Knowing that his papers made no mention of his having been a cadet, Hanlon took a chance on a course of action. "Gee, Mr. Philander, sir, I envy you," he said the moment the man looked up. "Knowing all about metals and ores and mining and stuff like that. I sure wish I'd had the chance to learn something valuable like that. But me, I guess I'm just a 'strong back; weak mind' sort of guy."
The superintendent looked at him piercingly for a long moment, as though trying to decide whether this was genuine or subtle sarcasm. He must have decided it was the former, for he relaxed a bit. "Yeah," he growled in a deep bass that seemed meant to be pleasant now. "It takes a lot of study and a good mind to learn what I know. Very few men can make the grade."
And Hanlon, who was by necessity swiftly becoming a good judge of character, knew he had this man pegged, and that while he would be dangerous if crossed, could be handled adroitly.
"Just what will my duties be, sir? Or have you delegated the handling of us guards to some lesser man?"
"No, I handle 'em myself. 'If you want a job well done, do it yourself', you know. I'll take you out and show you around. Are you all settled and comfortable?"
"Oh, yes, sir. I have a very nice room, number 17, and am all unpacked. Hunting your office I ran into the messhall, and Cookie told me about meal hours. I'm sure I'll get along fine here—as much as this awful heat'll let me. They sure weren't kidding when they said it was hot here. And I want to assure you, sir, that I'll work hard and tend strictly to business—nothing else."
The superintendent was becoming more mollified and less fearful by the second. Now he actually smiled, a rather pitiful travesty of a smile, and Hanlon's sympathy went out to him.
"Then we'll get along fine," Philander said. "Just remember that your job is only to keep the natives at work during your shift, and that in your off hours you do not go hunting 'round into things that're none of your business."
"Oh, naturally, sir. You just list what limits I'm to keep in, and I'll stay there. All I'm after here is that thousand credits a month, and as big a bonus as I can earn. You see," with engaging frankness, "I'm a guy that wants to make his pile as quick as possible, so I won't have to work all my life. I've got to work to get 'em, sure, but I don't aim to work forever."
"Hmmpfff" Philander rose from behind the desk. "Come on, I'll show you around."
For an hour Superintendent Philander escorted George Hanlon about the diggings, showing him the various buildings and the workers' stockade. ("Prison" would be a better word, Hanlon thought, enraged that there were still men who would enslave others for their own personal gain.)
The young Earthman got a real shock of surprise at his first sight of the native. They were so entirely different from anything he had ever suspected might exist. They were tall and slender, and their greenish-brown skin was rough and irregular. They seemed possessed of considerable wiry strength, however.
Hanlon had the peculiar feeling that they were somehow familiar, as though related to something he already knew, even though they were so alien. But, strain as he might, he could not at first bring that elusive thought into recognition.
He examined more particularly each item of the natives' appearance. They had small triangular eyes, wide-spaced on their narrow faces, almost like a bird's yet not set quite as far back. They could see forward and somewhat to either side, he guessed, with a much wider range of vision than humans have. They also had triangular-shaped mouths which worked somewhat on the sphincter method. Even though their faces were sort of silly-looking, there was somehow a strange beauty to them.
He noticed that when two or more faced each other they often worked their mouths, and guessed they were conversing, although not a sound could be heard coming from them, other than a peculiar, faint rustling as they moved.
It was the latter that gave him the clue.Animated trees!That's what they reminded him of. That skin of theirs was like new bark; their limbs were irregular, suggesting the branches of a tree, rather than the graceful roundness of human and Terran animal's limbs.
He turned excitedly to Philander. "Hey, those natives are partly vegetable, aren't they? Like trees that can move and think?"
"That's what they say," Philander said shortly, "though I don't know about the 'think' part. No one's ever been able to figure 'em out. They don't talk, and can't seem to hear us, no matter how loud we yell. We have to show 'em everything we want 'em to do, and give 'em orders by signs. Whips don't do any good when they loaf—they don't seem to feel 'em. So we use electric shock-rods, like you see that guard there carrying."
Hanlon was silent for several moments, but his mind was attempting to probe into that of the native nearest him. Nor was he surprised to discover that this native had a really respectable mind—alert and keen.
Hanlon could read quite easily pictures of various things—but he could not interpret them. Yet he could feel their sense of shame and degradation at such an enslaved condition, and the dull anger they felt for the humans who had made them so.
This promised to be a fertile field for study, and the young SS man felt a thrill that he could do a lot of prowling and studying without seeming to break the rules Philander had laid down for his conduct. "This certainly is my field," he thought. "I'm sure glad I decided to take the chance of coming here—the Corps must learn of this situation."
The superintendent broke in on his thoughts. "I've got to go back to the office before dinner. Go to the commissary store, there, and get your chronom exchanged for one that runs on Algonian time. Yours will be stored for safekeeping and changed back if or when you leave here."
As he walked away Hanlon thrilled to the knowledge that he had gained two valuable pieces of information.
First, and most important, the name of this planet—Algon. Second, but this one a bit dismaying, that there might be some doubt as to whether or not he would ever leave here. Was there some danger here of which he had not been told ... or was it that the leader's promise of four months' work and then a vacation back to Simonides perhaps meant nothing at all—was merely a "come on"?
It was more than the perspiration from the terrible heat that dampened Hanlon's skin as he walked thoughtfully over to the store. Yet he tingled with the knowledge that at least he knew where he was. Now, his only worry was getting that knowledge to the Corps.
At dinner a little later he had his first chance to meet all the men with whom he would be working. The superintendent introduced them, all around when they sat down at the long table.
There were eleven other guards, all older, all bigger men than he. They were alike in that all appeared to be swaggering bullies, and he could well imagine how ready they were with the use of those shock-rods, or other forms of brutality, to torture the Algonians at the least provocation or no provocation whatever. Without exception these guards had heavy faces, most of them unshaven, and most with thick, shaggy eyebrows. Even in that air-cooled room their generally unwashed condition was noticeable.
Hanlon knew instinctively he would make no friends among them. "I only hope I make no enemies. Why was I, so drastically different from them, chosen as a guard? What's that leader got in his devious mind, anyway?"
There were four mining engineers, and these men were keen, alert fellows. One seemed about forty-five, another in his late thirties, and the two others young men evidently not long out of school. They were clean-shaven, and friendly where the guards were surly and sneering at Hanlon's youth and slimness.
There was an accountant, the store clerk, two checkers who tallied ore brought up each shift. A half dozen others, who apparently were truckmen and hoistmen, completed, with Philander, the cook and the bunkhouse cleaner, the human crew at this mine.
Hanlon had been seated between one of the guards, a huge man by the name of Groton, and one of the young engineers. The latter made him welcome, and asked where he came from.
"I'd just moved to Simonides when I got the chance to come here," Hanlon explained. "I was born and raised on Terra."
"Terra!" the young man's voice was interested, and several others about the table raised their heads at that name. "I've always wanted to see the Mother World."
When all had finished eating, several of the other men who had never seen Terra moved closer to Hanlon, asking many questions.
"I understand Terra has the best technicians in the universe," one of the hoistmen said.
"That used to be the case," Hanlon answered honestly, "but now I understand Simonides has, just as she is the wealthiest planet. Of course, Terra being the original world, was bound to have the best the race could breed in all lines of endeavor. But when so many people migrated to other planets, she gradually lost many of her finest brains. Later, those other planets offered such fabulous wages to men and women with skills and trainings her first inhabitants lacked, that Terra was further drained."
"That's the pity of colonization," the elder engineer sighed. "It builds new lands at the expense of the old, taking all their strongest, most adventurous and most imaginative. Soon the original country or continent or planet is peopled only by the dregs."
"I don't like to think Terra has only dregs left. After all, I came from there, you know," Hanlon grinned and they smiled back companionably. "But I know you're right in part—at least, that will probably be the case in time. Just as it will with the other planets as their best and younger top-notchers go out to open up still more worlds."
In the middle of that first night on Algon something, perhaps his sub-conscious, brought George Hanlon wide awake, his every mental faculty clear and alert.
Click! Click! Click! ... like pieces of a jig-saw puzzle falling into place, many of the odds and ends of apparently unrelated information and experience fell into place in this enigma.
He remembered clearly now, an incident that had merely brought a momentary wonder at the time. Those last minutes before the ship took off. The leader had stared long and piercingly into his eyes and Hanlon, wondering and puzzled as to what the man was seeking, merely stared back dumbly. Now he remembered the flashing thought—quickly dismissed as ridiculous—that even if he did find out where he was going, he must never tell anyone; must forget it entirely and instantly on pain of severe torture.
Why, that leader must have been trying to implant a hypnotic compulsion in his mind ... and must have thought he succeeded, else Hanlon would never have reached here alive. That was why he could never read that knowledge from the mind of any of the people he had contacted who were in on this game—not even that ship's officer, who certainly should have known.
But wait a minute. What about Philander? He knew. Hadn't the hypnosis worked on him? Or was that name "Algon" merely one the super used in place of the real one he didn't know he knew? Or, again, could it be that he was so well trusted that the knowledge had not been sealed off from him?
Of the three, Hanlon argued the latter was probably the truth.
Another point. That vague reference to "if or when you leave here" was undoubtedly a slip of the tongue. Philander had probably guessed—or perhaps it was so with all first-time men—that Hanlon was here on probation. "If so," the thought was insistent, "I sure will have to watch my step every minute, and not let slip what I'm trying to do here." But further moments of thought brought the reasonable conclusion that he could lull their suspicion by buckling down and making a real record for efficiency.
Or ... and this gave him the cold shivers for a moment, so that he instinctively burrowed a bit further down beneath the sheet, as though it could protect and warm him ... did they know all about him already, and had sent him here to get rid of him? Was he to become another victim of one of the leader's "little accidents"?
Yes, if they still disbelieved his story about his dismissal, they might well be determined to get rid of him in a way that would not incriminate them. They would know that if Hanlon was still a Corpsman his death would be most thoroughly investigated.
Perhaps ... but if that was the case, why let him get here at all? His "accident"—fatal, of course (so sorry!)—could just as well have occurred on the way. No, more likely he was still on probation. They were not quite sure of him, but were giving him the benefit of the doubt. The leader seemed to like him, in a curious way.
Well, he was now warned, and would watch himself more carefully than ever ... and he had learned a lot, and would learn more. He smiled contentedly and went back to sleep.
The next day he had his first taste of guarding the natives as they worked. The superintendent himself inducted him into the task.
Shortly before shift time, Philander appeared at Hanlon's room just as the young man was putting on the special clothing he had been told to wear on duty in the mine.
"Ready?" Philander was strangely courteous and co-operative. "Let's go collect your crew."
They went over to the stockade, the superintendent giving Hanlon a key as they unlocked the gates. Hanlon saw that the corral was divided into twelve sections.
"One guard has charge of all the natives in one section, and they all work each shift," Philander explained.
"What if one of them is sick?"
"They don't get sick," the man's voice was gruff, and Hanlon's first thought was that what he really meant was that the natives were worked no matter how they felt. But he quickly became ashamed of the thought—he didn't know anything about them yet, and perhaps they actually never did get sick. He would have to quit jumping to conclusions that way—it would seriously retard his ability to make correct deductions.
At the rearmost section, Philander opened another gate with the same key, and flashed his portable glo-light inside the large hut that covered most of the space of the section. Hanlon, close behind, could see about twenty of the "Greenies," as he had learned they were usually called, standing or lying about. There was no furniture inside, no chairs nor stools, tables or beds.
"They eat and sleep standing up—that's why the huts don't need any furnishings," Philander explained.
At sight of the men and the light, most of the natives began moving toward the door. A few at the back didn't move fast enough to satisfy Philander, and with a curse he ran back and touched them with that shock-rod he carried.
Hanlon could see an expression of agony on the faces of those touched, and as they writhed away from the rod he realized it must be very painful, indeed, if not exquisite torture to them. They now jumped forward, and huddled pathetically near the door.
Philander took a long, light but very tough line from his pocket. It had a series of running nooses in it, and he slipped one of these about the wrist of each native, drawing it tight. Then he half-led, half-dragged them out of the stockade, to the mine entrance, and down the drift to the rise they had to climb to get to the stope Hanlon's crew was to work.
Once there, and released from the rope, the natives seemed to know what they were supposed to do, and sullenly started doing it.
"You usually use three pickmen, four shovellers, four for your timbering crew, three sorters, and six on the wheel-barrows," Philander explained. "Sometimes, if the vein widens out enough, you get extra hands to work the wider face, but this size crew generally works out best. You'll soon get used to it so you'll know how many you need. If more, just yell and you'll get 'em. If it happens the vein narrows so you can't use all these to best advantage, someone working a wider vein can use your extras temporarily."
"I get it," Hanlon was very attentive. He was determined to learn this work quickly and thoroughly, and to make a good record.
Philander showed Hanlon the difference between the ore and the surrounding rock, and explained very carefully how he was to watch especially for any side veins branching off from the main one. "Make sure the Greenies clean out all the ore as they go along, before it's timbered up."
"I understand everything so far."
"Keep the lazy beggars going full speed," Philander was very emphatic. "Don't let 'em lag, or they'll wear you down. Don't ever let 'em get out of control, or put anything over on you, especially in sorting ore from rock. They're tricky. Use your shock-rod at every least sign of mutiny or loafing. Make 'em respect you. They know better'n to try to get away, 'cause they hate the rod."
"What does it do to them?"
"We don't know exactly, except they can feel it, and will do anything to get away from it."
"Maybe it hurts them terribly."
"Look, punk!" Philander lost his friendliness, and snarled at Hanlon with twisted face. "We don't care whether they like it or not. They know their jobs and they don't have to get shocked if they keep working. So it's strictly up to them. Don't go getting any soft notions about these lousy Greenies. They're only dumb brutes fit for working—so work 'em!"
"I'll work 'em," Hanlon said.
Yes, Hanlon would work the natives, but without cruelty. His thoughts were a seething of contempt for these brutal thugs. He was willing to bet, right there and then, without knowing anything about this situation, that these natives could be controlled without bullying or hurting them—and better.
Having had military training, Hanlon knew it was possible to enforce the most strict discipline without such means, and that any man ... or entity, probably ... could and would submit to discipline fairly and decently enforced, with far less trouble and animosity, and with far greater productivity than if he were driven to it.
"Anybody works better for a pat on the back than for a kick in the pants!" he thought indignantly.
Philander stood about for an hour, and when he saw that Hanlon understood exactly what was expected of him and his crew—when he saw Hanlon several times correct the sorters who had left too much rock in with the ores—he turned to leave.
"You'll hear the siren when the shift's over," he said. "Bring your gang back and lock 'em in the stockade then. Be sure you lock both gates carefully."
"Cookie gave me a lunch for half-time," Hanlon said. "What about the natives? Do they eat then, too?"
"Naw, they don't eat," was the surprising answer. "Once a day they stick their hands into the dirt for nearly an hour. Must get nourishment that way."
"That seems to prove they're vegetable matter. Their fingers must be some sort of feeding roots," Hanlon observed sagely. "They sure are the strangest beings I've ever heard of."
The superintendent shrugged and left without further words.
Hanlon looked about and found a rock near the sorters, and used this for a seat. He sat watching the natives work, and speculating about them, and also about what this was all about. The mine seemed to him a very rich one, and by using slave labor those men could well be reaping a huge fortune from it. No wonder they could afford to pay guards a thousand a month.
After a bit one of the natives, seeing Hanlon merely sitting there instead of being alertly on guard close to them, dropped its shovel and turned away from its work. Hanlon got up leisurely, but walked purposefully over to confront the Greenie. He smiled and motioned the native back to work.
The Greenie's face showed surprise at Hanlon's action, but it made no move to go. It did, however, appear to be keeping its eyes alertly on that dread shock-rod hanging loosely in Hanlon's hand. The guard could see that the others had also stopped work, and were carefully watching the little drama.
Hanlon smiled and again motioned the native back to work, and when it did not move, he reached out, grasped it gently by the shoulder and, still gently, pushed it in the direction of its shovel, with what was really a pat on the back.
There were looks of surprise that amounted almost to stupefaction on the faces of all the natives. The one who had first stopped now picked up its shovel and resumed work, and the rest followed its example. Hanlon resumed his seat, still with that friendly smile on his face. He noticed with satisfaction that they were soon working harder and faster than before the incident.
"I was right," he told himself almost smugly.
The six hour shift was finally ended without any further show of resistance. That is, it was six hours by Algonian time, but about eight by Terra standards. For on Algon, while the day had been divided by the humans into twenty-four hours, the same as on Earth, each hour was almost seventy-eight minutes long. They divided the year into five day weeks, though, so it averaged out about the same.
When the siren blew Hanlon smiled happily at his crew as he herded them together, and made applauding motions with his hands, wondering if they understood what he meant.
When he had locked the natives in their stockade, he hunted up the checkers. "How'd I do?" he asked. "Come anywhere near what I was supposed to get out?"
One of the checkers totalled up his figures, then looked up in surprise. "Hey, kid, you did all right. Nearly a hundred pounds over the usual output, and clean, too. That's really okay for a new guard, and then some. Didn't have any trouble, eh?"
"Trouble?" Hanlon asked naively. "Was I supposed to have some?" Then he couldn't help grinning. "Thanks for the info," and went to his room, took a shower to cool off after that muggy heat in the mine, then tumbled onto his bunk for a nap until dinner-time.
Those first days so thoroughly disgusted George Hanlon as he saw the continued and senseless brutality the guards used toward their native "slaves," that he had trouble concealing his feelings. He continued to treat his Greenies with the respect he felt was due them, and he could not help but notice they seemed to look on him more and more as their friend. They always smiled when he looked at them, and before many days he discovered that his crew was doing more work than any of the others. His mind-probing had convinced him they were high enough in the scale of evolution to know the meaning of gratitude, and he could tell they were repaying his kindness with co-operation.
He had begun to make much more sense out of the pictures he saw in their minds, and to get some glimmerings of understanding about their alien concepts. Also, it was increasingly borne in upon him that they did "talk" to each other, and he guessed shrewdly that the reason no one could hear them was because their voices were above ... or below? ... the range of human hearing. "Above," he finally deduced.
That gave him the idea for an experiment, and he started whistling as loud as he could, gradually raising his tones until he was at the top of his range. He saw with interest and excitement that the last one or two shrillest notes seemed to attract their attention. Their silly-looking little triangular ears perked up and began twitching. They turned about, as though seeking the source of that sound, while every mouth began working with signs of utmost excitement, and his mind caught concepts of surprise and wonder.
That convinced him and so, in his next several off-hours, he surreptitiously collected various articles and pieces of material, and in his room started the construction of a little machine. His course in the Corps school had included considerable mechanics and electronics, and the tearing down and rebuilding of many of the machines and instruments the Corps used.
What he was trying to make now was a "frequency-transformer." If it would do what he was sure it would, and if he was right about the Algonians having vocal ability, they should be able to hear each other, and some day he might learn their language well enough to converse with them.
He finished it and smuggled the little box-like machine into his place in the mine. When he had his crew down there and working at their tasks, he got out the little box. He turned on the current from the small battery installed in it, then began talking at the same time he was turning a rheostat higher and higher. Finally he noticed those mobile ears began to twitch, and as he turned the tones higher and still higher, more and more of the natives stopped work and turned toward him. Finally he noticed an intenser excitement among them, and they dropped their tools and came crowding closer to him and his machine, their little eyes almost emitting sparks of excitement.
He thrilled with the realization that it worked. Now he turned another knob more and more, and gradually from the speaker came a jumble of sounds much like "mob-mutter," but very low. He kept on turning the rheostat until the incoming voices seemed about the same pitch as his own voice.
The excitement of the natives had grown to tremendous proportions, and his own equalled theirs. Their little mouths were working faster, and an expression almost like laughter came onto their peculiar little faces, as they heard his voice and knew he could now hear theirs.
Hanlon's own smile almost cracked his face. He realized he had learned something none of the greedy, power-mad Simonideans knew, and felt that here was the possible beginning for his campaign to free these poor native slaves.
He beckoned to one of the nearer natives to come to his side, then waved the rest back to their work. They looked at him questioningly for a moment, but he smiled reassuringly at them and they, having learned that he never used that dread shock-rod on them, all went back to their labors, leaving the one native standing there.
Hanlon looked earnestly at the Greenie, pointed a finger directly at himself and spoke into the microphone of his transformer. "Hanlon," he said slowly and distinctly, and repeated it a number of times, tapping himself on the chest each time he said it.
A smile of comprehension broke over the native's little face and he tapped himself the same way and said a word that came out of the speaker sounding like "Geck."
Hanlon reached out and touched the native and said "Geck." The Greenie in turn tapped Hanlon and said "An-yon," and they had made the first beginnings of understanding each other.
From then on this one native was released from all other work while Hanlon's crew was on duty, and the two devoted all their efforts to learning how to talk to each other.
Hanlon was pleased, but not especially surprised, to note that the rest of the crew—now almost entirely without his supervision—worked harder than ever, and that their daily output of ore grew progressively greater each shift, and all clean ore.
Hanlon's first exultant thought had been to run to Philander and tell him of what he had learned concerning the native's speech ability, and how he had made it possible for humans to talk to them.
But more sober reflections during that long work-shift brought caution. He decided this was a bit of knowledge he had better keep to himself as long as possible. He hoped he could keep it until he had learned how to talk with these people and learned much about them, their situation, and how it could best be ameliorated.
The other men, he knew, considered the natives simply beasts, and would probably take away his transformer, instead of using it to learn about the Greenies as he planned to do.
By the end of a month he and Geck were chatting away like brothers. Each had learned enough of the other's language so that by using a mixture of the two they could exchange almost any thought concept desired. Hanlon's ability to read the native's surface thoughts helped a lot, especially as he began to understand their alien ways of thinking. Even so, he was surprised at how quickly Geck was picking up his own language.
Hanlon found that these people, while they had no scientific or mechanical knowledge or training of their own, did have highly developed ethical principles which governed all their individual and collective actions. They were a simple, natural people, with a native dignity Hanlon almost envied.
He found, too, that his first shrewd guess was correct—their bodies were of vegetable matter, rather than proto-plasmic. They reproduced by budding, and he saw a number of the "females" to whom were attached buds of varying sizes. One day he watched interestedly while one of the ripened buds, a fully-developed individual but only about ten inches high, detached itself from its parent and dropped to the ground. It lay there for some minutes while the "mother" watched it carefully. Then it rose by itself and trotted away with her as she resumed her work—a miniature but fully alive native "child." It would take about two years for it to attain its maturity, Geck informed him. Hanlon asked, and Geck said it could take care of itself alone in the forest, so Hanlon managed to sneak it out into the woods, where it would be free.
Geck told him that about four years previous a great "egg" had landed here on Guddu, which was their name for the planet. Men had come from inside it, and scattered all about, seeking the metal ores they were now mining.
The natives, friendly and childishly curious, had gathered in force to watch these strange new creatures, and because of their trusting natures had been easily trapped, imprisoned and forced to work long, hard hours in the rapidly-deepening holes.
"Us die swiftly away from sunlight," Geck said sadly. "Us have very long life-span, but underground work make us wither-die fast. Idea often discussed among we to discontinue race, because soon all we be gone anyway."
That quiet, hopeless statement made Hanlon madder than a wet cat.
"What do the shock-rods do to you?" he asked after a while.
"Affect we's nervous system some way. Us get most terrible cramps. Is horrible agony. Us so thankful you never use."
"I knew you would work without them as long as you were treated fairly."
To himself Hanlon swore a determined oath to finish this business entirely, some way or another. He realized his limitations—one young, inexperienced man against twenty ruthless, wealth-and-power greedy ruffians ... and that only here, at this one mine. No telling how many others there were on Algon, besides all those back on Simonides, and who knew what other planets, who were in on this plot.
His heart clamored for swift action—his brain counselled caution and careful planning.
Hanlon was sitting at his usual place in the mine one day when one of the barrow-men ran up and spoke swiftly to Geck, who turned to Hanlon, alarm on his face. "Big boss man come."
Hanlon jumped to his feet. "Get everyone to work; tell them to act real busy!" he snapped. "You, too!"
He thrust the frequency-transformer into a hole prepared for just such an emergency, grabbed up his shock-rod and stepped closer to the natives. He was standing there, to all appearances strictly on the job of making his charges work, when Philander came crawling up the rise into the pocket where this crew was mining the glossy, lustrous pitch-blank uraninite ore.
"How're things going?" the superintendent greeted Hanlon with at least the appearance of friendliness.
"Just fine," the young man responded. "Everything's under control."
"Been looking over the reports, and see your crew is getting out more ore'n any of the others," the super's voice held just a tinge of anxiety, and Hanlon began probing that mind to see if he could discover just what all this portended.
"I just keep 'em at it," he shrugged.
"No trouble?"
"Nope, no trouble. Look at 'em," he waved his hand at the busy crew.
The big man regarded them closely, and could see that every single one of the natives was working at what he knew was their top speed, and without a single slacker. Even the barrow-men were moving almost at a jog-trot rather than the lazy saunter most natives used in an effort to do no more than they were forced to do.
Philander shook his head wonderingly. "How d'you do it?" he asked. "The other guards have to keep shocking one after another of the lazy dogs, yet you've made no move at a single one—and they keep right on hustling. I've never seen a crew work so hard."
Hanlon wanted desperately to tell him, but he decided the time was not yet. So he merely shrugged the question away as of little consequence. "I dunno, sir. I just stand around watching 'em, and they work." He grinned into the super's face. "Must be my manly charms—er sumpin'," he chuckled. Then sobered. "Maybe one reason is that I rotate 'em. Any job gets monotonous, so every hour or so I let 'em change around, from pick to barrow to sorting, and so on."
A frown of annoyance came onto Philander's face, but he quickly erased it. After all, this man was getting out more ore than the others, and that was what he was here for. How he did it didn't matter so much, after all, as long as he kept up his record.
But Hanlon, reading those surface thoughts, knew that the official was still very suspicious—and vastly worried. Hanlon knew he had to disarm the super some way, to get him out of that mood. He decided his air of naivete could still do the trick.
"Mr. Philander, sir," his voice was very ingenuous, "I don't want to pry into anything that's none of my business, but would you mind telling me what this stuff is we're getting here? It isn't anything dangerous, is it? I mean, it isn't one of those ... those radium ores that make a fellow sterile, is it? I may want to get married some day, so I don't want to take any chances."
The mining engineer looked at him blankly for a moment, then threw back his head and laughter rolled out until it seemed to fill the stope. Hanlon watched the other's mind clear itself of all suspicion ... at least for the time being.
Philander rested his hand companionably on the younger man's shoulder. "No, it's nothing like that, so you can quit worrying. And the bonus you'll get, if you can keep up this output, will fix you so you can afford a wife when your time's up and you go back to Sime."
"Gee, that's good," Hanlon made his voice and face show how relieved he felt. "It had me worried, even though I haven't got a girl yet."
The superintendent seemed in good humor now. Hanlon caught the thought that this punk was a good guard, and bright, and he did get the stuff out. The plan of rotating the workers was good—he'd order the other guards to use it. This Hanlon probably was no menace to their plans here, after all. In fact, maybe later they could use him on the bigger job. He (Philander) would so recommend to His Highness when he made his next report.
After a few more casual words the super left, and Hanlon sank back onto his favorite lounging place, thinking very seriously and contemplatively about this whole matter.
Again he had run into that thought about someone called "His Highness," but never any indication as to who the man was, or what position he occupied. It was now apparent that this individual was the man he would have to ferret out, whose plans he would have to learn before the Corps could take any really effective action.
He certainly hoped that one was the top man. It was going to be hard enough to get a line on him—to say nothing of anyone even higher.
One evening at dinner, some time later, Hanlon became aware that the guard, Gorton, was growling at him. He looked up in surprise, and forced himself to pay attention to the big man's words.
"I ask ya, whatcha tryin' t' do, punk?" the small pig-eyes glared redly at him, and the voice was harsh and bitter. "Try'n'a show up us other guards? What'sa big idea, gettin' out more ore'n we do?"
Hanlon stared back in amazement, and his voice when he answered was a stammer of surprise. "Why ... why ... I'm not trying to do anything ... except my job," he added more forcefully.
"We been gettin' out a reg'lar three tons a shift," the ugly face was shoved closer to his, and Hanlon shrank back from the stench of raw spirits breathed on him. "What'sa idea drivin' yer crew up t' three an' a half er four?"
"I was told to keep my crew working, and I've been doing that ... and only that!" Hanlon snapped. "And take your ugly, stinking face away from mine!"
The disgust he felt at the brutality of these guards had made him so soul-sick with them he wasn't going to take any guff from one of them. Even though Gorton out-weighed him by a good sixty pounds and probably had at least four inches longer reach, Hanlon wasn't afraid of him.
Right now he was as much in the mood for a fight as the guard seemed to be, for at Hanlon's words Gorton's huge, ham-like hand suddenly slapped out at the younger man. Hanlon wasn't able entirely to dodge safely, sitting as close as they were. His head rang from the terrific blow. He grabbed his cup of steaming coffee, and threw it backhand into Gorton's face.
Bellowing in pain and anger, the guard jumped up, upsetting the bench, and almost Hanlon with it. But the younger man was agile, and kept his feet. As Gorton rushed, his long, heavy arms flailing, Hanlon ducked away and jumped back far enough to get a firm footing on a cleared space of floor.
All Corps cadets were well-trained in both Marquis of Queensbury boxing, Judo and no-holds-barred barroom brawling. He knew all the questions ... and all the answers.
So Hanlon stepped back in quickly. While Gorton was out of position from that abortive mighty swing, he drove his fist to the wrist into the big man's soft belly. As Gorton doubled up with an explosive grunt, Hanlon swung from the heels. His uppercut caught the big fellow flush on the jaw, and staggered him.
But Gorton could take it, and charged again, roaring curses. By sheer weight he bore Hanlon back across the floor, and got in a couple of heavy blows. Hanlon's right cheek was badly bruised, and that eye almost closed. But he was fighting methodically, almost viciously. He was in and out, slashing and ripping Gorton's face to shreds.
The other guards had been yelling their delight at the fight, and their hatred of the brash newcomer who was destroying their easy set-up. It was plain they were all on Gorton's side, and hoped to see Hanlon get thoroughly whipped.
"Bat his ears off, Gort!"
"Pound some sense inta him!"
"Show him who's top man aroun' here!"
One of them was not content with yelling. As Hanlon stepped to one side to avoid another of Gorton's rushes, this guard stuck out his leg and tripped Hanlon, who fell backward. Instantly Gorton was on him, and a great heavy-shod foot shot out in a kick that would have broken Hanlon's every rib. But the SS man was watching for just such tricks. His feet snaked out and hoisted Gorton so high and so far that when he landed he crashed like a great falling tree. Hanlon jumped to his feet and swung to confront his foe. But Gorton's head was bleeding badly, his eyes were closed, his face contorted. He was out like a burnt match.
Instantly Hanlon sank to his knees by the fallen man, gently raising the head and yelling for cold water and a towel. When the cook came running with them, Hanlon worked as swiftly to revive the guard as he would have done for his friend.
The other guards were so surprised at this act of mercy they sat like dull clods. But a couple of the engineers rose and came swiftly to help Hanlon. One of the checkers ran to Philander's office for the first aid kit.
The men were working desperately to stanch the flow of blood when Superintendent Philander came running in with the clerk and the kit. Taking in the situation at a glance, he demanded an explanation.
"Th' punk jumped Gort an' tried t' kill 'im!" one of the guards yelled, but was shouted down by the engineers, the checkers and the cook before the other slow-witted guards came to their senses enough to corroborate their fellow's mendacious claim.
The senior engineer explained fully and concisely what had actually happened. "Yet after all that, the kid was the first to help him, even though Gorton started the fight for no reason."
Just then the fallen guard groaned and began to regain his senses. The men helped him to his feet. He blinked for some moments, as though trying to figure out what had happened to him, then remembrance came.
"Why, that little squirt, hittin' me wit' a chair!" he yelled, and straggled to get at Hanlon again, nor did the men have an easy time holding him back.
Philander planted himself squarely in front of the angry man. "Shut up!" he blazed, and the tone of command halted the big fellow; he stared stupidly at his boss, as though disbelieving his ears. "You keep your hands off Hanlon!" the super emphasized his words by tapping Gorton not gently on the chest. "I hear of any more of this, and it's the jug 'til the next ship comes, then back to Sime."
He whirled to face the table. "That goes for all the rest of you rats, too! If Hanlon does his job better'n you, it's 'cause he's a better man. Try to match him—don't go gunning for him!"
"He your pet, Pete?" one asked mockingly.
"No, he's not my pet, Pete," the super's voice mimicked the tone, although his face went red at the accusation. "I just don't want this camp messed up with any feuds. That'd cut down production, and the Big Boy wants this ore out fast. If Hanlon can work his crew faster'n harder'n the rest of you, you'd a blasted sight better find out how he does it, not try to cut down his take. How'd you like to go back to Sime and try explaining to His Highness why you're not getting out as much stuff as's been proved possible?"
That stopped them cold. Hanlon, watching their faces and reading their minds, saw them shiver at thought of having to face that feared individual—whoever he was. They were more scared of him than of the Devil—that was evident.
The men resumed their eating without another word—that threat had cowed them as no amount of physical chastisement or other punishment could possibly have done. Philander set about sewing up and binding Gorton's head-wound and his cut and bleeding face.
Hanlon resumed his own seat after washing up and treating his own bruises with the cook's help. As he ate he sought mind after mind in the vain endeavor to discover any possible scrap of information about this enigmatic, unknown Highness.
But he drew blank after blank, as far as definite data was concerned—just as he had always done. The surface thoughts of each man there showed plainly their fear of that implacably cold and vicious brain, but none of them held a picture of him.
They knew no excuses for failure were ever accepted. They knew terrible punishments were certain to follow when anyone was luckless enough to incur that monster's displeasure.
But Hanlon shivered, himself, as he saw how clearly those hardened criminals feared that mysterious man's displeasure. He quailed momentarily at thought of what would happen to him if he were caught trying to locate that man and his plot.
Hanlon knew a long moment of utter discouragement. There was so much he had to know before he could lead the Corps in clearing up this mess. There had been so many mentions of a "main plot" that he knew this illegal mining and slavery was but a small part of what was ... what must be ... going on.
No, he would just have to keep on trying, keep on working. On second thought, he had done pretty well so far, at that—he felt he had a right to feel good about that.
But he wasn't done yet, by a whole tankful of fuel.
The problem stayed with him even in sleep, but in the morning he had an idea.
As soon as he got his crew down into the mine and working, he got out the frequency-transformer, and called Geck to him.
"Can you find out what is happening on other parts of Guddu?"
The native's answers stunned him.
"Yes, An-yon, all we can mind-talk with any Guddu anywhere. What you wish to know?"
The knowledge that these Guddus of Algon were telepathic rocked George Hanlon back on his heels. That was a thing he had never even imagined. They were such a simple, almost childlike race, that such an ability was farthest from his thoughts.
"If you can talk with your minds?" he asked Geck in wonder, "why do you bother to speak with the voice to each other?"
"Because mind-talk more tiring to we," came the simple explanation. "It take much of we's forces. Us grow weak after much of them."
"That makes me hesitate to ask you to do any of it, then," the young SS man said. "I was hoping you could find out for me how many mines are operated on the planet, and if all of them are using you Guddus as slaves."
"Oh, yes, An-yon, me know that already," Geck's peculiar little face, which had become so friendly to Hanlon through long association, broke out into a smile that was quickly shadowed by sorrow at thought of the plight of his people. "There is nine mines. Human masters make Guddu work in all of they."
"Nine, eh?" Hanlon thought swiftly for a moment. "Do they all produce the same ores as this one?"
"Will have to find that for you, An-yon. You wait short space of time."
The Greenie grew silent and strained with concentration. Hanlon probed into the native's mind, wondering if he could follow it. And haltingly at first, but with growing ability as he learned the pattern, he found he could ride along on that telepathic beam.
The thoughts were far too swift for him to catch more than an occasional concept, but he was thrilled to realize he was actually telepathing, even though at second-hand.
One after another mind he could feel joining in that conference. There was much hostility and great fear when Geck first tried to explain about the human who was their friend, and had learned to talk with them. The Guddus on the other end of that "line" were tremendously skeptical, afraid, and very, very suspicious of the motives of any human being.
But Geck was eloquent and persuasive. Before long their fears began to lessen, and later they seemed to accept his assurance that "An-yon" was, indeed, both friendly and anxious to help them escape their slavery.
"The human An-yon is but one of the most of humans who are kind and just and ethical," he was surprised to hear Geck telepathing when he got so he could understand. "It is the few, such as those others who are here, who are not. These are bad men who come here just to get things for own selfish ends, and the good men, who are most, will stop them as soon as they can. An-yon come here just for that, to find out what those bad men do, and to stop them."
That speech was another shock to Hanlon—he had never told Geck all that.
The distant natives finally bowed to Geck's importunings, and gave him the specific information for which he was asking because the friendly human wanted to know it.
There were two other mines that produced the same uraninite ore as the one at which Hanlon was stationed. There were three iron mines, and Hanlon was not too surprised to learn that at each of these mines smelters had been erected. He learned that humans were used mostly in the mills, the natives being used only for outside labor because they could not stand the heat.
"We burn quickly," was the sad, horrified thought.
There were three other mines, but the natives did not know the English or Greek names for the metals found there. Even after considerable questioning by the roundabout "Hanlon to Geck to the Guddus back to Geck back to Hanlon" method, he still couldn't get that specific information.
"If it isn't tiring you too much, Geck, please ask them if there is any building going on besides the smelters at the iron mines?" Hanlon requested.
Soon other minds about the planet were coming in, and the story began to unfold—there were several factories making many machines. But none of the natives had the least idea what kind, or for what purpose they were being made.
"Think they are going to be put in great metal huts humans are making," one thought ran, and Hanlon quickly grabbed onto that.
"What sort of metal huts?"
"Things that look like huge eggs."
"Space ships, you mean?"
Another thought broke in. "Yes, they like ships human come in, but much greater."
Hanlon fumed. Oh, if only he could see ... but wait, maybe he could get the information he needed. "Ask if anyone is looking at one of those 'eggs' right now," he commanded Geck through the transformer.
"Yes, An-yon, many Guddu right at edge of great place of making. Brother of me, Nock, him there."
"Ask him, please, to describe what he sees. Maybe that will give me a good picture of what it is."
"Will be glad to try, but not knowing your language and having no compare your measurement to ours, am not sure can do what you wish," he felt Nock say.
This, too, surprised Hanlon. That native certainly had a real mind, to grasp that difficulty so well, and to realize the limitations of telepathic communications with one alien to his race.
"Please picture it in your mind as you see it, and use some common objects of the planet for comparison of their sizes," Hanlon urged through Geck's mind. "That way I think we can get along."
Almost instantly a picture of a gigantic egg formed in his mind, but with enough variations from an actual egg so that Hanlon realized it was, indeed, a space ship the native was viewing. Soon Hanlon saw a great tree pictured beside the ship, and at the base of the tree a native was standing.
Quickly Hanlon estimated. The adult natives he had seen were almost all about six feet tall. As nearly as he could judge that tree was a good fifteen times the height of the Guddu, and the ship was the same height as the tree, and nearly three times as long.
Wow! What a ship! But it must be wrong. Even the largest Corps' warships were nowhere near that huge. Nor were even any of the biggest freighters he had ever seen. He must be getting his measurements wrong.
He called Geck, using the transformer. "Are you seeing what I am in Nock's mind?"
"Yes, An-yon, and you is figure right. Is that big."
Hanlon slowly shook his head in amazement. If that was meant for a warship, it certainly spelled trouble for someone. He thought seriously for several moments, then telepathed Nock. "Is there more than one ship being built?"
"Oh, yes, there are many many." The picture built up of a whole row of ships, and Hanlon counted swiftly.
Eighteen!
For what purpose was such a fleet being built? Men would not defy the I-S C and the Federated Planets this way merely for business reasons, he felt sure. There certainly was a plot being hatched—and what a plot!
He felt Geck's hand on his arm, and heard his voice. "Are two more places where humans build many ship, An-yon. While you think me talk many minds. One place are fourteen more great ones. At other are many many many small ones five to ten Guddu long."
Shock on shock! Someone was building a tremendous fleet here! He must get that news to Corps headquarters as quickly as possible. If those ships were once finished, they would be able to dominate the system. For the Corps had only a nominal fleet. They had never needed a large one.
To the best of his knowledge the Corps had only thirty-one first-line battleships, much smaller than these. The Fleet also had fifty heavy cruisers, a hundred and fifty light cruisers, and a thousand scouts running from one-man up to twelve-man size.
"Please find out if any of those ships they are building have ever left the ground."
"Some little ones only," Geck reported after awhile. "Some few disappear into sky then come back after time, then do same again."
Trial trips, or training trips for the crews, Hanlon deduced.
Well, he had some data now, at least. Enough so that once he got that news to Headquarters they would attack this place in force great enough to stop this work ... IF ... he could get word to them soon enough.
"Let's see now," he figured quickly. "I've been here almost twelve weeks. That means another six or seven until I'm supposed to be eligible to get back to Simonides. Hmmm. Wish I knew how near finished those big battle-wagons are."
More moments of intense thought. "I don't dare take the chance of trying to sneak off to the yards," he reasoned logically. "I've got to do everything I can to make sure I get my trip back when my eighteen weeks are up. If I got caught off bounds that would ruin everything—I'd really be in a mess."
Also, even if he could get to the shipyards, the moment he was spotted trying to get inside any of those ships he would undoubtedly be killed by guards who would certainly shoot first and ask questions later—if any.
Nor were there any longer any native birds or animals left on Algon he could use—he had learned that the men had killed them off soon after they arrived.
"No, I'll just have to keep on trying, and get what dope I can without exposing myself. With a month and a half I should be able to get a lot more, and with what I already know, the Corps top brass will take steps, but fast!"
Suddenly a new idea sprang into his mind. Where was "here?" In his excitement and planning he had entirely forgotten to finish figuring out that point.
That evening after dinner he stayed outside, ostensibly walking about aimlessly, in reality looking at and studying the stars when he was sure no one was watching him.
He couldn't spot any of the more familiar constellations such as the Big Dipper, Bear, or the Southern Cross. He knew he was far to one side of the galaxy from Terra—that while from there one could see the "front" of those configurations, now he would be getting a "sidewise" view. But he could identify quite a few of the bigger suns and distant nebulae.
He picked out several blue-white and red giants he was sure he knew. That was Andromeda off there; that one was undoubtedly Orion—no other contained so many 4.0 to 5.2 stars, beside the gigantic Rigel, Betelgeuse and Bellatrix.
Good, he could fix all that in his mind well enough to draw it when he got back, and the Corps planetographers certainly would pin-point this system from those directions. Distance—let's see? He strained to remember the time it had taken that freighter to come here, and estimated that, with its slower speed, this world was somewhere between ten and fifteen lights. He would time it more carefully, going back, and estimate the ship's speed as closely as possible.
Young George Hanlon was maturing swiftly under the stress of the tremendous task he was attempting. He was learning that he must think and plan well ahead of time. He realized he could not afford to make any serious mistakes, lest not only his task remain uncompleted, but his life be forfeit as well.
He knew now that it was absolutely imperative that he get back to Simonides at the earliest possible moment, and that the way to be sure of this was to so impress Philander that he would feel duty-bound to give Hanlon his vacation at end of the minimum time.
So Hanlon devoted many hours of serious thought to this problem, and finally figured out several courses of action. The next day, as soon as his shift was over, Hanlon walked across the compound and knocked on the door of the headquarters office. When bade to enter he did so, hat in hand.
"Have you got a half hour or so to talk, Mr. Philander, sir?" he asked. "I've got a couple of ideas I'd like to gab with you about, that I think might speed up production even more."
The man looked up in surprise, and his eyes bored deeply, suspiciously into Hanlon's. "You think you can tell me how to run my job?" he rasped.
"Oh, no, sir. I didn't mean about the engineering or supervision. It's about handling the natives, and getting more out of them. You've said I was getting out more ore than the others, and I think perhaps I've got a few ideas—a sort of hunch about making the Greenies themselves more productive."
"Well, come in, come in then. What is it?"
"I've been doing a lot of thinking about the Greenies, sir. You remember I thought they were vegetable matter, and the way they feed themselves they'd need ground that either has lots of natural chemicals in it, or that has been well-fertilized, to keep 'em well and strong. That being the case, the dirt that forms the floors of their huts and stockades would very quickly become exhausted of those vital chemicals, and the natives would begin suffering from malnutrition, it seems to me. My gang has been slowing down recently, although they still seem to be trying as hard as ever."
"Why ... why, yes," the superintendent's eyes had widened in surprise as Hanlon talked. "That makes sense. Imagine none of us thinking of that! But then, we've always thought of them merely as dumb beasts."
"So I've been wondering if it wouldn't be a good idea either to move the stockades every month or so, or else let the natives 'feed' out in the open jungle every day—the sunlight would probably help them, too, being vegetable. They could be tied together and guarded, of course, so they couldn't escape."
Philander slumped down into his chair in deep thought, and Hanlon glowed inwardly with the hope that something would come of this plan. It would help him with Philander, if it worked. Also, it would help the Guddus, for Geek had often grown almost hysterical when complaining about the terrible hunger they all felt so continuously.
Suddenly Philander sat erect. "I believe we've got a few sacks of commercial nitrates in the storehouse. Let's experiment and see if they can use that."
He rose purposefully from his desk and the two hurried to one of the warehouses. There Philander soon found the sacks of chemical, and Hanlon carried one as they went to the corral.
"May we try it on my crew first, sir?" he asked anxiously. "They seem to sort of like me, and I've learned more or less how to guess their reactions by their facial movements, so I think I could tell whether they like it or not."
"Sure, that's a good idea," and they went on to the compound that housed Hanlon's special crew.
Inside, while Hanlon apparently chose at random, it was actually Geck to whom he beckoned. When the native approached, feigning fear and reluctance—Hanlon hid a sudden grin at Geck's unexpected acting brilliance—the young man opened the sack and poured out a little of the nitrate.
He stooped over and stuck his fingers into the stuff then rose and gestured to Geck to put his feeding fingers into it the same way. Meanwhile Hanlon was telepathing the exact information to his friend, as best he could with his limited ability.
Gingerly Geck stooped, and after a few false starts finally put one of his fingers into the little pile of nitrate, and activated the feeding sensories. For a few moments he stood thus, doubtfully, then his manner clearly indicated joy and surprised happiness. He began working that little triangular-shaped mouth, and the others crowded closer.
Telepathically he informed Hanlon that this was wonderful—exactly the food element the natives needed so desperately.
"It seems to think it's all okay," Hanlon said aloud to Philander. "I'll spread out a little more for them all," and without waiting for permission he made a long, narrow pile of the fertilizer clear across the width of the hut. Instantly the rest of the natives crowded along that line and stuck their feeding fingers into it. Soon their silly-looking faces expressed their equivalent of blissful smiles of complete satisfaction, and Hanlon's mind was suffused with thoughts of pleasure and gratitude for his kindness.