Immediately after SSM George Hanlon had sent part of his mind into that
of a bird and had made it follow Egon's car, the young man followed on
his own trike, driven at its top speed out along the road the faster
machine had taken.
He cussed the slowness of this clumsy vehicle, wishing he had a fast
Terran jet-cycle or car. But he had to make do with what he had, and
finally calmed himself with the knowledge that he could see where the
other went, through the bird's eyes, even if he himself could not close
up the distance separating them.
"You oughtta be ashamed of yourself," he scolded himself. "Who else
could turn this into success? Be thankful for your great luck in having
such a wonderful talent--and quit this eternal griping the minute
something goes the tiniest bit haywire."
Thus he saw when the other car turned in through the gates leading to
the drive before a rather small, but excellent cottage. The tricycle
stopped at the doorway, and Egon got out and entered the house. The
chauffeur drove into a shed behind the house, left the machine and
then, himself, went into the main house through a back door.
Making the bird peer in through the windows, Hanlon was able to see
that this house, while small, was richly and comfortably furnished
according to Estrellan standards. By the time he arrived in the
vicinity in person, ready to take over the inspection himself, Hanlon
had a fairly good idea of the ground-floor layout. The upper story was
still in darkness, none of the rooms yet lighted.
Hanlon's first act was to direct the bird to a comfortable perch in a
nearby tree, close to a semi-rotted spot where there were dozens of
grubs for its breakfast, and let it go back to sleep. He was always so
thankful to his various animal and bird assistants that he was careful
to be thoughtful of their ease and well-being.
Now, after parking his machine in the shadows of a large flowertree,
Hanlon dodged from shadow to shadow, scouting the house and
neighborhood carefully.
As best he could judge the estate must be about three acres in extent.
There were quite an unusual number of flower beds, and a few quite
large flowertrees that should give him considerable cover if he wanted
to get closer--which he did not care to risk at this time.
"Mmmm, must be about seven rooms," he mused as he examined the little
house. As was usual with Estrellan buildings, it was pentagonal in
shape, and with a green-tile roof. Behind it, in addition to the shed
where the tricycle was kept, there was another small stone building.
But it was dark, and Hanlon could not tell what it was used for.
After seeing all he could from a distance of the outside of Egon's
place, Hanlon looked about the neighborhood. It was not too closely
built up, but some distance down the street he saw what appeared to be
a shopping district. One building was lighted up even at this hour,
and he shrewdly guessed it might be a place where men drank. So it
proved, and Hanlon entered. While sipping a glass of mykkyl, he did
some discreet investigating, both by talking to the serving girl, and
by searching the minds of the customers in the cafe.
He was almost rocked back on his heels when he found that the house he
had scouted was the home of Adwal Irad--the Second In Line.
"Ow!" he yelped mentally. "So Egon and Irad are the same? Where does
that put me?"
He again investigated the minds of the few men and women there in
the drinking place, looking for thoughts about Irad. Then he left,
and slowly rode home, thinking seriously. This was really startling
news--and yet, it was half-expected at that. So many clues had pointed
that way. So this really meant that Irad was in back of all the
pernicious activities that were going on.
But in the name of Snyder, _why_?
That question had him stopped ... for the present. Oh, he could think
of a dozen reasons, yes. But there was no way--at the moment--of
knowing which if any of them was correct. Also, it didn't square with
Irad's position, nor with what he had so far learned about the man--not
even what his neighbors thought of him, as Hanlon had learned there in
the cafe. It was distinctly not in character, and was certainly not
what one would expect of the heir to the planetary Rulership.
The next day Hanlon devoted to wandering about the city, hunting for
information and thoughts about Adwal Irad. Many times he got into
conversation with people of high and low degree, asking questions that
forced them to think about the Second In Line, so he could read the
real thoughts about the man in the minds of these selected people.
Twice he rode his trike to the house where Manning lived, to tell what
he had learned and to discuss it with him, but neither time was his
fellow-operative at home.
Now, the more Hanlon investigated--the more people he talked to and the
more minds he studied--the more puzzled he became. Irad just wasn't
that kind of a man--at least, he had never been associated in the minds
of his future subjects with that sort of thing. He was really well
liked. In fact, the general attitude was almost that of hero-worship.
And Hanlon knew that where there is hero-worship there first has to be
someone worthy of being thought a hero.
Something was screwy somewhere. With what Hanlon was beginning to learn
about Irad....
Brash and self-confident as he was, Hanlon knew this was something that
must be brought to the attention of his father and the other S S men
here. How could he most quickly contact the admiral?
"Manning probably knows exactly how to get in touch with dad," he
thought. "He talked with him only a few days ago."
But again Manning was not at home, and Hanlon could not banish the
thoughts of worry and frustration from his mind as he rode slowly back
to his own rooms. He again set the wake-up on his time-teller for an
early hour, and went to sleep. When the call came he hurriedly rose,
dressed and breakfasted. Then he went out of his room and the house.
Just as he reached the street and turned toward the part of the city
where Manning lived, he swivelled about sharply as he heard the _splat,
splat_ of running feet coming up behind him. Running--staggering,
rather--down the narrow, rutty road was a native, his great feet
raising clouds of dust.
Something in the fellow's wild manner held Hanlon's attention. As the
runner drew nearer, his wildly waving arms, his blood-shot, almost
unseeing eyes, told all too plainly that he was badly frightened. Yet,
so far as Hanlon could see, nothing or no one was pursuing him.
As the native drew closer, Hanlon gave a start. Why, he knew ... but
it couldn't be--he was on the Eastern Continent, thousands of miles
away. Hanlon's mind must be playing tricks on him. But he scanned the
fellow more closely, touching his mind, and at last was sure. It was!
Disguised as a native humanoid though he was, Hanlon knew this was Curt
Hooper, another of the secret servicemen who was working on this planet.
Hanlon stepped into the road to intercept the runner. He spoke as the
man came abreast him, but Hooper paid no attention--seemed not even to
see him.
More puzzled than ever, the young S S man ran alongside and reached out
to grasp the runner's arm, forcing him to a halt. "Hey, Curt, it's me,
Hanlon," he said. "What's the matter?" He was now deeply concerned.
"Don't stop me; gotta run; gotta get away," came gasping Terran words,
even as the other tried to loosen himself from Hanlon's grasp.
Hanlon probed quickly into the man's mind but, as usual, he could
read only the surface thoughts. These told of some terrible danger
threatening--that only running, always running away, could possibly
save him.
What the danger was; who or what was threatening him, was not in those
surface thoughts.
"Snyder help me," Hanlon begged bitterly beneath his breath. Why
couldn't he learn how to penetrate deeper into human minds, as he could
with animals, and read everything that was there, instead of merely
whatever thoughts were passing across the surface?
But Hooper was fighting as only a madman can fight, and Hanlon was
barely able to hold him. Yet he must. He _had_ to learn what this
was all about--why Hooper was here in the Town of the Ruler, instead
of back where he had been stationed. What the danger was, and if it
threatened the work of the secret servicemen, and possibly the other
Terrans. It was clear that Hooper was either drugged or that his mind
had become _un_sane in some manner--whether permanently or temporarily,
Hanlon could not as yet figure out.
Acting on sudden impulse, Hanlon switched his grasp to a neo-judo hold
he had been taught, that made Hooper powerless in his hands. He dragged
his companion back inside.
Once in his room Hanlon forced Hooper's unwilling body down on the bed,
and pressed certain nerve-ends that temporarily paralyzed his body. In
this way Hanlon could be more free to study that sick mind, which was
not paralyzed, without having to watch every minute lest the deranged
man escape him.
While Hanlon was able only to read the surface thoughts, he had learned
from experience that by asking leading questions he could often make
the other think of things he wanted to know, and this method he now put
into practice.
What he learned now, in spite of all the leading questions he could
think of to ask, was pitifully meager. Hooper had been made a prisoner
and brought to this continent and confined, but had escaped. But he did
not know--or could not be made to reveal--why he was on this Western
Continent at all, nor how he had been captured or by whom. Hanlon
guessed that the man had been held in a small house somewhere fairly
near, since he had been running away from there a fairly short time,
even though it had seemed an eternity to the frightened man.
Suddenly a stray wisp of thought brought Hanlon upright in his chair.
"Give me that again, Curt!" he demanded, and under his questioning
brought out the fact that his father, Admiral Newton, was also a
prisoner of these unknowns, as was the fourth member of the S S who had
been assigned to Estrella--Morris Manning.
"Mannie couldn't stand the pain, he died," Hooper's thought was
strangely calm and apparently heartless--which Hanlon knew could not be
the man's true feelings, for Hooper and Manning had been close friends
of long standing.
"What kind of pain? Who was hurting him?" Hanlon demanded, sick with
dread. "Were all of you being tortured? Was dad?" Oh, God, _why_
couldn't he get in there and read the true answers?
As best he could figure it out, they had never seen their captor, but
had felt his mind probing theirs, asking questions, _interrogating_
them--in the Estrellan language. Whoever was doing it apparently
did not intend it to be torture, for when Manning died the other two
received a curiously surprised yet apologetic thought, "Your nerve
sensitivity is greater than ours. It was not intended to force this
entity's life-force out of physical embodiment. Greater care shall be
used in the future."
"Tell me more about dad," Hanlon commanded, agonizedly. "Where is he
held? Who has him? What's it all about?"
But the dazed Hooper relapsed back to the only words he seemed able to
say aloud, "Gotta run; gotta get away."
"But you're safe here, Curt. No one's following you, and I won't let
anyone or anything hurt you. Relax."
"Gotta run; gotta get away." And so powerful was the urge that the
supine body twitched restlessly, as it began breaking out of that
paralysis Hanlon had imposed on it.
Frantically, Hanlon continued his mind-scanning, asking innumerable
questions that he hoped would penetrate the other's consciousness and
force his mind to think along the lines Hanlon wanted to know.
And slowly, sketchily, he began to piece together a picture of
sorts--like a jigsaw puzzle of which many of the pieces were missing.
The three S S men had been brought together in some little stone
building. There the unknown, whom they never saw nor heard, had
interrogated them mentally, a process that was extremely painful in
a way that Hooper could not, or did not, specify, save that his mind
seemed to wince and recoil from any thought of the method, despite
Hanlon's utmost attempts to learn it.
There seemed to have been days and nights of this painful questioning,
although Hooper could not tell exactly how long--and Hanlon knew it
could not have been very many days, since he had seen Manning so
recently.
Then, early this morning, shortly after Manning's death, and while
Hooper was being questioned, it seemed to him the mental voice had
gone away abruptly, leaving him in full command of his senses. He had
immediately begun to examine the room, and soon found that the low door
was unfastened. Cautiously he opened it, and discovered that it opened
to the outside of the building. The admiral had not been in the room
with him at the time, nor could Hooper find a way into the other parts
of the building--if there were any other parts to it.
Therefore, he had lost no time in leaving by that providentially open
door. He started running across a lawn toward the nearest road. Down
this he ran, knowing only a terrified compulsion to run, to hide, to
get away from that horrible inquisition.
"How long have you been running?" Hanlon asked sympathetically, yet in
hopes it might give him a clue.
"Gotta run; gotta get away," Hooper's words said, but the thought
flashed across his mind, "since after dawn."
"Then dad's not too far away," Hanlon thought, and began trying to
guess where or in what direction the prison might be, and how he could
locate it most quickly.
He was awakened to reality to see Hooper rise from the bed, the
paralysis broken by that inner compulsion to flee. Before Hanlon could
jump up to stop him, Hooper was out of the room.
Hanlon let him go. He hated to do it, but there was no apparent way he
could save Hooper now ... and he _had_ to get to his father just as
fast as he could. Not only because the admiral was his adored dad, but
because he was second in command of the whole I-S C's secret service,
and in charge of this mission, and thus the more important at the
moment.
"But where is he?" Hanlon's thoughts were an agonized wail. For the
first time in months he felt very young, and inexperienced, and unsure.
He jumped to his feet to leave the house and start searching, but
restrained himself before he got to the door. "Whoa, boy, not so
fast. I haven't got the faintest idea where dad is. Must think this
out first, and not waste a lot of time during which he might die or be
killed."
He sank back into his chair again, and his mind swiftly reviewed the
pitifully small bits of information he had been able to glean from the
deranged mind of his friend Hooper.
Someone, or something, or some group, who were the main support of this
opposition, had a mental ability Hanlon thought he knew the Estrellans
did not have. At least, he had not found any traces of it anywhere
here. Or, wait now. Did the Rulers have it? Was this one of the traits
and abilities especially bred into them in the course of making them
capable of handling their tremendous task of being Planetary Ruler?
Could be. He had not yet had the chance to scan mentally Elus Amir,
the present Ruler, except for that one night at the theatre, and then
he had not really tried to see what the man had in the way of mental
equipment. Hanlon had been so relieved to find he and the audience were
applauding, instead of booing, that he had not tried to do so.
If Elus Amir as Ruler had it, did Adwal Irad as Second-In-Line also
have those mental powers?
Whoever or whatever it was--and that would have to be studied more
thoroughly later--some mind or minds had forced the other three secret
servicemen to go to a certain place ... at present unknown to
Hanlon ... and had there imprisoned them and tried to extract
information from their minds.
Information about what ... and why? What could these unknowns want
to know that couldn't be learned by asking direct questions? For the
Federation statesmen and Survey men had been glad and anxious to answer
fully and truthfully every question that had been asked of them.
And that puzzling thought Hooper had said they received when Manning
died. "Your nerve sensitivity is greater than ours--we had not realized
it would kill you to be thus interrogated." Or words to that effect.
As far as Hanlon knew, the native Estrellans did not have unusual
resistance to pain. He had had several encounters with them so far, and
had known cases where they were hurt or wounded, and had not noticed
any great immunity to pain. Was this, then, another special attribute
of the Rulers? But Egon, or Irad, had certainly felt pain when Ebony
scratched his chin, and had made quite a fuss about it. Was it real--or
was he "putting on an act" to conceal his immunity? Somehow, Hanlon was
not willing to accept that last.
Dimly, in the back of his mind, there seemed to be another puzzling
thought. What was it? Hanlon worried at it like one of the roches might
worry a bone ... and finally it struck him--hard.
If the other three had been captured, why hadn't he?
* * * * *
_At its multiphased scanner in the spaceship high above, the being
stiffened suddenly. For long minutes the mind concentrated on this new
problem. The plan put into operation that morning had been partially
successful. The "location" of that unreadable mind before noticed,
found once and then lost--was now known again._
_But still, despite every effort, contact with that mind could not be
made._
_After a time, therefore, with the utmost precision a thought was
insinuated into the Estrellan mind constantly being held captive.
The thought was seen to take hold, then its strength and urgency was
increased._
_Soon, although the native was at a loss to account for the reason
why such a thought should come to him at that particular time, he
nevertheless sent a note to a certain person, giving forceful orders
that were to be obeyed immediately._