Galactic Patrol
By E. E. Smith, Ph.D.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Astounding Stories September, October, November,
December 1937, January, February 1938.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Dominating twice a hundred square miles of campus, parade ground,airport, and space port, a ninety-story edifice of chromium and glasssparkled dazzlingly in the bright sunlight of a June morning. Thismonumental pile was Wentworth Hall, in which the Tellurian candidatesfor the Lens of the Galactic Patrol live and move and have their being.One wing of its topmost floor seethed with tense activity, for thatwing was the habitat of the lordly five-year men, this was graduationday, and in a few minutes Class 5 was due to report in Room A.
Room A, the private office of the commandant himself; the dreadful lairinto which an undergraduate was summoned only to disappear from theHall and from the cadet corps; the portentous chamber into which eachyear the handful of graduates marched and from which they emerged, eachman in some subtle fashion changed.
In their cubicles of steel the graduates scanned each othernarrowly, making sure that no wrinkle or speck of dust marred theblack-and-silver perfection of the dress uniform of the patrol;that not even the tiniest spot of tarnish or dullness violated theglittering golden meteors upon their collars or the resplendentlypolished ray pistols and other equipment at their belts. Themicroscopic mutual inspection over, the kit boxes were snapped shut andracked, and the embryonic Lensmen made their way out into the assemblyhall.
In the wardroom Kimball Kinnison, captain of the class by virtue ofgraduating at its head, and his three lieutenants, Clifford Maitland,Raoul LaForge, and Widel Holmberg, had inspected each other minutelyand were now simply awaiting, in ever-increasing tension, the zerominute.
"Now, fellows, remember that drop!" the young captain jerked out."We're dropping the shaft free, at higher velocity and in tighterformation than any class ever tried before. If anybody hashes theformation—our last show and with the whole corps looking on——"
"Don't worry about the drop, Kim," advised Maitland. "All threeplatoons will take that like clockwork. What's got me all of a ditheris what is really going to happen in Room A."
"Uh-huh!" exclaimed LaForge and Holmberg as one.
"You can play that across the board for the whole class," Kinnisonagreed. "Well, we'll soon know. It's time to get going."
The four officers stepped out into the assembly hall, the classspringing to attention at their approach.
Kinnison, now all brisk captain, stared along the mathematically exactlines and snapped: "Report!"
"Class 5 present in full, sir!" The sergeant major touched a stud athis belt and all vast Wentworth Hall fairly trembled under the impactof an all-pervading, lilting, throbbing melody as the world's finestmilitary band crashed into "Our Patrol."
"Squads left—march!" Although no possible human voice could havebeen heard in that gale of soul-stirring sound, and althoughKinnison's lips did not move, his command was carried to the verybones of those for whom it was intended—and to no one else—by thetight-beam ultra-communicators strapped upon their chests. "Closeformation—forward—march!"
In perfect alignment and cadence, the little column marched down thehall. In their path yawned the shaft—a vertical p