# Man of Many Minds/Chapter 13

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.