The twentieth part of Hanlon's mind activating the pigeon in the
ventilator, commanded it to scramble back out the moment he sensed what
that command would be. But it wasn't quick enough.
He felt the burning sensation along the bird's side, and the agony it
suffered. The wing had been almost severed by the shot, and its life was
swiftly ebbing.
He had to get out of that body and quick ... but there were no more
pigeons around except the other nineteen he was already occupying. Nor
did any of them have brain capacity enough to contain more than a
twentieth of his mind.
Desperately he sent the rest of the flock swirling into the air, seeking
other life-forms nearby. There were no other pigeons close enough to
hear their calls nor to get there in time if they did, for the wounded
bird was dying fast.
Nor were there any dogs about, nor cats, nor animals of any kind to be
seen. In desperation Hanlon even tried the trees or plants there, to see
if they had minds like the Guddus--but none of them did.
He dreaded to think what would happen if the brain that a portion of his
mind was occupying died while in his control. Would that part of his
mind then be lost? He had no way of knowing, nor was he anxious to
chance it, for he was terribly afraid it would be so. And he certainly
had proved he had no mind to spare, he thought in disgust. He had really
made a mess of this mission. The only way he could get word to the Corps
was through his body, and if he sent his mind back into that now he was
a deader duck than he seemed to be. For even that twentieth part could
be made to talk.
_Why didn't those pigeons hurry?_
Yet he knew they were searching frantically. This was the weirdest
sensation imaginable. People had often expressed the wish they, could be
in two places at once ... he was in twenty. And each body was connected
with the others by a thin thread of consciousness, yet was thinking and
acting independently.
His composite mind almost grinned. If anyone had told him a year ago
such a thing was possible, he would have called for the paddy-wagon and
rushed that person to the nearest nut-house.
The other parts of his mind were flying all about the enclosed park that
was a part of the great palace, searching, desperately seeking some
other form of life that could be used as a housing for the dying part of
Hanlon's mind.
Suddenly one of them uttered a cry that drew the rest to it on swift
pinions, to see attached to one of the trees a huge swarm of Simonidean
bees.
"Will the queen do?" the one mind-portion asked anxiously.
There was a convulsive shudder in all the minds, for the birds knew--and
Hanlon had heard--how deadly poisonous these native bees were; how they
were hunted down and exterminated when found. They were twice the size,
and many, many times more vicious and deadly than Terran bees. Even now
two gardeners were running toward the tree with a great metal net and
flame-throwers.
But Hanlon was desperate. "She will have to do," the aggregate mind
decided.
Instantly, then, the part of his mind in the dying bird detached itself
and entered the brain of the Queen Bee. There were long, disheartening
moments of twisting and struggling to fit into that strange, vicious
insect brain. He finally managed to take control, yet was not fully en
rapport. Sight through her multi-faceted eyes was very nearly impossible
with the little time he could give to learning their texture.
But the close rapport between the various portions of his mind was a
good guide. The Queen flew swiftly towards that ventilator, her swarm
following closely at her command.
Into and through the vent she flew, and almost before the four men
inside were aware of the strange buzzing, she was directing her swarm
towards them.
"Bees!" Panek yelled in terror, and the four started fighting the
hundreds that swarmed all over each of them. That may have been their
mistake--had Panek and the other two stood perfectly still it was a bare
possibility they might have survived, although in Hanlon's grimly
determined frame of mind that was now doubtful.
Not that Hanlon was angry, even at Panek for the terrible beating of his
unconscious body. For he realized it was the man's cruel, sadistic
nature; that he could not have acted otherwise.
But Hanlon knew now that the peace of the Federation demanded that he
live and be free to make his report, and only the death of His Highness
and the others could now possibly save him.
So, much as it sickened him, Hanlon had to keep on, and as those
bee-stings plunged in their hundreds into the four, the poison working
far more swiftly than does the venom of Terrestrial bees--more akin to
that of the mamba--one after another of the four fell to the floor and
were quiet--stung to death.
Hanlon then sent the Queen and her swarm back outside, after first
impressing on her mind that she must fly far away if she was to survive.
He could not send her to her death by the gardeners after she had saved
his life.
As she flew away he recalled his mind back from her and the nineteen
birds, into his body. He sat erect once more--but instantly such a tide
of pain washed over him that he nearly fainted. For all the agony of
that terrible beating hit him at once.
His mind, too, was sluggish and slow once it was back in his own brain
where that drug had taken effect. But he felt a sense of satisfaction
and gratitude that he had come safely thus far through that terrible
ordeal. The drug would wear off, the wounds would heal, and the pain
would disappear in time. Meanwhile, he was alive ... impossible as it
seemed, he was _alive_!
But George Hanlon had enough mind-power functioning in spite of the
truth-drug, to realize he was not yet out of the pit. His body was still
manacled to the chair, that in turn was fastened to the floor so he
could not move it.
He was still inside the palace of the conspirators, and it would
undoubtedly not be too long before someone would enter the room seeking
His Highness, and would find him and the dead men.
For desperate minutes Hanlon considered every angle of the matter, and
found only one possibility that might offer some chance of release and
safety.
Once more he sent a portion of his mind out through the ventilator and
found one of the pigeon-like birds still nearby. Again he took
possession and crowded into its tiny brain all of his mind it would
hold. Then the bird was swiftly winging its way up and over the roofs of
the palace, into the dusky sky.
High in the air it floated on out-spread pinions while he surveyed the
city beneath him, hunting for landmarks. He quite easily located the
downtown section because its lights were being turned on now that
evening was here.
That oriented him, but the fact that it was so late brought dismay.
Would the Corps officers have gone home? And if so, how could he locate
any of them, tonight, with whom he could possibly communicate? He had
not thought of that before--he had been thinking of himself as a man,
not as a bird.
But even as these baffling thoughts and questions were plaguing him, he
was flying as swiftly as the bird's wings would carry him, directly
towards the great building that housed the Corps' contingent here on
Simonides.
Actually, it was only minutes until the bird was outside the great
structure, and rapidly looking into windows. Lights were blazing in
almost every room, and Hanlon's mind knew thankfulness that so many of
the high officers were still at work.
Window after window the bird peered through in furious haste, searching
for an admiral's office. If it could get inside, Hanlon had thought of
several ways in which it might communicate ... providing the admiral was
not an orthodox brass hat.
But, he told himself to maintain courage, any man who could gain as high
a position as any of the various types of admirals would have had to
show his resourcefulness time and again. You just didn't get that high
in the Corps otherwise.
Luck and persistence achieved his ends, for he finally located the
offices of the Planetary Admiral, himself, and that officer and his
secretary were still inside at work.
Hanlon made the bird land on the window sill, and then begin tapping
with its beak on the glass. Time and again it did this, until the two
inside, attracted by the sound, looked about for its source.
"Look, Admiral Hawarden, it's a pigeon, tapping on the window," the
secretary laughed.
"Must think there's something to eat in here," the officer grinned back.
"It really acts as though it was trying to attract our attention," the
girl commented a few seconds later.
"Hmmm, I wonder," the admiral spoke half aloud, then as the bird kept up
its purposeful tapping he recognized the Inter-Stellar code S O S.
Quickly he rose, went to the window, opened it, and stepped back.
The bird, showing no fear of the humans, entered and flew to his desk.
The secretary had also risen, and now shrank back against the wall, her
hand at her mouth stifling a scream.
"It's magic," she said in fright. "No bird ever acted like that."
"It certainly is unusual," he said, and his eyes were puzzled. "I can't
make it out."
The bird flew toward the officer, and with fluttering wings poised in
the air before him, its beady, bright eyes peering directly into his.
Then it flew toward the door. When the admiral made no move to follow,
the bird repeated the performance.
"It seems almost as though it wanted me to go somewhere with it," the
officer said in a dazed manner. "Are we dreaming this, Thelma?"
"I ... I don't know, sir. We ... we must be," she stammered. "It just
couldn't be possible otherwise."
But now the bird apparently noticed something else in the room, for it
flew over to the secretary's desk and alighted on it. It hopped up to
her electro-writer.
That was too much. The girl rushed over, waving her hands. "Shoo!" she
scolded. "Get off my desk, you crazy creature!"
But Admiral Hawarden was no fool. This was far beyond any experience he
had ever had, but there was such a purposefulness in the bird's actions,
strange and unusual though they were, that he felt this little drama
should be played out without interruption.
"Leave it alone!" he commanded sharply in a tone that startled her, so
different was it from his usual polite manner.
Looking at him in astonishment, she stepped back, and watched with him
this unprecedented action.
With its foot Hanlon made the bird throw the little switch that
activated the writing mechanism, and then with its beak began pecking at
the keys. Luckily there was paper in the machine, a letter she had not
finished. The admiral stepped up to where he could see, but waved the
girl back when she started to follow. It seemed impossible that the bird
could write anything sensible ... but the admiral was beginning to be
not too sure of that.
His eyes opened wide with surprise as he saw the letters appear one by
one on the paper:
a n d r m a 7
No longer did he doubt. How it was possible, the future might tell. But
he did know the significance and the urgency of that message. He ripped
the paper from the machine and pocketed it, then jumped to his desk and
flipped the intercom switch.
"Captain Jessup! A company of marines, in full armor and all weapons, at
the main gate in trucks in two minutes. _Hipe!_"
He ran to a cabinet in one corner of the room and threw open the door.
"Come and help me!" he commanded the astonished girl, dragging his own
long-unused space armor out and starting to climb into it. With her help
he was completely encased in the minute, and was strapping on his
weapons. "You can go home now," he told her.
He turned to the desk where the bird was watching with its beady eyes,
and held out his arm curved at the elbow. With a quick swish of wings
the pigeon launched itself toward the suited figure and rested on the
out-stretched wrist.
The admiral plunged through the door and into the hall, where his
private elevator waited. "Ground!" he yelled, and the bird was lifted
from his wrist by the sudden plunging descent, but fluttered back and
rode that wrist as the admiral dashed out of the elevator, through the
halls and out the front door to the waiting, marine-filled trucks.
Willing hands hauled him aboard the lead truck, and he threw the pigeon
into the air.
"Follow that bird!" he commanded, and the incredulous driver did so,
wondering secretly if the Old Man had suddenly gone bats.
When he saw beyond doubt the bird's destination, Admiral Hawarden
gasped, but he was too old a campaigner to be stopped now. There was
something here that needed himself and his men, and he would go through
with it, no matter where it led.
He knew the calibre of the men of the Secret Service, and while he could
not know how it was possible for one of them to train a bird in such a
manner, he knew his job was to back up whatever that high-powered
individual was doing.
As the trucks skidded to a halt at the entrance of the Prime Minister's
ornate palace, he issued swift commands. His men, disregarding the
indignant cries of the palace guards, who swarmed out to stop this
unbelievable invasion of their rights, deployed to their designated
positions, weapons at the ready.
To the officer of the guard who tried to bar his way, the admiral
snapped, "I'll apologize later. Now get out of my way!" Then, with a
squad of husky marines at his heels, he followed the fluttering pigeon
through the opened door, along a hall, and down some stairs.
But here the bird seemed at a loss, fluttering from door to door,
seeking that certain room.
As Hanlon had so shrewdly guessed, Admiral Hawarden was no fool, but
quick on the up-take. "Open all these doors!" his voice rang out
commandingly.
As fast as doors were opened--whether locked or not made no difference
to the marines--the pigeon darted forward and glanced into each one
before flying on the next. Then it disappeared through one of the
doorways, and the admiral, who had kept as close to it as possible,
yelled "Here!" and ran into the room, his men streaming after him.
"Welcome to out cozy nest, Mister," a voice from the depths of a big
chair called, and the officer ran forward to where he could see. "You
certainly made time, and am I happy to see you soldiers. Get me out of
these things," and Hanlon rattled his chains.
At the admiral's gesture the marines made short work of the manacles,
and Hanlon stood up, tottered a moment and would have fallen but for the
quickly extended friendly arm of the admiral. He was still groggy, even
though the serum was wearing off. But he was almost in complete control
of his mind.
"We got here in time, then?" anxiously.
"Yes, thanks to my little friend here." Hanlon took the bird, and handed
it to one of the marines, meanwhile impressing on its mind that it was
safe among friends. "Look after her." And withdrew his mind.
"She gets good care the rest of her life," the admiral ordered the
wondering marines. "Wait outside."
Hawarden looked about the room. "Who are these men ... and what in
Snyder's name happened to them?"
"They were stung to death by bees," Hanlon said, and there was a trace
of vindictiveness in his voice. "One of 'em's the Prime Minister; the
others his gunmen."
"Great John!" the admiral breathed. "This'll raise a stink!"
"There'll be a bigger one before I get through," Hanlon was grim. "Get
me back to your office, and get a doctor. They gave me truth serum, and
it hasn't all worn off yet. And I'm hungry," he added so plaintively
that Hawarden, accustomed enough to sight of death so it didn't affect
him too much, laughed.
"What'll we do with the bodies?"
"Guard the Prime Minister's closely. Merely notify the people here where
to find the others."
Hawarden called back two of the marines. "Bring that body with us," and
they left.
At the entrance the admiral recalled his men. To the palace officer he
partially explained. "The Prime Minister was killed, and we're taking
his body with us. There are three of his men, also dead, in Room 37-B
down there. I'll notify the Emperor, and assume full responsibility."
He jumped into the truck's front seat beside Hanlon and the driver.
"Back to base!"