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.

Hanlon 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 S S 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 S S men, had attached a hasp and pick-proof padlock to his door. The Estrellans locks were ingenious, but could quite easily be unfastened even without the key.

These locks consisted of a metal rod, like a sliding bolt, that ran inside the wood of the door. There was a slip in the wood on either side of the door through which a key, inserted in the rod, could move it forth or back. When the bolt was moved into position with one end seated in the holder in the doorjamb, a turn of the key opened flanges on the rod that fitted vertically into prepared slots.

But a little patience easily enabled one who wished to get in, to trip those flanges with almost any small, flat-pointed instrument, even a penknife blade.

Now Hanlon cut through the hasp, evidently without attracting anyone’s attention, for none of the neighbors came out to investigate the strange sounds. Inside Manning’s room, he went about the sad business of collecting the dead secret serviceman’s gear and belongings, to be sent back home on the sneakboat.

As he was cleaning out one of the chests, however, Hanlon discovered a small notebook he knew was of Estrellan make. He opened it idly, and found it was filled with native writing.

Excited now, for he was sure Manning would have written in Terran or I-S C code if it had been his work, Hanlon slowly began deciphering the words.

“Yow, this is hot stuff,” he exclaimed after less than a page. “Wonder where Morrie got this? From Esbor’s office or home, I’ll bet.”

He stuffed the book into his pocket for later study. He packed the balance of Manning’s things, then left, mounted his trike and rode back to his own rooms.

All the balance of the afternoon and evening he worked at the translation of the entries in that book. It was, he found with great glee, a list of the names of various criminals who had been working under Esbor, and brief details of their various activities, as well as many other notes of similar nature.