“Mutations were rare before, because a charged particle has to get pretty close to a gene and be moving fast before its electromagnetic effect causes physico-chemical changes, and then that particular chromosome has to enter into reproduction. Now the charged particles, and the gamma rays producing still more, are everywhere. Even at the comparatively low concentration, the odds favor a given organism having so many cells changed that at least one will give rise to a mutant. There’s even a good chance of like recessives meeting in the first generation, as we’ve seen. Nobody’s safe, no place is free.”

“The geneticist thinks some true humans will continue.”

“A few, probably. After all, the radioactivity isn’t too concentrated, and it’s burning itself out. But it’ll take fifty or hundred years for the process to drop to insignificance, and by then the pure stock will be way in the minority. And there’ll still be all those unmatched recessives, waiting to show up.”

“You were right. We should never have created science. It brought the twilight of the race.”

“I never said that. The race brought its own destruction, through misuse of science. Our culture was scientific anyway, in all except its psychological basis. It’s up to us to take that last and hardest step. If we do, the race may yet survive.”

Drummond gave Robinson a push toward the inner door. “You’re exhausted, beat up, ready to quit. Go on in and see Elaine. Give her my regards. Then take a long rest before going back to work. I still think you’ve got a good kid.”

Mechanically, the de facto President of the United States left the room. Hugh Drummond stared after him a moment, then went out into the street.

Kinnison’s Band

(To the tune of McNamara’s Band)

My name is Kimball Kinnison, I lead the Lensman band.
Although we’re few in number, our abilities are grand;
We play with stars and planets, catch comets in a net,
And use a supernova to light a cigarette.
Chorus:
All clear and on green, QX, QX!
All clear and on green, QX, QX!
All clear and on green, QX, QX!
Sound it loudly, clearly, Brek-ke-ke-kex, QX!

I met with good old Worsel and he took my by the hand
And said, “How’s civilization, and how does she stand?
It’s the most distressing galaxy that ever you have seen;
Boskone is hanging everyone whose tentacles aren’t green.”
Chorus

So Tregonsee got down to work, our fearless mental scout.
His X-ray eyes and ESP went peering all about
Behind all doors where he might spy a lurking zwilnik louse;
Especially the dressing room down at the burlesque house.
Chorus

Then frigid-blooded, poison-breathing Nadreck came to town
And said we all should have a drink to wet our whistles down.
King’s Ransom isn’t aqua regia, which he drank with vim,
But all we Earthmen cooled our beers by standing them on him.
Chorus

Then Mentor of Arisia, our good old college dean,
Who personally ground each Lens upon his Dean machine,
Decided we must learn much more, lest Civilization fall.
To lecture us, he first went out and hired a Cosmic ‘All.
Chorus