# Man of Many Minds/Chapter 12

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.
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.”