And Ladora of Lyrane, humorless and literal as all Lyranians are, took those thoughts at their face value and correlated their every connotation and implication with what she herself had perceived in that "dear, sweet" daughter's mind; with what that daughter had done and had said. The nature and quality of this hellish person's "limitations" and "faults" became eminently clear, and as she perceived what she thought was the truth, the Lyranian literally cringed.
"As you know, I have been in doubt as to whether or not to support you actively, as you wish," Ladora offered, as the two walked together across the field, toward the line of ground-cars. "On the one hand, the certainty that the safety, and perhaps the very existence, of my race will be at hazard; on the other the possibility that you are right in saying that the situation will continue to deteriorate if we do nothing. The decision has not been an easy one to make." Ladora was no longer aloof. She was just plain scared. She had been talking against time, and hoping that the help for which she had long since called would arrive in time. "I have touched only the outer surfaces of your mind. Will you allow me, without offense, to test its inner quality before deciding definitely?" she asked, and in the instant of asking sent out an exploratory tentacle of thought which was in actuality a full-driven probe.
"I will not." Ladora's beam struck a barrier which seemed to her exactly like the daughter's. None of her race had developed anything like it. She had never seen ... yes, she had, too—years ago, when she was a child, that time in the assembly hall—that utterly hated male, Kinnison of Tellus! This visitor, then, was not a real person at all, but a female—Kinnison's female—the Red Lensman, of whom even Lyrane had heard—and that pers ... that thing was their offspring! But behind that impenetrable block there might very well be—there probably was—exactly the kind of mind that the offspring had described. A creature who was physically a person, but mentally that inconceivable monstrosity, a female, might be anything and might do anything. Ladora temporized.
"Excuse me; I did not mean to intrude against your will," she apologized, smoothly enough. "Since your attitude makes it extremely difficult for me to co-operate with you, I can make no promises as yet. What is it that you wish to know first?"
"I wish to interview your predecessor Elder Person, the one we called Helen." Strangely refreshed, in a sense galvanized by the brief personal visit with her dynamic daughter, it was no longer Mrs. Kimball Kinnison who faced the Lyranian Queen. Instead, it was the Red Lensman; a full-powered Second-Stage Lensman who had finally decided that, since appeals to reason, logic, and common sense had no perceptible effect upon this stiff-necked near-woman, the time had come to bear down. "Furthermore, I intend to interview her now, and not at some such indefinite future time as your whim may see fit to allow."
Ladora sent out a final desperate call for help and mustered her every force against the interloper. Fast and strong as her mind was, however, the Red Lensman's was faster and stronger. The Lyranian's defensive structure was wrecked in the instant of its building, the frantically struggling mind was taken over in toto. Help arrived—uselessly; since, although Clarrissa's newly enlarged mind had not been put to warlike use, it was brilliantly keen and ultimately sure. Nor, in times of stress, did the softer side of her nature operate to stay mind or hand. While carrying Lensman's Load she contained no more of ruth for Civilization's foes than did abysmally frigid Nadreck himself.
Head thrown back, taut and tense, gold-flecked tawny eyes flashing, she stood there for a moment and took on her shield everything that those belligerent persons could send. More, she returned it in kind, plus; and under those withering blasts of force more than one of her attackers ceased to live. Then, still holding her block, she and her unwilling captive raced across the field toward the line of peculiar little fabric-and-wire machines which were still the last word in Lyranian air transport.
Clarrissa knew that the Lyranians had no modern offensive or defensive weapons. They did, however, have some fairly good artillery at that airport; and she hoped fervently as she ran that she could put out jets enough to spoil the aim and fusing—luckily, they hadn't developed proximity fuses yet!—of what ack-ack they could bring to bear on her crate during the few minutes she would have to use it. Fortunately, there was no artillery at the small, unimportant airport on which her speedster lay.
"Here we are. We'll take this tripe—it's the fastest thing here!"