# Man of Many Minds/Chapter 11

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 for poyka, 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—I will 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 a must! 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.”
And that, 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!”