George Hanlon glanced about the observation deck and saw at some
distance the young man who had sat at the same dining table. Hanlon
grinned a bit, and directed his mind that way.
To the best of his memory, he concentrated on doing the same thing he
had done when he got inside the steward's mind. For long, anxious
minutes he tried. He felt tense, and the strain made his heart pound. At
last he sank back into his chair.
"The other was just a fluke, I guess," he frowned in frustration and
disgust at himself. "I keep thinking I'm getting good--then _flooie_!"
He idly sent his mind towards the boy again ... and suddenly found
himself once more within another person's mind.
It was a strange, weird feeling ... this getting two sets of thoughts at
the same time. Also, Hanlon felt a bit as though he was a trespasser in
some forbidden temple. Yet he persevered, trying to see if he could read
anything there ... and was disappointed to find he could peruse and
understand only the fleeting surface thoughts.
With all his might, in every way he could think of, he tried to probe
back and beneath those passing thought-concepts, but could get no
information whatever of the young man's past or knowledge. Only vacuous,
self-centered thoughts which were flowing idly through the youth's mind
were available to him.
He wondered if he could influence the other to do something. If he could
control another's mind--even just a little--it would really help in his
work. So he now tried every method his agile mind could imagine, to make
the fellow pick up the book that lay beside his chair. He concentrated
on it, he insisted, he willed it. But in vain--he could make no
impression whatever.
Hanlon withdrew his mind. "I've no control," he thought to himself. "I
can't take over his mind in any way. Neither can I read his past; just
his present thoughts. That's not too bad, although I hoped I had hit the
jackpot at last."
After some further reflection the thought occurred, "Maybe I can do
better with someone else."
During the balance of the day he kept trying to read the minds of others
of his fellow passengers, but found the same results in each case. He
did, however, develop the technique of making a much quicker entrance
into a mind--could do that reading more swiftly, and yet know he was
correct.
"I get it now. I've got to approach it relaxed, not all tensed up like I
was at first," he finally realized.
But when it came to probing into and reading the whole mind, into its
past thoughts and knowledges, no. Just that ... no!
Pessimistically he began to feel he wasn't going to be able to do as
much with his "mind-reading" as he--and his superiors--had hoped.
Did this mean, he wondered disconsolately as he went to his stateroom,
that he was to be a failure in the Secret Service? Or, he brightened
momently, could he develop other methods of ferreting out information?
But that, he told himself honestly, was out. What did he know about
detective work? The SS already had the best detectives in the Universe.
This dark mood persisted while he went to bed and finally dropped off to
sleep. But when he awoke the next morning he felt cheerful again. He had
a lot--and he would get more.
He ate a good breakfast, then went back to his deck chair and there,
resolutely, he opened his mind once more to general impressions. He
would keep working at it, and more was bound to come. Look how far he'd
advanced already. A lot further than when he had started. And at that,
he probably--no, undoubtedly--could do more than any of the other
fellows on certain problems. As far as he knew--and Dad and Admiral
Rogers had talked as though he were the only one they knew about--no one
else could read even surface thoughts.
So he kept diligently at it. And very soon, so strongly he deduced the
mind must be very close to him, he again found those sinister
impressions that had bothered him so much.
This time he glanced about, in apparently casual curiosity, yet touched
mind after mind of those nearest him. Then hit pay dirt!
Why, it was that bluff, hearty-looking, red-headed man in the third
chair to his right. He didn't look vicious, that was certain, though
there was a grim set to his jaw. Yet his surface thoughts showed the man
to be hard, cold and ruthless--a pure killer type. Hanson sensed he was
one of those men who have such a will to power that the lives and rights
of others are held cheaply, contemptuously. The kind who, if another
gets in his way, removes him ... but carefully, lest his own
highly-valuable skin be put in jeopardy. If he could get some one else
to do the dirty work, so much the better. Such conscienceless killers
were, Hanlon knew, usually arrant cowards.
There was someone on this ship who was in this man's way--of that Hanlon
felt sure. The killer was determined to destroy this other the first
chance he got. His mind was now weighing chances and possible
opportunities--and Hanlon read and learned.
Yes, this must be one of those "interesting people" that unknown SS
tipster back on Terra had mentioned. Was the victim another? Probably.
For Hanlon had not yet read any thoughts in this killer's mind about any
confederates.
Hanlon kept close watch on this man and his mind, and picked up many
other stray bits of information, including his name, Panek. None seemed
of too much immediate importance regarding the matter at hand. Yet they
gave the Secret Service man a fairly good picture of the assassin's
personality, when pieced all together.
Suddenly, and but a barely passing whisper of thought, Hanlon caught the
concept that the intended victim's death was necessary to the coup
"they" were planning on Simonides.
Hanlon was instantly alerted by that planet-name. Perhaps this was a
definite lead for him. He strained to get more. The killer thought
occasionally of a man he called "The Boss", but not the name of that
dignitary, nor his actual position--politically, socially, economically,
or otherwise.
The SS man fumed inwardly because he could not get a clear picture of
that "Boss." This murderer did not have a visual type of mind, darn it.
He didn't see clearly in pictorial terms any of the people or scenes
about which he thought.
Hanlon had been gradually impressed, though, with the realization that
this man was very much afraid of his boss. There was a mental shiver
every time thought of his employer entered his mind. There was something
about a previous failure, and what would undoubtedly happen unless it
was done now, but Hanlon couldn't get enough of that to make any sense
to him.
Again Panek began thinking, though very sketchily, about "Sime", as he
called Simonides, and the "plot" that was being hatched there. Hanlon
felt the man's sneering contempt for "those beasts"--but could gain no
idea whatever about what that reference meant.
In so many ways this puzzle seemed to be growing worse instead of
better, and Hanlon knew a moment of frustration. But his sense of humor
came to his rescue. "You want the whole thing written out for you in
black and white?" he jeered at himself. "Snap out of it! Quit being a
defeatist."
Harder and more intently he tried to probe into the man's mind. Oh, if
he could only learn to read below those passing surface thoughts; to
follow them down and back along the memory-chains into the total mind!
Revealing though the thoughts he could catch were, for complete and
swift results he must find the technique of reading a mind completely.
If such a thing were possible.
But probe as he might, the way to those deeper, buried memories and
thoughts continued to remain locked from him.
And then Panek got up and left the observation deck.
* * * * *
A light touch on his knee some time later snapped George Hanlon's eyes
wide open, and he looked down to see a small, wriggly dog looking up
into his face, its tail frantically wig-wagging signals of proffered
friendship, the little tongue making licking motions toward the hand the
puppy could not quite reach.
"Well, hi, fellow," Hanlon reached down and lifted the little dog onto
his lap, where the latter wriggled and contorted in an ecstasy of joy,
climbing all over the young man, licking at his hands and trying to
reach his face. The puppy was so extremely happy and anxious to make
friends that Hanlon was soon laughing almost convulsively while trying
to avoid those well-meant but very moist kisses.
"Wait now, boy. Take it easy. I like you and all that, but let's not get
carried away with ourselves."
Hanlon scratched the puppy behind one of its floppy ears, and pressed it
firmly but gently down so it was lying on his lap.
"That's better. Just lie there and take it easy."
A sudden thought brought a grin onto the young man's lips. He tried to
get into the puppy's mind ... and got a real surprise. For after a few
anxious moments of testing and trying, he did it--actually got the dog's
thoughts of pleasure at finding such a wonderful new friend with such a
nose-appealing effluvium. Hanlon then tried to see if he could get into
the deeper parts of the dog's mind, and using what knowledge of the
technique he had deduced in his previous though unsuccessful attempts
with humans, found after many more anxious minutes he could follow the
thought-and-memory tracks back and back until the dog's whole mind was
open to him.
The puppy had far more of a mentality than Hanlon had ever guessed dogs
had--and he knew they were far from stupid. This one's mind, he could
now see, was immature but latently capable.
Say, this was great! Hanlon probed some more, and found many sketchy
facts--sketchy because the thoughts were incomplete to the puppy, beyond
its experience, and not because the man couldn't read perfectly what was
there. The dog apparently knew a woman--Hanlon got the impression of
skirts--and answered when that goddess called the word "Gypsy."
"Gypsy, eh?" Hanlon said aloud, and immediately the dog wriggled from
beneath his restraining hand, and again tried to climb up and lick
Hanlon's face in a frenzy of adoration.
"Lie down, sir, and be quiet!" Hanlon said sternly, and the puppy did so
instantly, without question or hesitation.
Hanlon thrilled, realizing at once that it was not what he had said that
did the trick--but the fact that he was still inside the dog's mind, and
that it had obeyed his will rather than his words.
"Hey, this needs looking into!"
Without saying the words aloud this time, Hanlon commanded the dog--or
rather, he impressed the command directly onto the puppy's mind with his
own--to get down off his lap onto the deck.
Instantly it leaped down.
"Lie down." The dog did so.
"Roll over." Again silently. But now the puppy merely looked up at him,
imploringly, quivering in an apparent emotion of indecision. Hanlon
realized the puppy didn't know how to "roll over."
"Guess I need to learn how to do it before I can teach, or rather,
command, him to do it," Hanlon grinned wryly to himself. For he realized
that to do so he would have to learn how to control each of the dog's
muscles, and that before he could do that he would have to know what
part of the brain controlled the nerves that made those muscles obey his
commands.
And that, if possible at all, would take one galaxy of a lot of study
and practice.
For the next several minutes, then, he concentrated in making the puppy
do a number of simple tricks, all the time watching carefully to see, if
possible, the connecting links between brain, nerves and muscles.
He was beginning to make a little headway in understanding this triple
co-relation, when he heard a sudden gasp. He looked up to see a young
matron standing before him, her mouth and eyes wide with surprise.
"Why ... why, Gypsy never did any tricks before. What are you, an animal
trainer?"
Hanlon leaped to his feet. "The best in the Universe, Madam," he
grinned. "That's a mighty fine puppy you have. He came over and
introduced himself, and we've been having some fun together."
"Yes, he ran off, and I've been hunting all over for him. But how on
earth did you ever teach him so quickly?"
"It's a gift," Hanlon mocked, then grew serious. "Honestly, Madam, I
don't know," he said quietly. "I just seem to have a way with dogs, is
all. By the way, would you sell me the puppy?"
"Sell Gypsy? No, thanks," and she started away, calling to the dog to
follow. But it stood in indecision, looking from one to the other, not
seeming to know whether to follow its beloved mistress or to stay and
play with this nice new friend.
Hanlon quickly reached out to the dog's mind and impressed on it that it
must follow the woman, and always do whatever she told it. The puppy
then trotted away, content.
George Hanlon sank into his deck chair. This required a good think--a
mighty serious think--he told himself. He would have to work on this as
much as on human minds. For if he could control animals--would it work
on birds, or insects? Maybe even fish?--then he could get into places
he, as a man, could not go.
The lady and dog had disappeared when Hanlon got the inspiration to see
if his mind could find them; if he could again contact the dog when it
was not in sight, and he did not know exactly where it was.
Instantly, effortlessly, it seemed, as though it happened merely because
he wished it to, he found himself again inside the puppy's mind. Was it
because he already knew that mind's pattern, he wondered?
Anyway, there he was, and now he tried to see if he could look out
through Gypsy's eyes ... and after much study, he did so. But the vision
was so distorted he wondered if his control was at fault, then
remembered having heard, or read somewhere, that a dog's eyes do not
work exactly the same as a man's.
Finally he accustomed himself to them enough so he could see that they
were going down a narrow corridor, and then they stopped before a door,
which opened after a moment. The dog, without a command, leaped through
the doorway into the stateroom and ran to its basket, where it lay,
panting, looking up at its mistress.