"I was overlooking a few things, at that, I guess." Samms sighed in relief as he entered the main office of the Patrol.
The line at the receptionist's desk was fairly short, but even so, Samms was not allowed to wait. That highly decorative, but far-from-dumb blonde, breaking off in mid-sentence her business of the moment, turned on her charm as though it had been a battery of floodlights, pressed a stud on her desk, and spoke to the man before her and to the Lensman:
"Excuse me a moment, please. First Lensman Samms, sir...?"
"Yes, Miss Regan?" her communicator—"squawk-box", in every day parlance—broke in.
"First Lensman Samms is here, sir," the girl announced, and broke the circuit.
"Good evening, Sylvia. Lieutenant-Commander Wagner, please, or whoever else is handling clearances," Samms answered what he thought was to have been her question.
"Oh, no, sir; you are cleared. Commodore Clayton has been waiting for you ... here he is, now."
"Hi, Virgil!" Commodore Clayton, a big, solid man with a scarred face and a shock of iron-gray hair, whose collar bore the two silver stars which proclaimed him to be the commander-in-chief of a continental contingent of the Patrol, shook hands vigorously. "I'll zip you out. Miss Regan, call a bug, please."
"Oh, that isn't necessary, Alex!" Samms protested. "I'll pick one up outside."
"Not in any Patrol base in North America, my friend; nor, unless I am very badly mistaken, anywhere else. From now on, Lensmen have absolute priority, and the quicker everybody realizes exactly what that means, the better."