First Lensman by E. E. Smith (epub e ink reader .TXT) 📕

first kiss. It was plainly⁠—yes, quite spectacularly⁠—evident, however, that it would not be their last.

Jack, blushing furiously, picked up the cloak and flung it at the oblivious couple.

“P-s-s-t! P-s-s-t! Jill! Wrap ’em up!” he whispered, urgently. “All the top brass in space is coming at full emergency blast⁠—there’ll be scrambled eggs all over the place any second now⁠—Mase! Damn your thick, hard skull, snap out of it! He’s always frothing at the mouth about her running around half naked and if he sees her like this⁠—especially with you⁠—he’ll simply have a litter of lizards! You’ll get a million black spots and seven hundred years in the clink! That’s better⁠—’bye now⁠—I’ll see you up at New York Spaceport.”

Jack Kinnison dashed to the nearest window, threw it open, and dived headlong out of the building.

XIV

The employment office of any concern with personnel running into the hundreds of thousands is a busy place indeed, even when its plants are all on Tellus and its working conditions are as nearly ideal as such things can be made. When that firm’s business is Colonial, however, and its working conditions are only a couple of degrees removed from slavery, procurement of personnel is a first-magnitude problem; the Personnel Department, like Alice in Wonderland, must run as fast as it can go in order to stay where it is. Thus the “Help Wanted” advertisements of Uranium, Incorporated covered the planet Earth with blandishment and guile; and thus for twelve hours of every day and for seven days of every week the employment offices of Uranium, Inc. were filled with men⁠—mostly the scum of Earth.

There were, of course, exceptions; one of which strode through the motley group of waiting men and thrust a card through the “Information” wicket. He was a chunky-looking individual, appearing shorter than his actual five feet nine because of a hundred and ninety pounds of weight⁠—even though every pound was placed exactly where it would do the most good. He looked⁠—well, slouchy⁠—and his mien was sullen.

“Birkenfeld⁠—by appointment,” he growled through the wicket, in a voice which could have been pleasantly deep.

The coolly efficient blonde manipulated plugs. “Mr. George W. Jones, sir, by appointment.⁠ ⁠… Thank you, sir,” and Mr. Jones was escorted into Mr. Birkenfeld’s private office.

“Have a chair, please, Mr.⁠ ⁠… er⁠ ⁠… Jones.”

“So you know?”

“Yes. It is seldom that a man of your education, training, and demonstrated ability applies to us for employment of his own initiative, and a very thorough investigation is indicated.”

“What am I here for, then?” the visitor demanded, truculently. “You could have turned me down by mail. Everybody else has, since I got out.”

“You are here because we who operate on the frontiers cannot afford to pass judgment upon a man because of his past, unless that past precludes the probability of a useful future. Yours does not; and in some cases, such as yours, we are very deeply interested in the future.” The official’s eyes drilled deep.

Conway Costigan had never been in the limelight. On the contrary, he had made inconspicuousness a passion and an art. Even in such scenes of violence as that which had occurred at the Ambassadors’ Ball he managed to remain unnoticed. His Lens had never been visible. No one except Lensmen⁠—and Clio and Jill⁠—knew that he had one; and Lensmen⁠—and Clio and Jill⁠—did not talk. Although he was calmly certain that this Birkenfeld was not an ordinary interviewer, he was equally certain that the investigators of Uranium, Inc. had found out exactly and only what the Patrol had wanted them to find.

“So?” Jones’ bearing altered subtly, and not because of the penetrant eyes. “That’s all I want⁠—a chance. I’ll start at the bottom, as far down as you say.”

“We advertise, and truthfully, that opportunity on Eridan is unlimited.” Birkenfeld chose his words with care. “In your case, opportunity will be either absolutely unlimited or zero, depending entirely upon yourself.”

“I see.” Dumbness had not been included in the fictitious Mr. Jones’ background. “You don’t need to draw a blueprint.”

“You’ll do, I think.” The interviewer nodded in approval. “Nevertheless, I must make our position entirely clear. If the slip was⁠—shall we say accidental?⁠—you will go far with us. If you try to play false, you will not last long and you will not be missed.”

“Fair enough.”

“Your willingness to start at the bottom is commendable, and it is a fact that those who come up through the ranks make the best executives; in our line at least. Just how far down are you willing to start?”

“How low do you go?”

“A mucker, I think would be low enough; and, from your build, and obvious physical strength, the logical job.”

“Mucker?”

“One who skoufers ore in the mine. Nor can we make any exception in your case as to the routines of induction and transportation.”

“Of course not.”

“Take this slip to Mr. Calkins, in Room 6217. He will run you through the mill.”

And that night, in an obscure boardinghouse, Mr. George Washington Jones, after a meticulous Service Special survey in every direction, reached a large and somewhat grimy hand into a screened receptacle in his battered suitcase and touched a Lens.

“Clio?” The lovely mother of their wonderful children appeared in his mind. “Made it, sweetheart, no suspicion at all. No more Lensing for a while⁠—not too long, I hope⁠—so⁠ ⁠… so-long, Clio.”

“Take it easy, Spud darling, and be careful.” Her tone was light, but she could not conceal a stark background of fear. “Oh, I wish I could go, too!”

“I wish you could, Tootie.” The linked minds flashed back to what the two had done together in the red opacity of Nevian murk; on Nevia’s mighty, watery globe⁠—but that kind of thinking would not do. “But the boys will keep in touch with me and keep you posted. And besides, you know how hard it is to get a babysitter!”

It is strange that the fundamental operations of working metalliferous veins have changed so little throughout the ages. Or is it? Ores came into being with the crusts of the planets; they change appreciably