# Man of Many Minds/Chapter 3

As Hanlon entered his dormitory room, his roommate looked up from his studies.
“What'd the Big Brass Bull want, Han?”
“Huh?” Hanlon snapped out of his abstraction and grinned. “Nothing important. You'll be up soon. Just about our first assignments after graduation.” He was thinking swiftly. “… Uh, I get some extra instruction in piloting, and a chance at the controls.”
“Gee, I hope they let me work on codes.”
Hanlon shrugged. “They probably will, Dick. They try to fit us where we can do the most good, Rogers said.” He picked up a book and sat down, apparently studying intently, and young Trowbridge resumed his own lessons.
Hanlon began practicing his mind-reading at every opportunity. At first he felt sure he would be caught at it, but quickly remembered that, as a child, his victims never suspected they were being mentally invaded unless he told them or acted carelessly upon information so gleaned.
Yet it had been his naive, boyish pride then, that had made him boast to his playmates of his ability, and prove it by telling them things he had learned about them. All that, naturally, got him into much trouble and not a few fights, and caused the loss of all his early boyhood friends. That was why he had quit using his wild talent and had been so determined never to do so again, as he had first told Admiral Rogers.
But now he realized he must use it with all the ability and skill he could acquire. For this mind-reading, whatever of it he could do, was decidedly his dish. The SS would be sure to hand him all the jobs where it might best get them what they needed—if he showed he could produce.
Yet with his present equipment Hanlon knew he could do little. As he had also told the commandant, he couldn't actually read anyone's mind to the extent of getting definite wording or specific information. But he could get quite clear sensory impressions that helped him deduce what the other person was thinking.
He had partially learned—and now practiced with all his abilities and gained knowledge and intellect to improve and perfect the technique—to gauge the other's looks, glances, facial expressions, muscle movements, sudden tensenesses, and so on. For those, together with the mood-impressions and bits of fleeting thoughts, enabled him to know almost to a certainty what the other was actually thinking at the observed time.
In the barracks, later that first evening, he got into a card game and concentrated on trying to win by this method. Nor was it consciously that he chose a game being played for low stakes—he just wouldn't have thought of trying to win large sums by such “cheating”.
For some time he won consistently and easily. He couldn't know what cards his opponents held, by suit or number, but he could tell without any difficulty whether each of the other players felt he had a poor, medium or good hand. By playing his own accordingly, his wins were far greater than his losses. After an hour or so of play had proved he could do it, and had given him considerable practice, Hanlon closed his mind to their impressions. He now played his cards so recklessly he soon lost his winnings. Then he got out of the game on a plea of having to study.
The next morning during first class, the door opened and Admiral Rogers entered the classroom.
“'Ten-shun!” the teacher called, springing to his feet.
“As you were. I want to borrow one of your young gentlemen for the day, Major. A VIP is in town, and we want to give him an aide.” He looked about the room, as though to pick out a likely-looking candidate. “How about Cadet Hanlon? Does he especially need today's lesson?”
“Oh, no, sir, he's one of our top students.”
Admiral Rogers looked directly at Hanlon, who had risen to attention when his name was mentioned. “In my office, in full dress uniform, on the double.”
“Dismiss, Hanlon,” the instructor said, and the cadet ran out.
In Admiral Rogers' office ten minutes later, Hanlon received his instructions. “Report to the Simonidean Embassy and put yourself at the disposal of Hector Abrams, First Secretary to the Simonidean Prime Minister. But first, hang this stuff on you. This dress sword is a little unusual—the scabbard is rounder than yours, but not noticeably so. It's really a blaster; the trigger is here on the handle as you grasp it. Put on these aide's aguillettes—the metal tips are police whistles. No,” seeing Hanlon's questioning look, “we don't expect any trouble today—these are just routine, for we like to be ready for emergencies.”
Hanlon fastened the braided cords to his shoulder tabs, and belted on the twenty-inch-long blaster-sword. The admiral touched a switch on his desk and spoke into a microphone. “My personal car to take Cadet Hanlon to the Simonidean Embassy, then return.”
At the Embassy, Hanlon reported to the receptionist, and was shown with due deference into one of the private offices, where he was introduced to several men, among them the Secretary he was to accompany.
“I have a number of errands to do today, but the first and most important is laying the cornerstone of our new Embassy building—this one is merely rented, you may know.”
“I am entirely at your disposal, sir,” Hanlon saluted crisply, and fell into step just behind the portly statesman as he left the building.
They rode in an open car with a uniformed chauffeur, the others following in other cars. As they rode Hanlon probed the statesman's mind, but found only worry-tension, that he shrewdly guessed had to do with the coming speech, rather than with any thought of intrigue or illegal machination.
As they came into the Greek section of the city, their ride took on more and more the aspects of a parade, as the Simonidean was recognized.
Hanlon opened his mind wide and attempted to analyze the thought-sensations he received from the crowds. It was one of gaiety and good nature, and reminded him of the way his boyish mind interpreted the thoughts of holiday crowds at the circus, Fourth of July celebrations, picnics, and so on.
From the moment he first entered the Embassy, Hanlon had been probing with every iota of his ability, hoping he could find some lead to whatever it was that was bothering the Corps about Simonides, but had found nothing sinister or menacing, nor could he get any such sensations from the crowd.
But now he concentrated more on watching the increasingly denser throng of people, for the car was nearing their destination. The buildings along here were all bedecked with Simonidean and Greek-Terran flags, and there was now a continuous cheering from the populace. Abrams was standing in the back of the car now, smilingly acknowledging their plaudits by bowing to one side and the other.
Hanlon, sitting stiffly at attention, nevertheless kept his eyes darting here and there, watching as carefully as he could for any possible hostile demonstrations or menacing figures.
Arrived at the building site, Abrams was greeted by numerous dignitaries, and escorted with much pomp to the flag-bedecked stand, amid greater cheering from the assembled crowd.
The chairman of the occasion stepped to the public-address microphone, and raised his hands for silence. The band broke off in the middle of a number, the cheering from the huge throng gradually died down, and the ceremony got under way.
Hanlon, who had taken his post at one corner of the platform, paid scant attention to what was happening on it, as it neither interested him nor could he understand too much of it, even though he knew quite a bit of Greek. Again his eyes were busy continually looking all about the great crowd and the surroundings.
Nothing of note occurred until the chairman began introducing Abrams, and then hecklers in the crowd began shouting:
“Freedom for the Greeks of Simonides!”
“Empires are out of date; let the people rule!”
“Demos forever!”
These calls were few at first, but the men yelling them were leather-lunged. The chairman's face turned reddish, and he wavered a bit in his speech, then raised his own voice in an attempt to drown out the interruptions.
Others were now crying out, though still only a few, but in spite of their shouts the ceremonies continued, and Abrams, properly introduced, rose and began his prepared speech.
Hanlon, more alert than ever, could see local police shoving through the crowd, trying to apprehend and silence the hecklers. But from his vantage point Hanlon saw the latter shifting rapidly from place to place, partly to escape detection, he swiftly deduced, and partly to make it seem as though more and more people were joining in the demonstration.
In a side glance Hanlon saw that the Secretary was nettled at the disturbance, and his color was high although he bravely continued speaking. The great audience was largely paying attention to him, and must have found him interesting, from their frequent cheers.
Suddenly, at one side, there seemed to be a more determined demonstration, and Hanlon tore his gaze from it, remembering his instructor's words:
“Disregard specific diversions in one spot! Let the police handle those—you must watch most carefully then for assassins!”
Instantly he was more alert, more carefully scanning the whole scene before him, his eyes travelling forth and back.
A glint of reflected sunlight from a nearby roof jerked his eyes upward, and at what he saw, with one swift, smooth motion he drew his blaster-sword, sighted carefully, and pressed the trigger.
There was a crack of flame, and a gunman half-hidden behind a chimney screamed, half-rose, then, his body charred by the force of that blast, toppled from the roof into the street below, his rifle falling near him. Hanlon swivelled. “Cover Abrams!” his voice rang out commandingly, and he himself jumped in front of the Secretary while others on the platform sprang up to completely surround the Simonidean, and hide him from possible further danger.
Hanlon raised one of the tassel-whistles and blew a piercing blast. Now he could see several local policemen running toward the platform, and in moments Abrams, surrounded by an armed and alert escort, was hustled into a waiting police car, which sped back to the Embassy.
The Simonidean was white and shaking, upset by the episode.
“Why?” he kept asking, but no one had any answers. “I'm not important enough for anyone to want to kill,” Abrams shook his head. “The people of Simonides like the empire status—why should anyone here on Terra object?”
“There's always crackpots in every crowd,” a police captain said. “We get riots like this one almost every time there's a public ceremony. Most of 'em're plain nuts—once in a while only is there one who feels he's got a real grievance, personal.”
“But with so many participating, this one looked planned,” Hanlon objected. “I was higher and watching, and I could see at least a dozen men shouting at the beginning, starting all at the same time, although a lot more took it up. It must have been a plot of some kind.”
His mind was racing. Was this part of what he was being sent to Simonides to investigate? He had tried to probe the crowd minds, but there were so many conflicting thought-emanations, such a welter of sensations he wasn't able to isolate any single, individual moods or thoughts.
Safely back inside the Embassy, Abrams seemed to relax a bit. He turned now to Hanlon.
“My very sincere thanks, young man, for your quickness and alertness in saving my life. I shall be eternally grateful.”
Hanlon waved his hand deprecatingly. “It was my job, sir. I'm sorry your day was spoiled that way.”
“I still can't make out why?” The Simonidean said slowly, and Hanlon, probing, could sense that his mind was full of question marks. “I'm not that important. If it had been the emperor”—Hanlon caught an impression of loyalty and love for that dignitary—“or even the Minister”—here he caught a feeling of doubt and some dislike—“it might make sense. Just as I cannot figure out why I should have been sent here for this purpose. It's almost …” he was silent, and Hanlon's probes found only puzzlement.
“Nuts!” the young Corpsman felt frustrated. “If only I could really read minds! I think this guy knows something I want to learn, but I can't get the least idea of what it is.”
But he kept trying, and not only with the mind of this one man he had been sent here to guard. He reached out to all other minds in the room, but none of them seemed to have any thoughts about the why of this unexpected happenstance. There were mostly feelings of anger that their beautiful new Embassy building had not been properly dedicated, and their ceremony ruined.
Abrams had sunk into a chair, and it soon became apparent to Hanlon that he wasn't planning on handling any of his other outside errands that day.
“Will you want me any more, sir?” he finally asked after a considerable period of uneasy fidgetting. The Simonidean broke out of his abstraction, and rose to his feet.
“No, I shall stay here for the balance of the day at least. You may as well return to your other duties. Again, thank you, personally, for saving my life, and please express my thanks to the Corps for sending you. But I still can't understand …” He turned away, muttering.
Hanlon saluted the other members of the Embassy staff, and rode the slideways back to Base, reporting to Admiral Rogers, to whom he gave a full and concise account of all that had happened.
“Whatever Mr. Abrams and the police may think, I still believe it was all carefully planned,” he concluded thoughtfully. “It wasn't just one man, for I could see at least a dozen. Though, of course,” he added quickly, “one man may have been behind it.”
“Undoubtedly,” the admiral said. “There was the chance of something like this, which is why I picked you for the job, hoping you could get some leads from it.”
“I told you I couldn't read specific thoughts or information,” Hanlon said. “If you and the top brass picked me for the SS because you thought I could, you'd better release me from it. I can't work in a crowd at all, for there's such a jumble of thought-emanations I can't separate them. Even working with an individual I can only sense something of his feelings. Just as now,” he grinned mirthlessly, “you're disappointed because I didn't get any data, and thinking my so-called mind-reading is all a fake.”
The admiral almost jumped. “Why, I am not …,” then he looked surprised, and laughed. “By Snyder, I was, too!” He sobered. “But if you can do that, even if you can't actually read the words of the thought, you'll still be able to help, I'm sure. No, you keep on studying. I'll bet you'll be able to do a lot more before long.”
“I sure hope so,” Hanlon slowly unfastened the aiguellettes and removed the sword and belt, laying them on the corner of the big desk. At touch of that weapon he suddenly realized what he had done with it, and shuddered, while his face grew white and strained.
“What's the matter?” the admiral asked anxiously.
“I … killed … a … man,” Hanlon trembled.
“No! You killed a snake!” Admiral Rogers laid his arm comfortingly about the younger man's shoulders. “It isn't the same at all. Don't let it bother you.”
Hanlon tried manfully to rise from his dark mood. “You're right, in a way, sir, and I'll try to look at it that way. As to the mind-reading, I'll keep on trying, and I hope I can prove of some use.”
The admiral patted his shoulder encouragingly. “You will. Dismiss.”