For the watcher above knew Hanlon was not dead.
All of George Hanlon's mind must have become unconscious, for the next thing he knew was when the caval suddenly reared to escape those who were trying to stop it, and Hanlon's body was dumped unceremoniously to the ground. The caval, released from its compulsion, took off across the meadow at top speed.
Hanlon began to recover consciousness as rough hands slapped him awake. He first noticed that the sun was rising, for its rays were shining directly in his eyes. He blinked and turned his head away—and became aware of his captors.
He saw Ino Yandor standing there, beside a large trike. Beside him was one of his henchmen, holding the leashes of two straining tamous. These cat-like beasts, somewhat like Terran black panthers save they were a deep red in color, and had fangs much longer and sharper—and no tails—Hanlon knew to be trackers par excellence, — as good as bloodhounds. Nor were they usually as fierce and bloodthirsty as they seemed.
The third man was the one who was holding him. "Well now," Yandor eyed him angrily, "you think you're pretty clever, don't you?"
Hanlon shrugged. "Doesn't look like it, does it?"
"Who are you spying for?"
"Who says I was spying?"
"Don't try to quibble with me, Gor Anlo. I want answers, and correct answers, or I'll let my pretty pets here take over, and see if you can elude them."
"And after I get through answering you'll cinder me anyway," Hanlon sneered. "Whatever gave you the idea I'd talk—if I had anything to say, that is?"
The mobster holding him cuffed him. "Don't talk to Ino Yandor that way, you phidi."
Hanlon turned his head and sneered into the man's face. "Watch who you're calling a snake." He twisted suddenly, drove his heel backwards into the man's shin, and pulled free. The fellow, even while yelping with pain, started to draw a flamer when Yandor commanded sharply, "Let him be. He can't outrun the tamous."
Hanlon spoke as though nothing had happened. "What gave you the idea I've been doing anything like you said?" he asked in a conversational tone. "What's this all about?"
"What were you doing, trying to look into or get into—Adwal Irad's house?"
"That the name of the guy that owns it? Just looking for anything worthwhile I could pick up. Since you got me fired just because I drank a little too much one night, I got to make a living someway."
"Well now, I hope you don't expect me to believe that. I know who you are, and my patience is at an end. Do you tell me who you are working for, and what you're after, or do I let the tamous loose?"
"I've got nothing to . . . , Hanlon began, but the man who had been holding him suddenly interrupted.
"Look, Yandor, at the man's ear!"
"Yes, and his feet," the other pointed downward.
They all stared closely, and Hanlon wondered as he saw their eyes widen. Then, with a start, he remembered kicking off his oversized shoes, and now he noticed that the dye had come off his hands. He guessed with sickening certainty that the long immersion in the salt-water had also loosened the plastic ears and nose, and that at least one of them had fallen off.
"By Zappa," Yandor stepped closer. "One of his ears is very small . . .", he reached out quickly and tugged at the other. Loosened at it was, it came off easily in his hand.
"An alien," Yandor exclaimed, and then "your skin—it's not like ours."
"His nose seems false, too" the third man said. Knowing his imposture was over, Hanlon himself pulled off the plastic overlay and disclosed his nose in its original size and shape.
"Yes, I'm a Terran. What're you going to do about it?"
"Loose the tamous!" Yandor snapped, and the man dropped the leashes he held.
But Hanlon had read that command in the impresario's mind even before he uttered it, and had already taken over the minds of the two beasts.
They were well equipped by nature to be deadly, even if that was not their true nature.
The female whirled, and jumped on the man who had been holding them. The male made two quick leaps, and was on the other gunman. Both men were borne backwards, and in seconds the great cat-things had torn out their throats.
"You should have remembered I'm the world's greatest animal trainer," Hanlon said evenly.
Yandor shrank back, sure he was next. "You fiend!" he cried, then his inherent cowardice showed and he threw himself on his knees. "Don't let them kill me," he pleaded in agonized tones. "I'll do anything—I'll give you everything I have. Only please, please keep those awful beasts away from me."
Hanlon hated a cowardly bully. Also, much as he detested killing or maiming, he had learned not to let it get him down too much in this work when it was necessary. But with such an unprincipled killer and abject wretch as the one before him, he felt no such compunction. He looked contemptuously down at the thing grovelling at his feet in a very paroxysm of fear.
Disgusted, Hanlon turned away, climbed into the motortrike in which Yandor and his men had come here, and started its engine. As he drove away he impressed a command on those now-slavering beasts, who began bellying toward the helpless Yandor. But Hanlon could not repress a shudder of revulsion at what he felt forced to do.
After a half mile or so of driving, however, the weariness, the pain and chill struck him, and he nearly fainted again. He struggled to keep himself conscious so he could get back home—a matter of vital necessity now that he was not disguised.
When he finally came to the more populated part of the city, in which people were beginning to be seen outside the houses and on the streets, he had himself fairly well under control. He kept his head down and made himself as inconspicuous as possible while driving at the highest allowable speed toward his rooming house. There he jumped from the car almost before it stopped, and ran in. He passed several of his neighbors in the hallways, but held his hank before his face and ignored their stares of surprise at his condition as he raced to his room.
Once inside, he locked the door, then breathed a sigh of deep relief. He began stripping off his wet and bedraggled clothes, thankful, as he remembered the loss of his shoes, that he had an extra pair of those specially-made ones.
When he saw that much of the hair so meticulously glued onto his body was also coming loose, he thankfully ripped the rest of it from him, then went in and turned on the shower—really only a stream of water from the end of a pipe. For nearly a quarter of an hour he stood under it, reveling in the first feeling of real cleanliness he had known since leaving Simonides, relieved as the warm water washed the salt from his wounds and pores.
Finally, having treated his burns and bruises, he put on a dressing gown to partially cover his nakedness, and sank into his comfortable chair. Then he let his mind review the happenings of the past night.
Hanlon was once more in a cockily jaunty mood. He had taken some terrific risks, had been in almost-fatal jeopardy several times, had had adventures and escapes no one would believe if he tried to tell them—except some of the few SS men who knew about his special talents, and dad, of course . . . .
Dad! He had almost forgotten his father's predicament in the excitement of the night. Now, as he considered and concentrated on this problem, Hanlon began to realize dimly, sketchily, and much against his will—that things were not at all right as he had felt for the moment.
He tried to dodge that flickering thought, but it persisted, grew stronger, would not be denied. He finally was forced to consider it more thoroughly. And slowly it dawned upon him that he had not won—he had lost. He had smeared up the works, but good. His campaign was done, finished, kaput. He had put his foot in it, clear up to the sacroiliac.
Worse than that — far worse — he had undoubtedly gummed up this whole Estrellan business. Not only was his own work undone, but now the natives would know that the Terrans were here, just as that propaganda machine had said. Now it would be practically impossible to make them believe that the Terrans were not responsible for their crime wave—and all the other things sa
id about them.
"Me and my big swelled head," he castigated himself furiously. "I oughtta be horse-whipped."
Almost he cried. His body was by turns ice-cold and feverish. He cringed mentally and physically.
Was there any way—any possible way—he could redeem himself? Could he publicly admit that he and he alone was to blame, that he was here entirely on his own initiative, because he wanted to see Estrella join the family of nations?
No, that was absurd. He wouldn't be believed. No one in their right mind would ever conceive that a young man like him would do such a thing without some backing—undoubtedly full Federation backing.
He would have to resign from the secret service. Or—he gasped—were its members allowed to resign? Admiral Rogers had said it was for life, once he got in.
"But he didn't guarantee how long my life would last," Hanlon grimaced.
Well, he drew himself up proudly, there was a way. He was not afraid to die.
"Whoa, now, wait a minute. Let's think this out. Death's no answer." For a new idea had just struck him. He forced the worry, the fear, the . . . the self-pity . . . from his mind, and settled down to consider this new concept. Maybe it wasn't as bad as he had thought, after all.
"Yandor and his goons were the only ones who knew I was a Terran, and they're dead." he thought. "So they can't tell on me. And no one else knows it. Maybe I can go ahead, just as I was."
He rose to get dressed. There was still his father's imprisonment to be taken care of—if possible. Hanlon was sure now that it was in that little stone house back of Irad's mansion that the admiral was being held prisoner.
A casual glance in the glass, and he was suddenly conscious of his appearance. Hey, he couldn't go out like this, in broad daylight. Not looking like a Terran.
Swiftly he considered the possibilities. He would have to disguise himself again enough to escape notice on the street. But he was no cosmetician . . . even if he had the dyes, the plastics . .. .
He sank into his chair again, and thought seriously. But even while he was trying to think and plan, his worn, tired body—exhausted as it had never been before, and depleted of all strength—could bear no more. Without even realizing it, he sank parsecs deep into profound slumber.
Sometime during the day, without his knowing it, he must have gotten up and lain down on the bed, for it was there he finally awoke. The room was dark; only a small ray of light came in obliquely through the window, from a distant street-light.
He got up, wincing at his lameness and stiffness. He went through some calisthenics to take the soreness from his body, then washed, dressed, and prepared and ate something. He hunted through his duffel bag and found a pair of gloves to cover his hands. Before putting them on, however, he wound a scarf about his head and face, covering most of it except his eyes. He pulled his hat well down, then put on the gloves.
Leaving his room, he went inconspicuously along the darkest parts of the streets until he came to the market place, and a certain stall that specialized in theatrical costumes and make-up. It was the same place where he had bought that roch-mask.
Walking purposefully, as though he had legitimate business there, he went to the rear of the shop. It was not too hard to break in and crawl inside. There, using his utmost care not to be discovered, he hunted about among the shelves until he found some facial putty, skin dyes, and other articles he needed. He left a couple of gold pentas on the counter in payment.
Then, just as cautiously, he retraced his way to his rooms.
CHAPTER 14
THE NEXT MORNING WHEN SSM GEORGE Hanlon awoke, his first thought was one of concern for his father. An impatient, driving urge for action seized him and made him jump out of bed. Then logic and clear thinking came to the fore, although it required conscious effort for him to prepare and eat his breakfast first of all.
Hurriedly finished, though, he set to work on his new make-up, doing his level best to keep his thoughts on the difficult task at hand.
He had let his whiskers and hair grow from the time he first received this assignment, of course, so was not too much concerned about the hairiness he must present to the world when dressed. Luckily, although it had often been a source of annoyance—he was one of those men whose beard grows clear down his face and neck to join, with hardly a break, the hair on his chest. As for the body hair that had been so painstakingly glued onto his body before, he decided not to attempt that. He had not yet had to disrobe in front of anyone here; he was certain he would be able to avoid doing so in the future.
He rubbed liquid rouge, of a dark shade, well into the skin of his face, neck, hands and high up on his wrists, which took care of his coloring.
His main worry was the nose and ears, especially the nose. That would be most quickly noticed if it looked artificial. His first few attempts were not only badly done, but almost ludicrous. His usually fine muscular coordination seemed to be lacking. But he persevered and finally, after several hours, managed to mold a fairly reasonable snout and to so blend its edges into the skin of his face adjoining that it would, he felt sure, pass muster on casual inspection.
He built up his ears in like manner, but to help with this deception, in case of any close scrutiny, he covered them with a head bandage. He put his hat on, pulled it well down in front and on the sides, then examined himself critically in the mirror.
"Boy, that's a sloppy job, and how," he exclaimed, disgusted with his handiwork. "Trevor would disown me if he could see it." But he finally decided it would do . . . he hoped.
Now that he had finished he discovered he was sweating like a nervous caval. He held out his shaking hands, and looked at them critically. What, in John's name, was wrong with him, anyway?
And a thought he had, perhaps subconsciously, pushed far down into the furthest recesses of his mind, swept over him with full force.
He did not want to think that thought. More, he did not want to have to make that decision. But . . .
Manning was dead.
Hooper was fleeing insanely, perhaps also dead by now. His father was captive, imprisoned, tortured . . . if still alive.
Only he, Hanlon, of the four, was left.
And he was . . . alone.
Again to his mind came his father's earnest and incisive statement, that getting Estrella to accept membership in the Federation was the most important thing that had come up in ages. It had to be accomplished, and quickly.
Deep down Hanlon knew what that meant. Individuals were expendable—the plan was not.
He was beginning to learn that while plans may blow up in one's face—as now—such happenings must be accepted philosophically, without too much backward longing, without too great remorse, and certainly—which was the hardest to accept—without letting personal feelings or sympathy for those lost or in danger keep the one or ones remaining from going ahead with new attempts to bring the mission to a successful conclusion.
For a long time Hanlon sat there. Resolutely now, he put his father out of his mind, and concentrated only on how he was to accomplish the task that confronted him—alone.
Finally he began to look at the larger aspects of the problem ; to realize that he must quit hunting for individual criminals and possible members of the opposition, and work from the other end—the top.
"After all," he thought, "it is the Ruler who makes the decisions. Perhaps . . . no, I must go to work on him. I've got enough dope now as to who is behind this intrigue. Now I must reach Elus Amir himself, and swing him our way. But, in Snyder's name, how am I going to get to him?"
Plan after possible plan he discarded. He could not go to Amir as a Terran. In the first place, his word would have no weight. In the second place, he would undoubtedly have considerable trouble making the approach to the Ruler, if it was possible at all.
No, he would have to get close to him as a native. And to do that, he first had to know more—a lot more—about the Ruler as a man, his habits and usual daily routine.
H
anlon left the house and went to a number of places where men ate or drank, both for information, and to try out his new disguise. The latter must have been better than he thought, for no one seemed to notice. And in each place he visited, while eating or sipping his mild drink, Hanlon asked one or two discreet questions. None of these, by themselves, seemed to mean anything. But the answers, put together as Hanlon did when he returned to his rooms, gave him a fairly detailed picture.
He knew now that the Ruler stuck quite closely to his residence — "palace", Hanlon thought of it — although occasionally his duties took him to other cities on either continent, and sometimes he went out for an evening at the theatre, as he had done on Hanlon's opening night.
Otherwise, he was a hard worker, an excellent and well-loved Ruler, always studying carefully all suggested legislation that was presented for his consideration, always thinking of ways to better the condition of his people.
But to one thing he had learned Hanlon gave the most consideration at the moment. Elus Amir, he found, went out almost every day for a ride on his caval, and usually along the same route. Hanlon knew what road that was.
Accustomed as he now was to thinking more in terms of animals than of men, the natural thought for Hanlon was to wonder how he could meet or study the Ruler through his caval.
The next day, therefore, the SS man rode out into the country, and posted himself at a convenient spot where he could watch without attracting too much attention, yet could see for several miles. He took one of the wheels off his motor-tricycle and demounted the tire. This was to be his excuse for being so handy at the time of his planned meeting with the Ruler.
But something apparently changed Elus Amir's habits, for he did not ride that road that day. Ruefully doing a bit of under-breath griping, Hanlon replaced tire and wheel, then rode back toward town.
But after he had gone part way through the city streets, he thought of something else that must be done, and headed towards the place Morris Manning had found rooms.
Luckily, no one else had moved in, and no one appeared in the hall when Hanlon came back, after a quick trip to a tool stall in the market place, where he was able to buy a hacksaw. For Manning, as did the other SS men, had attached a hasp and pickproof padlock to his door. The Estrellans locks were ingenious, but could quite easily be unfastened even without the key.
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