First Lensman - E. E. Smith (nonfiction book recommendations .txt) 📗

such a poor second in an interview⁠ ⁠… and it wasn’t because you didn’t know to start with just what kind of a tiger he was⁠—that’s why he was selected for this job. And it would have been so easy to give him just a wee bit more.”

“That’s preposterous, Chief, and you know it.”

“Do I? However, it couldn’t have been jealousy, because he isn’t being considered for your job. He won’t be over you, and there’s plenty of room for everybody. What was the matter? Your bloodthirstiness wouldn’t have taken you that far, under these circumstances. Come clean, Herkimer.”

“Okay⁠—I hate the whole damned family!” Herkimer burst out, viciously.

“I see. That adds up.” Morgan’s face cleared, his fingers became motionless. “You can’t make the Samms wench and aren’t in position to skin her alive, so you get allergic to all her relatives. That adds up, but let me tell you something.” His quiet, level voice carried more of menace than most men’s loudest threats. “Keep your love life out of business and keep that sadistic streak under control. Don’t let anything like this happen again.”

“I won’t, Chief. I got off the beam⁠—but he made me so damn mad!”

“Certainly. That’s exactly what he was trying to do. Elementary. If he could make you look small it would make him look big, and he just about did. But watch now, he’s coming to.”

Samms’ muscles relaxed. He opened his eyes groggily; then, as a wave of humiliated realization swept over his consciousness, he closed them again and shuddered. He had always thought himself pretty much of a man; how could he possibly have descended to such nauseous depths of depravity, of turpitude, of sheer moral degradation? And yet every cell of his being was shrieking its demand for more; his mind and his substance alike were permeated by an overmastering craving to experience again the ultimate thrills which they had so tremendously, so outrageously enjoyed.

There was another good jolt lying right there on the desk in front of him, even though thionite-sniffers always saw to it that no more of the drug could be obtained without considerable physical exertion; which exertion would bring them to their senses. If he took that jolt it would kill him. What of it? What was death? What good was life, except to enjoy such thrills as he had just had and was about to have again? And besides, thionite couldn’t kill him. He was a superman; he had just proved it!

He straightened up and reached for the capsule; and that effort, small as it was, was enough to bring First Lensman Virgil Samms back under control. The craving, however, did not decrease. Rather, it increased.

Months were to pass before he could think of thionite, or even of the color purple, without a spasmodic catching of the breath and a tightening of every muscle. Years were to pass before he could forget, even partially, the theretofore unsuspected dwellers in the dark recesses of his own mind. Nevertheless, from the store of whatever it was that made him what he was, Virgil Samms drew strength. Thumb and forefinger touched the capsule, but instead of picking it up, he pushed it across the desk toward Herkimer.

“Put it away, bub. One whiff of that stuff will last me for life.” He stared unfathomably at the secretary, then turned to Morgan and nodded. “After all, he did not say that he ever passed this or any other test. He just didn’t contradict me when I said it.”

With a visible effort Herkimer remained silent, but Morgan did not.

“You talk too much, Olmstead. Can you stand up yet?”

Gripping the desk with both hands, Samms heaved himself to his feet. The room was spinning and gyrating; every individual thing in it was moving in a different and impossible orbit; his already splintered skull threatened more and more violently to emulate a fragmentation bomb; black and white spots and varicolored flashes filled his cone of vision. He wrenched one hand free, then the other⁠—and collapsed back into the chair.

“Not yet⁠—quite,” he admitted, through stiff lips.

Although he was careful not to show it, Morgan was amazed⁠—not that the man had collapsed, but that he had been able so soon to lift himself even an inch. “Tiger” was not the word; this Olmstead must be seven-eighths dinosaur.

“It takes a few minutes; longer for some, not so long for others,” Morgan said, blandly. “But what makes you think Herkimer here never took one of the same?”

“Huh?” Again two pairs of eyes locked and held; and this time the duel was longer and more pregnant. “What do you think? How do you suppose I lived to get as old as I am now? By being dumb?”

Morgan unwrapped a Venerian cigar, settled it comfortably between his teeth, lit it, and drew three slow puffs before replying.

“Ah, a student. An analytical mind,” he said, evenly, and⁠—apparently⁠—irrelevantly. “Let’s skip Herkimer for the moment. Try your hand on me.”

“Why not? From what we hear out in the field, you have always been in the upper brackets, so you probably never had to prove that you could take it or let it alone. My guess would be, though, that you could.”

“The good old oil, eh?” Morgan allowed his face and voice to register a modicum, precisely metered, of contempt. “How to get along in the world; Lesson One: Butter up the Boss.”

“Nice try, Senator, but I’ll have to score you a clean miss.” Samms, now back almost to normal, grinned companionably. “We both know that if I were still in the kindergarten I wouldn’t be here now.”

“I’ll let that one pass⁠—this time.” Under that look and tone Morgan’s underlings were wont to cringe, but this Olmstead was not the cringing type. “Don’t do it again. It might not be safe.”

“Oh, it would be safe enough⁠—for today, at least. There are two factors which you are very carefully ignoring. First, I haven’t accepted the job yet.”

“Are you innocent enough to think you’ll get out of this building alive