Chapter 11

A black look suffused the leader’s face at Hanlon’s impertinent “can you dish it out, Mister?” He half-rose from his seat, while the other four men reached quick hands towards their weapons.

Then slowly the man sank back, relaxed, and smiled--an open, friendly smile of genuine cordiality, and his men also relaxed.

“You’ll do, Hanlon, by the great ... uh ... Zeus, you’ll do! But,” he added significantly, “I think you will find that I can ‘dish it out’, as you call it, if the need ever arises. You had better pray it never does.”

“Fair enough,” Hanlon shrugged indifferently.

“The boys will take you out and show you the town, if you like,” the leader smiled engagingly. “They will get word to you when I have a job ready, which may be in a day or two.”

Hanlon thanked him, and felt it policy to go out with “the boys,” even though he did not particularly care to do so. Nor did he especially enjoy the night that followed.

He had left a ten o’clock call with the hotel’s visiphone operator when he got back to the hotel at last. When she called he groggily opened one eye half way, and fumbled for the toggle-switch.

“H’lo.”

“Ten o’clock of a fine morning, Mr. Hanlon.”

“Oh, no!” he groaned.

“Oh, yes,” she giggled. “That bad, is it?”

“Worse’n that. But thanks anyway ... I guess.”

She was laughing heartily as she disconnected.

Hanlon groaned with the utter misery of a hugely-distorted, throbbing head. The sunlight pouring through an open window directly into his eyes did not help any. He rolled over petulantly, but knew he had to get up.

He stumbled out of bed and went in to stand under a cold shower. Ten minutes later he began to feel a little more human, and decided maybe he would live after all.

“Never again!” he swore fervently. “I’m just not cut out for serious drinking. Hope I didn’t give anything away to those guys last night.”

He dressed slowly, meanwhile striving as best his aching head would let him, to review his situation. He was fairly well pleased with his success to date, but the grue of fear was still with him. He was getting part way where he wanted to be, but ... this was certainly no picnic he was muscling into. He remembered his father’s injunction to take it easy at first, and grimaced wrily.

Eating breakfast in the hotel dining room, after taking an effervescent to relieve his headache, he tried to plan his next moves. There wasn’t much he could do, he decided, until they called him. He had made his bid--it wouldn’t do to try to push himself too much, or it would look mighty fishy to those sharp minds.

He shuddered again, involuntarily, thinking about that enigmatic leader. Who ... or what ... was he?

Hanlon went first to the bank, and made out a card for his own box. But once in the vault, and the attendant gone out, it was box 1044 he opened. There was a note for him.

“Welcome to Simonides,” he read. “My name--here--is Art Georgopoulis. I work at present as a bartender at the Golden Web, on Thermopylae street. The high-ups in the underworld hang out there, and I pick up occasional bits of news. If you come in, introduce yourself by asking for ‘a good old Kentucky mint-julep,’ Practically no one ever asks for those. I’m the blond, skinny one at the far end of the bar. If I can be of any help, just yell. Me, I haven’t got to first check station yet--but I’m still in there punching. Hope you do better--Curt Hooper.”

Hanlon “ate” the note, then wrote one of his own, telling what he had learned to date, what he suspicioned, and what he was trying to do. Of his new mental powers he said nothing. He did not distrust this SS man, of course, but if the fellow didn’t know he couldn’t be made to tell.

As Hanlon left the bank he began to get the feeling he was being trailed, but could not seem to locate anyone doing it, although he did not dare search to his rear very carefully. Neither could he catch any definite thoughts about such a thing from among the welter of thought-sensations on the crowded streets.

He wandered about most of the day, frankly sight-seeing--but his mind was always open. He went into various public buildings, sat for some time in one or another of the numerous parks whenever he felt a bit tired of walking.

That feeling of being watched made him cautious, so he did not practice much with his mind-control on any of the pigeon-like birds! He did, however, make a trip to the local zoo, and as he paused momentarily in front of each of the cages to look at the exhibit it contained, he briefly made an excursion into the mind of each different type of animal, bird or rodent. Outside of minor differences of texture, they all seemed about the same. Each of them had, naturally, different muscular abilities that would need considerable study if he ever intended using one of them.

And every minute he was seeking, searching for any tiniest thread of evidence as to what it was that was causing this undercurrent of secret intrigue that was so plainly evident to his super-sensitive mind.

But there was no factual data to be learned. Only that “feel” of it in the very air. Yet as the day wore on he came to believe that much or most of what he sensed was not that plot which was causing the Corps concern. Rather, it seemed more as though all the people here were engaged in some sort of secret aggressiveness.

And it was finally forced into his consciousness that it was “business,” not “politics.” For it was well-known that Simonides, even though it had become the Federation’s wealthiest world, was not yet satisfied ... that its merchants and traders wanted to capture more and still more of the System’s business.

There were far too many minds engaged in aggressive thoughts for a political revolution, he felt sure. If it was this wide-spread, surely others of the Corps of the Secret Service would have found out something definite about it. No, whatever this was, it distinctly was not what he was here to find.

The feeling that he was being spied upon was always more or less present, but he could not spot the man or men who were watching him. Either several were working in short shifts, or else the trailer kept so far behind him that the multiplicity of thoughts from the hundreds of people always around masked those of the spy.

Hanlon ate a leisurely lunch in a small restaurant, and during the afternoon continued his apparently-aimless sight-seeing. If they were shadowing him, they would have nothing to report, he grinned. Not during the day, at least. What the evening would bring forth would perhaps be another matter.

For he had determined to at least get in touch with the SS man who had written that note. He would have dinner at the Golden Web, if they served meals. If not, he would have a drink anyway. The two men certainly should know each other by sight.

He went briefly to the hotel, but there had been no calls for him. So he took a ground-cab to the cafe, which turned out to be a pretentious, garish one. Inside he made his way to that part of the long, busy bar presided over by a slim, blond man.

Hanlon climbed onto a stool. “Gimme a good old Kentucky mint-julep, suh,” he demanded, “an’ be doggoned suah it’s made right.”

The bartender eyed him peculiarly. “Where’s this Kentucky and what’s a mint-julep?”

“On Terra, of course, where I came from. Where’d you think it was, on Andromeda Seven?”

“Pardon me, sir. I seem to remember now, having heard of such a drink. I’ll have to look it up in the recipe-book--I disremember the ingredients.”

Hanlon grinned and lost his appearance of truculence. “It’s partly made of Blue Grass, like a ‘horse’s neck.’ But if it’s too much trouble, just give me a Cola.”

The barkeep grinned, too. “I gotcha, Steve,” and poured out the soft drink.

Hanlon sat sipping his innocuous drink, looking about him quietly. A large-sized crowd was beginning to fill the place--well-dressed, evidently fairly prosperous people, but he could see that they were not the real upper-class, but the slightly-off-shade climbers.

His drink finished Hanlon signalled his friendly barman. “The grub here any good? This looks like a nice place.”

“Yes, it is. One often hears some interesting things here. As for the food, it is very good, and not too expensive. They have a native fowl much like chicken I think you’d like. Ask for poyka, in whatever style you like it fixed. Glad to be of service, sir, any time, in any way.” The last words were slightly emphasized.

Hanlon had ordered and was waiting for his food when a man he had never seen before slipped into the seat opposite him.

“The Boss wants to see you.”

“Yeah?” Hanlon looked him up and down almost contemptuously. “Just who is this ‘boss’ who’s interested in me?”

“Cut the clowning. You know who. At the Bacchus. Now!”

“So.” Hanlon let himself appear slightly interested. “Well, after I get through eating, if nothing else shows up to interest me more, I might drop over.”

“You’d better, and mighty quick, too!” the man snapped, although it was apparent he was puzzled by Hanlon’s manner. “He don’t like to be kept waiting.”

“And I don’t like to be hurried--or ordered about!” Hanlon snapped back. “If I come, and notice I said ‘if,’ I’ll be there in about an hour. Now, do you mind? I like to enjoy my food.”

The man rose, still with that perplexed expression. It was evident he was not used to people not jumping when his “Boss” issued invitations--which were really commands. He shook his head slowly. “I hope for your sake he’s in a good humor,” he said as he left.

Hanlon’s mind was not too easy as he ate swiftly, and his relish of the excellent food was not as keen as it might have been but for this interruption. He shivered, remembering that cold ruthlessness he had sensed behind that leader’s suave manner. But he had to play out his string as a somewhat brash youngster who wasn’t afraid of anybody or anything. He had made a clean score with that reckless “can you dish it out, Mister?” but he had better not press his luck too far.