"Huh?" she demanded. "Such as?"
"'Way down—there." He showed her. "You worked all of that area yourself. I only showed you how, without getting in too close."
"Why? Oh, I see—you would. Life-force. I would have lots of that, of course." She did not blush, but Kit did.
"Life-force" was a pitifully inadequate term indeed for that which Civilization's only Lensman-mother had in such measure, but they both knew what it was. Kit ducked.
"You can always tell all about a Lensman by looking at his Lens; it's an absolute diagram of his whole mind. You've studied Dad's, of course."
"Yes. Three times as big as the ordinary ones—or mine—and much finer and brighter. But mine isn't, Kit?"
"It wasn't, you mean. Put it on and look at it now."
She opened a drawer, and even before she could snap the bracelet around her wrist, her eyes and mouth became three round O's of astonishment. She had never seen that Lens before, or anything like it. It was three times as big as hers, seven times as fine and as intricate, and ten times as bright.
"Why, this isn't mine!" she gasped. "But this is where I put—"
"Sneeze, Gorgeous," Kit advised. "Cobwebs. It lit up, didn't it? You aren't thinking a lick. Your mind changed, so your Lens had to. See?"