Chapter 15

Hanlon was sitting at his usual place in the mine one day when one of the barrow-men ran up and spoke swiftly to Geck, who turned to Hanlon, alarm on his face. “Big boss man come.”

Hanlon jumped to his feet. “Get everyone to work; tell them to act real busy!” he snapped. “You, too!”

He thrust the frequency-transformer into a hole prepared for just such an emergency, grabbed up his shock-rod and stepped closer to the natives. He was standing there, to all appearances strictly on the job of making his charges work, when Philander came crawling up the rise into the pocket where this crew was mining the glossy, lustrous pitch-blank uraninite ore.

“How’re things going?” the superintendent greeted Hanlon with at least the appearance of friendliness.

“Just fine,” the young man responded. “Everything’s under control.”

“Been looking over the reports, and see your crew is getting out more ore’n any of the others,” the super’s voice held just a tinge of anxiety, and Hanlon began probing that mind to see if he could discover just what all this portended.

“I just keep ‘em at it,” he shrugged.

“No trouble?”

“Nope, no trouble. Look at ‘em,” he waved his hand at the busy crew.

The big man regarded them closely, and could see that every single one of the natives was working at what he knew was their top speed, and without a single slacker. Even the barrow-men were moving almost at a jog-trot rather than the lazy saunter most natives used in an effort to do no more than they were forced to do.

Philander shook his head wonderingly. “How d’you do it?” he asked. “The other guards have to keep shocking one after another of the lazy dogs, yet you’ve made no move at a single one--and they keep right on hustling. I’ve never seen a crew work so hard.”

Hanlon wanted desperately to tell him, but he decided the time was not yet. So he merely shrugged the question away as of little consequence. “I dunno, sir. I just stand around watching ‘em, and they work.” He grinned into the super’s face. “Must be my manly charms--er sumpin’,” he chuckled. Then sobered. “Maybe one reason is that I rotate ‘em. Any job gets monotonous, so every hour or so I let ‘em change around, from pick to barrow to sorting, and so on.”

A frown of annoyance came onto Philander’s face, but he quickly erased it. After all, this man was getting out more ore than the others, and that was what he was here for. How he did it didn’t matter so much, after all, as long as he kept up his record.

But Hanlon, reading those surface thoughts, knew that the official was still very suspicious--and vastly worried. Hanlon knew he had to disarm the super some way, to get him out of that mood. He decided his air of naivete could still do the trick.

“Mr. Philander, sir,” his voice was very ingenuous, “I don’t want to pry into anything that’s none of my business, but would you mind telling me what this stuff is we’re getting here? It isn’t anything dangerous, is it? I mean, it isn’t one of those ... those radium ores that make a fellow sterile, is it? I may want to get married some day, so I don’t want to take any chances.”

The mining engineer looked at him blankly for a moment, then threw back his head and laughter rolled out until it seemed to fill the stope. Hanlon watched the other’s mind clear itself of all suspicion ... at least for the time being.

Philander rested his hand companionably on the younger man’s shoulder. “No, it’s nothing like that, so you can quit worrying. And the bonus you’ll get, if you can keep up this output, will fix you so you can afford a wife when your time’s up and you go back to Sime.”

“Gee, that’s good,” Hanlon made his voice and face show how relieved he felt. “It had me worried, even though I haven’t got a girl yet.”

The superintendent seemed in good humor now. Hanlon caught the thought that this punk was a good guard, and bright, and he did get the stuff out. The plan of rotating the workers was good--he’d order the other guards to use it. This Hanlon probably was no menace to their plans here, after all. In fact, maybe later they could use him on the bigger job. He (Philander) would so recommend to His Highness when he made his next report.

After a few more casual words the super left, and Hanlon sank back onto his favorite lounging place, thinking very seriously and contemplatively about this whole matter.

Again he had run into that thought about someone called “His Highness,” but never any indication as to who the man was, or what position he occupied. It was now apparent that this individual was the man he would have to ferret out, whose plans he would have to learn before the Corps could take any really effective action.

He certainly hoped that one was the top man. It was going to be hard enough to get a line on him--to say nothing of anyone even higher.

One evening at dinner, some time later, Hanlon became aware that the guard, Gorton, was growling at him. He looked up in surprise, and forced himself to pay attention to the big man’s words.

“I ask ya, whatcha tryin’ t’ do, punk?” the small pig-eyes glared redly at him, and the voice was harsh and bitter. “Try’n’a show up us other guards? What’sa big idea, gettin’ out more ore’n we do?”

Hanlon stared back in amazement, and his voice when he answered was a stammer of surprise. “Why ... why ... I’m not trying to do anything ... except my job,” he added more forcefully.

“We been gettin’ out a reg’lar three tons a shift,” the ugly face was shoved closer to his, and Hanlon shrank back from the stench of raw spirits breathed on him. “What’sa idea drivin’ yer crew up t’ three an’ a half er four?”

“I was told to keep my crew working, and I’ve been doing that ... and only that!” Hanlon snapped. “And take your ugly, stinking face away from mine!”

The disgust he felt at the brutality of these guards had made him so soul-sick with them he wasn’t going to take any guff from one of them. Even though Gorton out-weighed him by a good sixty pounds and probably had at least four inches longer reach, Hanlon wasn’t afraid of him.

Right now he was as much in the mood for a fight as the guard seemed to be, for at Hanlon’s words Gorton’s huge, ham-like hand suddenly slapped out at the younger man. Hanlon wasn’t able entirely to dodge safely, sitting as close as they were. His head rang from the terrific blow. He grabbed his cup of steaming coffee, and threw it backhand into Gorton’s face.

Bellowing in pain and anger, the guard jumped up, upsetting the bench, and almost Hanlon with it. But the younger man was agile, and kept his feet. As Gorton rushed, his long, heavy arms flailing, Hanlon ducked away and jumped back far enough to get a firm footing on a cleared space of floor.