The moment he got off the ship and went into the city of New Athens he
could feel it. There was an air of mystery, of secretiveness, of
intrigue, that could not help but be noticed by one as sensitive to
emotion-impressions as SS Man George Hanlon.
He got out of his ground-cab at the entrance of a great park in the
center of the city, but directed the driver to take his luggage on to
the hotel. Then Hanlon went in to sit on a bench beneath a beautiful,
flowering ba'amba tree.
Once there, he opened his mind to its fullest extent, and let all the
impressions and sensations of this new world soak in. He could not, of
course, get any factual details in this way, nor did he expect to. What
he wanted, and began to get, was the "feel" of the city. And the longer
he sat the less he liked it.
For he could sense so clearly that there most certainly was "a Mercutian
in the fuel pit" here somewhere. But what it was; what this strange
feeling portended, he could not quite make out.
He noticed, casually, that there were the usual idlers in this park, and
hundreds of children with their nurses or parents. But there were none
of the derelicts one sees in so many large-city parks. Most of the
people seemed well-dressed and not too poor. He could catch occasional
bits of thought about big business deals.
After a time Hanlon noticed that here, as in most parks, hundreds of
native, pigeon-like birds were flying and hopping about, seeking what
crumbs they could scrounge from picnickers' lunches, or nuts fed them by
interested idlers.
He wondered if he could get into a bird's mind, and sent his out to
contact one. His ability was, he found, much the same as it had been
with the dogs--he could not only "read" what mind the pigeon had, but
could control it ... could actually project part of his mind into the
bird's brain.
The brain-texture, was different, but as he sat there for another hour,
he learned the difference. For now he knew what to look for, and it did
not take long until he knew it well. Finally he got so he could see and
understand what the people around him were doing--not through his own
direct observation, but through the pigeon's senses. He sent several
winging high into the air, and got a good perspective of the entire
city.
At last he brought his mind back into his own brain, and gave a mental
shrug, then rose from the bench.
"You're just stalling, you know," he scolded himself. "Get to the hotel,
check in, then go look in the bank vault. You've got a job to do, so get
doing it!"
From the hotel he went to the bank and signed up for a box. There was
nothing yet for him in box 1044, so he left a note addressed "To Any SS
Man," stating he was here and ready to begin his work.
Back at the hotel he unpacked, took a shower, and then a short nap.
There was no telling what the night might bring forth, and he wanted all
his strength and powers.
New Athens was a beautiful city, as befitted the capitol of the richest
planet in the Federation. For Simonides Four had become just that, even
outstripping Terra in the wealth from her manufacturers and exports. Her
shipments of ores, jewels, unusual furs, manufactured goods, precision
tools and art products, as well as foodstuffs raw and processed, ran
into trillions of credits every year.
The great square showed plainly that some architect or city planner with
a love of classic lines had been in charge here. The buildings were all
modern representations of the great temples and public buildings of the
Golden Age of Greece on Terra. They were widely spaced, with magnificent
lawns and gardens surrounding each.
Thousands of lights artfully concealed accentuated the beauty of those
wonderful buildings, and Hanlon caught his breath in pleasure at his
first sight of the marvelous square by night. He had thought it
wonderful by day--now he admitted without reservation that it was the
most magnificent sight he had ever seen.
He finally signalled a ground-cab--New Athens had no slideways--to go to
the Bacchus. It was several blocks from the square, but each of the
streets he travelled were almost as beautiful.
The tavern was housed in a large though one-storied building with a
pillared facade. The main room was level with a gardened terrace five
steps above the street.
Inside, the tavern was tastefully decorated in subdued colors. It was
dimly lighted by representations of flambeaus, stuck at angles in the
walls. The center of the room was occupied by dozens of tables of
varying sizes, while along one side and part of the back were curtained
booths. Along the other side ran an ornate bar.
Hanlon made his way to the latter, and sat on one of the upholstered
stools. The bar girls, he noted with interest, were revealingly costumed
in pseudo-peplos of a purplish, cob-webby, silkish material. They wore
no blouses, but long sashes that passed behind the neck, crossed the
breasts and tied about the waist to hold up the short skirt. One of the
girls came up to get his order.
"I'm new on the planet," he smiled. "Let me have your best native light
wine."
She brought him a glass filled with a sparkling, golden liquid, and
waited while he took his first appreciative sip. "We call it 'Golden
Nectar'," she smiled.
He smacked his lips. "Wonderful!" Then, as she started away he called
her back. "Do you know a Mr. Panek? I was to meet him here, but I don't
see him."
Her eyes widened a bit at that name. "I'll see if I can locate him for
you, sir," and she moved away.
Some minutes later, while he was still pretending to sip his drink,
Hanlon felt a hearty clap on the shoulder.
"Well, well, it's my pal from the ship. Welcome to Sime, Pal, welcome to
Sime."
"Hi, Panek! Hope you meant that about looking you up, 'cause here I am."
Hanlon flipped a credit note on the bar and followed Panek. He was led
toward a back corner, but there, instead of going into one of the
booths, Panek pushed through an almost hidden alcove. He knocked
peculiarly on a door, and a peephole was opened. When the guardian saw
who it was, the door was opened enough so the two could slide through.
Hanlon, in a quick, comprehensive glance, saw that it was a fairly large
office, at present occupied by four men.
"This is George Hanlon," Panek introduced him, "the guy who did that job
on old Abrams, the same guy."
Hanlon noticed that Panek did not name the men there, but he could see
they appeared to know all about him, and were giving him a close
once-over. Hanlon scanned back in return, his mind quickly touching one
after another of the three sitting in large, easy chairs. Only their
surface thoughts were readable, and he knew at first touch they were but
underlings, the same as Panek. He read a favorable impression of
himself, but with reservations.
He turned his attention to the well-dressed, impressive-looking man
behind the plasticene desk, nor had his other probings taken more than a
few seconds. He noted with interest the round, smooth face, the slightly
over-large greenish eyes, the silver hair that seemed finer and silkier
than any Hanlon had ever seen on a human being. It was almost like fine
fur, he thought suddenly.
Then he got a shock! This man was different ... Hanlon could not touch
that mind at all! There was a sort of an ... an alien feeling there he
could not quite fathom. It was like no other mind he had ever tried to
read.
But he was careful not to let his face show anything of his inner
thoughts as he saluted them gravely after that first brief pause.
Then suddenly he made his face show a boyish enthusiasm ... almost a
naivete. "Maybe Mr. Panek has already told you about me. I'm looking for
a chance to make a flock of credits ... and I'm not too particular how I
get 'em."
But his mind was tense and anxious. What was their game? And this fellow
behind the desk, this leader. Who was he? Hanlon knew he would have a
real job finding out those answers ... but knew he must!
The leader nodded suavely. "That is a very ... uh ... commendable
desire," he said in a low, gentle voice that was a perfect match for his
outward appearance of high gentility. "We can always use a good man," he
continued, "who isn't afraid ... nor too squeamish."
"A trigger-man?" Hanlon shrugged. "If it pays well, okay."
The man seemed to recoil, his delicate hands fluttering in the air
almost femininely. "No, no, my dear young man. You misunderstood me
entirely. We do nothing so crude, so vulgar, so ... so brutal.
Oh, sometimes we ... uh ... sometimes an accident happens to
someone. But nothing, you understand, that we have anything to
do with. Your technique with the poor Mr. Abrams, who was so suddenly
taken ... ill ... had led me to hope you had more finesse."
"I beg your pardon," Hanlon's tone was now one of apology. "I can
finesse, all right, but I didn't know you wanted me to talk that way in
private. I'll remember, and respect your wishes from now on."
Inwardly he was puzzled. He kept trying to touch that mind, but could
not. Was the guy human--or did he have a mind-control of some sort? Was
he used to mind-reading, so that he had developed a defense against it?
Or--and Hanlon almost caught his breath in momentary fear--was this ape
a mind reader? A real one, not a dub like himself?
But the leader was answering, still in that gentle tone, as though
nothing had happened. "So ... so ... that is good. I hate the thought of
bloodshed, and I will not countenance roughness in actions or speech. It
is regrettable, of course, that sometimes men are stupid enough to
oppose us, but ..." and again that almost feminine gesture.
This was the silkiest, slimiest ... _thing_ ... George Hanlon had ever
encountered, and again his heart quailed for the moment. "If I was on my
own," he shuddered inwardly, "I'd sure never team up with a guy like
that!"
For there was no single iota of mercy or compassion in that ice-cold
mind behind that gentle face--of that Hanlon was sure.
There was a long, pregnant moment of silence, while the five men studied
Hanlon more carefully. Finally the man behind the desk spoke more
slowly. "Perhaps--just perhaps, you understand, and nothing definite as
yet--we may have a little job for you before long. On another planet.
You have no objections to travel?"
"Not if there's a bundle of the stuff at the end of the trip, no,"
Hanlon grinned avariciously. But his mind was seeking answers. Why did
they want to send him away? Was this a bona-fide job, or a trap? Should
he go to some other planet? Would he thus get best leads? Perhaps--if it
wasn't for too long a time, of course.
The leader smiled suddenly while Hanlon was thus thinking, and the rest
grinned as though they had been waiting for his lead to relax their
vigilance. "There will be a very large ... uh ... bundle." He paused a
moment, then continued "We need more overseers on ... a certain planet.
It is one that is rich in various metals. The natives mine it under our
direction, and ..."
Hanlon interrupted. "I don't know a thing about mining. Will that make a
difference?" Here, he thought swiftly, was the test. If they still
wanted him--and had a reasonable answer--it might well be a bona-fide
job.
"None at all," the leader smiled again. "We have mining engineers in
charge. Your job would be merely to keep the natives working at top
speed. It is ... uh ... unfortunate, that they are high enough in the
cultural scale so we cannot, under the Snyder dictum, colonize their
planet and work it ourselves. But we will chan ..." he broke off as
though realizing he was saying too much, and Hanlon stiffened inwardly.
This was a real clue. What planet was the man talking about? His most
penetrant mind-probing could not get the answer from any of the minds
there--to the others it was merely "a planet," nothing more. And this
ape, with his perfect mental control, let nothing leak.
But the leader had caught himself and gone on almost as though there had
been no break, "... chance using you, I think. If so, your salary will
be a thousand credits a month, plus all expenses. And a nice bonus every
so often, depending on how little trouble you have with your crew, and
how much ore they take out."
Hanlon showed that gleam of avarice again. "Sounds very interesting."
Then he leaned forward. "One, more thing. How long does the job last?"
"For several years, if you want it, and if we continue to be satisfied
with you. But we bring the men back every few months for a vacation. We
find that best with most of them--the climate there is not too pleasant,
and the conditions are confining."
"Nothing to do but work, eh?"
"Just about that. The shifts are about eight hours of our time, and
between them you eat, sleep, read or play cards ... but you do not
explore or anything like that! The ship goes there every three weeks,
and we usually figure eighteen weeks there, then the three weeks back
here. The guards and others rotate that way. They have a tendency
to ... uh ... deteriorate if we don't."
Hanlon let himself shiver, but grinned as he did so. "Now that's one
thing I don't want to do--go nuts. Can't make any credits doing that."
The leader raised his hand. "You understand, of course, there will be a
short period of ... uh ... checking and testing before we decide to send
you out on a job."
Hanlon's voice was almost servile, yet confident. "Sure, sir. You name
it; I do it."
He was still probing with everything he had, but still getting nothing
important. A couple of the men seemed to be chuckling about what might
happen to him if he failed the tests--but he had guessed that much,
anyway.
Suddenly the leader leaned across the desk, and his genteel manner
slipped from him like a discarded mask. His eyes became glacial ice.
"Don't get any grandiose ideas in your head, Hanlon. We are not fools.
Nor are we offering you a chance to get in on our complete plans. I am
just, possibly, hiring you to do a simple job."
"Oh, no, sir, I wasn't even thinking of such a thing," Hanlon
looked hurt. "Why, I'm just a kid. I know I couldn't expect anything
else ... at first. Not until I've proved myself to you, or until I've
made my pile and got in a position of power. Then, naturally, I'd want
to get into something where I could really go places. But that's for
years and years ahead, I know that."
The now-hard, cold eyes scrutinized him carefully, but still doubtfully.
When the leader spoke his voice was more cordial, though still harder,
not soft as it had been at first.
"I'll be frank, Hanlon. We're not too sure of you ... yet ... because
you were a cadet. Oh, we know," as Hanlon started to protest hotly, "all
about your being kicked out. We can see how all that might well have
soured you enough so you will really do anything you can to get ahead,
even if only to show the Corps. But you can understand our hesitation, I
think."
"Of course, sir. But you needn't worry." He made his voice as bitter and
hard as he could. "I've had my fill of all that law and order stuff. I
was an innocent young punk, full of high ideals and the romance of the
Corps and all that bunk. But those mangy slime-snakes knocked all that
out of me. Anything I can do that'll give 'em a kick in the teeth I'll
do with joy and gusto!"
"Fine words," snapped the leader, "but can you take it if the going gets
tough?"
Hanlon was learning fast. Now he stared straight back into those hard
eyes.
"Can you dish it out, Mister?" his tone was almost, but not quite,
insolent.