what I have already said and what is in the book; and that little can be as 'I told you so'. We are trying, and will continue to try, to those to trial; to up, to prohibit, an series of hair-splitting delays. We want, and are to get, legal action; to make each of those we have himself in and under oath. Morgan and his crew, however, are to avoid any action at all, they know that we can and will prove every we have made."
The Telenews off, Samms and Kinnison to their offices, and Cosmocratic the nation a field-day. They and with triumph. They themselves hoarse, leather-lunged tub-thumpers though they were, in pointing out the purity, the perfection of their own party and its every candidate for office; in at the never-to-be-sufficiently-condemned, proved and and of the opposition.
And the Nationalists, although they had been a and blow, near-miracles of politics with what they had. Morgan and his and raved. They were being jobbed. They were being by the Monied Powers. All those and were fabrications—false, vicious, nothing of truth. They, not the Patrol, were trying to a show-down; to themselves and to those Lensmen Election Day. And they were succeeding! Why, otherwise, had not a single one of the thousands of been arrested? Ask that First Lensman, Virgil Samms! Ask that rock-hearted, iron-headed, murderer, Roderick Kinnison! But do not, at of your sanity, submit your minds to their Lenses!
And why, the reader asks, were not at least some of those named Election Day? And your must answer that he not know. He is not a lawyer. It would be of interest—to some of us—to in detail at least one of those days of legal in one of the high of the land; to at least a of the many thousands of pages of transcript: but to most of us the would be in the extreme.
But couldn't the tell easily which was on the and which on the defensive? Which pressed for action and which on and delay? They have, easily enough, if they had about the to make the necessary effort, but almost was too doing something else. And it was so much to take somebody else's word for it. And finally, is an to which all too are accustomed.
But Morgan neither when he sat in with his faintly-blue superior, who had come in as soon as he had learned of the of the Black fleet. The Kalonian was very concerned; so much so that the of his was slowly to a of green.
"How did that happen? How it happen? Why was I not of the Patrol's power—how you be of such stupidity? Now I'll have to report to Scrwan of the Eich. He's pure, poison—and if word of this up to Ploor...!!!"
"Come out of the stratosphere, Fernald," Morgan countered, bitingly. "Don't try to make me the goat—I won't still for it. It they a than we could. You were in on that—all of it. You what we were doing, and it—all of it. You were as as I was. You were not I out nothing—I learn no more of their Bennett than they of our Petrine. As to reporting, you will of do as you please; but I would you not to too much you're hurt. This isn't over yet, my friend."
The Kalonian had been a entity; it was a measure of his of mind that he did not the Tellurian then and there. But since Morgan was as as ever, and as sure of himself, he to his aplomb. His color again its normal blue.
"I will your this time, since there were no witnesses, but use no more such language to me," he said, stiffly. "I fail to any for your optimism. The only now is for you to win the election, and how can you do that? You are—must be—losing ground and rapidly."
"Not as much as you might think." Morgan a large, carefully-drawn chart. "This line the hide-bound Nationalists, nothing we can do will from the party; this one the hide-bound Cosmocrats. The of power lies, as always, with the independents—these here. And many of them are not as as is supposed. We can or pressure to on of them—that them to this size here. So, no what the Patrol does, it can affect only this small here, and it is this we are for. We are a little ground, and steadily, yes; since we can't from with a brain the that we're doing our best to keep the cases from to trial. But here's the line of sentiment, as from up to yesterday; here is the of that line to Election Day. It us to just under nine of the total vote."
"And is there anything about that?" Fernald asked frostily.
"I'll say there is!" Morgan's big a smile, an by any voter. "This only with living, legally registered, bona-fide voters. Now if we can come that close to an election, how do you we can possibly the this one is going to be? We're in power, you know. We've got this machine and we know how to use it."
"Oh, yes, I remember—vaguely. You told me about North American politics once, a years ago. Dead men, ringers, repeaters, ballot-box stuffing, and so on, you said?"
"'And so on' is right, Chief!" Morgan him, heartily. "Everything goes, this time. It'll be one of the biggest in North American history."
"I will, then, any action until after the election."
"That will be the thing to do, Chief; then you won't have to take any, or make any report at all," and upon this satisfactory note the closed.
And Morgan was actually as as he had appeared. His were and factual. He the power of money and the of pressure; he the of the of his machine. He did not, however, know two things: Jill Samms' insidious, deeply-hidden Voters' Protective League and the of the Galactic Patrol. Thus, times of and his carefully-prepared, rabble-rousing speeches, he and the of his and organization.
Until the day election, that is. Then of men and and to work; at least four in every precinct of the entire nation. They visited, it seemed, every and every unit, everywhere. They asked questions, and took notes, and vanished; and the machine's operatives, after the was given, not man or girl or notebook. And the Galactic Patrol, which had paid any attention to elections, had and time to its every North American citizen. Vessels of the North American Contingent were and of personnel; and were depopulated; and from every world every Patrolman registered in any North American precinct came to the day at home.
Morgan then to worry, but there was nothing he do about the situation—or was there? If the boys and girls were the registration books—and they were—it was as legally-appointed checkers. If the boys and girls were all home to vote—and they were—that, too, was their right. But boys and girls were to accident and to ... but again Morgan was surprised; and, this time, taken aback. The which had protected Grand Rally so efficiently, but now, was again; and Morgan and his a and night.
Election Day clear, bright, and cool; a record turn-out. Voting was early and heavy; the polls were crowded. There was, however, very little disorder. Surprisingly little, in view of the that the Cosmocratic watchers, of being the of custom, were cold-eyed, men and who to know by every in the precinct. At least they on and without every ringer, every one, every repeater, and every who the right to vote. And those challenges, being out in every case by the carefully-checked registration lists, were in every case upheld.
Not all of the on duty, in the big cities, were above suspicion, of course. But any one of those officers to a to play with the machine a calm, quiet-eyed Patrolman would remark, casually:
"Better see that this election straight, bud, and according to the and signatures—or you're to in the big book along with the of the rats."
It was not that the machine liked the way were going, or that it did not have on the job. It was that there were, and always, more Patrolmen than there were goons. And those Patrolmen, in years some of them might have appeared to be, were space-bronzed veterans, space-hardened men, with the last word in blasters—Lewiston, Mark Seventeen.
To the boy's friends and neighbors, of course, his Lewiston was invisible. It was an article of clothing, the same as his pants. It no more of significance, of threat or of menace, than did the pistol and the of the Irish on the beat. But the did not see the Patrolman as a friend. He saw the keen, clear, eyes; the long, fingers; the muscles, so of speed and of power. He saw the Lewiston for what it was; the deadliest, most hand-weapon to man. Above all he saw the in numbers: six or seven or eight Patrolmen to four or five or six of his own kind. If more arrived, so did more spacemen; if some departed, so did a number of the of the space-black and silver.
"Ain't you of around here, George?" One asked of one Patrolman. "I am. What say we and some of you up some girls and go have us a party?"
"Uh-uh," George denied. His voice was and careless, but his were cold. "My uncle's cousin's is for second dog-catcher, and I can't until I out he or not."
Thus nothing happened; thus the but did not into open battle; and thus, for the time in North America's long history, a presidential election was ninety nine and ninety nine one-hundredths pure!
Evening came. The polls closed. The Cosmocrats' for the day, the Grand Ballroom of the Hotel Voort, the of every Patrolman who he any at all of in. Kinnison had been there all day, of course. So had Joy, his wife, who for of space has been sadly neglected in these annals. Betty, their daughter, had come in early, by a and lieutenant, who has no other place in this story. Jack Kinnison arrived, with Dimples Maynard—dazzlingly blonde, a red of silk. She, too, has been here, although she was else.
"The time I saw her," Jack was to say, "I right into a spin, around in circles and myself in the small of the back, and couldn't out of it for four hours!"
That Miss Maynard should be a very special item is not at all surprising, in view of the that she was to the wife of one of THE Kinnisons and the mother of another.
The First Lensman, who had been in and out, came in to stay. So did Jill and her inseparable, Mason Northrop. And so did others, or by or threes. Lensmen and their wives. Conway and Clio Costigan, Dr. and Mrs. Rodebush, and Cleveland, Admiral and Mrs. Clayton, Schweikert, and Dr. Nels Bergenholm. And others. Nor were they all North Americans, or human. Rularion was there; and so was blocky, Dronvire of Rigel Four. No tell, ever, what any Lensman was thinking, to say nothing of such a Lensman as Dronvire—but that hotel was being as no political had been before.
The returns came in, see-sawing and forth. Faster and faster. The Maritime Provinces fifty-fifty. Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont, Cosmocrat. New York, upstate, Cosmocrat. New York City, on the of but returns, was up a Nationalist majority. Pennsylvania—labor—Nationalist. Ohio—farmers—Cosmocrat. Twelve southern six and six. Chicago, as usual, for the machine; Quebec and Ottawa and Montreal and Toronto and Detroit and Kansas City and St. Louis and New Orleans and Denver.
Then northern and western and southern came in and the score. Saskatchewan, Alberta, Britcol, and Alaska, all Cosmocrat. So did Washington, Idaho, Montana, Oregon, Nevada, Utah, Arizona, Newmex, and most of the of Mexico.
At three o'clock in the the Cosmocrats had a but lead and were, finally, it. At four o'clock the lead was larger, but California was still an unknown quantity—California everything. How would California go? Especially, how would California's two districts—the two most and free-thinking and least predictable big of the nation—how would they go?
At five o'clock California safe. Except for Los Angeles and San Francisco, the Cosmocrats had the state, and in those two great they a lead. It was still possible, however, for the Nationalists to win.
"It's in the bag! Let's start the celebration!" someone shouted, and others took up the cry.
"Stop it! No!" Kinnison's parade-ground voice cut through the noise. "No is in order or will be until the result or Witherspoon concedes!"
The two events came together: Witherspoon a of minutes it for him to win. Then came the celebration, which on and on interminably. At the opportunity, however, Kinnison took Samms by the arm, him without a word into a small office, and the door. Samms, also saying nothing, sat in the chair, put up on the desk, a cigarette, and deeply.
"Well, Virge—satisfied?" Kinnison the at last. His Lens was off. "We're on our way."
"Yes, Rod. Fully. At last." No more than his friend did he to use his Lens; to the he so well were there. "Now it will roll—under its own power—no one man now is or will be to the Galactic Patrol—nothing can stop it now!"
