Chapter 13

“If I wait here awhile, perhaps the fish’s strength will build up again,” George Hanlon had thought wearily. “Then it can carry me back to shore.”

So he continued concentrating on the job of keeping those muscles closed around the wound in the amphibian’s side, finding it required full use of his mind to think of holding that constriction, and of nothing else.

Only partially was that possible, of course. Humans are just not constituted so they can think of only one thing for long periods of time. “At least,” he grimaced, “not this human.”

For nearly an hour he and the fish lay there quietly, riding out the waves, while he waited for the great mammal-thing to regain some of its energy. He kept close watch of that mind, and knew it was gradually feeling less pain, less anguish. He had sent it “calming” thoughts as best he could, and they had taken effect. The panic was gone. It was almost asleep, floating there.

Hanlon looked toward the cliff-top, but there were no longer figures there he could see. Had the pursuers, thinking him dead, left? He strained his ears for the sound of the trike motor.

“Maybe, though, they’d already gone before I thought to start listening,” he thought.

Finally he decided the fish was strong enough to take him to shore. His own body felt so much more comfortable. Then he realized with a twinge of panic that the reason was that while he had thrown his mind into the healing of the fish his body had become numb with the cold. Now he again became conscious of his various cuts and bruises, aching and flaming from the action of the salt water.

Under his compulsion the fish swam slowly and with some difficulty back toward the shore. When it finally got close to the wall of rock Hanlon let his feet downward, hoping to be able to touch bottom. But the water was far too deep there.

“I hate to do this to you, fellow, but you’re my only hope for the time being,” Hanlon said feelingly to the great fish-thing, and made it start swimming along the rocky wall. He kept his eyes constantly looking ahead for a break in the escarpment, or for a bit of beach where he could rest.

After a mile or so it seemed the cliff was getting lower, and Hanlon’s hopes rose a bit. Another couple of thousand yards, and he was sure of it. It was sloping downward quite sharply toward sea-level. Also it seemed, in the moonlight, that the rocky surface was getting rougher, more climbable.

Finally they came to a place where the cliff was only about twenty yards high--nor did it seem to get lower on ahead. Too, it looked scalable. Hanlon stopped the fish and examined that facing carefully.

Yes, he decided at last, there were enough protuberances and cracks so that it could be climbed.

If he had strength enough.

“Well, gotta try sometime. And my poor fish is about all done.” He made it swim right up until he could reach out and get a firm grip in a large crack.

“Goodbye, fellow. Thanks for saving my life. Hope you make out all right,” he told the great mammalian shark-thing. He released his hold on its fin and his control from its mind. It turned and swam away, still feebly.

Hanlon focused his attention on the task before him. Slowly and painfully he climbed, hunting for handhold and foot rest.

He had known he was tired, but had not realized how weak he was. It seemed he could never make even that short climb. His fingers, hands and arms were numb with cold, his feet and legs unresponsive leaden weights. But from the deeps of his subconscious and will, and his urge to survival, he brought renewed strength and scrambled upward.

At last, utterly spent, he pulled himself over the edge, and lay gasping and shivering on the top of the cliff.

He was almost ready to blank out, when a thought struck him, and he struggled to retain consciousness. He could not just lie here and sleep. Probably those goons would still be looking for him. He must get away, somehow, somewhere.

Again he sent his mind outward, and felt whispers of thought quite a little distance away across the meadow. He followed the strongest of these, and found a mind quite powerful, and intelligent in an animalistic way.

He followed that mind into the brain that housed it, and took control. He made the animal, whatever it was, start swiftly toward him. While it was coming he examined the mind more closely, and suddenly realized he was inside the brain of an Estrellan caval.

These animals, which the Terrans thought of as horses, because they could be ridden or trained to draw carriages, were about the size of a Terran cow-pony. They were striped almost like a zebra, but the colors were brown and yellow, rather than black and white. The animals were quite vicious in the wild state, and none too tractable even when trained. As usual with Estrellan animals, they were tailless, and had heavy, sharp hooves, nearly twice the size of those of Earthly horses, and snouts much like a roch’s.

When the caval came up to him, Hanlon saw it was a stallion, slightly larger than average. From its mind he already knew it was a wild one, not domesticated or broken to saddle or harness.

Nevertheless, he could control it, and made it stand quietly while he climbed slowly and laboriously to his feet, and from there managed to wriggle onto its back.

He knew he was due to faint in a few seconds, but kept his consciousness long enough to impress on the animal’s mind that it was to take him back toward Stearra. He thought he knew the direction, and he thought he could keep awake the one part of his mind that was dissociated and in the caval. However, because he might blank out completely, he instructed it to keep straight on the road to town.

He leaned down and threw his arms tightly about the caval’s neck, then with a sigh of thankfulness, let himself go. He had endured so much ... he was so tired ... so ... tir...

Yandor and his men had finally come to the conclusion that Gor Anlo was dead, out there in the ocean. They had been unable to see him for some time. Yet they waited around for nearly half an hour, searching both the waters and along the cliff. Finally, he said they might as well go home. So all piled in their large trike and started back to the city.

But they had not quite reached his home when Yandor found a disturbing thought persisting in his mind. He worried and puzzled over it for some time, then issued sharp commands. Thus, when they arrived at his house, two of the men hurried into the back yard, and soon came back with two of the beasts Yandor kept caged there.

“What’s up, chief?” one of the men asked as the tricycle sped back the way they had just come.

“I ... I don’t really know,” the impresario said slowly. “I ... I have a ... a sort of feeling ... that maybe we can find Anlo after all. We’d better go back and look some more.”

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 blood-thirsty 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?”