So it was that early Friday morning George Hanlon, still dressed in
civvies, of course, arrived at the great passenger liner that was to
take him to far Simonides. He was thrilled with the idea of making such
a trip, for he loved the deeps of space--its immensity and its
fathomless mystery gripped him with a feeling of grandeur.
Yet he had never been far outside the Solar system. The latter was not
necessary on his training cruises, since all the details of a pilot's
job--the branch of the Service he had hoped to enter--were the same for
both inter-planetary and inter-stellar travel. It was the navigator's
job that was the harder and more complicated on the longer, faster trips
to destinations one could not see when blasting off.
This "_Hellene_" on which he was to ride was about sixty-five feet in
diameter and approximately three times that in length. The propulsion
was, the builders and engineers acknowledged, not the ultimate by any
means. They were still constantly experimenting and hoping for much
swifter travel. Still, they did pretty well.
They had some measure of anti-gravity to help lift the ship from a
planet. About 22%, Hanlon remembered. They still had to use rockets when
near a planet--but these present-day rockets were a far cry from the
early crude ones with which Snyder and his men had put first ships on
the Moon and planets. These could deliver a thrust far more powerful
than those early ones.
For long distances they used a type of "warping" that made the ship
"skip" along the lines of force that permeate all space. Hanlon had
never quite got it firmly fixed in his mind just how this was done,
especially the technique of the engines that made it possible. That was
"advanced stuff" that the cadets were not taught in their regular
courses--it was Post Graduate work for those who were to become
Engineering Masters.
As he went up the escalator into the ship Hanlon was met at the outer
lock by a deck steward who led him toward the level where his cabin was
located.
This was Hanlon's first time aboard one of these luxury liners--how
different the deep-piled rugs, the magnificently frescoed passageway
walls, the deeply upholstered furniture, from the utilitarian plainness
of the Corps' warships on which he had made his practice cruises.
"As you may know, sir," the steward said as they walked along, "there is
neither night nor day in space, but we use Terran time on the ship, and
lights are turned on and off to conform to the regular Terran day.
Breakfast is served from seven to nine, luncheon from twelve to
fourteen, and dinner from eighteen to twenty-one."
"Thanks." A credit note changed from hand to hand--tipping was still in
style. The obsequious steward gave him further directions for finding
the games and recreational rooms, and other points of interest aboard.
Hanlon unpacked, and stored his luggage in the compact closets and then,
having heard the first and second warnings, hastened to the observation
desk, to watch the take-off. He had barely reached it and been strapped
into the acceleration chair turned to face the long, narrow quartzite
port, when the blast-off sirens began screaming their third and final
warning.
The intra-ship communicators blared, "All passengers and
personnel strap in. Five minutes until blast-off ... four
minutes ... three ... two ... one ... thirty seconds ...
fifteen ... ten ... five, four, three, two, one, BLAST!"
Dimly heard through the insulated hull was what Hanlon knew to be a
tremendous crescendo roar of sound, and he was pushed deep into the
resilient spring-cushions of his chair. A constricting band seemed to be
clamped on his chest, while at the same time there was a curious feeling
that he should weigh less but didn't. That was the peculiar sensation
the combination of anti-gravity and the thrust of the rockers always
gave.
From experience he knew how to regulate his breathing and to let his
muscles and nerves relax as much as possible, so that for him there was
but a brief moment of discomfort. Then he was able to watch the scene
unfolding before and below him.
The ground and that outward splash of almost-intolerable flame quickly
dropped away and within minutes the scene expanded until he was able to
see hundreds of square miles of city, country and ocean. Soon he could
see the distant mountains; but gradually the scene assumed a dimness of
detail that persisted until they were far outside the atmosphere. Then
the great continental masses became visible as a whole, but without any
smaller details apparent.
Two and a half hours later they were past the Moon, and began building
up the tremendous speed that was to take them across inter-stellar
depths in a matter of short days. And as Luna shrank to a small sphere
behind them, Hanlon felt the acceleration grow constant, so unstrapped
himself and got up. He stretched hugely, to relieve the cramped feeling
in his muscles, then turned to survey his fellow passengers.
He noticed several men in Corps' uniform, and hoped none of them knew
him--or if so, would be good enough not to spread word of his disgrace.
That would make the trip uncomfortable, lonely and unproductive, for
then it would be better for him to spend most of his time in his
stateroom. He thought of those "interesting people" he had been told
about ... whatever that tip might mean.
For George Hanlon, youngest man ever to be assigned to the Inter-Stellar
Corps' Secret Service--although he did not know this until later--had
that within him which placed matters of duty uppermost in his mind at
all times.
Accustomed for nearly half of his life to the conscious task of keeping
his mind-reading talent hidden and unused, he now knew he must work at
it continuously to bring it up to its highest possible level of
efficiency. Only by thus knowing every facet of his ability could he do
what had to be done in his new task.
He sat down again and closed his eyes in order better to study this
problem without outside and extraneous matters interfering. He became
awed and a little frightened as he realized fully the weight of his new
duties and responsibilities, even though he had been all through this
several times before. Somehow, his being aboard ship on his way to his
actual work seemed to make this terrific responsibility more weighty.
Why must he be burdened with such a load as they had tied onto him? What
were the Corps' top brass thinking of, anyway, to put so much on an
untried kid just out of school?
At last he began to think less of his own burden and to concentrate on
seeing what he could pick up mentally. He kept his eyes closed, but
opened his mind wide and let the welter of thought-impressions roll in
unhindered.
There was much laughter and lighthearted gaiety about him, as was
natural on such a luxury liner. There was also some fear of space and
the emptiness; some actual illness from space-fright. There were many
mental undercurrents, and in one or two instances he thought he caught
vague hints of sinister intrigue, but was never quite able to isolate
these, or to bring them into more distinct focus. Quite evidently the
men--or women--thinking such thoughts were able to close their minds to
some extent--or else he was too rusty at reading. He realized, too, that
they might not be thinking of any such thing--he remembered once when he
was a boy he thought he had caught some such thought, then found later
it was merely a neighbor reading a story with a sinister plot.
Mind-reading, he told himself, was the field in which he would be
assigned to work. The Corps and the SS would be sure to hand him all the
jobs where other agents had failed, just as they had in this case, in
hopes that he could get them some beginning points of contact. So it was
up to him to get busy and learn how to do it better.
The call for lunch found him still studying, but he was hungry, and went
down to eat. He could work there as well as on the observation deck,
anyway.
Going into the dining room, the head waiter assigned him to a table
almost in the center of the large and tastefully decorated room. For
some moments he busied himself studying the menu, and when he had
ordered he glanced up again at his tablemates.
He had been introduced to this matron, and to her son who appeared to be
about his own age. He probed briefly, finding her a good sort but a
little too impressed with her own importance--new-rich, he guessed. The
boy he disliked on sight--he seemed a selfish, pampered brat.
So he forgot them and concentrated on letting his mind roam about the
great room, seeking information and trying to refine and develop his
mind-reading ability. It seemed to him the latter was improving to some
extent ... yet realized this could as easily be wish-fulfillment as
actuality.
After luncheon he returned to the observation deck and there, as the
long afternoon slowly passed, he sat in his deck chair, eyes closed,
mind wide open.
Several times he caught some one thought-impression more distinctly than
the general run, and concentrated on trying to trace it mentally; to
read it more clearly and minutely. But as he did not have much success,
it began to irritate him ... and that made him angrier.
"Keep at it, and don't expect miracles," he scolded himself. "Sure,
you've got something, but anything--any ability of mind or muscle--needs
training and practice to get anywhere!"
After dinner that first evening Hanlon went into the recreation hall.
There were dozens of tables where people were playing various games. He
saw that around many of these other people were standing, watching the
play, and knew from this that social custom on the ship did not frown on
such silent kibitzing.
Therefore, he wandered about until he found a table where four men were
playing stud poker. Here he stood, watching the game, but concentrating
on the mind of the man opposite him, checking his mental impressions
against the man's wins and losses.
He couldn't, at any time, actually read in the man's mind what his "hole
card" was, he found. But he could quite easily sense from the player's
mind whether the latter considered it a good one, a very poor one, or
only a possible winner. By watching the play as well as studying the
man's feelings, facial movements and muscle twitches or tensenesses,
Hanlon was soon able to make some remarkably accurate predictions as to
what the card was. By checking his deductions with the card when it was
shown, he saw he was gradually coming closer and closer to a perfect
score of "reading."
* * * * *
The next day Hanlon again sat most of the time in the lounge, his eyes
closed, letting his mind soak up all the impressions and vibrations he
could. When one seemed particularly strong, he tried to follow it and
locate the person--with his mind, not his eyes--and read the whole
thought.
Mostly he found again excitement and pleasure. Almost everyone on board
seemed to be having a grand time, and enjoying the trip to the utmost.
It was what might be expected--a gay, carefree holiday crowd.
Yet there was, occasionally caught, that sinister undercurrent that had
so puzzled him since he first sensed it the day before. It was not
prominent at any time, nor continuous ... more as though only one or two
minds held the thought, and those not in the lounge all the time, but
wandering in and out.
He tried to analyze the feeling of those thoughts. They were
malevolent--that he had sensed from the beginning. And finally, later in
the afternoon, the person or persons thinking them evidently spent some
time near him in the lounge, for the feeling became much clearer to the
SS man.
Hanlon still kept his eyes closed. He made no effort at this time to try
to identify who was giving out those menacing sensations. That would
come later. At the moment he was more interested in trying to work out
just what those sinister impressions meant.
And gradually his mind was forced to the conclusion that it could mean
only one thing--a killing.
Hanlon was devoting almost all his mind to this problem when another
mental impression intruded, and grew stronger, more demanding of his
attention.
It was a feeling of sympathetic concern, yet diffident, apologetic. He
felt it growing stronger, seeming to be approaching him, to be directed
at him.
For the moment he left off worrying about the other matter, and watched
this new thought.
By the instant it was growing stronger, and closer. He knew that, some
way. He directed his attention toward what he believed was its source,
but idly, half angry at it for interrupting his more important thoughts.
It was in front of him ... and suddenly, like a bright, white beam of
light, his mind reached out and touched directly the mind holding that
thought.
Touched it ... it was instantly, unbelievably, _inside_ that mind!
He was able, actually, to _read_ the surface thoughts!
Clearly, distinctly, as though it were his own mind, Hanlon knew he was
one with a deck steward, who had noticed him sitting there all day and
the day before, with closed eyes and strained face. (His efforts at
concentration must have been too apparent--he'd have to learn to guard
that; to keep his face more impassive.)
Now the steward was coming to see if he was ill. And at that instant a
soft, apologetic voice spoke from in front of him--spoke words he had
already read in that mind.
"Beg pardon, Mr. Hanlon, sir, but is anything wrong?"
He opened his eyes lazily, and let a smile break out as he saw the
solicitous face of the white-coated attendant.
"Me? Not really. Just a little queazy, but I'm feeling better all the
time."
"I'm glad. But be sure and call if I can be of any service."
"Thank you, I will." Hanlon reached in his pocket and slipped a credit
note into the man's hand.
And as the steward walked away Hanlon's mind was instantly whirling with
this newly-discovered ability. He was astonished and delighted, of
course ... but a little disturbed, too.
"I was actually inside the guy's mind!" he thought in amazement. "That's
a new one! I was never able to do that before. I really read his
thoughts! I've got to find out more about this. Let's see, now, how did
I do it?"