When the noise subsided a bit, Hanlon gave the roches "At rest," and they relaxed, lay down, and panted ... but each still in his place.
Hanlon stepped forward and facing first one way and then the other said, "Thank you for your kind reception of our poor efforts. Now, with your permission, I would like to show you some of the individual abilities of my little friends."
But while he was speaking four of the animals had gone off to the side near the entrance to the stairway. Hanlon had fixed up a specially prepared chair. To the bottoms of each of the legs he had affixed light wooden rods that extended out several inches. Now the four roches each picked up a rod in its teeth and thus lifted the stool, which they brought out and set before Hanlon. He looked down at them in pretended surprise, then out at his audience, and smiled. "My friends are so thoughtful. They must think I am tired and need a rest. Well, far be it from me to disappoint them." And he sat down, while the roches went back to their places and lay down.
Instantly there was a loud, angry hissing from the audience. There was no mistaking this—it was censure, not praise. Hanlon was dumb-founded. What had he done wrong?
Quickly he scanned a number of minds, and found he had broken one of their most sacred taboos. Nobody—butnobody—ever sat in the presence of their beloved Ruler without his express invitation.
"Oops, tilted!" Hanlon groaned, quickly rising and shoving the offending stool off the edge of the stage. But the audience was not mollified. If anything, their clamor rose louder.
It was the Ruler, himself, who quieted them. He rose and held up his hand in a gesture of silence, smiling forgivingly.
"Boy, what a swell egg he is," Hanlon mentally wiped the sweat from his mind's brow. "I still don't understand these folks. I'll have to watch myself more carefully, all the time."
He bowed his thanks to the Ruler, spreading his hands in a gesture of apology. Then he quickly made the roches begin their other tricks. He had one do some acrobatics, in imitation of the type their native acrobats did. Two of the others "danced" together. Another balanced himself and rolled about the stage on a large plastic ball Hanlon had secured. Three of them did intricate circlings about each other, without ever getting in each other's way or breaking step at any time. Another stood on its hind legs and "sang" in imitation of the singers. Another "walked" on its front legs. These, being more to the liking of his audience, yet something they had never seen animals do, or so well, soon recaptured their interest. After a bit they began again that "Yi, yi" of applause. By the time Hanlon's turn was over the people seemed to have forgotten his one blooper, and were solidly "with him." As he left the stage and went below with his roches, their yells were the loudest yet.
Ino Yandor was wildly enthusiastic, and those who had seen the first night's performance spread the word. In days the fame of Hanlon and his roches had spanned the continent, and other cities were clamoring to see his act, while the National Theatre there in Stearra was packed nightly with capacity crowds.
During those days Hanlon spent as much of his time as he could wandering about the city, the marketplace, the recreation parks, and sitting in various places where people ate or drank. With his mind he was hunting not only for whatever points of specific information he might glean, but also to get a more general and better "feel" of the people and conditions here.
He was confirmed in his early beliefs that as a whole these were wonderful people; that they would make excellent citizens of the Federation. They had such a high sense of social justice; such deep feelings of right and wrong; such splendid habits of co-operative living. More even than the Terrans and the colonists, who had come far along the road of brotherliness in the past centuries, these Estrellans had an innate belief in the brotherhood of man.
What a great gap there was between the great mass of Estrellans and those few criminals with whom he was working? He remembered one time when he had been talking with his father about the way he worked.
"You want to be mighty careful," Admiral Newton warned. "Being around gangsters and criminals so much, you'll have to watch not to begin thinking like they do."
"You never need worry about that, dad," Hanlon had been very earnest. "The more I see of 'em, the less I like 'em, and the more I'm sure the common decencies of life are best. We must have law, government and order, and all decent citizens must always 'live and let live'. I could never be contented otherwise."
The night the sneak boat was due to return, Hanlon early sent word to Yandor that he was ill, and could not perform that night. The entrepreneur came, boiling over with anger, to Hanlon's rooms.
"Well now," he began, "what's all this about...?"
"Ooh, quiet, please," Hanlon moaned. He had been ready for just some such thing, and was lying in bed, face contorted with pain, and now pressed his hands to his ears as though Yandor's loud voice was more than he could stand. "Can't you see I'm sick? Why must you make so much noise?"
The agent was taken aback by this counterthrust. He calmed a bit then, but asked many questions. Hanlon's partial answers and evident pain finally convinced the impresario that his star performer was, indeed, too ill to appear.
"These attacks come only once or twice a year, and usually last only a day or two," Hanlon assured him in a weak voice. "I'll try my best to be on hand tomorrow."
"Very well, I'll expect you then. Well now, there is something I've been meaning to talk to you about, and now is a good time. I want you to work into your act various things to say against the Terrans; about how such wonderful performances as yours would be impossible if we were to submit to them and accept their so-called invitation to join their Federation. Suggest to the audience that we would all become slaves, and that neither would performers have time to prepare their acts, nor would the others be allowed to come and watch them."
Hanlon was slightly prepared for this because he had seen it forming in Yandor's mind, but he did not like it any the better. He was just about to make an angry retort when he took himself in hand, and continued keeping in the character he had assumed. He groaned a bit louder, and twisted more violently on the bed.
"Please, nyer, leave me now. I hate for anyone to see me while I'm like this. As for what you've just said, we'll talk about it later and see what can be worked out."
And, reluctantly, it seemed, Yandor finally left.
When night at last brought its cloak of darkness, Hanlon put the roches to sleep and slipped quietly from his room. Down in the back, though, he could not seem to get his tricky acetylene-powered engine to start. He fussed and tinkered for nearly two hours before he could finally get it going.
"So help me, I'm never going to cuss out a real ground-car after this because it acts up occasionally," he said as he rode out of the yard and down the dusty street. He drove as fast as he could out to the clearing where the sneakboat had already landed.
"Sorry to be late, fellows," he said as soon as he had given the password and been allowed aboard. He accepted gratefully the cup of coffee they gave him, and griped for five solid minutes about those gosh-awful excuses for transportation these so-and-so natives used.
"Here, have a box of candy bars, and quit belly-aching," one of them said at last. The other held out another gift, a pound can of pulverized instant coffee.
"Hey, these are wonderful," Hanlon's spirits rose as if by magic. "You guys are my friends for life."
"Why, Georgie," one of them simpered. "I didn't know you cared."
"You'll have to choose between us, though," the other said owlishly. "I'm not going to be a partner to bigamy."
Then they both laughed. "Look, he's blushing."
"Aw, I am not," Hanlon spluttered. "It's just this pink skin-dye," he added weakly.
"Anyway, here's your cat," the S S men got down to business, and fetched the crate containing the beautiful animal. "We happened to remember hearing that these people don't have milk, so we got you one that's accustomed to a meat and vegetable diet."
"Gee, thanks for that. I'd completely forgotten that point."
Hanlon examined the big, black cat, and his mind reached out and quieted its fright at the strange surroundings and this hairy being who was now handling it.
He talked with the men for some further time, told them he had not yet got any sure clues, but was beginning to get an "in" with some people he felt sure would lead him to some. They told him the other three men had reported about the same, although Hooper said the curve was rising steadily on the belief that Terrans were behind the crime wave here.
"Yeh, I've heard that bilge, too. It's just another of the things we'll have to stamp out before we can win out here. But we will."
"Sure you will," the two agreed. "Anything else you need?"
"No, can't think of a thing. The cat was the most important for now. It will really get me in more solid with Yandor, the guy I'm working on."
"Hope so, Han. Well, cheerio."
"Safe flights, you guys, and thanks again."
On the ride back he was glad he had a tricycle instead of a two-wheeled bike, for the crate was heavy and rather awkward with the cat in it, shifting its weight about from time to time.
Back in his room once more, Hanlon released the animal, which immediately dived under the bed, where it cowered in fright, having seen and smelled the roches who were sleeping in various places about the rooms.
But again Hanlon reached out and touched its mind, calmed its fear, and soon had it out of hiding and creeping into his arms. It lay there, purring, while he stroked it and impressed on its mind—whose texture he learned while doing this—that it was safe and with friends.
After he had done that, he woke the roches. At first sight of the feline a couple of them started toward it in curiosity. Swiftly Hanlon took over their minds and halted them where they were. He then brought each of them to the realization that this was a new friend and playmate. That was not too hard, for the roches had never seen a cat, and only its strangeness had made them curious.
He had more trouble with the cat, for the ages-old dislike and fear of dogs was strong within it. But he finally calmed it by implanting the knowledge firmly in its mind that these strange beings were not dogs, actually, and that they meant it no harm, and all were to be friends.
Soon he was grinning at his ability, as he saw the nine animals eating, drinking and playing together, as though they had been the best of comrades all their lives.
"I'm really quite an animal trainer," he chuckled to himself as he watched them.
High above the strange being lay on its padded bench and frustrated thoughts ran through its mind. It had noticed the two DIFFERENT minds who again had come briefly to this planet in their ship of space, talked with the three other different ones, and then had come to this western continent in its night time. The mind "heard" them conversing with that other but unreadable mind again, but still no sort of contact could be made. Why? it wondered again. What sort of mind was it, that it could not be touched?
Through its multiphased scanner the being carefully watched that entity below which appeared so like an Estrellan native—but after it had left on that peculiar conveyance, bearing a container with a strange animal, sight of the entity had been lost among the crowds of the city streets.
So now the mind above seethed with questions, to which it could find no logical answers, even though it was beginning to understand the thought-concepts of those others it could "read."
Late the next day—for Hanlon had quickly adopted the actors' habit of beginning his day at noon—he fed and watered his animals, then got his own meal and ate it.
Then he impressed on the minds of his roches that they were to behave themselves, and not destroy things about the room in their play, and not to make too much noise.
"Sure is handy to be able to do this," he smiled. "Boy, what a baby sitter I'd make if I could control humans this way."
He called the cat to him, snapped on the harness and leash the S S men had brought with it, and took it down to Yandor's office.
He had worked carefully on the cat's mind, and knew the characteristics and texture thoroughly. He had practiced seeing through its eyes and hearing through its ears under all conditions—from ordinary daylight to bright carbides, from dusk to the blackness of a closet. He felt certain he could use the animal as planned, under any and all conditions.
"This is 'Ebony'," he explained to Yandor as he presented the cat. At the same time he was impressing on the feline's mind that this was to be its new master, that it must always obey him, and must allow itself to be the man's constant pet and companion without hesitation or animosity.
"'Ebony'," Hanlon went on saying to Yandor, "is the Terran word for 'black', and that is probably why its former owner gave it that name."
The impresario took the big, beautiful animal in his arms and exclaimed over and over at its wonderful appearance, its sleek lines, soft fur and intelligent face. But it was the cat's long, furry tail that was his greatest delight. He stroked and petted it as though he could not really believe such a thing was true. Hanlon was careful to explain to Yandor how he must strokewiththe lay of the fur, and neveragainstit.
"Well now, I can never thank you enough, my friend, for this marvelous gift," Yandor said. "I hope it didn't cost you too much."
Hanlon made himself cough in an embarrassed manner. "Well ... er ... it really didn't cost me ..." he grinned and left it at that, nor did Yandor, after a knowing look, refer to the matter again.
Instead, he said, "It shall be the prize of my collection. I shall treasure this above all others."
Yandor really was in the transports of delight, known only to collectors who have made an unusual find. Hanlon read from the surface of his mind the thought that this man was a wonderful friend, "and probably no menace to our plans at all. I am sure we can trust him—and use him."
The latter phrase delighted Hanlon, although he was careful not to let his feelings show in his face. This was what he was after. He had only to learn who "we" was. But he was making progress; he could really begin to learn things.
"You do not need to keep the harness on Ebony all the time," he explained aloud. "Just when you want to go out with him. In your home or office, leave it off, as it is probably not too comfortable. I'm sure," he decided to do a bit of direct suggesting, "that you'll soon grow to love the cat enough so you'll want to keep it with you all the time. It will lie on your desk, or in your lap, and be the finest sort of companion."
"Yes, and be the envy of all my friends," Yandor swelled with importance.
Hanlon explained rapidly about its feeding and drinking habits, and that while it was house-broken it should be taken outdoors several times a day. When he was sure Yandor knew how to care for the animal, Hanlon left the office and went back to his rooms.
After the performance that night, Hanlon went quickly home and lay down on the bed. He sent out a portion of his mind to contact that of Ebony, which Yandor had taken to his own room and installed in a padded basket, as Hanlon had suggested.
Through the cat's eyes he could see the interior of Yandor's bedroom, and watched while the latter prepared for bed and finally dropped off to sleep. Then Hanlon withdrew his mind, and did the same.
He had set the wake-up on his time-teller for fairly early the next morning. Immediately upon awakening he sent part of his mind back into that of the cat. All during the day—which he spent mainly lying down or sprawled in his easy chair, when he was not preparing or eating his meals, or attending to the wants of his roches—he watched Yandor at his daily activities.
For the impresario, delighted with his new pet, kept the cat with him all the time, even to taking it into the office-like study of his home with him. There, as soon as they were inside, Hanlon made Ebony leap up onto the table-desk, and curl up on the one corner. He wanted this habit to become a permanent one—and it, too, delighted the Estrellan.
Now the cat was in the best possible place for Hanlon's spying while Yandor was at home.
Later in the day, when it was time for the entrepreneur to go to his downtown office, he put into effect another suggestion Hanlon had made. He put the small, ornate harness Hanlon had given him for that purpose onto the cat, snapped the leash to it, and took Ebony with him.
Dozens of Yandor's friends stopped him and complimented him—though somewhat jealously—upon his acquisition, which made him prouder than ever. For Ebony created such a sensation that it took Yandor nearly an hour longer than usual to get to his office.
He had not yet reached there, in fact, when Hanlon was surprised and a little nettled by a knock on his apartment door. Somewhat angrily he got up off the bed, and went and opened it. A native was standing there, grinning.
"What d'you want?" Hanlon growled querulously.
"Boy, are you in a temper this morning?" a voice said in Terran, while the grin grew lop-sided.
"Morrie!" Hanlon yelled, throwing his arms about the other. Then, over his shoulder, he noticed a number of his neighbors peering out of their doors, or standing about in the hall, listening, and knew with a sinking feeling that they must have heard the Terran words, and be wondering about them. His mind raced, then he spoke even more loudly in Estrellan.
"My brother, it is such a surprise to see you here. How did you happen to come from Lura to visit me?" Then he dragged the surprised S S man into his room, and shut the door.
"What gives? Why that 'my brother' routine?"
"Noticed the neighbors gawking, and knew they had heard us talking Terran. But I sure am glad to see you, even if I was so curt at first. Was concentrating on a job, and didn't like being interrupted just then."
"Oh, sorry. Want me to come back later?"
"No, no, it wasn't really that important." Hanlon was silent a short moment while he disengaged the part of his mind that was in Ebony, and brought it back into his own. "Come on, take that chair. Go ahead and gab while I get dressed."
Manning did as requested, and they talked seriously for some time, each bringing the other up to date on all they knew about their part of this business, and what they were planning.
In particular, Hanlon told Manning about the local aspects of the work of the criminal elements, and what he suspected as well as what he actually knew and had done.
"I'm almost certain now," he said, "that the criminals and the folks who're trying to keep Estrella out of the Federation are tied in together, but I haven't any real proof ... yet. But I think I soon will have, with the line of investigation I'm on."
"We've about come to the same conclusion," Manning said thoughtfully, "but we haven't any more proof than you have, if as much."
Hanlon told him about stopping Auldin's "wrecking crew", and a few other possible leads he had uncovered to local men who seemed to be in on the activities here, especially one Ovil Esbor, a local politician.
"He's a sort of gang-boss or district captain," Hanlon added, "but I think he has quite a lot of fingers in different illegal pies."
"I'll get right at it," Manning said. "The admiral—he sent his regards, by the way—said we were to work together as closely as possible, and that you would feed me leads whenever you got 'em—as I will you."
"Sure, I will. Maybe I'm sticking my neck out, trying for the big fellows and asking you to take care of the smaller fry, but it seems...."
"Think nothing of it, little chum," Manning waved his hand airily. "As long as we clean out his hoo-raw's nest, I don't care how we do it, and I'm ready to work at anything. The admiral said—and what you've told me clinches it—that I'd better be an aspirant for a spot in the political set-up here, so I'll pretend I heard about Esbor, and go right to him."
For another hour they discussed ways and means, and then Manning rose to go, after telling Hanlon where he was living here in Stearra.
"We'll see each other every few days," he said.
As soon as Manning was gone, Hanlon threw himself on the bed and again sent part of his mind back into that of the cat, now with Yandor in the latter's office. And Hanlon kept it in Ebony's brain all the rest of that day and early evening. But nothing in which he was particularly interested happened—and he was beginning to wonder if his ideas about Yandor were right after all. Nothing but legitimate theatrical business had been transacted all day—at least while Hanlon was watching. There had been those two hours or more while Manning was at his rooms....
During the time Hanlon was on the stage that night, he had to concentrate all his mental faculties on his roches, and had to withdraw from the cat's brain. But once back in his dressing room and while going home and after he got there, Hanlon watched carefully the party the impresario gave to a group of friends in his palatial home.
Through the cat's eyes Hanlon carefully studied each one of the guests and listened avidly to their talk—and at times had to tighten his control of Ebony's mind and muscles to keep it acting friendly toward some of those people. They seemed to "rub its fur the wrong way" ... and did, literally, on occasions. Also, they had an effluvia Ebony distinctly did not like.
But under Hanlon's compulsion, it continued to act in as friendly a manner as cats usually do ... most of the time with customary feline indifference.
The next day Hanlon also spent in the cat's mind, when he was not playing with or attending to his roches, or eating. It happened that he had transferred part of his mind to each of the eight, and was giving them a short workout, when there was a sudden noise at his door, and it was roughly flung open—he had not locked it while at home.
Nine parts of his mind saw through nine pairs of eyes the man who stormed in. Nine pairs of ears heard him snarl, "What's the big idea of having my men arrested?"
As quickly as he could Hanlon started bringing the portions of his mind from the roches into his own brain. He sat up on the bed, and made his face look blank—but inside he was thunderstruck. How had Ran Auldin found out he was behind those arrests?
"Why ... why," he pretended to stammer. "I don't know what you're talking about, Ran. What arrests? What's happened?"
The usually fastidious gang-boss was now dirty and his clothing soiled and rumpled. His eyes were red, apparently from sleeplessness, or worry, or both. His voice was still accusing as he answered, "My men were surprised at their work the other night, and I only escaped by luck. Been hiding ever since."
"But what's it all about? Why were they arrested? I don't know anything about what you were doing—Yandor didn't tell...."
"It must have been you. Nobody else knew."
"And I tell you I was not told, either, so how could I know? I've been too busy getting my act ready and putting it on, and Yandor hasn't even mentioned you to me."
Auldin stepped close to the side of the bed as Hanlon struggled to get up, and pushed him down again. Now Hanlon could see that the mobster was carrying in each hand a piece of large rope, approximately half an inch in diameter and about two feet long. The far end of each was tied into a knot, in which pieces of wires had been woven to add weight.
"Maybe you didn't have anything to do with the arrests," Auldin admitted, "but I still think you did. Anyway, you used me to get in good with Yandor, then turned him against me. I don't like that."
Oh, so that was what had really touched him off. Hanlon saw that the slim man was spoiling for a fight—and that he was using almost any excuse to try to take it out of a fellow who was making good where he had failed.
Hanlon thought, "I don't want to hurt the guy, now that he's down, but I sure don't want to get hurt, either." He had never seen exactly such weapons as Auldin was carrying, but he had a good idea the native was adept in their handling. They looked old and well-used.
Hanlon rolled suddenly across the bed and jumped to his feet on the other side. But Auldin ran swiftly around the foot of the bed, and Hanlon was more or less cornered in a narrow space. First one of those strange weapons flicked out, then the other, and Hanlon quickly found out how effective they were. The way Auldin snapped and whipped them, made them almost impossible to dodge, and Hanlon felt their burnings across his shoulders—although he was able to protect his face from those first quick flicks.
Hanlon had to get out of that corner, so the next time both ropes flashed out toward him he ducked beneath, down and forward, under Auldin's arms—and was in the center of the room.
The S S man reached out and took over the minds of two of his roches, and made them run between Auldin's legs. Then, as the ropes with those terrible knots at the ends flashed out, Hanlon grabbed them and yanked. The combination of that pull and the roches entangled between his legs was enough to upset the gangster, and he stumbled forward. Hanlon quickly swarmed onto him and got a judo hold on Auldin the man could not break. Holding him thus, Hanlon took the two ropes from his powerless hands, and threw them into a far corner.
"Now get this, and get it straight," Hanlon panted, but as impressively as he could. "I still don't know what this is all about, but I don't like your barging into my room and attacking me like this. Now get out and stay away from me. You try anything like this again, and so help me I'll kill you. And just so you'll remember...." Hanlon put all his pent-up wrath into his fist and threw it at the now-deflated Auldin's jaw. This, he knew, was the only way really to impress a man of that type.
He then forced the half-groggy gangster out of the room and loosed him in the hallway, then shut and locked his door. He listened intently, and finally heard the fellow's mumblings and footsteps going down the stairs. From the window Hanlon watched the thoroughly-frightened native scuttle off down the street, looking furtively all about to see that he was not being followed or observed. Hanlon felt satisfied that he would have no further trouble from him.
As he went back to bed, Hanlon tried to figure this one out. Evidently Auldin did not really know Hanlon had caused those arrests, but was merely using that as an excuse to provoke a fight with one whom he hated for making a success at the same time he, Auldin, was a failure in hiding.
Had Auldin reported this to Yandor? Hanlon had not seen the two together—either through his own or Ebony's eyes—nor had he found anything of the sort in Yandor's mind. But he would have to try to find out that answer, also, among the many others.
He sent his mind back into that of the cat, and took up his spying of the theatrical agent.
About an hour later Yandor had a caller, and Hanlon "listened in" with interest and growing delight. For it was Ovil Esbor, the politician. From the talk between the two, in Yandor's inner, closed office—into which Ebony had also gone—Hanlon got further confirmation of his suspicions. He was more sure than ever now that Yandor was the "top boss" here in Stearra, at least, while Esbor was boss of many other local gangs, including thieves, dope peddlers and panderers.
Hanlon, in his room, made copious notes. "There," he exclaimed after the two men had parted. "That ought to give Morrie enough info to hang 'em. I'll take these notes to him right away."
But Manning was not in his room when Hanlon got there, and since his door was padlocked, Hanlon could not get in. He took a chance and slid his notes under the door.
All this time, however, Hanlon had been watching Yandor through Ebony's mind. He had just barely got back to his apartment when the impresario had another visitor ... a masked man. (Hanlon doubted the man had gone through the streets masked—probably had put it on just before entering Yandor's office.)
"Ha! This should be good," and the young S S man paid even closer attention, even as he was putting his motor-trike away, and running up to his room. He heard the two distant men discussing many matters of policy, closeted in that inner room of Yandor's. Hanlon found that the criminal activities were, as he and the other secret servicemen had deduced, planet-wide and under one general control. He knew positively, when this conversation ended, that Yandor was in charge of the activities of this half of the world—the largest continent—and that the masked man was above him in authority.
Was this other king-pin of the whole thing? Or was he, perhaps, what might be termed the "executive director" of the planetary criminal ring? Whatever he was, he was the man Hanlon must get next to and unmask. The Corpsman thrilled. He was gradually but surely climbing that ladder, tediously and maddeningly slow though it seemed sometimes.
"One thing looks sure," Hanlon thought to himself. "Whether or not this bunch is the one that is opposing Estrella's joining the Federation, if we can eliminate them it will mean curbing, if not entirely stopping, this planet-wide crime wave. That'll be worthwhile, even if it's not really our job."
He tried to figure some way to get rid of these two men. If he could lop off the head, the body would die—unless it was a Hydra, with self-regenerating heads.
But after an hour or so of further study and thought, it was borne in upon his consciousness that this was not his job at all. He must quit trying to be the big cheese. If he got any leads, the information must be turned over to his father and the secret service general staff, and let them—not him—worry about how to get rid of these men, or punish them in whatever way Estrellan law provided.
When Hanlon went to the theatre that night, he found Yandor there, with Ebony on its leash—as he had known he would from watching the man through the cat's senses. There was another man with the agent, whom Hanlon had been studying, puzzled by the curious ... blocking? ... in the man's mind. Yandor now introduced him as "my good friend, Egon," and the three chatted together until it was time for Hanlon to go and prepare. Egon complimented him highly on his act, which he said he had seen twice already, and upon the perfect training of his animals.
"How in the name of Zappa do you do it?" he asked. "It's hard enough even to tame roches, to say nothing of training them as you've done."
Hanlon grinned. "Professional secret, nyer." Then he sobered and added, "Actually, it's mainly a matter of hours and days and months of hard work with them, until they know me and like me well enough to do what I tell them, and I know what they are able to do."
He broke away, then, before they could question him further. In his dressing room, while he was putting the uniforms on his dogs and himself, and donning his roch-mask, he pondered seriously a thing that had struck him a stunning blow. For Ebony's mind and delicate senses seemed to detect a distinct similarity between the tones of Egon's voice and those of the masked man—as well as a sameness of effluvia—even though the two spoke in different keys and timbre of voice.
Profoundly stirred, Hanlon studied this seeming fact with intense concentration. How could he make certain?
But his call came just then, and he had to let this new matter rest while he devoted his entire mind to the work of controlling his roches for their act.
Later, in his room, as he again watched Yandor through the cat's eyes, he saw him in his home with Egon and two other men, playing cards, but merely as a group of friends. Nothing whatever was said, during the hours, about any special activities of a criminal nature. No sedition nor revolution was talked; neither Terra nor the matter of Estrella's joining the Federation was so much as mentioned.
Still Hanlon was not sure—and he must become so. Perhaps, he reasoned, the other two men were not in on any of these activities, and for that reason Yandor and Egon could not discuss these matters in their presence. Or perhaps Egon, himself, was not part of Yandor's criminal group after all.
There must be some way of getting proof, Hanlon thought anxiously. How could he positively connect the two, and make sure whether or not the cat's feelings were correct—that Egon was the masked man?
The opportunity came just before the party broke up for the night, many hours later. Egon had picked up the cat and was petting it, as the men were preparing to leave Yandor's house. Not being used to cats, and not knowing the manner in which they like to be petted—rubbing the fur the way it naturally lies down—Egon was ruffling it and rubbing his hands forth and back across Ebony's body.
The cat did not like it. It was only Hanlon's firm control that kept it from ... "Hey, that's it!"
He released control of the cat's actions, while still watching through its eyes and ears. Egon's hand again rubbed heavily upward across the cat's fur. Almost light-swift was the slash of a clawed paw ... and Egon yelped as he dropped Ebony to clap his hand to his chin, on which blood began seeping from several deep and painful scratches.
Egon aimed a hard kick in its direction, but Ebony dodged safely away and ran under a large piece of furniture.
"What happened?" Yandor sprang forward, a cloth in his hand to wipe away the blood from Egon's chin. "Wait a minute. I'll get medicine to put on that."
"Get rid of that cursed animal or I'll kill it," Egon blazed.
"Well now, you must have hurt it some way," Yandor said placatingly as he daubed medicine on his friend's chin, stopping the bleeding and relieving the pain. "Ebony is so friendly and quiet, I can't understand it. He never acted that way before."
"Well, keep the vicious thing caged after this, then," and Egon stomped out of the house, the other two men silently following.
Nor could Hanlon detect anything in Yandor's mind, which he invaded as quickly as possible, that this was anything more than the grumbling of a friend who had been accidentally injured. Yet there was a bit of fear of that other man there, and a resolution to keep the cat out of sight when Egon was around.
Did Yandor, himself, know that Egon and the masked man were the same—or were Hanlon and Ebony wrong? If not, why was Yandor afraid? There were many questions, but no answers—and Hanlon fumed.
He must get facts. He was getting a lot of suspicions and possible clues, and certainly more information all the time. But none of them tied in together as yet; none of them were provable facts.
Slowly, as he thought this out, it became more and more apparent to Hanlon that he must no longer be tied down to his work at the theatre. It—and taking care of the roches daytimes—was demanding entirely too much of his time. Besides, it had only been undertaken to give him a chance to get acquainted with Ino Yandor and, later, to give Hanlon a reason for presenting the cat to this pet-collector.
So, when he went to the theatre that night, Hanlon was, to all intents and purposes, roaring drunk. He was surly and insolent to everyone he met, and his performance was terrible. The roches did not stay in straight lines, they were out of step often, and fumbled and stumbled in one way or another much of the time. The master of ceremonies finally came out, forced Hanlon off the stage, then apologized to the stunned audience.
"What made you think you could get away with anything like this?" the manager demanded hotly, down in Hanlon's dressing room. "You're through here—the act is cancelled. And I'll make sure no other theatre hires you."
"Well now, that's right," another angry voice broke in, and Hanlon turned to see Yandor, his face black. "Your entire contract is broken as of now. I'll not tolerate such a disgraceful performance from anyone under me."
Hanlon blustered and cursed, and yanked off his costume to get into his street clothes. He apparently was not concerned with the roches—did not even take off their costumes—but actually he was seeing to it that none of this anger touched their minds or affected them in any way.
Back in his room he considered the matter for some time, and decided he had put it across all right—that these touchy men would not connect him with any reverses they might suffer later in their outside criminal work.
He considered the problem of his roches. He had always loved dogs, and having become so intimate with these Estrellan pooches, he hated to part with them. They were such lovable pets, so gentle and affectionate and loyal. Knowing their minds so intimately, Hanlon knew they had often wondered at the way they were being handled and made to do things beyond their ordinary ability—yet not one of them had ever had the least rebellious thought of ill-feeling toward this master who made them do such unusual things.
But Hanlon knew he could no longer take care of them as they deserved, that they would only be in his way from now on. His first act the next morning after they had been fed, was to see to it that they were taken out and good homes found for them. There were many children living in his own and neighboring houses, who were glad to receive gifts of such fine pets.
That worry solved, Hanlon went back to his room and spent most of the day there, a great deal of it lying down on his bed or sprawled out in his easy chair, his mind in that of Ebony, the cat, or roaming the city watching the minds of the people he knew and suspected.
During the afternoon the masked man called on Yandor again. Through Ebony's sharp eyes Hanlon carefully scrutinized and studied the lower part of the visitor's face, which luckily the mask did not cover.
"Hah!" he exclaimed gleefully. For those scratches were quite plainly visible to one who knew exactly where they were, and who was specifically looking for them, even though it was apparent there had been a careful attempt to conceal them with cosmetics.
Egon and the masked man, then, were one and the same!
But who was he, really? That was Hanlon's next important problem.
The following night, through the cat's eyes, Hanlon again saw Egon and the other two men coming into Yandor's house for one of their usual card games. Now, perhaps, was his chance to find out who the man was, and where he lived.
Ebony had been banished to the next room, but through its ears Hanlon was listening carefully, to know that the four were still in the house. Meanwhile, he dressed and rode his motor-tricycle to the vicinity of Yandor's home. There he hid himself in a dense shadow, always in possession of Ebony's mind, waiting for signs that the men were getting ready to leave.
Unexpectedly, however, as they were going out, a large, ornate, motorized-tricycle with double seats drove up to the house. Egon entered it and was driven rapidly away, far faster than Hanlon's smaller machine could possibly go.
The young S S man was caught flat-footed. Or wait, was he? There was a way, after all ... for him.
Swiftly his mind sought about and quickly found a sleeping bird in a nearby tree. Taking control of its mind, he sent it winging after the speeding car, and by this method was able to follow it as it drove swiftly out into the country.
In the spaceship above, a decision was made. By means of the multiphased scanner, certain entities on the planet below, whose general position was already known, were hunted out. For the alien now definitely concluded that they were highly inimical to its plans.
By certain means those beings were captured and taken forcibly to a place that had been prepared.
Immediately after SSM George Hanlon had sent part of his mind into that of a bird and had made it follow Egon's car, the young man followed on his own trike, driven at its top speed out along the road the faster machine had taken.
He cussed the slowness of this clumsy vehicle, wishing he had a fast Terran jet-cycle or car. But he had to make do with what he had, and finally calmed himself with the knowledge that he could see where the other went, through the bird's eyes, even if he himself could not close up the distance separating them.
"You oughtta be ashamed of yourself," he scolded himself. "Who else could turn this into success? Be thankful for your great luck in having such a wonderful talent—and quit this eternal griping the minute something goes the tiniest bit haywire."
Thus he saw when the other car turned in through the gates leading to the drive before a rather small, but excellent cottage. The tricycle stopped at the doorway, and Egon got out and entered the house. The chauffeur drove into a shed behind the house, left the machine and then, himself, went into the main house through a back door.
Making the bird peer in through the windows, Hanlon was able to see that this house, while small, was richly and comfortably furnished according to Estrellan standards. By the time he arrived in the vicinity in person, ready to take over the inspection himself, Hanlon had a fairly good idea of the ground-floor layout. The upper story was still in darkness, none of the rooms yet lighted.
Hanlon's first act was to direct the bird to a comfortable perch in a nearby tree, close to a semi-rotted spot where there were dozens of grubs for its breakfast, and let it go back to sleep. He was always so thankful to his various animal and bird assistants that he was careful to be thoughtful of their ease and well-being.
Now, after parking his machine in the shadows of a large flowertree, Hanlon dodged from shadow to shadow, scouting the house and neighborhood carefully.
As best he could judge the estate must be about three acres in extent. There were quite an unusual number of flower beds, and a few quite large flowertrees that should give him considerable cover if he wanted to get closer—which he did not care to risk at this time.
"Mmmm, must be about seven rooms," he mused as he examined the little house. As was usual with Estrellan buildings, it was pentagonal in shape, and with a green-tile roof. Behind it, in addition to the shed where the tricycle was kept, there was another small stone building. But it was dark, and Hanlon could not tell what it was used for.
After seeing all he could from a distance of the outside of Egon's place, Hanlon looked about the neighborhood. It was not too closely built up, but some distance down the street he saw what appeared to be a shopping district. One building was lighted up even at this hour, and he shrewdly guessed it might be a place where men drank. So it proved, and Hanlon entered. While sipping a glass of mykkyl, he did some discreet investigating, both by talking to the serving girl, and by searching the minds of the customers in the cafe.
He was almost rocked back on his heels when he found that the house he had scouted was the home of Adwal Irad—the Second In Line.
"Ow!" he yelped mentally. "So Egon and Irad are the same? Where does that put me?"
He again investigated the minds of the few men and women there in the drinking place, looking for thoughts about Irad. Then he left, and slowly rode home, thinking seriously. This was really startling news—and yet, it was half-expected at that. So many clues had pointed that way. So this really meant that Irad was in back of all the pernicious activities that were going on.
But in the name of Snyder,why?
That question had him stopped ... for the present. Oh, he could think of a dozen reasons, yes. But there was no way—at the moment—of knowing which if any of them was correct. Also, it didn't square with Irad's position, nor with what he had so far learned about the man—not even what his neighbors thought of him, as Hanlon had learned there in the cafe. It was distinctly not in character, and was certainly not what one would expect of the heir to the planetary Rulership.
The next day Hanlon devoted to wandering about the city, hunting for information and thoughts about Adwal Irad. Many times he got into conversation with people of high and low degree, asking questions that forced them to think about the Second In Line, so he could read the real thoughts about the man in the minds of these selected people.
Twice he rode his trike to the house where Manning lived, to tell what he had learned and to discuss it with him, but neither time was his fellow-operative at home.
Now, the more Hanlon investigated—the more people he talked to and the more minds he studied—the more puzzled he became. Irad just wasn't that kind of a man—at least, he had never been associated in the minds of his future subjects with that sort of thing. He was really well liked. In fact, the general attitude was almost that of hero-worship. And Hanlon knew that where there is hero-worship there first has to be someone worthy of being thought a hero.
Something was screwy somewhere. With what Hanlon was beginning to learn about Irad....
Brash and self-confident as he was, Hanlon knew this was something that must be brought to the attention of his father and the other S S men here. How could he most quickly contact the admiral?
"Manning probably knows exactly how to get in touch with dad," he thought. "He talked with him only a few days ago."
But again Manning was not at home, and Hanlon could not banish the thoughts of worry and frustration from his mind as he rode slowly back to his own rooms. He again set the wake-up on his time-teller for an early hour, and went to sleep. When the call came he hurriedly rose, dressed and breakfasted. Then he went out of his room and the house.
Just as he reached the street and turned toward the part of the city where Manning lived, he swivelled about sharply as he heard thesplat, splatof running feet coming up behind him. Running—staggering, rather—down the narrow, rutty road was a native, his great feet raising clouds of dust.
Something in the fellow's wild manner held Hanlon's attention. As the runner drew nearer, his wildly waving arms, his blood-shot, almost unseeing eyes, told all too plainly that he was badly frightened. Yet, so far as Hanlon could see, nothing or no one was pursuing him.
As the native drew closer, Hanlon gave a start. Why, he knew ... but it couldn't be—he was on the Eastern Continent, thousands of miles away. Hanlon's mind must be playing tricks on him. But he scanned the fellow more closely, touching his mind, and at last was sure. It was! Disguised as a native humanoid though he was, Hanlon knew this was Curt Hooper, another of the secret servicemen who was working on this planet.
Hanlon stepped into the road to intercept the runner. He spoke as the man came abreast him, but Hooper paid no attention—seemed not even to see him.
More puzzled than ever, the young S S man ran alongside and reached out to grasp the runner's arm, forcing him to a halt. "Hey, Curt, it's me, Hanlon," he said. "What's the matter?" He was now deeply concerned.
"Don't stop me; gotta run; gotta get away," came gasping Terran words, even as the other tried to loosen himself from Hanlon's grasp.
Hanlon probed quickly into the man's mind but, as usual, he could read only the surface thoughts. These told of some terrible danger threatening—that only running, always running away, could possibly save him.
What the danger was; who or what was threatening him, was not in those surface thoughts.
"Snyder help me," Hanlon begged bitterly beneath his breath. Why couldn't he learn how to penetrate deeper into human minds, as he could with animals, and read everything that was there, instead of merely whatever thoughts were passing across the surface?
But Hooper was fighting as only a madman can fight, and Hanlon was barely able to hold him. Yet he must. Hehadto learn what this was all about—why Hooper was here in the Town of the Ruler, instead of back where he had been stationed. What the danger was, and if it threatened the work of the secret servicemen, and possibly the other Terrans. It was clear that Hooper was either drugged or that his mind had becomeunsane in some manner—whether permanently or temporarily, Hanlon could not as yet figure out.
Acting on sudden impulse, Hanlon switched his grasp to a neo-judo hold he had been taught, that made Hooper powerless in his hands. He dragged his companion back inside.
Once in his room Hanlon forced Hooper's unwilling body down on the bed, and pressed certain nerve-ends that temporarily paralyzed his body. In this way Hanlon could be more free to study that sick mind, which was not paralyzed, without having to watch every minute lest the deranged man escape him.
While Hanlon was able only to read the surface thoughts, he had learned from experience that by asking leading questions he could often make the other think of things he wanted to know, and this method he now put into practice.
What he learned now, in spite of all the leading questions he could think of to ask, was pitifully meager. Hooper had been made a prisoner and brought to this continent and confined, but had escaped. But he did not know—or could not be made to reveal—why he was on this Western Continent at all, nor how he had been captured or by whom. Hanlon guessed that the man had been held in a small house somewhere fairly near, since he had been running away from there a fairly short time, even though it had seemed an eternity to the frightened man.
Suddenly a stray wisp of thought brought Hanlon upright in his chair.
"Give me that again, Curt!" he demanded, and under his questioning brought out the fact that his father, Admiral Newton, was also a prisoner of these unknowns, as was the fourth member of the S S who had been assigned to Estrella—Morris Manning.
"Mannie couldn't stand the pain, he died," Hooper's thought was strangely calm and apparently heartless—which Hanlon knew could not be the man's true feelings, for Hooper and Manning had been close friends of long standing.
"What kind of pain? Who was hurting him?" Hanlon demanded, sick with dread. "Were all of you being tortured? Was dad?" Oh, God,whycouldn't he get in there and read the true answers?
As best he could figure it out, they had never seen their captor, but had felt his mind probing theirs, asking questions,interrogatingthem—in the Estrellan language. Whoever was doing it apparently did not intend it to be torture, for when Manning died the other two received a curiously surprised yet apologetic thought, "Your nerve sensitivity is greater than ours. It was not intended to force this entity's life-force out of physical embodiment. Greater care shall be used in the future."
"Tell me more about dad," Hanlon commanded, agonizedly. "Where is he held? Who has him? What's it all about?"
But the dazed Hooper relapsed back to the only words he seemed able to say aloud, "Gotta run; gotta get away."
"But you're safe here, Curt. No one's following you, and I won't let anyone or anything hurt you. Relax."
"Gotta run; gotta get away." And so powerful was the urge that the supine body twitched restlessly, as it began breaking out of that paralysis Hanlon had imposed on it.
Frantically, Hanlon continued his mind-scanning, asking innumerable questions that he hoped would penetrate the other's consciousness and force his mind to think along the lines Hanlon wanted to know.
And slowly, sketchily, he began to piece together a picture of sorts—like a jigsaw puzzle of which many of the pieces were missing.
The three S S men had been brought together in some little stone building. There the unknown, whom they never saw nor heard, had interrogated them mentally, a process that was extremely painful in a way that Hooper could not, or did not, specify, save that his mind seemed to wince and recoil from any thought of the method, despite Hanlon's utmost attempts to learn it.
There seemed to have been days and nights of this painful questioning, although Hooper could not tell exactly how long—and Hanlon knew it could not have been very many days, since he had seen Manning so recently.
Then, early this morning, shortly after Manning's death, and while Hooper was being questioned, it seemed to him the mental voice had gone away abruptly, leaving him in full command of his senses. He had immediately begun to examine the room, and soon found that the low door was unfastened. Cautiously he opened it, and discovered that it opened to the outside of the building. The admiral had not been in the room with him at the time, nor could Hooper find a way into the other parts of the building—if there were any other parts to it.
Therefore, he had lost no time in leaving by that providentially open door. He started running across a lawn toward the nearest road. Down this he ran, knowing only a terrified compulsion to run, to hide, to get away from that horrible inquisition.
"How long have you been running?" Hanlon asked sympathetically, yet in hopes it might give him a clue.
"Gotta run; gotta get away," Hooper's words said, but the thought flashed across his mind, "since after dawn."
"Then dad's not too far away," Hanlon thought, and began trying to guess where or in what direction the prison might be, and how he could locate it most quickly.
He was awakened to reality to see Hooper rise from the bed, the paralysis broken by that inner compulsion to flee. Before Hanlon could jump up to stop him, Hooper was out of the room.
Hanlon let him go. He hated to do it, but there was no apparent way he could save Hooper now ... and hehadto get to his father just as fast as he could. Not only because the admiral was his adored dad, but because he was second in command of the whole I-S C's secret service, and in charge of this mission, and thus the more important at the moment.
"But where is he?" Hanlon's thoughts were an agonized wail. For the first time in months he felt very young, and inexperienced, and unsure.
He jumped to his feet to leave the house and start searching, but restrained himself before he got to the door. "Whoa, boy, not so fast. I haven't got the faintest idea where dad is. Must think this out first, and not waste a lot of time during which he might die or be killed."
He sank back into his chair again, and his mind swiftly reviewed the pitifully small bits of information he had been able to glean from the deranged mind of his friend Hooper.
Someone, or something, or some group, who were the main support of this opposition, had a mental ability Hanlon thought he knew the Estrellans did not have. At least, he had not found any traces of it anywhere here. Or, wait now. Did the Rulers have it? Was this one of the traits and abilities especially bred into them in the course of making them capable of handling their tremendous task of being Planetary Ruler? Could be. He had not yet had the chance to scan mentally Elus Amir, the present Ruler, except for that one night at the theatre, and then he had not really tried to see what the man had in the way of mental equipment. Hanlon had been so relieved to find he and the audience were applauding, instead of booing, that he had not tried to do so.
If Elus Amir as Ruler had it, did Adwal Irad as Second-In-Line also have those mental powers?
Whoever or whatever it was—and that would have to be studied more thoroughly later—some mind or minds had forced the other three secret servicemen to go to a certain place ... at present unknown to Hanlon ... and had there imprisoned them and tried to extract information from their minds.
Information about what ... and why? What could these unknowns want to know that couldn't be learned by asking direct questions? For the Federation statesmen and Survey men had been glad and anxious to answer fully and truthfully every question that had been asked of them.
And that puzzling thought Hooper had said they received when Manning died. "Your nerve sensitivity is greater than ours—we had not realized it would kill you to be thus interrogated." Or words to that effect. As far as Hanlon knew, the native Estrellans did not have unusual resistance to pain. He had had several encounters with them so far, and had known cases where they were hurt or wounded, and had not noticed any great immunity to pain. Was this, then, another special attribute of the Rulers? But Egon, or Irad, had certainly felt pain when Ebony scratched his chin, and had made quite a fuss about it. Was it real—or was he "putting on an act" to conceal his immunity? Somehow, Hanlon was not willing to accept that last.
Dimly, in the back of his mind, there seemed to be another puzzling thought. What was it? Hanlon worried at it like one of the roches might worry a bone ... and finally it struck him—hard.
If the other three had been captured, why hadn't he?
At its multiphased scanner in the spaceship high above, the being stiffened suddenly. For long minutes the mind concentrated on this new problem. The plan put into operation that morning had been partially successful. The "location" of that unreadable mind before noticed, found once and then lost—was now known again.
But still, despite every effort, contact with that mind could not be made.
After a time, therefore, with the utmost precision a thought was insinuated into the Estrellan mind constantly being held captive. The thought was seen to take hold, then its strength and urgency was increased.
Soon, although the native was at a loss to account for the reason why such a thought should come to him at that particular time, he nevertheless sent a note to a certain person, giving forceful orders that were to be obeyed immediately.
At that thought, fear struck at George Hanlon's vitals, almost like a physical blow. What was planned forhim?
For certainly if these unknowns were onto what the Terrans—or the Corps and the secret service—were trying to do here, and had already captured and tortured three of the four, they would not leave him free to continue working against them.
Cold sweat starting from all his pores, Hanlon sank into a chair, nails digging into palms. His bravado, his cockiness, his belief in his own superiority—all ebbed away like a swift-falling tide.
He had been used to working alone in the service. He had been mostly by himself on Simonides, and altogether alone on Algon. Yet he had not felt such analoneness, such an absolute withdrawal of all support, as he knew in this awful moment.
For at the other places he could contact the S S through the safety deposit boxes, or by the "Andromeda Seven" password, and get almost instant response, and the entire resources of the Corps to back him up. And here on Estrella, while he had been working alone, he met the others occasionally, and the men with the Corps' sneakboat every fortnight. He had known they werethere.
But now they were gone. And Hanlon was to be the next victim ... and he had no idea who, when, what, where, or why.
For long minutes he sat, shaking with dread, his mind a chaos of nothingness but a swirling, roiling, panic fear.
This was far, far different from that terrible fear he had known back on theHellenewhen he had first realized he was tangling with trained, unprincipled and viciously-conscienceless killers. Or the time he had been chained in the Prime Minister's dungeon on Simonides. For then he had been facing known problems. This one was totally unknown ... and man has always felt far more fear of the terrors he cannot see, than of those he can face.
"Blast back," he thought determinedly, ashamed of his fear and resolved to conquer it, "I got through those other troubles all right in the end. How do I know I won't with this? At least, I can be a man, not a cry-baby, especially before I'm actually in danger."
It was sorry advice, and he knew it, but it was just enough at the moment to help him pull himself together.
"So maybe they can kill me ... after torturing me. So what? I don't expect to live forever, and I knew when I got into this service that it was dangerous. After all, I could get killed any minute just performing routine Corps duties—or if I'd remained a civilian, at my daily job, or walking the streets of Terra."
By main force of will and character, Hanlon forced the fear back and away from the surface of his mind. He concentrated on the problem at hand:
How to find where his father was held captive.
Hooper had apparently been running for about two hours when Hanlon first discovered him, his mind had told. All right, where's that map of Stearra and vicinity he had bought. Ah, there on the table. Let's see now, a man in Hooper's condition could run maybe ten or twelve miles in that time, since his mental terror would have overcome physical fatigue until his muscles could absolutely obey no longer.
All right, circle this point with a ring with a twelve-mile radius ... so.
But Curt was coming from the south. Concentrate on that direction for the moment. What lies ten to twelve miles from here to the south?
He examined the map carefully, trying to visualize in his mind what lay out in that direction. The Ruler's palace was more or less south, but nearer to fifteen miles. Could Hooper have run that far since dawn? Hanlon didn't think so, though the man had so evidently been running until almost exhausted.
The section Hanlon was visualizing was, he remembered now, mostly filled with the larger homes and estates of the more influential and wealthy.
Yandor's house? No, that was more to the west, and only about two miles from here. Of course, Hooper could have been circling and zigzagging during those hours—oh, but not that much, surely.
Carefully Hanlon pored over the map, trying to figure where his father could possibly be held.
Suddenly, a bit to the east, and about eleven miles from the street where Hanlon lived, he noticed a pencilled dot he had previously made on the map.
Irad's house!
Of course, Hanlon gasped. And that enigmatic stone building—Hooper had thought "stone"—behind the house. Also, all indications up to the present pointed toward the Second-In-Line as the head man of the criminal element ... and that probably meant of the opposition, as well.
But Hooper's thoughts had been that the S S men's torture and inquisition had been mental. Did Irad have that power? Hanlon had asked himself that before, but now it became increasingly evident that he did, he must have. Besides, now that Hanlon was concentrating on the subject, there had been that curious sensation of a mental block or barrier Hanlon thought he had felt in Egon-Irad's mind. What was behind that curtain?
"Well," Hanlon shivered, "there's only one way to find out. I'll have to scout this place more closely, and see if he'sit."
He rose determinedly to start out. But halted as he realized it was broad daylight, and that he could not go there and investigate the house and grounds—and that stone building in the back—without being seen. He would have to take this slow and easy. Too much depended on him, and there was very little chance of his making it undiscovered even under the best of circumstances. He must not take chances that he knew beforehand were doomed to failure. For he was now the sole and only possibility of his father being freed. That sneakboat was not due for another week and a half, and with Manning and Hooper out of the picture....
Chafing at the delay, his mind a turmoil of tortured thoughts, conflict between his desire to rush and the logical knowledge that he must wait until dark, Hanlon passed the most miserable time of his young life. He had thought he had plumbed the depths of mental agony during those dreadful seven minutes when he had stood at rigid attention in the office of Admiral Rogers, commandant of cadets. But that had been a mere child's game compared to all this fretful waiting.
But those deep, inner and innate characteristics which made George Hanlon what he was, came to the fore during those hours, as he forced himself to endure the wait he knew he must accomplish.
And in that period George Hanlon reached closer to full maturity. He touched, examined and accepted the tremendous concept that man's highest pinnacle of success, his greatest heights of achievement in personal integration, lay in workingwithothers for the common good of all, not in feeling that any one man is indispensable; one man—himself, of course—better than others, and more capable than they of achieving all goals.
Sure, he had an ability none of the others had. But that did not make him any better than, nor above them. They, in turn, had many capabilities he did not possess, that were actually as valuable as his mental abilities—if not more so. As an individual, any of them could fail. As ateam, each giving of his best, they could win out.
And now someone or some group had broken up the team. Well, it was up to him to get it back together again.
George Hanlon suddenly awoke. He sprang from his chair, astonished to see through the window of his room that it was dark outside. He grinned mirthlessly. He had actually fallen asleep there in his chair, in the midst of all his worry.
Then suddenly he realized why. He had thought the matter through, reached definite conclusions and had known, inwardly, that everything was now as it must be until a certain time. Thus calmed and facing that fact, however unconsciously, he had fallen asleep to gain strength for that coming ordeal. Now it was time to go, therefore he had awakened.
He took another half hour to prepare and eat a good meal—he would need all the strength he could get—then left his room and the house. Mounting his trike, he sped away at its swiftest pace toward the neighborhood where Adwal Irad's house lay.
The alien, watching from above in its scanners, saw that entity with the unreadable mind leave its home and start away on its mechanical carrier. Tracing its course, the being was soon able to make a shrewd guess as to its destination.
Instantly the alien's mind went into action, and under its compulsion four armed men hastened to Irad's house, and hid themselves within its partially-darkened interior, yet kept careful watch of the outside premises.
Hanlon had long since decided just how to approach the place. Leaving his machine concealed in the deep shadows of a spreading flowertree, he slipped quietly through the edge of the grounds next door, dodging from tree to tree to bush, carefully watching all about to make sure he was not seen nor followed.
He came to a large tree close to the Irad property, hurdled a low hedge and dashed across the dividing line, to come to a stop beneath another tree well into the grounds of the Second-In-Line. From that one he made his cautious, soundless way, until he was only about ten yards from the house itself.
There were only a couple of lights showing through the windows, but his heart sank at the realization that someone was at home.
"I should have had a bird watching to see if Irad left," he scolded himself. But he continued on, making a final dash across the remaining yardage until he was right beside the house itself, in a deep shadow.
Carefully he inched his way along toward the nearest window from which a light showed. Reaching it he very slowly rose and peered through the lower corner of the pane.
This was apparently a sort of living room or library, as he could see a number of easy chairs, carbide lamps on standards for reading, a couple of small tables with art objects or flowers on them. Along one wall were recesses holding reading scrolls. But there was no one in the room he could see.
He crept on to another window, and repeated his inspection. This one was a bedroom, but again no one was there.
"Maybe Irad just leaves a couple of lights on when he's away," Hanlon considered. He crept on to another window, but there was no light and he could not see what was within. He rounded a corner of the five-sided house, going toward the back, but there were no lighted windows in that side. He ran along it to the back, noting as he did so that he passed a closed door.