"Evenings I'm often at the Bacchus Tavern. And," with a sinister grimace, "if you come, you'd better pray that 'he' likes you, you'd sure better!"
SS man George Hanlon went slowly back to his room where he could think seriously without the outside abstractions he would be sure to encounter in any of the public rooms.
He had made a good bid, he thought, for contact with what he felt sure must be the group he wanted to get in with. Hanlon felt Panek's statement that he, personally, was not in on it, was just so much hog-wash. That last crack about "you'd better pray that 'he' likes you," was almost sure proof.
But what did it mean? Who was this "he," and why had Hanlon better pray "he" liked him? Probably the leader ... and if so, undoubtedly a dangerous man to play around with. Hanlon remembered the fear of his boss he'd read in Panek's mind.
Also, what about Abrams? Hanlon felt sure it was the same man he had guarded that day. Oh, oh, was that "failure" he had also read in Panek's mind that unsuccessful attempt he, Hanlon, had thwarted? Was Panek—and through him this as-yet-unmet leader—behind that attempt on Abrams' life?
These were questions he could not answer yet—not enough data. But he would have to find the answers sometime. And once in Panek's gang, he might find them. And even if this particular gang was not the one doing the plotting in which the Corps was so interested, Hanlon felt that getting into even one of the organized gangs on Simonides would be a step in the right direction.
But he would have to watch his step. Those fellows would be about as safe to play with as a pitful of cobras. For a long moment he grew cold with fear; a deadly, paralyzing terror that twisted his vitals into hard, hard knots. What business did he have, mixing with mature, deadly killers such as these?
On the other hand, he consoled himself after awhile, being able to read their surface thoughts should warn him when he started getting out of line. Then, if or when he did, he would walk more softly, travel inch by inch, and not make any attempts to jump into the big middle of things until he got a lot more information ... and more experience in the ways and means of gangsterism.
But suddenly he felt that cold fear return. Those men were—must be—hard, trained killers all. This Panek was not even the boss—was just a gunny. And those higher-ups would be much worse than Panek—more ruthless and more contemptuous of human life and rights. They would have to be, to be the higher-ups. For Hanlon sensed that in such a group, Might very decidedly made Right ... and Power.
It took some time to quiet his shrieking nerves. Nor did he ever forget the awfulness of that fear that so nearly brought him down out of control. On the other hand, never again did he reach such depths of utter panic.
He finally rose, bathed and dressed for dinner. But during the meal his mind was in such a turmoil he had trouble keeping himself outwardly calm. For the first time in more years than he could remember he merely toyed with his food ... and he had always been a good trencher-man.
But he had something very important to do tonight, and he would let nothing keep him from it. So he went to theHellene'slibrary and studied from such books on biology and physiology as he could find, all he could about the brain and the nerves that formed the connecting links between it and the muscles. He studied until the dimming of the lights told him that "day" was over.
He then sent his mind down into the brain of the bulldog, and watched through its eyes until he saw the kennel steward leave for the night. Then Hanlon went down to the kennel deck.
Sitting on the same bench as before, Hanlon sent his mind into that of the white bull. Again he had no trouble attaching a portion of his mind to the dog's brain. A little experimentation soon showed how much of his mind that brain could contain.
Then, from theinside, he studied that brain line by line, muscle and nerve channels and connectors, even more surely than he had been able to do before.
The first thing he learned, and put into practice, was to make the dog sleep, so he wouldn't tire too much. After nearly three hours of intensive study he was convinced he was beginning to know it quite well, although he realized how much there still was for him to learn—how much study and practice he would need.
He then woke the dog, and while still leaving that part of his mind in its brain, scanned the next cage which held a beautiful female Airedale. Into her brain he sent another portion of his mind. Then into the next dog another portion, and on and on until he had detached more than three-quarters of his mind, and was controlling directly eight dogs.
His body felt weak and listless as it sagged on the bench, and he made it lie down there in the semi-darkness. There was, he was afraid at the time, little more than enough mind left in his body to keep the semi-automatic functions going.
It was the most weird sensation imaginable, having portions of his mind in nine places at once—having nine different and distinct viewpoints!
He found he could do, although not too well at first, nine different things at once and the same time, or could make all the bodies he was controlling do the same thing at the same time.
He "drilled" the dogs, making them line up, walk left or right or back up, all in unison. He found that while his mind was divided and controlling different bodies, there was a thread of connecting thought between them all, so that he knew what each of the others was doing. Yet it was not a central command—each individual mind-portion could and did do its own deciding and commanding.
For hours Hanlon practiced with the dogs until he had worked out the procedure to the point where he knew he could make them perform—singly, as a group, or each doing a different thing—almost any task of which their body muscles were capable, whether they had previously known how to do it or not.
Bringing his mind-portions back from seven of the dogs into his own brain, after commanding them to sleep, he went over to the cage of the Airedale he was still controlling. Squatting down before the bars, he took a pencil-stub and piece of paper from his pocket. These he passed through the bars and laid at her feet.
Then, while he watched with his own mind through his own eyes, he used only the portion of his mind that was inside her brain, and made the Airedale pick up the pencil in her teeth, blunt end inside her mouth. Holding it thus, she attempted to write on the paper, which she held steady with her two front paws.
Anxious minutes passed while Hanlon sweatingly experimented. At last the dog managed to print, very roughly and clumsily, a few letters. They were large and very crude. It wasn't that he couldn't control her muscles—it was, simply that the muscles were not built to do such things without infinite training.
When it finally became so near "morning" that he knew he had to quit, Hanlon left the kennels and went to bed. He was still amazed, excited and thrilled about this strange and weird ability, but he was also well content with his studies. If a time came when he might wish or need to use animals in his work, he felt capable of managing them. Yet again he realized how much there was to learn; that he must continue practicing and studying at every opportunity.
Did cats or horses—or birds or insects—have brains that worked the same as the dogs? He would have to experiment to find that out, first chance he got.
But now there was another very serious problem demanding his attention. He had made a wonderful start at getting an "in" with Panek, the Simonidean thug. Now, how could he best turn that to his advantage?
It was some time before he fell asleep from sheer weariness, nor had he solved the problem before he did so.
The moment he awoke, late the next morning, he knew he had the answer. His sub-conscious must have solved it for him while he slept.
At brunch he kept his eyes open, and before too long Panek came into the dining room for his lunch. Hanlon signalled, and his new-found acquaintance came to his table. Their orders given and the waiter on his way, Hanlon opened up.
"Look, Pard, I don't want to butt into your business, but if you want this Abrams out of your way, I'll be glad to take a crack at it for you."
The Simonidean looked at him scornfully. "Think you're that good, eh? Better'n me at bumping off a man, huh? Better'n me?"
"Oh, no," Hanlon made his face seem very apologetic, and his tone the same. "I'm not setting myself even one notch ahead of you, nor criticizing your way of working ..."
"Better not, neither!"
"... but every man has his own techniques. Look, in this case, aboard a ship in space where you can't run or hide, I think my way would work best."
The other was becoming interested in spite of himself, and his truculence melted a bit, although his tone was still sneering. "All right, Master Mind, how'd you handle it, how would you?"
"A gun or knife is all right on some jobs," Hanlon leaned closer and spoke in a semi-whisper, but earnestly. "But there are times when it's plain foolish to sneak up behind a man and hit him on the head with a club."
"Yeah, you got something there, got something."
"In such a case, I figure it's a lot better to make friends with the guy, take him to dinner, then sneak a little cyanide in his coffee—something like that."
Panek was impressed. Hanlon read the swift thoughts racing across the other's mind. He hadn't liked the idea of using his knife, here on this ship. But neither did he dare report back to that feared "boss" that he hadn't succeeded in killing Abrams.
Panek spoke doubtfully. "Yeah, that may be all right, but not when the guy knows you, then you can't get away with a thing like that, not when he knows you."
"Exactly what I'm getting at," Hanlon said eagerly. "Me, I'm the Unknown Quantity. Nobody knows me. I can get to old Abrams and make it all seem natural."
"He ain't easy to fool, no, he ain't."
"I'm sure he isn't. But since I've got to make a start somewhere if I want to get into things on Simonides, I figure giving you an assist is worth the trial."
"Well," Panek hesitated and his cold eyes bored into those of this enigmatic young man. "I still don't quite trust you, can't be sure I trust you. I still figure you're some kind of a cop ..."
Hanlon half-rose, his face dark with intense anger. "Don't ever call me a cop!" he blazed, though still in a whisper. "I hate 'em. As a kid I thought they were tops, and did everything I could to get into their school. But I mighty quick found out how wrong I was. I was good and sick of 'em, and about ready to quit when they threw me out on that lie about cheating ... say, I knew more'n their knuckle-headed instructors, so why'd I need to cheat?"
"Easy, Pal, take it easy."
"They just want to use their high and mighty authority," Hanlon ignored Panek's shushing. "They just like to push people around 'cause they got on a pretty uniform."
His voice had risen in pitch until Panek had to grab his arm and shake him to make him keep still. People at the nearer table were beginning to look at them. But Panek was impressed now with Hanlon's sincerity—the SS man could read that in his mind.
"All right, Pal, all right. Don't bust a gut. You bump off old Abrams without getting caught, and I'll get you in with a gang on Sime where you can really do yourself some good, really some good."
Hanlon nodded shortly and rose. "I'll keep in touch. And your man's as good as dead right now."
His heart was singing—his plan was working smoothly. Now if that government man had any brains, and would play along ...
Hanlon found Abrams in the library, and slipped into the seat next to him. Opening a magazine and holding it fairly high before his face while apparently reading it, Hanlon started talking in low but penetrant tones.
"Don't look up, Mr. Abrams, but listen to me. You may or may not know it, but there's a plot against your life. I managed to delay it yesterday, but they intended getting you before we reach port. Now I have a plan. I earnestly beg you to listen and work with me."
The Simonidean had given a slight start when he heard Hanlon's first words, but he had been well-trained in a hard school, and in no other way had even shown that he heard. Now, however, he spoke as guardedly as Hanlon. "Who is trying to kill me?"
"A man named Panek, but someone's behind him that I don't know. But the question is: will you work with me?"
"Yes, if I can."
Abandoning his attempts at secrecy, Hanlon started laughing out loud, as though at something he was reading. As Abrams looked up in surprise, Hanlon leaned over and held out his magazine in front of the Simonidean, pointing at it.
"Play up now," he said softly, and the diplomat, quick on the up-take, pretended to look at what Hanlon was showing him, then began laughing in turn. Thereafter, the ice broken as far as any on-lookers might know, the two talked naturally as shipboard acquaintances might do.
"Why," Abrams really looked at Hanlon for the first time, "you're the young man who saved my life on Terra, aren't you?"
"Yes, but keep it quiet. I want us to stick together more or less the rest of the day, as though we'd just met and liked each other. Then have dinner together. Do you have your own servant?"
"My valet, yes, and he is absolutely trustworthy. Why?"
"While we're eating I'll appear to put something into your drink while you're not looking. A few moments later you'll act as though you were suddenly taken ill, and go to your room. Have your valet later let the word out that you're very ill, and send word by space-video for an ambulance to meet the ship. Just before landing, let him say you've died. The ambulance can take you wherever it's natural your body would be taken, and you keep under cover for some time, until I notify you. Can do?"
"Hmmm." The other thought rapidly but cogently for some minutes. "With a few minor variations, yes. But why? ... oh, I see. You want to get in with the gang, is that it?" When Hanlon nodded Abrams continued, "you're playing a dangerous game, but that's what we've learned to expect of your Corpsmen. A wonderful group!"
"Thanks." Hanlon did not want to explain anything, so let it go at that, and the two talked companionably of many things as they moved naturally about the ship. They listened for a while to a concert in the music room, then played a few games of cards. Each time the diplomat tried to ask questions, Hanlon side-stepped.
The SS man had seen Panek cautiously spying on them from time to time, and when the two went in to dinner the thug took a seat nearby, but where Abrams could not see him.
Hanlon had been probing Abrams' mind all this time, but had been unable to get any clue as to a plot that might upset the peace of his world, or the Federation. Hanlon realized the man was an intense patriot, and he came to the conclusion that Abrams did not particularly like the Prime Minister. But the "why" of that dislike eluded him.
The two were about finished with dinner and their coffee had been served. Hanlon called his companion's attention to something behind him. As the latter turned to look, Hanlon's hand flashed out and hovered an instant over the other's cup.
A few moments later the Simonidean played his part to perfection. He took a drink, then another, and almost before he had set his cup down, gave a groan, and clutched at his stomach and throat.
He rose shakily, and tottered away heavily on the arm of an anxious steward who had come running up.
Hanlon, although he rose quickly and made his face seem concerned and sympathetic, resumed his seat and finished his coffee. When the steward returned, he called him over, and seemed reassured when the latter reported that Mr. Abrams had said it was apparently only an attack of indigestion, to which he was prone, and that his man could take care of him.
But the next day word ran about the ship that Abrams was very ill, and not expected to live the day out.
Panek sauntered past where Hanlon was sitting, reading, and stopped to ask for a light.
"Nice work, Pal, nice work," he whispered as he was lighting his cigaro. "See me at the Bacchus."
But his thoughts, as Hanlon scanned them, were muttering viciously, "I'll cut out his guts if he's planning to louse up 'his' plans, I'll sure carve him!"
And a bit later, as Hanlon reviewed the entire episode, he thanked his stars that Panek was a lot less than an intellectual giant. A brighter man would have wondered about the source of Hanlon's knowledge of his homicidal plans; and how it happened that Hanlon carried a supply of poison. There had been no indication that either question had occurred to Panek.
The moment he got off the ship and went into the city of New Athens he could feel it. There was an air of mystery, of secretiveness, of intrigue, that could not help but be noticed by one as sensitive to emotion-impressions as SS Man George Hanlon.
He got out of his ground-cab at the entrance of a great park in the center of the city, but directed the driver to take his luggage on to the hotel. Then Hanlon went in to sit on a bench beneath a beautiful, flowering ba'amba tree.
Once there, he opened his mind to its fullest extent, and let all the impressions and sensations of this new world soak in. He could not, of course, get any factual details in this way, nor did he expect to. What he wanted, and began to get, was the "feel" of the city. And the longer he sat the less he liked it.
For he could sense so clearly that there most certainly was "a Mercutian in the fuel pit" here somewhere. But what it was; what this strange feeling portended, he could not quite make out.
He noticed, casually, that there were the usual idlers in this park, and hundreds of children with their nurses or parents. But there were none of the derelicts one sees in so many large-city parks. Most of the people seemed well-dressed and not too poor. He could catch occasional bits of thought about big business deals.
After a time Hanlon noticed that here, as in most parks, hundreds of native, pigeon-like birds were flying and hopping about, seeking what crumbs they could scrounge from picnickers' lunches, or nuts fed them by interested idlers.
He wondered if he could get into a bird's mind, and sent his out to contact one. His ability was, he found, much the same as it had been with the dogs—he could not only "read" what mind the pigeon had, but could control it ... could actually project part of his mind into the bird's brain.
The brain-texture, was different, but as he sat there for another hour, he learned the difference. For now he knew what to look for, and it did not take long until he knew it well. Finally he got so he could see and understand what the people around him were doing—not through his own direct observation, but through the pigeon's senses. He sent several winging high into the air, and got a good perspective of the entire city.
At last he brought his mind back into his own brain, and gave a mental shrug, then rose from the bench.
"You're just stalling, you know," he scolded himself. "Get to the hotel, check in, then go look in the bank vault. You've got a job to do, so get doing it!"
From the hotel he went to the bank and signed up for a box. There was nothing yet for him in box 1044, so he left a note addressed "To Any SS Man," stating he was here and ready to begin his work.
Back at the hotel he unpacked, took a shower, and then a short nap. There was no telling what the night might bring forth, and he wanted all his strength and powers.
New Athens was a beautiful city, as befitted the capitol of the richest planet in the Federation. For Simonides Four had become just that, even outstripping Terra in the wealth from her manufacturers and exports. Her shipments of ores, jewels, unusual furs, manufactured goods, precision tools and art products, as well as foodstuffs raw and processed, ran into trillions of credits every year.
The great square showed plainly that some architect or city planner with a love of classic lines had been in charge here. The buildings were all modern representations of the great temples and public buildings of the Golden Age of Greece on Terra. They were widely spaced, with magnificent lawns and gardens surrounding each.
Thousands of lights artfully concealed accentuated the beauty of those wonderful buildings, and Hanlon caught his breath in pleasure at his first sight of the marvelous square by night. He had thought it wonderful by day—now he admitted without reservation that it was the most magnificent sight he had ever seen.
He finally signalled a ground-cab—New Athens had no slideways—to go to the Bacchus. It was several blocks from the square, but each of the streets he travelled were almost as beautiful.
The tavern was housed in a large though one-storied building with a pillared facade. The main room was level with a gardened terrace five steps above the street.
Inside, the tavern was tastefully decorated in subdued colors. It was dimly lighted by representations of flambeaus, stuck at angles in the walls. The center of the room was occupied by dozens of tables of varying sizes, while along one side and part of the back were curtained booths. Along the other side ran an ornate bar.
Hanlon made his way to the latter, and sat on one of the upholstered stools. The bar girls, he noted with interest, were revealingly costumed in pseudo-peplos of a purplish, cob-webby, silkish material. They wore no blouses, but long sashes that passed behind the neck, crossed the breasts and tied about the waist to hold up the short skirt. One of the girls came up to get his order.
"I'm new on the planet," he smiled. "Let me have your best native light wine."
She brought him a glass filled with a sparkling, golden liquid, and waited while he took his first appreciative sip. "We call it 'Golden Nectar'," she smiled.
He smacked his lips. "Wonderful!" Then, as she started away he called her back. "Do you know a Mr. Panek? I was to meet him here, but I don't see him."
Her eyes widened a bit at that name. "I'll see if I can locate him for you, sir," and she moved away.
Some minutes later, while he was still pretending to sip his drink, Hanlon felt a hearty clap on the shoulder.
"Well, well, it's my pal from the ship. Welcome to Sime, Pal, welcome to Sime."
"Hi, Panek! Hope you meant that about looking you up, 'cause here I am."
Hanlon flipped a credit note on the bar and followed Panek. He was led toward a back corner, but there, instead of going into one of the booths, Panek pushed through an almost hidden alcove. He knocked peculiarly on a door, and a peephole was opened. When the guardian saw who it was, the door was opened enough so the two could slide through.
Hanlon, in a quick, comprehensive glance, saw that it was a fairly large office, at present occupied by four men.
"This is George Hanlon," Panek introduced him, "the guy who did that job on old Abrams, the same guy."
Hanlon noticed that Panek did not name the men there, but he could see they appeared to know all about him, and were giving him a close once-over. Hanlon scanned back in return, his mind quickly touching one after another of the three sitting in large, easy chairs. Only their surface thoughts were readable, and he knew at first touch they were but underlings, the same as Panek. He read a favorable impression of himself, but with reservations.
He turned his attention to the well-dressed, impressive-looking man behind the plasticene desk, nor had his other probings taken more than a few seconds. He noted with interest the round, smooth face, the slightly over-large greenish eyes, the silver hair that seemed finer and silkier than any Hanlon had ever seen on a human being. It was almost like fine fur, he thought suddenly.
Then he got a shock! This man was different ... Hanlon could not touch that mind at all! There was a sort of an ... an alien feeling there he could not quite fathom. It was like no other mind he had ever tried to read.
But he was careful not to let his face show anything of his inner thoughts as he saluted them gravely after that first brief pause.
Then suddenly he made his face show a boyish enthusiasm ... almost a naivete. "Maybe Mr. Panek has already told you about me. I'm looking for a chance to make a flock of credits ... and I'm not too particular how I get 'em."
But his mind was tense and anxious. What was their game? And this fellow behind the desk, this leader. Who was he? Hanlon knew he would have a real job finding out those answers ... but knew he must!
The leader nodded suavely. "That is a very ... uh ... commendable desire," he said in a low, gentle voice that was a perfect match for his outward appearance of high gentility. "We can always use a good man," he continued, "who isn't afraid ... nor too squeamish."
"A trigger-man?" Hanlon shrugged. "If it pays well, okay."
The man seemed to recoil, his delicate hands fluttering in the air almost femininely. "No, no, my dear young man. You misunderstood me entirely. We do nothing so crude, so vulgar, so ... so brutal. Oh, sometimes we ... uh ... sometimes an accident happens to someone. But nothing, you understand, that we have anything to do with. Your technique with the poor Mr. Abrams, who was so suddenly taken ... ill ... had led me to hope you had more finesse."
"I beg your pardon," Hanlon's tone was now one of apology. "I can finesse, all right, but I didn't know you wanted me to talk that way in private. I'll remember, and respect your wishes from now on."
Inwardly he was puzzled. He kept trying to touch that mind, but could not. Was the guy human—or did he have a mind-control of some sort? Was he used to mind-reading, so that he had developed a defense against it?
Or—and Hanlon almost caught his breath in momentary fear—was this ape a mind reader? A real one, not a dub like himself?
But the leader was answering, still in that gentle tone, as though nothing had happened. "So ... so ... that is good. I hate the thought of bloodshed, and I will not countenance roughness in actions or speech. It is regrettable, of course, that sometimes men are stupid enough to oppose us, but ..." and again that almost feminine gesture.
This was the silkiest, slimiest ...thing... George Hanlon had ever encountered, and again his heart quailed for the moment. "If I was on my own," he shuddered inwardly, "I'd sure never team up with a guy like that!"
For there was no single iota of mercy or compassion in that ice-cold mind behind that gentle face—of that Hanlon was sure.
There was a long, pregnant moment of silence, while the five men studied Hanlon more carefully. Finally the man behind the desk spoke more slowly. "Perhaps—just perhaps, you understand, and nothing definite as yet—we may have a little job for you before long. On another planet. You have no objections to travel?"
"Not if there's a bundle of the stuff at the end of the trip, no," Hanlon grinned avariciously. But his mind was seeking answers. Why did they want to send him away? Was this a bona-fide job, or a trap? Should he go to some other planet? Would he thus get best leads? Perhaps—if it wasn't for too long a time, of course.
The leader smiled suddenly while Hanlon was thus thinking, and the rest grinned as though they had been waiting for his lead to relax their vigilance. "There will be a very large ... uh ... bundle." He paused a moment, then continued "We need more overseers on ... a certain planet. It is one that is rich in various metals. The natives mine it under our direction, and ..."
Hanlon interrupted. "I don't know a thing about mining. Will that make a difference?" Here, he thought swiftly, was the test. If they still wanted him—and had a reasonable answer—it might well be a bona-fide job.
"None at all," the leader smiled again. "We have mining engineers in charge. Your job would be merely to keep the natives working at top speed. It is ... uh ... unfortunate, that they are high enough in the cultural scale so we cannot, under the Snyder dictum, colonize their planet and work it ourselves. But we will chan ..." he broke off as though realizing he was saying too much, and Hanlon stiffened inwardly.
This was a real clue. What planet was the man talking about? His most penetrant mind-probing could not get the answer from any of the minds there—to the others it was merely "a planet," nothing more. And this ape, with his perfect mental control, let nothing leak.
But the leader had caught himself and gone on almost as though there had been no break, "... chance using you, I think. If so, your salary will be a thousand credits a month, plus all expenses. And a nice bonus every so often, depending on how little trouble you have with your crew, and how much ore they take out."
Hanlon showed that gleam of avarice again. "Sounds very interesting." Then he leaned forward. "One, more thing. How long does the job last?"
"For several years, if you want it, and if we continue to be satisfied with you. But we bring the men back every few months for a vacation. We find that best with most of them—the climate there is not too pleasant, and the conditions are confining."
"Nothing to do but work, eh?"
"Just about that. The shifts are about eight hours of our time, and between them you eat, sleep, read or play cards ... but you do not explore or anything like that! The ship goes there every three weeks, and we usually figure eighteen weeks there, then the three weeks back here. The guards and others rotate that way. They have a tendency to ... uh ... deteriorate if we don't."
Hanlon let himself shiver, but grinned as he did so. "Now that's one thing I don't want to do—go nuts. Can't make any credits doing that."
The leader raised his hand. "You understand, of course, there will be a short period of ... uh ... checking and testing before we decide to send you out on a job."
Hanlon's voice was almost servile, yet confident. "Sure, sir. You name it; I do it."
He was still probing with everything he had, but still getting nothing important. A couple of the men seemed to be chuckling about what might happen to him if he failed the tests—but he had guessed that much, anyway.
Suddenly the leader leaned across the desk, and his genteel manner slipped from him like a discarded mask. His eyes became glacial ice.
"Don't get any grandiose ideas in your head, Hanlon. We are not fools. Nor are we offering you a chance to get in on our complete plans. I am just, possibly, hiring you to do a simple job."
"Oh, no, sir, I wasn't even thinking of such a thing," Hanlon looked hurt. "Why, I'm just a kid. I know I couldn't expect anything else ... at first. Not until I've proved myself to you, or until I've made my pile and got in a position of power. Then, naturally, I'd want to get into something where I could really go places. But that's for years and years ahead, I know that."
The now-hard, cold eyes scrutinized him carefully, but still doubtfully. When the leader spoke his voice was more cordial, though still harder, not soft as it had been at first.
"I'll be frank, Hanlon. We're not too sure of you ... yet ... because you were a cadet. Oh, we know," as Hanlon started to protest hotly, "all about your being kicked out. We can see how all that might well have soured you enough so you will really do anything you can to get ahead, even if only to show the Corps. But you can understand our hesitation, I think."
"Of course, sir. But you needn't worry." He made his voice as bitter and hard as he could. "I've had my fill of all that law and order stuff. I was an innocent young punk, full of high ideals and the romance of the Corps and all that bunk. But those mangy slime-snakes knocked all that out of me. Anything I can do that'll give 'em a kick in the teeth I'll do with joy and gusto!"
"Fine words," snapped the leader, "but can you take it if the going gets tough?"
Hanlon was learning fast. Now he stared straight back into those hard eyes.
"Can you dish it out, Mister?" his tone was almost, but not quite, insolent.
A black look suffused the leader's face at Hanlon's impertinent "can you dish it out, Mister?" He half-rose from his seat, while the other four men reached quick hands towards their weapons.
Then slowly the man sank back, relaxed, and smiled—an open, friendly smile of genuine cordiality, and his men also relaxed.
"You'll do, Hanlon, by the great ... uh ... Zeus, you'll do! But," he added significantly, "I think you will find that I can 'dish it out', as you call it, if the need ever arises. You had better pray it never does."
"Fair enough," Hanlon shrugged indifferently.
"The boys will take you out and show you the town, if you like," the leader smiled engagingly. "They will get word to you when I have a job ready, which may be in a day or two."
Hanlon thanked him, and felt it policy to go out with "the boys," even though he did not particularly care to do so. Nor did he especially enjoy the night that followed.
He had left a ten o'clock call with the hotel's visiphone operator when he got back to the hotel at last. When she called he groggily opened one eye half way, and fumbled for the toggle-switch.
"H'lo."
"Ten o'clock of a fine morning, Mr. Hanlon."
"Oh, no!" he groaned.
"Oh, yes," she giggled. "That bad, is it?"
"Worse'n that. But thanks anyway ... I guess."
She was laughing heartily as she disconnected.
Hanlon groaned with the utter misery of a hugely-distorted, throbbing head. The sunlight pouring through an open window directly into his eyes did not help any. He rolled over petulantly, but knew he had to get up.
He stumbled out of bed and went in to stand under a cold shower. Ten minutes later he began to feel a little more human, and decided maybe he would live after all.
"Never again!" he swore fervently. "I'm just not cut out for serious drinking. Hope I didn't give anything away to those guys last night."
He dressed slowly, meanwhile striving as best his aching head would let him, to review his situation. He was fairly well pleased with his success to date, but the grue of fear was still with him. He was getting part way where he wanted to be, but ... this was certainly no picnic he was muscling into. He remembered his father's injunction to take it easy at first, and grimaced wrily.
Eating breakfast in the hotel dining room, after taking an effervescent to relieve his headache, he tried to plan his next moves. There wasn't much he could do, he decided, until they called him. He had made his bid—it wouldn't do to try to push himself too much, or it would look mighty fishy to those sharp minds.
He shuddered again, involuntarily, thinking about that enigmatic leader. Who ... or what ... was he?
Hanlon went first to the bank, and made out a card for his own box. But once in the vault, and the attendant gone out, it was box 1044 he opened. There was a note for him.
"Welcome to Simonides," he read. "My name—here—is Art Georgopoulis. I work at present as a bartender at the Golden Web, on Thermopylae street. The high-ups in the underworld hang out there, and I pick up occasional bits of news. If you come in, introduce yourself by asking for 'a good old Kentucky mint-julep,' Practically no one ever asks for those. I'm the blond, skinny one at the far end of the bar. If I can be of any help, just yell. Me, I haven't got to first check station yet—but I'm still in there punching. Hope you do better—Curt Hooper."
Hanlon "ate" the note, then wrote one of his own, telling what he had learned to date, what he suspicioned, and what he was trying to do. Of his new mental powers he said nothing. He did not distrust this SS man, of course, but if the fellow didn't know he couldn't be made to tell.
As Hanlon left the bank he began to get the feeling he was being trailed, but could not seem to locate anyone doing it, although he did not dare search to his rear very carefully. Neither could he catch any definite thoughts about such a thing from among the welter of thought-sensations on the crowded streets.
He wandered about most of the day, frankly sight-seeing—but his mind was always open. He went into various public buildings, sat for some time in one or another of the numerous parks whenever he felt a bit tired of walking.
That feeling of being watched made him cautious, so he did not practice much with his mind-control on any of the pigeon-like birds! He did, however, make a trip to the local zoo, and as he paused momentarily in front of each of the cages to look at the exhibit it contained, he briefly made an excursion into the mind of each different type of animal, bird or rodent. Outside of minor differences of texture, they all seemed about the same. Each of them had, naturally, different muscular abilities that would need considerable study if he ever intended using one of them.
And every minute he was seeking, searching for any tiniest thread of evidence as to what it was that was causing this undercurrent of secret intrigue that was so plainly evident to his super-sensitive mind.
But there was no factual data to be learned. Only that "feel" of it in the very air. Yet as the day wore on he came to believe that much or most of what he sensed was not that plot which was causing the Corps concern. Rather, it seemed more as though all the people here were engaged in some sort of secret aggressiveness.
And it was finally forced into his consciousness that it was "business," not "politics." For it was well-known that Simonides, even though it had become the Federation's wealthiest world, was not yet satisfied ... that its merchants and traders wanted to capture more and still more of the System's business.
There were far too many minds engaged in aggressive thoughts for a political revolution, he felt sure. If it was this wide-spread, surely others of the Corps of the Secret Service would have found out something definite about it. No, whatever this was, it distinctly was not what he was here to find.
The feeling that he was being spied upon was always more or less present, but he could not spot the man or men who were watching him. Either several were working in short shifts, or else the trailer kept so far behind him that the multiplicity of thoughts from the hundreds of people always around masked those of the spy.
Hanlon ate a leisurely lunch in a small restaurant, and during the afternoon continued his apparently-aimless sight-seeing. If they were shadowing him, they would have nothing to report, he grinned. Not during the day, at least. What the evening would bring forth would perhaps be another matter.
For he had determined to at least get in touch with the SS man who had written that note. He would have dinner at the Golden Web, if they served meals. If not, he would have a drink anyway. The two men certainly should know each other by sight.
He went briefly to the hotel, but there had been no calls for him. So he took a ground-cab to the cafe, which turned out to be a pretentious, garish one. Inside he made his way to that part of the long, busy bar presided over by a slim, blond man.
Hanlon climbed onto a stool. "Gimme a good old Kentucky mint-julep, suh," he demanded, "an' be doggoned suah it's made right."
The bartender eyed him peculiarly. "Where's this Kentucky and what's a mint-julep?"
"On Terra, of course, where I came from. Where'd you think it was, on Andromeda Seven?"
"Pardon me, sir. I seem to remember now, having heard of such a drink. I'll have to look it up in the recipe-book—I disremember the ingredients."
Hanlon grinned and lost his appearance of truculence. "It's partly made of Blue Grass, like a 'horse's neck.' But if it's too much trouble, just give me a Cola."
The barkeep grinned, too. "I gotcha, Steve," and poured out the soft drink.
Hanlon sat sipping his innocuous drink, looking about him quietly. A large-sized crowd was beginning to fill the place—well-dressed, evidently fairly prosperous people, but he could see that they were not the real upper-class, but the slightly-off-shade climbers.
His drink finished Hanlon signalled his friendly barman. "The grub here any good? This looks like a nice place."
"Yes, it is. One often hears some interesting things here. As for the food, it is very good, and not too expensive. They have a native fowl much like chicken I think you'd like. Ask forpoyka, in whatever style you like it fixed. Glad to be of service, sir, any time, in any way." The last words were slightly emphasized.
Hanlon had ordered and was waiting for his food when a man he had never seen before slipped into the seat opposite him.
"The Boss wants to see you."
"Yeah?" Hanlon looked him up and down almost contemptuously. "Just who is this 'boss' who's interested in me?"
"Cut the clowning. You know who. At the Bacchus. Now!"
"So." Hanlon let himself appear slightly interested. "Well, after I get through eating, if nothing else shows up to interest me more, I might drop over."
"You'd better, and mighty quick, too!" the man snapped, although it was apparent he was puzzled by Hanlon's manner. "He don't like to be kept waiting."
"And I don't like to be hurried—or ordered about!" Hanlon snapped back. "If I come, and notice I said 'if,' I'll be there in about an hour. Now, do you mind? I like to enjoy my food."
The man rose, still with that perplexed expression. It was evident he was not used to people not jumping when his "Boss" issued invitations—which were really commands. He shook his head slowly. "I hope for your sake he's in a good humor," he said as he left.
Hanlon's mind was not too easy as he ate swiftly, and his relish of the excellent food was not as keen as it might have been but for this interruption. He shivered, remembering that cold ruthlessness he had sensed behind that leader's suave manner. But he had to play out his string as a somewhat brash youngster who wasn't afraid of anybody or anything. He had made a clean score with that reckless "can you dish it out, Mister?" but he had better not press his luck too far.
Thus it was only about half an hour later when he presented himself at the Bacchus.
"You took your time coming," the leader looked at Hanlon curiously.
"I was hungry," Hanlon answered simply. "I'd just ordered dinner when your message was delivered. I came as soon as I'd finished."
"Those who work for me usually ... uh ... come running when I call."
Hanlon grinned wolfishly. "Maybe they're afraid of you."
"And you aren't?"
"Should I be?"
"I don't like impudence or insolence," the voice was more curt and the eyes lost some of their calmness in a flash of anger.
Hanlon knew he had gone far enough for the time being, so instantly became less brash, more apologetic.
"If I take your job if you offer me one, sir, I'll obey all orders promptly, and I'll give you everything I've got, naturally. But I'm not one of your snivelling toadies."
The leader regarded him once more with silent appraisal, in which a measure of respect, or at least approval, seemed to show. Hanlon, probing the other minds present, was secretly amused at their astonishment at his temerity ... and the fact that he was getting away with it.
After long moments the leader nodded his head, as though he had reached a decision.
"What were you doing in the bank this morning?"
"Why, just depositing some of my stuff in a safety deposit box," he said, surprised. "Why?"
"How did you get your own box so quickly?"
"What do you mean so quickly? I went in yesterday and asked if one was available, and the girl clerk signed me up for it, and said I could get entry today."
"Oh, I see. I was told it was done like you already had a box and ... uh ... wondered about it."
Hanlon reached in his pocket and threw a key onto the desk "Go look in it for yourself if you think it's important. And incidentally," he said contemptuously, "I've known all day long I was being shadowed." But was instantly sorry he had said that last.
For there came a deadly coldness in the leader's tone, and a gleam in those hard eyes that boded ill for someone. "I see. Well, let it pass." He pushed the key back toward Hanlon, who pocketed it thankfully. His bluff had worked. This was the key to his own box, of course; his master key was in a hidden pocket in the cuff of his trousers.
The leader sank back into his chair and was silent for long minutes, thinking deeply, while Hanlon waited patiently, still trying to get some glimmering of thought from that unreadable mind, still frustrated almost to the point of despair that he couldn't.
Finally the man spoke, but not to Hanlon. "Panek, you and the others go find Rellos and bring him here."
When they were alone, the leader leaned forward and spoke earnestly to Hanlon, yet watching him carefully as he did so. "I like you, Hanlon, and I'm going to test you out. I am not too sure of you, yet, but if I become so, you can go far—very, very far with me. This Rellos I sent for is the man who was shadowing you today. I cannot—Iwill not!" he spat venomously, "abide failure or incompetence. I am assigning you the pleasant little task of seeing that some sort of an ... uh ... accident happens to Rellos. And as I think about it, it might as well be a ... uh ... permanent one."
Hanlon's stomach curled up so tightly it hurt, but he strove manfully not to let his feelings show in his face. He'd had an instant's inkling of what the proposal was going to be, and it was a measure of his stability that he succeeded in keeping his mask up.
He knew starkly that this time he would have to go through with a killing, or else give up this line of research. For he knew that if he did not kill this man, this way was closed to him. And if he dropped out, but gave the tip to some other SS man, that one would eventually face the same sort of a task. So, much as it sickened him even to contemplate it, it now became amust! He would have to think of himself as a soldier in war, and Rellos an enemy.
Outwardly calm, he shrugged indifferently. "Any guy that can't produce isn't worth keeping," he said. "Any special way you want it done?"
"No ... I think I would like to see how you work. Plan it yourself. But if it isn't done, you had better not let me or my men see you again."
"Fair enough. If I can't do a simple job like that I sure can't be of enough value to you to do myself any real good."
They were silent again, but Hanlon's mind was bleak with what was to come. He wasn't the killer type—he believed in the sacredness of human life. Yet he knew he would have to steel himself to go through with it. The job was more important than one man's life. But to kill in cold blood—a deliberate, planned-out murder!
Just then Panek returned with a slender, middle-aged man.
"Ah, Rellos," the leader greeted him. "I want you to meet a new member of our group, George Hanlon. He has just come from Terra, and has never been on Simonides before. I would like you to take him out and show him New Athens and what it contains in the way of pleasures. You can turn in an account of your expenses tomorrow."
Andthat, thought Hanlon, was just about as low and slimy a trick as he had ever heard, and the thought came and would not be denied, that if it was this leader he was to kill he could do it cheerfully and with a clear conscience.
He rose, though, and smiled as he held out his hand. "Glad to know you, Rellos. It'll be fun comparing your amusements with those of Terra."
The man was somewhat sullen, although it was plain he did not dare show it too much before their boss. Hanlon could read enough from the new man's mind to know how deathly afraid he was of the leader, and how he hated him.
"Wonder why he's in this, feeling that way?" Hanlon thought swiftly, and during the evening tried to find out, but without success—the man steered clear of any such thoughts.
As the two went outside, the Simonidean asked curtly, "Wine, women or song?"
"Why not some of all three?" Hanlon laughed lightly. "Anything you think would be a lively evening, and that you'd enjoy."
The other unbent a little. "We'll go to the Phobos first, then. They have good liquor and a nice floor show. Good looking wenches who don't wear too much."
He hailed a ground-cab, which the two entered.
Hanlon couldn't enjoy that evening. In the first place, he couldn't ditch all his drinks—and he hated alcohol—yet had to remain as sober as possible. Second, and most disturbing, was that horrible thing he had to do, and he knew it must be carefully planned. A gun, knife or poison couldn't be used now—it must look so much like an accident that no possible blame could be attached to him; so that the police could not hold him even for a short time.
He thought of and discarded one plan after another, then remembered something seen during his wanderings—a pedestrian bridge crossing a high-speed truckway where the inter-city freighters were so numerous they ran almost bumper to bumper. "I'll lead him up there, then throw him over and down. He's sure to be run over and killed."
The nakedness of the girls at the Phobos, the coarse jokes of the so-called comedians, the raucous, ribald laughter of the drunken patrons disgusted Hanlon, and he was glad when they left.
"Let's walk a bit and see the sights," he suggested, and Rellos agreed after some argument—he wanted to visit more night clubs.
They had walked a couple of blocks along a residential street when a little, roly-poly puppy waddled out onto the sidewalk to greet them.
"What a cute ..." Hanlon began, but with an oath, Rellos savagely and viciously kicked the little mite, sending it howling with pain across the low hedge.
A growl of anguish broke out, and Hanlon sent his mind searching for that deeper note. He found it, the mother dog, and was instantly inside that mind, controlling it.
With a leap the huge shepherd was over the hedge, straight at Rellos. The dog's weight bore the man backward, fighting for his life, trying to hold back those gleaming fangs straining for his throat.
Hanlon threw himself into the melee, but while ostensibly trying to drag the dog away, delayed the few seconds it took for those slashing fangs to rip out Rellos' throat.
People came running up, and as the first reached the spot they saw Hanlon struggling to hold back the snarling, blood-flecked dog, while Rellos lay dead in a pool of blood.
The dog's owner rushed up and snapped a leash on the dog.
"I'm terribly sorry, sir," Hanlon said. "My companion was drunk and kicked her puppy. She merely avenged it."
"I wondered," the man was shaken. "Kaiserina never was vicious before."
"I don't think she will be again," Hanlon said soothingly. "Is the puppy all right?" he asked the small boy who came up with the little animal cradled in his arms.
"No," the boy sobbed, "Fluffy's dead."
"What's going on here?" an authoritative voice said, and two policemen pushed their way through the quickly-gathered crowd.
The dog's owner explained in swift words, and completely exonerated Hanlon. "This man tried to stop my dog; he was holding her back when I got here," and others corroborated his statement.
"You'd better have the dog killed," the policeman said, but Hanlon intervened.
"No, she was just striking back at the man who killed her puppy. She wasn't to blame, and I'm sure she isn't vicious."
The police were finally satisfied, and while they were calling the dead-wagon Hanlon walked slowly back to his hotel, his heart still sick but consoled a bit.
"He had it coming to him," his thought was bitter. "The rotten beast—kicking a little puppy like that!"
The next evening Hanlon went back to the Bacchus. Instead of stopping at the bar he went directly to the back room and knocked on the door.
When the peephole opened he asked, "The Boss in?"
"Nope."
"I've got a report to make."
"Wait at the bar. I'll get in touch."
A quarter hour later the man summoned him, and upon entering that now-familiar room Hanlon saw a closet door was standing open, disclosing a visiphone screen, on which the leader's face was visible.
"Well?"
"Yep."
"Ah!" There was a quick intake of breath, and a feral gleam in those greenish eyes. A moment's silence, then "Do you still want that overseer's job?"
"For a thousand a month and keep? Definitely!"
"Very well, we'll try you. Zeller will give you a list of things you'll need there—special clothing and such. Uh ... got any money to buy those you don't have?"
"I will have when you pay me Rellos' expense money for last night."
The leader's eyes narrowed in sudden anger. "Don't try my patience too far, Hanlon."
"Okay," Hanlon shrugged indifferently. "But I never figured you for a cheapskate."
There was a gasp, as though the leader was amazed at Hanlon's temerity. But he quickly gained control of himself, and an instant later began smiling, then grinning and finally laughing aloud ... at himself.
"By Zeus, Hanlon, I like you! Nobody else ever dared talk up to me like that. You win. Tell Zeller ... no, put him on, I'll tell him ... Zeller, give Hanlon the list of things needed for the mine-guard job, and pay him a hundred credits, charged to the 'accident fund'. Tell him to be here, all packed to go, at thirteen o'clock." He started to turn the set off, then, as he heard Hanlon ask "Anything else now?" faced the screen again.
"Not unless you want to make rounds with the boys again. It will be some time before you can have any night-life."
Hanlon made a sign of distaste and shook his head. "Unh-uh, thanks. Two big-heads in a row will last me for plenty time. I'll go get some shut-eye."
The leader smiled companionably. "The rest might be best, for you'll have a rather rough trip. You'll ride a freighter, not a luxury liner."
"Do I ask where I'm going?"
"Does it matter?"
Hanlon shrugged. "Not especially. Just curiosity."
"Then it won't particularly bother you if we ... uh ... keep your destination a secret for a while?"
"Not in the least, if you want it that way," he yawned indifferently. But his mind was so anxious he had trouble not letting it show in his face or eyes. How was he to get that location? He thought swiftly, and conceived a possibility.
"Your bar here serve Cola?"
"What is that?"
"A soft drink very popular on Terra and many other planets. I'd like to take a case with me, if it's allowed."
"I see no reason against it. I never heard of it, but you might ask the bargirls."
"I can get it at the Golden Web if you don't have it here. I had some there the other night."
He watched carefully but there was no sign of suspicion; the leader did not even seem interested.
Hanlon blanked the screen, got the list and money from Zeller, and walked out. The Bacchus did not stock Cola, so he took a ground-cab to the Golden Web.
Pretending half-drunkenness, he walked in and ordered the case of drink from his colleague. While drinking a glass of it, he talked in more or less garrulous tones. In between unimportant words he informed the SS man bartender that he was leaving the next noon for another planet whose name and location he hadn't yet been able to learn.
"Got a good boss, though," he mumbled thickly. "Very good boss—sure he knows a lot. Headquarters at the Bacchus."
Hooper, quick of understanding as all SS men have to be, merely said aloud the conventional "Safe Flights," but Hanlon knew he would do everything he could to get that planetary information.
And Hanlon was well content as he went to the hotel and to bed. What could be done, had been done.
As soon as he had breakfasted the next morning, Hanlon checked out of his hotel, then went out and purchased the special clothing and other items on his list. With everything packed in traveling cases, he presented himself at the Bacchus just before thirteen o'clock.
As he got out of the cab, and gave orders to the doorman about keeping his luggage until he was ready to leave, Hanlon was heartened to see Hooper, apparently reading a newsheet, leaning against the terrace-facade nearby.
In the back room the leader and three others, including the ubiquitous Panek, were waiting for him. He was handed an envelope.
"When you arrive, give these credentials to Peter Philander, the superintendent. He will be your boss there. Just do as he says, don't get nosey about what is going on, and you will do all right."
"Don't worry about my keeping my nose clean. I'm taking along a dozen extra hankies."
His last doubts about leaving Simonides to go to the unknown planet were now at rest. He was sure that there he would find the leads he so desperately needed—and probably only there could he get them.
They picked up his luggage, then all got into a large, black ground-car, and as it started the men lowered curtains over the windows. And while Hanlon was wondering about that, one of them pinned his arms suddenly to his side while another slapped a piece of adhesive across his eyes, smoothing it tightly into place.
Hanlon gasped, but did not struggle.
"That's right, don't fight it," the leader's voice was almost kind. "We just don't want you knowing where we are going ... yet."
The car travelled some miles, then stopped and they all got out. The men helped Hanlon down, led him a few dozen steps, then helped him climb into another machine. In a moment he realized they were now in an aircar that had taken off, and he frowned. Assuming that Hooper had followed, he'd be out of it now. He was on his own.
For several moments Hanlon tried in vain to read from the others' minds where they were going. He had almost given up hope when he heard the unmistakable panting of a small dog, and realized that one of the air crew must have brought a pet.
Quickly his mind contacted that of the dog, and instantly was inside it, looking out through the dog's eyes. He controlled its mind so that it climbed up in the man's lap and, with its forepaws on the fellow's shoulder, looked out of the aircar's window. No one seemed to find anything peculiar in the dog's actions, its owner merely patting it as it stood there, as Hanlon could feel through the dog's senses.
Now Hanlon could see they were nearing some mountains, and took particular notice of everything that might be remembered as a landmark. Soon they were settling down into a little hidden valley, where there was a fairly large space-freighter.
They led him into this ship, and he lost the dog, so could not see just where they were taking him. Finally he sensed they were in a small room, and the adhesive was ripped from his face.
The leader and Panek stood in the small cabin with Hanlon.
"This is to be your cabin. Sorry for the precautions, but you can see why, I am sure. But if you behave, and make a good record, you won't have to ... uh ... worry about them any more. Take-off almost immediately, so we have to leave. Safe flights, and I hope you make out all right."
He looked fixedly at Hanlon for a long, long minute, and the young man, returned his gaze as steadily.
"I'll do my job," Hanlon said honestly after that moment—but it was his job for the Secret Service he meant. "Good-bye, and thanks. Thank you, too, Panek, for your help."
"Glad to've done it, Pal, glad to."
"See you in four months, then," and the two left.
Hanlon stored his luggage in the racks made for it, then started to go outside and see what was going on. But the door was locked.
"They sure don't want me to know where we're going," he grinned ruefully as he sat down on the edge of his bunk. "That makes me know it's important, and I'll get it some day—they can't keep it from me forever."
Sirens screamed "take-off," and he strapped himself into his bunk. When he felt the pressure subside and knew they were in space he unstrapped and relaxed. But there was nothing he could do.
Later there was the sound of a key in the lock. When the door opened a heavy-set man carrying a blaster stepped inside.
"Stand back, Bud, and keep your hands in sight."
Hanlon raised his hands while the messcook brought in a tray and set it on his bunk. As they were going out Hanlon spoke. "You got any books on board? I don't mind being locked in and won't make any trouble, but please give me something to do."
They made no answer, but when they returned for the empty dishes they left a couple of dog-eared magazines.
Late the following afternoon the siren warned of landing, and Hanlon strapped himself down again. After he had felt the landing, one of the ship's officers came and unlocked the door.
He was very apologetic. "Sorry, sir, about this, but we had our orders."
"It's okay with me," Hanlon said cheerfully. "Don't make a bit of difference with me where I am, long's I get well paid."
"I see you've put on your light clothing. That's good—this is a hot planet. These your bags?"
Hanlon nodded, and each carrying one, the officer led the way to the airlock and they climbed down onto this new world.
The air was thick and muggy—at least 110° Fahrenheit, Hanlon guessed. There was a great bustle of activity on the landing field. Automatic machinery was unloading cargo, and loading it into trucks. There were several men, with their luggage, standing about.
One was a huge, brutish-looking man, another a slender young chap about Hanlon's own age, apparently well-educated, from his manner, but with a certain shiftiness in his eyes; the others common-place laborers.
"Any of you been here before?" the officer asked.
Two of the others nodded, and started away from the field. Hanlon saw that just beyond the edge of it there were heavy forests—almost a jungle, but strange and alien.
As they drew nearer and finally entered it, the young SS man saw that this was, indeed, unlike any jungle or forest he had ever seen or heard about. Tall trees whose branches writhed as though alive, yet never attacked one. Underbrush so thick it seemed impassable, yet which twisted away from their approach as though afraid of a contaminating touch, only to swish back into place as soon as the men passed.
Hanlon, walking along and taking it all in, seemed to catch faint whispers of thought, but could make nothing of it. He wondered what it was—perhaps some alien animal-life very low in the scale?
The ground was soft and mucky. The young checker cautioned the others, "Don't step off the path; some of this stuff's almost like quicksand."
"There's a road to the mine," he answered Hanlon's further question, "but it's winding and about five miles, where this path's only a half mile. Ground here won't stand heavy loads."
"How big is this planet, anyway? Gravity seems about like Simonides and Terra."
"It's not quite as large, but seems composed mainly of heavier metals or something. Gravity about .93. The weather stays about the same all year 'round; very few storms of any kind, although there's a hot rain almost every night for about half an hour. The temperature goes down to about 90 at night; up to 110-115 days."
"No wonder they told me to buy light clothing."
"Yeah, it's sure hot. We'd go mostly naked, except the actinic's really fierce. Be sure to wear a hat all the time outdoors, and light gloves. If your eyes start to smart, wear dark goggles."
"Thanks for the tips, Chum, I appreciate 'em. I'd begun to notice skin itching, but thought it might be this jungle."
They broke through the final wall of foliage and Hanlon saw a large cleared space ahead that must have been roughly a half-mile across. There were quite a number of buildings, mostly windowless, and he decided they were storehouses.
"There's the messhall," his new-found friend pointed.
They went on to another long, low, bungalow-type building, inside which Hanlon saw a long hall from which opened dozens of doors on either side. The other men disappeared into one or another of the rooms, and the young fellow stopped at another door. "Grab the first room that has a key in the lock outside," he said. "They're all alike."
The SS man found one, with the number "17" on the door, and went in. The room was small but comfortably furnished. The bed had a good mattress, he found, and white linen sheets and a thin, fleecy blanket folded on the foot. There was a big easy chair, a closet for his clothes and a dresser with four drawers. Glo-lights were set in the ceiling, and there was another on a standard by the big chair for easy reading. A door opened into another room which proved to be a compact toilet and shower. Everything was immaculately clean, and the air was cooled and sweet from air-conditioning.
"Not bad, not bad at all," Hanlon said half-aloud as he unpacked and stored his things. Then he took a shower. "Man, are you going to get plenty of work-outs, in this heat," he apostrophised the shower, thankfully. Dressing again, he went out to locate Peter Philander, his new boss.
He stopped at the messhall, and there he found the cook, a jolly, roly-poly sort of man. He introduced himself and they chatted for a few minutes.
"I'm going to like this guy—hope they're all as nice and friendly," Hanlon thought. "Where's the super's office?" he asked, and the cook pointed it out.
Entering the office-shack, Hanlon found himself in a fairly large room with a number of desks and several drafting boards with blue-prints and drawings pinned on them. Behind one of the larger desks was a heavy-set man with a great, angry scar across his left cheek and neck, running from the bridge of the nose to below the ear.
Something about the man brought a sense of distrust to Hanlon—perhaps his looks, for that terrible scar made him look like a blood-thirsty pirate.
Hanlon discreetly let none of these things show in his voice or demeanor as he stepped forward, a smile on his face and his credentials in his hand. "Mr. Philander, sir? I'm George Hanlon, a new guard."
The other nodded without a word, and snatched at the papers, glaring at Hanlon in a squinting, suspicious manner.
Hanlon probed toward the mind behind that frown, and could sense a feeling of fear, suspicion and unrest. He caught a fragment of thought—"another one after my job?"—and in a flash of inspiration guessed what was wrong. This superintendent must have a terrible inferiority complex, which that disfiguring scar certainly didn't help. He was undoubtedly competent, or he would not be here, but felt every new man was a possible challenge or replacement.