“But I’m going to really snuff ’em, starting with Number One and taking ’em in order. No suicide.”
“Huh?” Skepticism incarnate. “It can’t be done, except by an almost impossibly fortuitous accident, which is why you yourself have always been as opposed to such attempts as the rest of us. The charge of explosive must match, within very narrow limits, the activity of the vortex itself at the instant of detonation; and that activity varies so greatly and so unpredictably that all attempts at accurate extrapolation have failed. Even the Conference of Scientists couldn’t develop a usable formula, any more than they could work out a tractor that could be used as a tow-line on one.”
“Wait a minute!” Cloud protested. “They found that it could be forecast, for a length of time proportional to the length of the cycle in question, by an extension of the calculus of warped surfaces.”
“Humph! I said a usable formula!” the Lensman snorted. “What good is a ten-second forecast when it takes a GOMEAC twice that long to solve. . . . Oh!” he broke off, staring.
“Oh,” he repeated, slowly. “I forgot for a minute that you were born with a super-GOMEAC in your head. But there are other things.”
“There were. Now there are none.”
“No?”
“NO. I couldn’t take such chances before, and I’d’ve tied myself up into knots if I did. Now nothing can throw me. I can compute all the elements of a sigma curve in nothing flat. A ten-second prediction gives me ten seconds of action. That’s plenty.”
“I see.” Strong pondered, his fingers drumming softly upon his desk. Lensmen did not ordinarily use their Lenses on their Lensless friends, but this was no ordinary occasion. “You aren’t afraid of death any more. But you won’t invite it? And do you mind if I Lens you on that?”
“Come in. I’ll not invite it, but that’s as far as I’ll go in promising. I won’t make any superhuman effort to avoid it. I’ll take all due precautions, for the sake of the job, but if one gets me, what the hell?”