He now was close to that little stone building at the rear which he had previously noted, and in which he was sure his father was imprisoned. There was no light showing, and apparently no windows at all. He ran toward it swiftly, and ducked into its shadow. He circled it completely, but there was only one door—locked.
George Hanlon probed with his mind toward the interior, and faintly, just barely on the threshold of his consciousness, he caught a familiar thought-pattern.
"It is dad," he exulted, but silently. Almost forgetting caution, he doubled back and was attacking that locked door, when a sound behind made him whirl about.
A number of men were boiling swiftly out of that door in the main house he had passed a few moments before. And the light now shining out reflected on the unmistakable flameguns in their hands. In that first quick glance he had recognized Yandor as one of the men.
"Yipe!" Hanlon knew a deep disappointment—which did not stop him from starting away from there on a dead run. He increased his speed as he heard the pounding of heavy feet behind him.
He dashed toward the nearest yard, trying always to keep in the shadows. Fortunately, he was fleeter than his pursuers, and gained considerable yardage on them.
Around that next house he ran, and across the next yard. A couple of flamegun flashes sprang out at him, but not close. The gangsters were also flashing the lights from reflector-lanterns, trying to locate and spotlight him for more accurate shooting.
In the drive of that neighboring house Hanlon saw one of the Estrellan motor-trikes. It took him but a moment to activate the engine that, for a wonder, caught almost immediately. He jumped onto the seat and was picking up speed as he reached the street and swung down it.
Behind he heard an outcry as the owners saw the theft of their machine. Also, the angry yells of the men chasing him.
These little tricycles were made for local trips only, and were not powered for speed or distance. The best he was able to coax out of the acetylene-powered engine was about twenty miles an hour.
He had not gone a mile before he heard behind him the sound of one of the larger trikes, whose greater-sized motor, he knew, had a top speed of nearly thirty miles an hour.
Pushing his little machine as fast as it would go, Hanlon looked wildly all about him for some place of safety. He knew he had only a few minutes before the bigger trike would catch up with him—or at least be within shooting distance.
But how had they known he was coming? They must have been lying in wait, to have taken him so completely off guard. Else why or how could they have been hiding in semi-darkness, to come rushing out of that door, their flamers ready to cinder him?
A momentary blackness of fear struck at him, but he threw it off by an effort of will. They hadn't caught him yet; and by the great John Snyder, they wouldn't!
Hah! Off there to the left was a little patch of woods. And just ahead was a corner. He made as though to keep straight on, then swerved at the last moment toward the left. His tires shrieked at the sudden braking and swift turn, and the little machine almost overturned—but he made it.
Glancing back he saw the larger, swifter tricycle hurtle past the corner he had so unexpectedly turned. That would give him a little extra leeway, before they could stop, turn around, and come back down the road he was on.
Soon he reached the beginning of the wood, and was in the shadows its trees cast across the road. Luckily, he thought, his little machine had no lights, and it would be that much harder for them to spot him in the darkness.
He went a little farther, then slowed a bit, swung his right leg over onto the left side of the trike, and threw himself off, allowing it to continue on without him. How far it would go, unguided, he did not know, but hoped it would be some distance.
Glancing backward over his shoulder as he ran, he saw the lights of the gangster's car pass. For some minutes he continued running, zigzagging a bit around the trees, hoping to get far enough away so they could not find him. As he ran he continued thinking what had happened.
"Were those goons actually waiting for me?" It didn't seem possible anyone could have suspected him, personally, or have had any idea he was going to be around Irad's house tonight. How could they, possibly. He hadn't told anyone. That unknown mind-power again?
Memory of thatsomeonewith the extraordinary mental powers who had captured and imprisoned and questioned the other S S men, came to him and again, involuntarily, he shuddered.
It probably was not that one or ones, he tried to deny the belief. Undoubtedly those gun-carrying men were merely guarding the house on general principles, either because Irad was Second-In-Line, or else because....
"Gosh, I almost forgot. I'm sure dad's there, for those were his thoughts I was just beginning to catch, I know. His mind-texture is unmistakable. I'll bet those guys were there as guards for that reason. I'll have to...."
He stopped short and dodged behind a tree, for his quick ear had caught a crackling in the underbrush behind him. He tried to peer out through the dimness, but could not see anyone, although he could see two or three lances of lights that he knew were the reflectors of the gangsters.
"I didn't realize they'd get this close this quick," he almost wailed. "I gotta get out of here, but fast."
He started off as quietly as he could. But there were so many fallen leaves and dead twigs and branches underfoot that he could not help making some noise.
Suddenly a lance of flame almost caught him. He dodged quickly again. There was another shot in his general direction that did not hit him—but it did touch a dried, dead branch.
Instantly there was a flare of light as the wood caught fire, and in moments a considerable blaze was started that made further concealment impossible. Only flight was left.
Hanlon turned and ran toward the farther edge of the wood. Behind him he could hear footsteps rapidly following, and a voice bellowing, "Here he is!"
George Hanlon ran as he had never run before, but somehow, surprisingly, that Estrellan native not only kept up with him, but the young S S man could tell from the sound that he was catching up. This guy must be half greyhound, Hanlon thought—although he, himself, was slowed down by those huge shoes to which he was not yet too accustomed, so that when running he had trouble not stumbling over his own feet. It was hard remembering to keep his legs spread further apart than normal.
He finally saw just ahead of him the far edge of the wood, and beyond that a great, open meadow. He would be in clear sight out there, unless he could outdistance his pursuers. And this closest one was much too near for that. He would have to stop this gunnie somehow, and now.
Hanlon ducked behind a great tree, and peered out carefully. In his hands he held a knob of wood he had picked up. Soon he saw the native come running between the trees, straight in his direction.
Hanlon took a firmer grip on his club, and raised it above his head. The mobster came alongside the tree, the club came down—hard. One down.
Hanlon started on across the meadow then, for the woods was afire and he felt there was no chance of escape that way. He hoped he could find some sort of a hiding place out there—quite sure in his mind he could not outdistance the men following. He zigzagged a bit as he ran, and kept looking back over his shoulder from time to time.
Hanlon had covered nearly two hundred yards, and was again looking back over his shoulder, when suddenly his foot struck something, and he pitched headlong. The breathwhooshedout of him as he landed. He felt as though he was a mass of cuts and bruises. He fought to regain his breath, drawing in great gulps of air. His back hurt, and his legs. One arm seemed almost useless.
"Oh, no, not broken!" he wailed inwardly. Tentatively he tried to move it, and found to his joy that it was only badly jammed. He remembered now, he had landed on that hand.
He glanced around and saw that he had fallen over a great, exposed rock-edge, perhaps a foot high, half as wide, but eight or nine feet long. Despite the inconvenience of dozens of pieces of broken rock on the ground there, he swung his body around so he was lying along the length of the rock, hoping thus to hide a bit while he regained his breath and a measure of strength.
"If I'm lucky, I can hide here until they leave," he panted, striving to calm his nerves and slow his breathing. He peered cautiously over the top of the rock, back toward the burning wood.
Soon he saw another of the men emerge carefully from the edge of the wood, but a considerable distance away. He watched this fellow as he crept out into the meadow, looking from side to side in his search for their quarry.
So intent was Hanlon on watching this man that he did not see nor hear the approach of a third man, until the other jumped the stone, almost landing on Hanlon. The S S man could not entirely stifle an exclamation, and instantly the man swiveled and shone his light directly on Hanlon.
Swiftly the Corpsman snaked out his hand, caught the goon's foot and yanked. The man fell backward, and Hanlon, injuries forgotten, leaped up. But with a lithe, swift movement his attacker was on his feet, swinging at Hanlon with the hand holding his lantern. It was, the S S man saw now, the fellow he thought he had knocked out with his club.
The Terran's hands darted out and grabbed the man's other wrist, pushing it up and away. For in the gyrations of the lamp he had seen that the fellow carried a flamer.
Forth and back they wrestled. By dint of extra effort Hanlon kept the gun's muzzle pointed away from him. But he realized sickeningly that his antagonist was stronger and heavier than he. For an Estrellan, this goon was really a giant.
Hanlon decided on a desperate chance. Instead of pushingagainstthe man's strength, he suddenly lunged backward. The goon cursed as he strove to keep his own footing, and pulled back as best he could.
Hanlon's reflexes were faster than the mobster's, and he took full advantage of the change of leverage. He twisted half-sideways, and let go with his right hand. He swung with all his strength at the soft belly before him.
The man grunted and tottered, for he had not quite regained full equilibrium. Again and again Hanlon struck. The man staggered, reeled backward. A quick snatch, and Hanlon had the flamer ... and used it.
Swiftly he looked to see if the man he had been watching had noticed the fight—and the flash.
Apparently he had, for he was coming on a run. Hanlon snapped a shot at him—and missed. An answering lance of flame almost got him. Hanlon tried another ... and got only a weak sizzle. The first gunman's flamegun was dead.
Only flight was left. Hanlon dropped the useless weapon and started off across the field as fast as he could run. He had not fully recovered his breath, and every muscle in his body shrieked from that fall and his unusual exertions.
He stumbled and staggered, but kept on running as fast as he could. Behind he could hear the yells of the gunman who was on his trail, apparently calling to someone else. The beam of the lantern held Hanlon almost steadily.
Still the Corpsman ran. He had no idea what lay ahead, or whether he was running toward safety or into more danger. There was no other cover he could see in the almost-dark—no trees nor bushes. Merely this meadow, almost flat, covered with a sort of blossomy grass not more than two or three inches high. Nor, even if he did find something, would he be long concealed from the lantern and the man who carried it.
Hanlon swerved, and ran toward but behind the lantern-carrier, hoping thus to elude him. In fact, he had passed behind the fellow before the light-rays picked him out again.
The beam held him steadily again, and Hanlon could hear those pounding feet coming nearer. A gun flamed out again, and Hanlon felt the excruciating pain of a burn on the side of his arm.
"Yipe, that was close," he gritted as he clamped his other hand over the wound, and tried to increase his speed. Weariness seemed forgotten for the moment, and he was able to spurt ahead.
Suddenly he saw twin beams of stronger light coming across the field to intercept him. "Oh, no," he gasped, "the trike!"
He swerved sharply to the right again, and ran on. Ahead he heard a strange sort of roar, and only after a moment or so could identify it. It sounded like the boom of breakers.
"Am I that near the sea?"
Again a sword of flame almost caught him. The car was roaring toward him, closer each second. He knew starkly that death or capture was a matter of moments only.
His mind had been reaching out, searching for any sort of animal life that might come to his assistance. But in this hour of need even that avenue of help seemed to have detoured.
That roar sounded closer—yet curiously distant. Yet he was almost sure it was the sound of breaking water. "If it's close enough, maybe I can find safety there. It's my only hope now," he prayed.
He pounded on and suddenly, almost straight ahead, the nearer of Estrella's two moons swung above the horizon. Both moons were far closer to Estrella than Luna was to Terra. Neither was nearly as large, but they gave considerable light, and this nearer moon was almost at the full tonight. Hanlon could see better now—but he knew his pursuers could, too, and that he was now plain in their sight.
"Sorry, dad, but it looks like I've failed," he groaned.
The sound of the water was closer now, and it had more the texture of breakers than of surf. He devoutly hoped so. Breakers would mean rocks, and rocks would be hard to avoid if he had to dive. But, more important, they would mean greater chances for safety if this meadow ran directly into them, so he could find a hiding place.
Now both gunmen behind were closer. They were firing steadily—and even in his anxiety to escape Hanlon found time to sneer at their marksmanship. "Wish I had a gun or a blaster—I'd show them some real shooting."
Almost blinded now with fatigue, and his run barely more than a stagger, he struggled on ... and suddenly skidded to a halt just on the lip of a sharp drop-off. He peered downward, and his heart did flip-flops. This cliff was well over a hundred and fifty feet high—and straight down to the water's edge. It was the slapping of the water against it he had heard.
Even in the moon's rays he could see that it was too vertical, too smooth, for a swift downward climb. He looked wildly to right and to left, but could see no possible safety.
The car with its gunmen was closer now, and one of the flames from their guns almost hit him. There was only one possible escape.
He ran back from the cliff's edge for several yards, straight toward the onrushing car. Then he turned and sprinted for that edge. He took off like a broad jumper, as far outward as he could, curving his body downward into a dive.
"Oh, God, please," he prayed earnestly, "deep water and no rocks."
It seemed an interminable age that George Hanlon fell through the air on that incredible dive toward the water so far away. Not knowing what was below made the moments seem dreadful eternities. His mind persisted in painting ghastly pictures....
At long last Hanlon struck—and was instantly numbed from the force of the blow and chilled by the icy water. His bruises, burns and cuts smarted painfully from the salt. He plummeted into the depths, deeper, deeper, until he thought his lungs would burst, despite the great gulp of air he had breathed in just before he hit. Slowly he let out a little bit—and as he sank ever deeper, a bit more. He just couldn't take it any longer. He would have to let go soon, and try to breathe.
But from some hidden source he drew on new reserves of will and of strength, and fought on. He felt his descent slowing, and clawed his way upward.
His head finally burst through the surface, and he trod water while he gratefully gulped in the reviving air.
All at once he heard a sharpping, and water splashed in his face. One of those goons above had a pellet gun.
Hanlon struck out away from the shore, swimming under water as fast and as far as his breath and strength would allow, coming up only to gulp another lungful of air, then submerging again. Finally he surfaced and looked back toward the cliff-top. He could dimly see three forms standing there.
Another pellet struck close by ... and another. Why, he wondered, hadn't they used that gun on him before?
Never too strong a swimmer, the exhaustion and weakness of his wounds and that long run made swimming almost impossible for the young secret serviceman. But he knew his life—and the success of his mission here—depended on his keeping going. He kicked off the heavy, water-logged special shoes that made his feet look Estrellan. Ridding himself of their weight helped a little.
He had felt hundreds of tiny waves of strange thought beating at the fringes of his mind, and now he opened it wide to receive these impressions.
"Fish," he said disgustedly after a moment, as he kept swimming further out. "What good...?" He stopped and thought carefully. "If it was a big enough fish, maybe...." He sent his mind purposefully out and around.
He was still trying to swim, but his body was worn out. He knew desperation, for even if he outdistanced their pellets, there was just not enough strength left in him to swim back to shore. He turned over on his back and floated, resting as much as possible, but still kept his mind searching, searching through the waters. It was his only chance, he felt sure, and sent it ever farther out.
Finally he contacted a larger, stronger thought. Avidly he seized it, insinuated his mind into it, and realized at once that it was the brain of a fish. He forced it to swim at its top speed toward him. From the size and texture of the mind it felt like a large fish. He hoped it was big enough.
Soon it came up to him, and he saw that it was shark-like, almost eight feet long, but rounder, and with a head and face much like that of a Terran sea-elephant. Eagerly and thankfully he grasped one of the small fins protruding from its underside, and his mind started it swimming along parallel to the coast.
The musket-type gun had beensplattingat him from time to time—evidently as fast as the shooter could reload. He looked up toward the cliff-top, and could see men running along it.
"Must be they can see me," although he doubted if they could see the fish, that swam just below the surface. "Probably," he grinned mirthlessly, "they're wondering how I can swim so fast."
Another pellet plowed into the water close ahead of his face. The portion of his mind inside the fish felt the intolerable, burning shock of pain. The fish seemed almost to stumble. It twisted and coiled about until Hanlon was able to tighten his control and calm it.
In the dim moonlight he could see the water becoming discolored—and knew the fish was bleeding profusely.
His mind in the fish knew where the wound was, and Hanlon reached up for that place and found a gaping hole. He put the tip of a finger into it to stop the bleeding as much as possible. But he realized at once that this would not save his carrier, which by now he knew was not a true fish, but an amphibious mammal, just as Terran's whales are mammals, not fish.
What could he do? As weak as he was, and as poor a swimmer as he was at best, there was absolutely no chance of his making it back to shore under his own power. And even if he did get back, there was no beach, only that unscalable rocky escarpment ... and the gunmen on top of that.
The fish was his only hope, for he had not been able to locate another fish-mind of the same calibre. And now his savior was dying.
More carefully now, with his mind inside the amphibian, he examined the structure of its brain and nervous and muscular systems. Would it be possible to close that terrible wound?
He traced the nerves to the muscles of that portion of the body and skin. He tested and tried everything he could figure out.
Finally, Hanlon found the nerve-muscle combination that controlled exactly that portion of the body. He made it contract—and felt the muscle tighten about his fingertip. Gently he withdrew the latter from the wound, and made the muscles close it tightly and completely. It was necessary to keep doing it consciously, for the moment he relaxed his concentration it opened again.
He noted subconsciously that there had been no more shots for some time. "Maybe the guy's outta bullets," he thought. "Or perhaps they think I'm dead—can see the blood-stains and think they're mine. Or maybe," as an after-thought, "they've lost track of me in the dimness and the choppy waters."
Whatever the reason, Hanlon knew a deep thankfulness. He relaxed as best he could, shivering in the icy waters, still holding loosely onto the fin of the fish-thing.
He did not try to make it swim. In fact, he kept it from doing so. He would take time out to try to regain some of his own strength, while letting the fish overcome, if possible, some of its own weakness and shock from the pellet-wound.
Adwal Irad had been growing strangely worried. Acting on a compulsion he did not realize existed, he moved Admiral Newton to a different and, a certain being in a spaceship high above hoped, a more concealed place of imprisonment.
"If I wait here awhile, perhaps the fish's strength will build up again," George Hanlon had thought wearily. "Then it can carry me back to shore."
So he continued concentrating on the job of keeping those muscles closed around the wound in the amphibian's side, finding it required full use of his mind to think of holding that constriction, and of nothing else.
Only partially was that possible, of course. Humans are just not constituted so they can think of only one thing for long periods of time. "At least," he grimaced, "not this human."
For nearly an hour he and the fish lay there quietly, riding out the waves, while he waited for the great mammal-thing to regain some of its energy. He kept close watch of that mind, and knew it was gradually feeling less pain, less anguish. He had sent it "calming" thoughts as best he could, and they had taken effect. The panic was gone. It was almost asleep, floating there.
Hanlon looked toward the cliff-top, but there were no longer figures there he could see. Had the pursuers, thinking him dead, left? He strained his ears for the sound of the trike motor.
"Maybe, though, they'd already gone before I thought to start listening," he thought.
Finally he decided the fish was strong enough to take him to shore. His own body felt so much more comfortable. Then he realized with a twinge of panic that the reason was that while he had thrown his mind into the healing of the fish his body had become numb with the cold. Now he again became conscious of his various cuts and bruises, aching and flaming from the action of the salt water.
Under his compulsion the fish swam slowly and with some difficulty back toward the shore. When it finally got close to the wall of rock Hanlon let his feet downward, hoping to be able to touch bottom. But the water was far too deep there.
"I hate to do this to you, fellow, but you're my only hope for the time being," Hanlon said feelingly to the great fish-thing, and made it start swimming along the rocky wall. He kept his eyes constantly looking ahead for a break in the escarpment, or for a bit of beach where he could rest.
After a mile or so it seemed the cliff was getting lower, and Hanlon's hopes rose a bit. Another couple of thousand yards, and he was sure of it. It was sloping downward quite sharply toward sea-level. Also it seemed, in the moonlight, that the rocky surface was getting rougher, more climbable.
Finally they came to a place where the cliff was only about twenty yards high—nor did it seem to get lower on ahead. Too, it looked scalable. Hanlon stopped the fish and examined that facing carefully.
Yes, he decided at last, there were enough protuberances and cracks so that it could be climbed.
Ifhe had strength enough.
"Well, gotta try sometime. And my poor fish is about all done." He made it swim right up until he could reach out and get a firm grip in a large crack.
"Goodbye, fellow. Thanks for saving my life. Hope you make out all right," he told the great mammalian shark-thing. He released his hold on its fin and his control from its mind. It turned and swam away, still feebly.
Hanlon focused his attention on the task before him. Slowly and painfully he climbed, hunting for handhold and foot rest.
He had known he was tired, but had not realized how weak he was. It seemed he could never make even that short climb. His fingers, hands and arms were numb with cold, his feet and legs unresponsive leaden weights. But from the deeps of his subconscious and will, and his urge to survival, he brought renewed strength and scrambled upward.
At last, utterly spent, he pulled himself over the edge, and lay gasping and shivering on the top of the cliff.
He was almost ready to blank out, when a thought struck him, and he struggled to retain consciousness. He could not just lie here and sleep. Probably those goons would still be looking for him. He must get away, somehow, somewhere.
Again he sent his mind outward, and felt whispers of thought quite a little distance away across the meadow. He followed the strongest of these, and found a mind quite powerful, and intelligent in an animalistic way.
He followed that mind into the brain that housed it, and took control. He made the animal, whatever it was, start swiftly toward him. While it was coming he examined the mind more closely, and suddenly realized he was inside the brain of an Estrellancaval.
These animals, which the Terrans thought of as horses, because they could be ridden or trained to draw carriages, were about the size of a Terran cow-pony. They were striped almost like a zebra, but the colors were brown and yellow, rather than black and white. The animals were quite vicious in the wild state, and none too tractable even when trained. As usual with Estrellan animals, they were tailless, and had heavy, sharp hooves, nearly twice the size of those of Earthly horses, and snouts much like a roch's.
When the caval came up to him, Hanlon saw it was a stallion, slightly larger than average. From its mind he already knew it was a wild one, not domesticated or broken to saddle or harness.
Nevertheless, he could control it, and made it stand quietly while he climbed slowly and laboriously to his feet, and from there managed to wriggle onto its back.
He knew he was due to faint in a few seconds, but kept his consciousness long enough to impress on the animal's mind that it was to take him back toward Stearra. He thought he knew the direction, and he thought he could keep awake the one part of his mind that was dissociated and in the caval. However, because he might blank out completely, he instructed it to keep straight on the road to town.
He leaned down and threw his arms tightly about the caval's neck, then with a sigh of thankfulness, let himself go. He had endured so much ... he was so tired ... so ... tir....
Yandor and his men had finally come to the conclusion that Gor Anlo was dead, out there in the ocean. They had been unable to see him for some time. Yet they waited around for nearly half an hour, searching both the waters and along the cliff. Finally, he said they might as well go home. So all piled in their large trike and started back to the city.
But they had not quite reached his home when Yandor found a disturbing thought persisting in his mind. He worried and puzzled over it for some time, then issued sharp commands. Thus, when they arrived at his house, two of the men hurried into the back yard, and soon came back with two of the beasts Yandor kept caged there.
"What's up, chief?" one of the men asked as the tricycle sped back the way they had just come.
"I ... I don't really know," the impresario said slowly. "I ... I have a ... a sort of feeling ... that maybe we can find Anlo after all. We'd better go back and look some more."
For the watcher above knew Hanlon was not dead.
All of George Hanlon's mind must have become unconscious, for the next thing he knew was when the caval suddenly reared to escape those who were trying to stop it, and Hanlon's body was dumped unceremoniously to the ground. The caval, released from its compulsion, took off across the meadow at top speed.
Hanlon began to recover consciousness as rough hands slapped him awake. He first noticed that the sun was rising, for its rays were shining directly in his eyes. He blinked and turned his head away—and became aware of his captors.
He saw Ino Yandor standing there, beside a large trike. Beside him was one of his henchmen, holding the leashes of two strainingtamous. These cat-like beasts, somewhat like Terran black panthers save they were a deep red in color, and had fangs much longer and sharper—and no tails—Hanlon knew to be trackerspar excellence—as good as bloodhounds. Nor were they usually as fierce and blood-thirsty as they seemed.
The third man was the one who was holding him.
"Well now," Yandor eyed him angrily, "you think you're pretty clever, don't you?"
Hanlon shrugged. "Doesn't look like it, does it?"
"Who are you spying for?"
"Who says I was spying?"
"Don't try to quibble with me, Gor Anlo. I want answers, and correct answers, or I'll let my pretty pets here take over, and see if you can elude them."
"And after I get through answering you'll cinder me anyway," Hanlon sneered. "Whatever gave you the idea I'd talk—if I had anything to say, that is?"
The mobster holding him cuffed him. "Don't talk to Ino Yandor that way, you phidi."
Hanlon turned his head and sneered into the man's face. "Watch who you're calling a snake." He twisted suddenly, drove his heel backwards into the man's shin, and pulled free. The fellow, even while yelping with pain, started to draw a flamer when Yandor commanded sharply, "Let him be. He can't outrun the tamous."
Hanlon spoke as though nothing had happened. "What gave you the idea I've been doing anything like you said?" he asked in a conversational tone. "What's this all about?"
"What were you doing, trying to look into—or get into—Adwal Irad's house?"
"That the name of the guy that owns it? Just looking for anything worthwhile I could pick up. Since you got me fired just because I drank a little too much one night, I got to make a living someway."
"Well now, I hope you don't expect me to believe that. I know who you are, and my patience is at an end. Do you tell me who you are working for, and what you're after, or do I let the tamous loose?"
"I've got nothing to ..." Hanlon began, but the man who had been holding him suddenly interrupted.
"Look, Yandor, at the man's ear!"
"Yes, and his feet," the other pointed downward.
They all stared closely, and Hanlon wondered as he saw their eyes widen. Then, with a start, he remembered kicking off his oversized shoes, and now he noticed that the dye had come off his hands. He guessed with sickening certainty that the long immersion in the salt-water had also loosened the plastic ears and nose, and that at least one of them had fallen off.
"By Zappa," Yandor stepped closer. "One of his ears is very small ..." he reached out quickly and tugged at the other. Loosened at it was, it came off easily in his hand.
"An alien," Yandor exclaimed, and then "your skin—it's not like ours."
"His nose seems false, too," the third man said.
Knowing his imposture was over, Hanlon himself pulled off the plastic overlay and disclosed his nose in its original size and shape.
"Yes, I'm a Terran. What're you going to do about it?"
"Loose the tamous!" Yandor snapped, and the man dropped the leashes he held.
But Hanlon had read that command in the impresario's mind even before he uttered it, and had already taken over the minds of the two beasts.
They were well equipped by nature to be deadly, even if that was not their true nature.
The female whirled, and jumped on the man who had been holding them. The male made two quick leaps, and was on the other gunman. Both men were borne backwards, and in seconds the great cat-things had torn out their throats.
"You should have remembered I'm the world's greatest animal trainer," Hanlon said evenly.
Yandor shrank back, sure he was next. "You fiend!" he cried, then his inherent cowardice showed and he threw himself on his knees. "Don't let them kill me," he pleaded in agonized tones. "I'll do anything—I'll give you everything I have. Only please, please keep those awful beasts away from me."
Hanlon hated a cowardly bully. Also, much as he detested killing or maiming, he had learned not to let it get him down too much in this work when it was necessary. But with such an unprincipled killer and abject wretch as the one before him, he felt no such compunction. He looked contemptuously down at the thing grovelling at his feet in a very paroxysm of fear.
Disgusted, Hanlon turned away, climbed into the motor-trike in which Yandor and his men had come here, and started its engine. As he drove away he impressed a command on those now-slavering beasts, who began bellying toward the helpless Yandor. But Hanlon could not repress a shudder of revulsion at what he felt forced to do.
After a half mile or so of driving, however, the weariness, the pain and chill struck him, and he nearly fainted again. He struggled to keep himself conscious so he could get back home—a matter of vital necessity now that he was not disguised.
When he finally came to the more populated part of the city, in which people were beginning to be seen outside the houses and on the streets, he had himself fairly well under control. He kept his head down and made himself as inconspicuous as possible while driving at the highest allowable speed toward his rooming house. There he jumped from the car almost before it stopped, and ran in. He passed several of his neighbors in the hallways, but held his hank before his face and ignored their stares of surprise at his condition as he raced to his room.
Once inside, he locked the door, then breathed a sigh of deep relief. He began stripping off his wet and bedraggled clothes, thankful, as he remembered the loss of his shoes, that he had an extra pair of those specially-made ones.
When he saw that much of the hair so meticulously glued onto his body was also coming loose, he thankfully ripped the rest of it from him, then went in and turned on the shower—really only a stream of water from the end of a pipe. For nearly a quarter of an hour he stood under it, revelling in the first feeling of real cleanliness he had known since leaving Simonides, relieved as the warm water washed the salt from his wounds and pores.
Finally, having treated his burns and bruises, he put on a dressing gown to partially cover his nakedness, and sank into his comfortable chair. Then he let his mind review the happenings of the past night.
Hanlon was once more in a cockily jaunty mood. He had taken some terrific risks, had been in almost-fatal jeopardy several times, had had adventures and escapes no one would believe if he tried to tell them—except some of the few S S men who knew about his special talents, and dad, of course....
Dad!He had almost forgotten his father's predicament in the excitement of the night. Now, as he considered and concentrated on this problem, Hanlon began to realize—dimly, sketchily, and much against his will—that things were not at all right as he had felt for the moment.
He tried to dodge that flickering thought, but it persisted, grew stronger, would not be denied. He finally was forced to consider it more thoroughly. And slowly it dawned upon him that he had notwon—he had lost. He had smeared up the works, but good. His campaign was done, finished, kaput. He had put his foot in it, clear up to the sacro-iliac.
Worse than that—far worse—he had undoubtedly gummed up this whole Estrellan business. Not only was his own work undone, but now the natives would know that the Terrans were here, just as that propaganda machine had said. Now it would be practically impossible to make them believe that the Terrans werenotresponsible for their crime wave—and all the other things said about them.
"Me and my big swelled head," he castigated himself furiously. "I oughtta be horse-whipped."
Almost he cried. His body was by turns ice-cold and feverish. He cringed mentally and physically.
Was there any way—any possible way—he could redeem himself? Could he publicly admit that he and he alone was to blame, that he was here entirely on his own initiative, because he wanted to see Estrella join the family of nations?
No, that was absurd. He wouldn't be believed. No one in their right mind would ever conceive that a young man like him would do such a thing without some backing—undoubtedly full Federation backing.
He would have to resign from the secret service. Or—he gasped—were its members allowed to resign? Admiral Rogers had said it was for life, once he got in.
"But he didn't guarantee how long my life would last," Hanlon grimaced.
Well, he drew himself up proudly, there was a way. He was not afraid to die.
"Whoa, now, wait a minute. Let's think this out. Death's no answer." For a new idea had just struck him. He forced the worry, the fear, the ... the self-pity ... from his mind, and settled down to consider this new concept. Maybe it wasn't as bad as he had thought, after all.
"Yandor and his goons were the only ones who knew I was a Terran, and they're dead," he thought. "So they can't tell on me. And no one else knows it. Maybe I can go ahead, just as I was."
He rose to get dressed. There was still his father's imprisonment to be taken care of—if possible. Hanlon was sure now that it was in that little stone house back of Irad's mansion that the admiral was being held prisoner.
A casual glance in the glass, and he was suddenly conscious of his appearance. Hey, he couldn't go out like this, in broad daylight. Not looking like a Terran.
Swiftly he considered the possibilities. He would have to disguise himself again enough to escape notice on the street. But he was no cosmetician ... even if he had the dyes, the plastics....
He sank into his chair again, and thought seriously. But even while he was trying to think and plan, his worn, tired body—exhausted as it had never been before, and depleted of all strength—could bear no more. Without even realizing it, he sank parsecs deep into profound slumber.
Sometime during the day, without his knowing it, he must have gotten up and lain down on the bed, for it was there he finally awoke. The room was dark; only a small ray of light came in obliquely through the window, from a distant street-light.
He got up, wincing at his lameness and stiffness. He went through some calesthenics to take the soreness from his body, then washed, dressed, and prepared and ate something. He hunted through his duffel bag and found a pair of gloves to cover his hands. Before putting them on, however, he wound a scarf about his head and face, covering most of it except his eyes. He pulled his hat well down, then put on the gloves.
Leaving his room, he went inconspicuously along the darkest parts of the streets until he came to the market place, and a certain stall that specialized in theatrical costumes and make-up. It was the same place where he had bought that roch-mask.
Walking purposefully, as though he had legitimate business there, he went to the rear of the shop. It was not too hard to break in and crawl inside. There, using his utmost care not to be discovered, he hunted about among the shelves until he found some facial putty, skin dyes, and other articles he needed. He left a couple of gold pentas on the counter in payment.
Then, just as cautiously, he retraced his way to his rooms.
The next morning when SSM George Hanlon awoke, his first thought was one of concern for his father. An impatient, driving urge for action seized him and made him jump out of bed. Then logic and clear thinking came to the fore, although it required conscious effort for him to prepare and eat his breakfast first of all.
Hurriedly finished, though, he set to work on his new make-up, doing his level best to keep his thoughts on the difficult task at hand.
He had let his whiskers and hair grow from the time he first received this assignment, of course, so was not too much concerned about the hairiness he must present to the world when dressed. Luckily, although it had often been a source of annoyance—he was one of those men whose beard grows clear down his face and neck to join, with hardly a break, the hair on his chest. As for the body hair that had been so painstakingly glued onto his body before, he decided not to attempt that. He had not yet had to disrobe in front of anyone here; he was certain he would be able to avoid doing so in the future.
He rubbed liquid rouge, of a dark shade, well into the skin of his face, neck, hands and high up on his wrists, which took care of his coloring.
His main worry was the nose and ears, especially the nose. That would be most quickly noticed if it looked artificial. His first few attempts were not only badly done, but almost ludicrous. His usually fine muscular coordination seemed to be lacking. But he persevered and finally, after several hours, managed to mold a fairly reasonable snout and to so blend its edges into the skin of his face adjoining that it would, he felt sure, pass muster on casual inspection.
He built up his ears in like manner, but to help with this deception, in case of any close scrutiny, he covered them with a head bandage. He put his hat on, pulled it well down in front and on the sides, then examined himself critically in the mirror.
"Boy, that's a sloppy job, and how," he exclaimed, disgusted with his handiwork. "Trevor would disown me if he could see it." But he finally decided it would do ... he hoped.
Now that he had finished he discovered he was sweating like a nervous caval. He held out his shaking hands, and looked at them critically. What, in John's name, was wrong with him, anyway?
And a thought he had, perhaps subconsciously, pushed far down into the furthest recesses of his mind, swept over him with full force.
He did not want to think that thought. More, he did not want to have to make that decision. But....
Manning was dead.
Hooper was fleeing insanely, perhaps also dead by now.
His father was captive, imprisoned, tortured ... if still alive.
Only he, Hanlon, of the four, was left.
And he was ... alone.
Again to his mind came his father's earnest and incisive statement, that getting Estrella to accept membership in the Federation was the most important thing that had come up in ages. Ithadto be accomplished, and quickly.
Deep down Hanlon knew what that meant. Individuals were expendable—the plan was not.
He was beginning to learn that while plans may blow up in one's face—as now—such happenings must be accepted philosophically, without too much backward longing, without too great remorse, and certainly—which was the hardest to accept—without letting personal feelings or sympathy for those lost or in danger keep the one or ones remaining from going ahead with new attempts to bring the mission to a successful conclusion.
For a long time Hanlon sat there. Resolutely now, he put his father out of his mind, and concentrated only on how he was to accomplish the task that confronted him—alone.
Finally he began to look at the larger aspects of the problem; to realize that he must quit hunting for individual criminals and possible members of the opposition, and work from the other end—the top.
"After all," he thought, "it is the Ruler who makes the decisions. Perhaps ... no, Imustgo to work on him. I've got enough dope now as to who is behind this intrigue. Now I must reach Elus Amir himself, and swing him our way. But, in Snyder's name, how am I going to get to him?"
Plan after possible plan he discarded. He could not go to Amir as a Terran. In the first place, his word would have no weight. In the second place, he would undoubtedly have considerable trouble making the approach to the Ruler, if it was possible at all.
No, he would have to get close to him as a native. And to do that, he first had to know more—a lot more—about the Ruler as a man, his habits and usual daily routine.
Hanlon left the house and went to a number of places where men ate or drank, both for information, and to try out his new disguise. The latter must have been better than he thought, for no one seemed to notice. And in each place he visited, while eating or sipping his mild drink, Hanlon asked one or two discreet questions. None of these, by themselves, seemed to mean anything. But the answers, put together as Hanlon did when he returned to his rooms, gave him a fairly detailed picture.
He knew now that the Ruler stuck quite closely to his residence—"palace", Hanlon thought of it—although occasionally his duties took him to other cities on either continent, and sometimes he went out for an evening at the theatre, as he had done on Hanlon's opening night.
Otherwise, he was a hard worker, an excellent and well-loved Ruler, always studying carefully all suggested legislation that was presented for his consideration, always thinking of ways to better the condition of his people.
But to one thing he had learned Hanlon gave the most consideration at the moment. Elus Amir, he found, went out almost every day for a ride on his caval, and usually along the same route. Hanlon knew what road that was.
Accustomed as he now was to thinking more in terms of animals than of men, the natural thought for Hanlon was to wonder how he could meet or study the Ruler through his caval.
The next day, therefore, the S S man rode out into the country, and posted himself at a convenient spot where he could watch without attracting too much attention, yet could see for several miles. He took one of the wheels off his motor-tricycle and demounted the tire. This was to be his excuse for being so handy at the time of his planned meeting with the Ruler.
But something apparently changed Elus Amir's habits, for he did not ride that road that day. Ruefully doing a bit of under-breath griping, Hanlon replaced tire and wheel, then rode back toward town.
But after he had gone part way through the city streets, he thought of something else that must be done, and headed towards the place Morris Manning had found rooms.
Luckily, no one else had moved in, and no one appeared in the hall when Hanlon came back, after a quick trip to a tool stall in the market place, where he was able to buy a hacksaw. For Manning, as did the other S S men, had attached a hasp and pick-proof padlock to his door. The Estrellans locks were ingenious, but could quite easily be unfastened even without the key.
These locks consisted of a metal rod, like a sliding bolt, that ran inside the wood of the door. There was a slip in the wood on either side of the door through which a key, inserted in the rod, could move it forth or back. When the bolt was moved into position with one end seated in the holder in the doorjamb, a turn of the key opened flanges on the rod that fitted vertically into prepared slots.
But a little patience easily enabled one who wished to get in, to trip those flanges with almost any small, flat-pointed instrument, even a penknife blade.
Now Hanlon cut through the hasp, evidently without attracting anyone's attention, for none of the neighbors came out to investigate the strange sounds. Inside Manning's room, he went about the sad business of collecting the dead secret serviceman's gear and belongings, to be sent back home on the sneakboat.
As he was cleaning out one of the chests, however, Hanlon discovered a small notebook he knew was of Estrellan make. He opened it idly, and found it was filled with native writing.
Excited now, for he was sure Manning would have written in Terran or I-S C code if it had been his work, Hanlon slowly began deciphering the words.
"Yow, this is hot stuff," he exclaimed after less than a page. "Wonder where Morrie got this? From Esbor's office or home, I'll bet."
He stuffed the book into his pocket for later study. He packed the balance of Manning's things, then left, mounted his trike and rode back to his own rooms.
All the balance of the afternoon and evening he worked at the translation of the entries in that book. It was, he found with great glee, a list of the names of various criminals who had been working under Esbor, and brief details of their various activities, as well as many other notes of similar nature.
One recent item caused a brief exclamation. "Ran Auldin came seeking a safe hiding place today," he read. "It having already been decided by Adwal Irad that the man's usefulness was over, he was cindered."
"Dirty killers," Hanlon growled, his brief moment of joy at the direct mention of Irad dimmed by the import of that entry. "No conscience whatever."
All in all, however, he was vastly pleased, and grew more so as he continued translating. For there were several mentions of Adwal Irad, and always pointing to him as the top man. Now he had real evidence of what he had believed—that this crime wave was directed by the Second-In-Line. Hanlon was vastly relieved.
In the morning, as he was preparing to go out again to see if he could contact Amir, a thought sent him to the mirror, attempting some changes in his make-up. He worked subtly and soon made himself look considerably older—about middle-aged. This, he felt, would make the Ruler listen more carefully to his evidence than he might to a younger man. Then he rode out to that country road.
Sometime later he saw Elus Amir riding that way. From Hanlon's vantage point he saw the Ruler and a single groom on their mounts while they were still some distance away.
Hanlon's mind reached out and touched that of the Ruler's steed. There were a few moments of anxious trying, and then he was in full control of the animal's mind. Through its eyes Hanlon looked out carefully along the road. It seemed fairly smooth, and he felt sure that if Amir was at all a good cavalman—as he must be after riding nearly every day—he would be able to stay in the saddle safely during the wild ride planned.
Hanlon made the beast suddenly snort and shy to one side, then break into a wild gallop straight down the road, despite the Ruler's frantic efforts at control.
Swiftly the caval pounded down the road, Amir working desperately to control it, yet seeming not to be too frightened by the runaway. The groom kicked up his own mount, but was hopelessly outdistanced.
Meanwhile the caval, controlled by Hanlon's mind within its own, paid no attention to the sawings and pullings on rein and bit, and continued its apparently frightened bolt.
As they neared the place where Hanlon was working on his machine, the young man straightened, looked, then jumped into the road. He started trotting toward them, waving his arms in an effort to make the caval stop its mad rush. But, although he let the animal slow somewhat, it kept running wildly.
As it drew closer, Hanlon moved a bit to one side, but still in the road. When the horse and rider were almost upon him he turned his back to them and started running in the same direction, looking back across his shoulder. Just as the caval came abreast, Hanlon suddenly leaped toward it, and grasped the bridle. At the same time his mind calmed that of the beast, and commanded it to slow and stop.
To the Ruler, Hanlon seemed to be dragged for several yards, still holding grimly to the reins he had grasped. When he finally brought the caval to a stop, it stood with heaving flanks and blowing nostrils.
"Whew," Elus Amir wiped his face, "that was fine work, my man. Many thanks. I don't know what got into the stupid beast. It has never done that before."
"Something must have frightened it," Hanlon said. He pretended he did not know who the rider was, having considered this point carefully. "Sure you can handle it now?"
"Yes, I think there'll be no more trouble. By the way, is there anything I can do to show my gratitude?"
Hanlon looked surprised. "Why, I didn't do anything special. Couldn't let you get hurt."
The Ruler gazed at him peculiarly. "Don't you know who I am?"
"No, should I?"
"I am Elus Amir."
"Oh!" Hanlon made himself look properly surprised, then bent his knee in the Estrellan salute to the Ruler. "I beg your pardon, k'nyer, if I've spoken wrongly, for I did not know."
Amir smiled. "Well, now that you do, I ask again, is there anything I can do for you? You must want something."
Hanlon shook his head. "Thank you, sire, but I wouldn't dream of imposing on your generosity. I'm sure I can find a job somewhere."
"Oh, you're looking for work?"
"Yes, k'nyer. I only recently came here from Lura."
"What can you do?"
Another shrug. "Farm work, tending animals, that sort of thing. I love animals, especially cavals. I'd hoped to get a job as stableman on one of the estates here."
The Ruler looked at his groom who had come galloping up, relieved to see that his master was unharmed, glancing curiously at this stranger who had saved the Ruler, and with whom he could see Amir had been talking.
"Are there any vacancies in our stable-force, Endar?" the Ruler asked.
"Why ... why, no, k'nyer, not at present."
"Make one then," snapped Amir. "I want to give this man a good position. He is to take care of my personal string of cavals."
"As you order, sire."
"I don't like to make trouble for anyone, k'nyer." Hanlon protested. "I don't want a job if it means putting someone else out of work."
The Ruler's eyes lighted up with a friendly smile. "I assure you it won't. I like your attitude, my man. It is good to find someone who thinks of others before himself."
Once more Hanlon shrugged deprecatingly. "I've found in my lifetime, k'nyer, that it doesn't hurt me any to think of the other fellow. And the best part of it is, I've also found, that when I do so think unselfishly, I always receive far more happiness than otherwise."
"Ah, a philosopher. I must have many talks with you. Can you get to the Residence all right?"
"Yes, sire, as soon as I finish fixing my tire."
"Report to Endar here, then, when you get there. I'll instruct him as we ride back."
"My thanks, k'nyer. I promise to serve you well and faithfully."
The Ruler nodded briefly and rode away, the groom following at a respectful distance. Hanlon hurriedly replaced tire and wheel, then rode off toward the palace. Watching through the caval's eyes, he timed it so he rode into the courtyard just behind the Ruler and groom.
Elus Amir was cordial as he dismounted. "I see you got here all right ... by the way, you never told me your name."
"I am called Ergo Lona, k'nyer."
"All right, Lona. Endar, see that this man has good quarters and whatever clothing he needs. Introduce him to the work."
"As you order, sire." The two men bent their knees, then led the cavals to the stables as the Ruler went up the steps into the residence.
Hanlon noticed the groom was inclined to be a bit surly, and deduced the man was afraid of his job. He determined to make friends, if possible. It would hamper his work of spying if he had to watch for enemies close to him, like this man could be.
"Please tell me how I may help, Endar," he made his voice cordial, yet with a touch of servility. "I'm proud that our Ruler has given me work, I assure you I want to do everything to make good here. I know you must be important here, to be allowed to ride with K'nyer Amir, and I hope you will teach me the regulations. I realize I can never be anything but a stable helper, but I do want to be a good one. I hope we can become good friends."
The man unbent a little. "All right, I'll show you around."
They stabled the cavals and then the groom led Hanlon to a nearby building. It was of stone construction, five-sided, surrounded by flower beds and trees. It was not only harmonious with the palace and other buildings and grounds, but a pretty little house by itself.
"These are the living quarters for the grooms," Endar said as they mounted the steps. Inside he pointed out the dining room, then led the way upstairs and down a short hall. "This will be your room," he opened a door, disclosing a small but well-furnished, comfortable room.
"I have a few things in Stearra," Hanlon said. "When will it be convenient for me to go get them?"
"We have lunch in a few minutes, then you might as well go," Endar said. "I'll give you a note to the official tailor, and have him fit you with the proper clothes."
Hanlon looked at him as though with new respect. "Oh, you must be the head groom then, nyer. I hadn't thought about that. Please pardon my presumption in suggesting that we be friends."
Endar merely looked at him a moment, then turned and left without a word.
Hanlon grinned to himself as the door closed. "It won't be too hard to keep ahead of that guy. Only I'll have to watch him all the time, or he could get nasty."
Hanlon was awakened shortly after dawn the next morning. "Darn this having to pretend to such jobs," he growled to himself as he rose, washed and dressed. He had always preferred to sleep as late as possible, and getting up at such ungodly hours did not tend to make him too happy the first few hours of the day. Yet, young as he was, he had developed the philosophy of accepting what must be as gracefully as possible, and now consoled himself with the hope that he would probably not have to keep up this imposture very many days.
His first care was to examine minutely, in the mirror, the make-up he had applied. The ears and nose still seemed to be all right and holding tightly. But he was careful, when no one was around during the days that followed, to look at them as often as he could in a pocket mirror he carried.
After a good breakfast in the dining room he was put to work cleaning, feeding and watering the cavals. Endar brought two of the horses from their stalls, snapped their halters into rings in a post, and was busy currying them. When he finished he saddled the two and led them out, after first telling Hanlon to make sure the stables were clean, in case the Ruler came to inspect them.
There were three other stablemen, working at the same general tasks. Hanlon, without neglecting his own work, made it a point to try to engage them in conversation.
"I love this kind of work, don't you?" he asked confidingly. "I'm so proud the Ruler gave me this job."
All the time he was studying their surface minds, trying to get a line on what manner of men they were—whether they would be inclined to be too friendly and intruding. But to his relief, he found they were rather stupid, loutish fellows, not caring too greatly what they did nor who was working with them, as long as they had a good place to live, plenty to eat, and fair pay. They seemed mildly surprised at his evident enthusiasm. One of them answered, in a churlish voice, "It's only a job—why get so excited about it?"
His mind-probings told him, however, that none of them was the type to be involved in any plot that might be going on, even as the most humble participants or workers. He had nothing to fear from them in any way.
When the work was finished for the morning, the other three men went into the tackroom and began playing cards. They ignored Hanlon, not asking him to play with them, seemingly not caring what he did.
He went outside, sought the shade of a large flowertree, and sat down with his back leaning against the bole. He closed his eyes, the better to concentrate, and strengthened his mental control of the cavals ridden by Elus Amir and Endar, in which he had put a smallish portion of his mind when they started out. He knew that so far no untoward incident had occurred—the Ruler was riding along that country road, wrapped in thought, not talking, not meeting anyone, paying no attention to the groom following him.
Hanlon had not expected anything would occur, but wanted to know if it did, and especially wanting to be sure he could perfectly control the Ruler's caval at all times, no matter what the distance.
Early the next morning a houseman approached the stables. "K'nyer Amir says to get his son's caval ready, for he rides with him today."
Endar indicated a certain animal to Hanlon. "Bring that one out and get it saddled. The young man's gear is the second set on the right of the door in the tack room."
Hanlon hurriedly led the caval out, snapped its halter ring in a nearby post, then ran to get the blanket, saddle and bridle.
"Those back legs aren't smooth," the head groom snapped. "Curry and brush them again. Inver is particular."
"Yes, nyer, thank you," Hanlon made haste to obey, and was careful in his work. When the beasts were ready, the groom took the reins in his hands, and led them to the mounting block.
Hanlon implanted parts of his mind in each of the two cavals. Thus he was ready for his spying when the two men came out of the residence.
Through the eyes, wide set in the only-slightly elongated, broad heads of the steeds, Hanlon studied this important new character, of whom he had heard much. He saw a tallish, very intelligent-looking native, guessed him to be in his middle or late twenties. The fellow had a slight though wiry build, and reddish-blond hair and trimmed beard. Hanlon liked this Inver on sight, and decided instantly that what he had heard was somehow wrong. The Ruler's son certainly did not look half-crazy.
He pondered the matter. Was that impression being sowed about the planet deliberately? Was someone trying to tear down any reputation or influence the young man might have?
"This," his eyes gleamed, "is going to be good. I'm sure going to watch and listen carefully today."
Hanlon crowded into the brains of the two cavals all of his mind they could hold, finding that the animals had enough capacity to take a full half of his own mind. He had barely enough left in his body to keep on with his work which, luckily, did not require much mental effort. He still had more left than the other stablemen possessed.
The riders had barely left the palace grounds when Hanlon, through the caval's ears, heard the young man speak.
"I hope, father, that you have thought about the subject I broached to you the other day, and the reasons I suggested for your further study. I pray you have decided that our world will do well to join the Federation of Planets, as we have been invited to do."
Hanlon could tell, by the tone, that the Ruler's mind and voice were troubled. "Son, I don't know what to decide. There are so many things to think about. There are many good reasons why we should, it is true. There are also many equally good reasons why we should not. I am, as you know, very jealous of Estrella's independence. I should hate to see it made subservient to any other power."
"But, father," Inver said earnestly, "we would not be. I have studied very carefully the proposition made us by the Federation Council, and the copy of their constitution they sent with it. They guarantee each planet complete autonomy, and state very plainly that the Council is only a judicial body set up to negotiate intra-planetary treaties and to see that the various worlds remain in harmony with each other. The advantages...."
"But it's all a trick of those Terrans to get control of the entire galaxy," his father broke in.
"That's not only nonsense, father, but a deliberate lie. I'm sure you know who is fostering it, and I think you can guess the reason."
"I presume you're still talking about the Second-In-Line. But Irad isn't like that, at all. He has a good mind, and he has presented some excellent reasons and arguments as to why we should not join the Federation."
"Sure, he would. He wants to keep Estrella free, so that when he takes over he can pluck it like a...."
"That's a strong indictment, son. I hope it is not jealousy because he won out over you in the tests."
"It is not jealousy, and while I haven't the proof yet, k'nyer, I do know it's true," the young man said hotly. "You can be sure that when I do get the truth I shall call for Irad's impeachment. No, father, I and many friends are concerned over this matter, and are satisfied we are correct."
Hanlon could guess at the troubled eyes of the older man, and that he was shaking his head sadly. "I hate to think that of Adwal Irad," he said. "He has always seemed so interested in helping me to build up Estrella's economy and is constantly bringing new ideas for her betterment. He seems to be making every effort to become worthy of his post when he succeeds me."
"I know," sadly. "He wasn't like this until recently. But he has changed someway, father. Now he is power mad. Also, he is trying to make me out as a fool and a brainless dara," Inver snapped.
"Why ... why ... I never heard him say anything like that," there was astonishment in the elder's voice. "He always speaks well of you."
"Naturally, k'nyer, he wouldn't be crass enough to say anything of that sort to you. But he and his henchmen are spreading that story all over our world."
"Oh, I'm sure you must be mistaken."
"I'm not," grimly. "The evidence on that is unmistakable."
There was decisiveness now in the Ruler's voice. "If that's true, I'll certainly put a stop to it."
"Don't, father, not at once," his son pleaded quickly. "Do not even mention it to Adwal yet, please. Nor make a public pronouncement about it. That would put him on his guard, and I and my friends need time to prove the other things I'm talking about."
"I'll not have word spread that my son is a ... a weakling, or stupid," the elder's voice was angry, and Hanlon felt the jerk on the reins of his caval that told of the sudden gesture.
"Just so you don't believe it, father, is all I care at the moment."
Hanlon felt the two animals swerve and touch sides, and knew that Amir had drawn closer to his son, and shrewdly guessed he was touching the boy lovingly.
"You need never fear that, Inver. I've always been proud of the way you've taken hold of things, ever since you were a boy."
"I've tried, k'nyer, to make myself a worthy son of a great father," there was emotion in the young man's voice. "I've studied everything I thought would help me—economics, psychology, statecraft, history, and all. And especially, since the Federation first made contact with us, I've tried to learn all I could about them, their various forms of government, their history, and everything. That's why I'm so sure they mean us well, not harm."