“Stop, youth!” The voice of that nameless, incredibly ancient Arisian who was Kinnison’s instructor and whom he had thought of and spoken of simply as “Mentor” thundered silently, deep within the Lensman’s brain.
He stopped convulsively, almost in midstride, and at the rigid, absent awareness in his eyes Nurse MacDougall’s face went white.
“This is not merely the loose and muddy thinking of which you have all too frequently been guilty in the past,” the deeply resonant, soundless voice went on, “it is simply not thinking at all. At times, Kinnison of Tellus, we almost despair of you. Think, youth, think! For know, Lensman, that upon the clarity of your thought and upon the trueness of your perception depends the whole future of your Patrol and of your Civilization; more so now by far tha
