"But there's nobody nearly enough like him!" snarled the chief, in desperation. He was torn by doubt and indecision. This whole situation was a mess--it didn't add up right, from any possible angle. "It's got to be him--it _can't_ be anybody else. I've checked and rechecked him. It _is_ him, and not a double. He thinks that he's safe enough; he doesn't suspect that we're here at all. Besides, his only good double, Fordyce--and _he's_ not good enough to stand the inspection I just gave him--hasn't appeared anywhere." "Probably inside Base yet. Maybe this is a better double. Perhaps this _is_ the real Lensman pretending he isn't, or maybe the real Lensman is slipping out while you're watching the man in the cab," the junior suggested, helpfully. "Shut up!" the superior yelled. He started to reach for a switch, but paused, hand in air. "Go ahead. That's it, call District and toss it into their laps, if it's too hot for you to handle. I think myself that whoever did this job is a warm number--plenty warm." "And get my ears bunted off with that 'your report is neither complete nor conclusive' of his?" the chief sneered. "And get reduced for incompetence besides? No, we've got to do it ourselves, and do it right--but that man there isn't the Lensman--he can't be!" "Well, you'd better make up your mind--you haven't got all day. And nix on that 'we' stuff. It's _you_ that's got to do it--you're the boss, not me," the underling countered, callously. For once, he was really glad that he was not the one in command. "And you'd better get busy and do it, too." "I'll do it," the chief declared, grimly. "There's a way." There was a way. One only. He must be brought in alive and compelled to divulge the truth. There was no other way. The blue man touched a stud and spoke. "Don't kill him--bring him in alive. If you kill him even accidentally, I'll kill both of you, myself." * * * * * The Gray Lensman made his carefree way down the alleylike thoroughfare, whistling inharmoniously and very evidently at peace with the Universe. It takes something, friends, to walk knowingly into a trap; without betraying emotion or stress even while a blackjack, wielded by a strong arm, is descending toward the back of your head. Something of quality, something of fiber. But whatever it took, Kinnison in ample measure had. He did not wink, flinch, or turn an eye as the billy came down. Only as it touched his hair did he act, exerting all his marvelous muscular control to jerk forward and downward, with the weapon and ahead of it, to spare himself as much as possible of the terrific blow. [Illustration: _The Lensman, fully aware, yet did not wink, flinch, or turn an eye as the billy came down._] The blackjack crunched against the base of the Lensman's skull in a shower of coruscating constellations. He fell. He lay there, twitching feebly. VIII.