Chapter 10

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 unsane 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.