Then the Galactic Patrol came into being. At first it was a pitiful-enough organization. It was handicapped from within by the usual small, but utterly disastrous percentage of grafters and criminals; from without by the fact that there was then no emblem or credential which could not be counterfeited. No one could tell with certainty that the man in uniform was a Patrolman and not an outlaw in disguise.
The second difficulty was overcome first. One old-time Patrolman had heard of the Arisians. He visited their planet and—this should be a saga by itself—persuaded those Masters of Mentality that they should help right against wrong, at least to the extent of furnishing a positive means of identification. They did, and still do—The Lens.
Each being about to graduate as a Lensman is sent to Arisia; where, although the candidate does not then know it, a Lens—a lenticular jewel composed of thousands of tiny crystalloids—is built to match his individual life force. While no mind other than that of an Arisian can understand its functioning, thinking of the Lens as being synchronized with, or in exact resonance with the life principle—personality, ego, call it what you will—of its owner will give a rough idea of it. It is not really alive, as we understand the term. It is, however, endowed with a sort of pseudolife, by virtue of which it gives off its strong, characteristically changing, polychromatic light as long as it is in circuit with the living mentality for which it was designed. It is inimitable, unforgettable. Anyone who has ever seen a Lens, or even a picture of one, will never forget it; nor will he ever be deceived by any possible counterfeit or imitation of it.
The Lens cannot be removed by anyone except its wearer without actual dismemberment of that wearer; it shines as long as its rightful owner wears it, and in the instant of its owner's death, it ceases forever to shine. And not only does a Lens refuse to shine if any impostor attempts to wear it—any Lens not in circuit with its owner kills in a space of minutes any other who touches it, so strongly does its pseudolife interfere with any life to which it is not attuned.
Also by virtue of that pseudolife the Lens acts as a telepath through which its owner may communicate with any other intelligence, high or low; even though the other entity may possess no organs either of sight or of hearing, as we know these senses. The Lens has also many other highly important uses, which lack of space forbids even mentioning here.
Having the Lens, it was an easy matter for the Patrol to purify itself of its few unworthy members. Standards of entrance were raised higher and higher; and, as it became evident that it was to a man incorruptible, it was granted more and ever more authority.
Now its power is practically unlimited; the Lensman can follow the lawbreaker, wherever he may go. He can commandeer any material or assistance, whenever and wherever required. The Lens is so respected throughout the Galactic Union that any wearer of it may at any time be called upon to act as judge, jury, and executioner. Wherever he goes, throughout the Universe of Civilization, he not only carries the law with him—he is the law.
How are these Lensmen chosen? An Earthman myself, and proud of the fact that Tellus was the cradle of Galactic Civilization, I will describe only how Tellurian Lensmen are selected. Upon other planets the methods and means vary widely; but the results are the same: Wherever he may be found or however monstrous he may appear, a Lensman is always a Lensman.
Each year one million boys are picked, by competitive examination, from all the eighteen-year-olds of Earth. During the first year of training, before any of them set foot inside Wentworth Hall, that number shrinks to less than fifty thousand. Then, for four years more, they are put through the most poignantly searching, the most pitilessly rigid process of elimination possible to develop, during the course of which every man who can be made to reveal any sign of unworthiness or of weakness is dropped. Of each class, only about a hundred win through to the Lens; but each of those few has proven repeatedly, to the cold verge of death itself, that he is in every sense fit to wear it.