For an hour Superintendent Philander escorted George Hanlon about the
diggings, showing him the various buildings and the workers' stockade.
("Prison" would be a better word, Hanlon thought, enraged that there
were still men who would enslave others for their own personal gain.)
The young Earthman got a real shock of surprise at his first sight of
the native. They were so entirely different from anything he had ever
suspected might exist. They were tall and slender, and their
greenish-brown skin was rough and irregular. They seemed possessed of
considerable wiry strength, however.
Hanlon had the peculiar feeling that they were somehow familiar, as
though related to something he already knew, even though they were so
alien. But, strain as he might, he could not at first bring that elusive
thought into recognition.
He examined more particularly each item of the natives' appearance. They
had small triangular eyes, wide-spaced on their narrow faces, almost
like a bird's yet not set quite as far back. They could see forward and
somewhat to either side, he guessed, with a much wider range of vision
than humans have. They also had triangular-shaped mouths which worked
somewhat on the sphincter method. Even though their faces were sort of
silly-looking, there was somehow a strange beauty to them.
He noticed that when two or more faced each other they often worked
their mouths, and guessed they were conversing, although not a sound
could be heard coming from them, other than a peculiar, faint rustling
as they moved.
It was the latter that gave him the clue. _Animated trees!_ That's
what they reminded him of. That skin of theirs was like new bark; their
limbs were irregular, suggesting the branches of a tree, rather than the
graceful roundness of human and Terran animal's limbs.
He turned excitedly to Philander. "Hey, those natives are partly
vegetable, aren't they? Like trees that can move and think?"
"That's what they say," Philander said shortly, "though I don't know
about the 'think' part. No one's ever been able to figure 'em out. They
don't talk, and can't seem to hear us, no matter how loud we yell. We
have to show 'em everything we want 'em to do, and give 'em orders by
signs. Whips don't do any good when they loaf--they don't seem to feel
'em. So we use electric shock-rods, like you see that guard there
carrying."
Hanlon was silent for several moments, but his mind was attempting to
probe into that of the native nearest him. Nor was he surprised to
discover that this native had a really respectable mind--alert and keen.
Hanlon could read quite easily pictures of various things--but he could
not interpret them. Yet he could feel their sense of shame and
degradation at such an enslaved condition, and the dull anger they felt
for the humans who had made them so.
This promised to be a fertile field for study, and the young SS man felt
a thrill that he could do a lot of prowling and studying without seeming
to break the rules Philander had laid down for his conduct. "This
certainly is my field," he thought. "I'm sure glad I decided to take the
chance of coming here--the Corps must learn of this situation."
The superintendent broke in on his thoughts. "I've got to go back to the
office before dinner. Go to the commissary store, there, and get your
chronom exchanged for one that runs on Algonian time. Yours will be
stored for safekeeping and changed back if or when you leave here."
As he walked away Hanlon thrilled to the knowledge that he had gained
two valuable pieces of information.
First, and most important, the name of this planet--Algon. Second, but
this one a bit dismaying, that there might be some doubt as to whether
or not he would ever leave here. Was there some danger here of which he
had not been told ... or was it that the leader's promise of four
months' work and then a vacation back to Simonides perhaps meant nothing
at all--was merely a "come on"?
It was more than the perspiration from the terrible heat that dampened
Hanlon's skin as he walked thoughtfully over to the store. Yet he
tingled with the knowledge that at least he knew where he was. Now, his
only worry was getting that knowledge to the Corps.
At dinner a little later he had his first chance to meet all the men
with whom he would be working. The superintendent introduced them, all
around when they sat down at the long table.
There were eleven other guards, all older, all bigger men than he. They
were alike in that all appeared to be swaggering bullies, and he could
well imagine how ready they were with the use of those shock-rods, or
other forms of brutality, to torture the Algonians at the least
provocation or no provocation whatever. Without exception these guards
had heavy faces, most of them unshaven, and most with thick, shaggy
eyebrows. Even in that air-cooled room their generally unwashed
condition was noticeable.
Hanlon knew instinctively he would make no friends among them. "I only
hope I make no enemies. Why was I, so drastically different from them,
chosen as a guard? What's that leader got in his devious mind, anyway?"
There were four mining engineers, and these men were keen, alert
fellows. One seemed about forty-five, another in his late thirties, and
the two others young men evidently not long out of school. They were
clean-shaven, and friendly where the guards were surly and sneering at
Hanlon's youth and slimness.
There was an accountant, the store clerk, two checkers who tallied ore
brought up each shift. A half dozen others, who apparently were truckmen
and hoistmen, completed, with Philander, the cook and the bunkhouse
cleaner, the human crew at this mine.
Hanlon had been seated between one of the guards, a huge man by the name
of Groton, and one of the young engineers. The latter made him welcome,
and asked where he came from.
"I'd just moved to Simonides when I got the chance to come here," Hanlon
explained. "I was born and raised on Terra."
"Terra!" the young man's voice was interested, and several others about
the table raised their heads at that name. "I've always wanted to see
the Mother World."
When all had finished eating, several of the other men who had never
seen Terra moved closer to Hanlon, asking many questions.
"I understand Terra has the best technicians in the universe," one of
the hoistmen said.
"That used to be the case," Hanlon answered honestly, "but now I
understand Simonides has, just as she is the wealthiest planet. Of
course, Terra being the original world, was bound to have the best the
race could breed in all lines of endeavor. But when so many people
migrated to other planets, she gradually lost many of her finest brains.
Later, those other planets offered such fabulous wages to men and women
with skills and trainings her first inhabitants lacked, that Terra was
further drained."
"That's the pity of colonization," the elder engineer sighed. "It builds
new lands at the expense of the old, taking all their strongest, most
adventurous and most imaginative. Soon the original country or continent
or planet is peopled only by the dregs."
"I don't like to think Terra has only dregs left. After all, I came from
there, you know," Hanlon grinned and they smiled back companionably.
"But I know you're right in part--at least, that will probably be the
case in time. Just as it will with the other planets as their best and
younger top-notchers go out to open up still more worlds."
In the middle of that first night on Algon something, perhaps his
sub-conscious, brought George Hanlon wide awake, his every mental
faculty clear and alert.
Click! Click! Click! ... like pieces of a jig-saw puzzle falling into
place, many of the odds and ends of apparently unrelated information and
experience fell into place in this enigma.
He remembered clearly now, an incident that had merely brought a
momentary wonder at the time. Those last minutes before the ship took
off. The leader had stared long and piercingly into his eyes and Hanlon,
wondering and puzzled as to what the man was seeking, merely stared back
dumbly. Now he remembered the flashing thought--quickly dismissed as
ridiculous--that even if he did find out where he was going, he must
never tell anyone; must forget it entirely and instantly on pain of
severe torture.
Why, that leader must have been trying to implant a hypnotic compulsion
in his mind ... and must have thought he succeeded, else Hanlon would
never have reached here alive. That was why he could never read that
knowledge from the mind of any of the people he had contacted who were
in on this game--not even that ship's officer, who certainly should have
known.
But wait a minute. What about Philander? He knew. Hadn't the hypnosis
worked on him? Or was that name "Algon" merely one the super used in
place of the real one he didn't know he knew? Or, again, could it be
that he was so well trusted that the knowledge had not been sealed off
from him?
Of the three, Hanlon argued the latter was probably the truth.
Another point. That vague reference to "if or when you leave here" was
undoubtedly a slip of the tongue. Philander had probably guessed--or
perhaps it was so with all first-time men--that Hanlon was here on
probation. "If so," the thought was insistent, "I sure will have to
watch my step every minute, and not let slip what I'm trying to do
here." But further moments of thought brought the reasonable conclusion
that he could lull their suspicion by buckling down and making a real
record for efficiency.
Or ... and this gave him the cold shivers for a moment, so that he
instinctively burrowed a bit further down beneath the sheet, as though
it could protect and warm him ... did they know all about him already,
and had sent him here to get rid of him? Was he to become another victim
of one of the leader's "little accidents"?
Yes, if they still disbelieved his story about his dismissal, they might
well be determined to get rid of him in a way that would not incriminate
them. They would know that if Hanlon was still a Corpsman his death
would be most thoroughly investigated.
Perhaps ... but if that was the case, why let him get here at all? His
"accident"--fatal, of course (so sorry!)--could just as well have
occurred on the way. No, more likely he was still on probation. They
were not quite sure of him, but were giving him the benefit of the
doubt. The leader seemed to like him, in a curious way.
Well, he was now warned, and would watch himself more carefully than
ever ... and he had learned a lot, and would learn more. He smiled
contentedly and went back to sleep.
* * * * *
The next day he had his first taste of guarding the natives as they
worked. The superintendent himself inducted him into the task.
Shortly before shift time, Philander appeared at Hanlon's room just as
the young man was putting on the special clothing he had been told to
wear on duty in the mine.
"Ready?" Philander was strangely courteous and co-operative. "Let's go
collect your crew."
They went over to the stockade, the superintendent giving Hanlon a key
as they unlocked the gates. Hanlon saw that the corral was divided into
twelve sections.
"One guard has charge of all the natives in one section, and they all
work each shift," Philander explained.
"What if one of them is sick?"
"They don't get sick," the man's voice was gruff, and Hanlon's first
thought was that what he really meant was that the natives were worked
no matter how they felt. But he quickly became ashamed of the
thought--he didn't know anything about them yet, and perhaps they
actually never did get sick. He would have to quit jumping to
conclusions that way--it would seriously retard his ability to make
correct deductions.
At the rearmost section, Philander opened another gate with the same
key, and flashed his portable glo-light inside the large hut that
covered most of the space of the section. Hanlon, close behind, could
see about twenty of the "Greenies," as he had learned they were usually
called, standing or lying about. There was no furniture inside, no
chairs nor stools, tables or beds.
"They eat and sleep standing up--that's why the huts don't need any
furnishings," Philander explained.
At sight of the men and the light, most of the natives began moving
toward the door. A few at the back didn't move fast enough to satisfy
Philander, and with a curse he ran back and touched them with that
shock-rod he carried.
Hanlon could see an expression of agony on the faces of those touched,
and as they writhed away from the rod he realized it must be very
painful, indeed, if not exquisite torture to them. They now jumped
forward, and huddled pathetically near the door.
Philander took a long, light but very tough line from his pocket. It had
a series of running nooses in it, and he slipped one of these about the
wrist of each native, drawing it tight. Then he half-led, half-dragged
them out of the stockade, to the mine entrance, and down the drift to
the rise they had to climb to get to the stope Hanlon's crew was to
work.
Once there, and released from the rope, the natives seemed to know what
they were supposed to do, and sullenly started doing it.
"You usually use three pickmen, four shovellers, four for your timbering
crew, three sorters, and six on the wheel-barrows," Philander explained.
"Sometimes, if the vein widens out enough, you get extra hands to work
the wider face, but this size crew generally works out best. You'll soon
get used to it so you'll know how many you need. If more, just yell and
you'll get 'em. If it happens the vein narrows so you can't use all
these to best advantage, someone working a wider vein can use your
extras temporarily."
"I get it," Hanlon was very attentive. He was determined to learn this
work quickly and thoroughly, and to make a good record.
Philander showed Hanlon the difference between the ore and the
surrounding rock, and explained very carefully how he was to watch
especially for any side veins branching off from the main one. "Make
sure the Greenies clean out all the ore as they go along, before it's
timbered up."
"I understand everything so far."
"Keep the lazy beggars going full speed," Philander was very emphatic.
"Don't let 'em lag, or they'll wear you down. Don't ever let 'em get out
of control, or put anything over on you, especially in sorting ore from
rock. They're tricky. Use your shock-rod at every least sign of mutiny
or loafing. Make 'em respect you. They know better'n to try to get away,
'cause they hate the rod."
"What does it do to them?"
"We don't know exactly, except they can feel it, and will do anything to
get away from it."
"Maybe it hurts them terribly."
"Look, punk!" Philander lost his friendliness, and snarled at Hanlon
with twisted face. "We don't care whether they like it or not. They know
their jobs and they don't have to get shocked if they keep working. So
it's strictly up to them. Don't go getting any soft notions about these
lousy Greenies. They're only dumb brutes fit for working--so work 'em!"
"I'll work 'em," Hanlon said.