Chapter 7

George Hanlon glanced about the observation deck and saw at some distance the young man who had sat at the same dining table. Hanlon grinned a bit, and directed his mind that way.

To the best of his memory, he concentrated on doing the same thing he had done when he got inside the steward’s mind. For long, anxious minutes he tried. He felt tense, and the strain made his heart pound. At last he sank back into his chair.

“The other was just a fluke, I guess,” he frowned in frustration and disgust at himself. “I keep thinking I’m getting good--then flooie!” He idly sent his mind towards the boy again ... and suddenly found himself once more within another person’s mind.

It was a strange, weird feeling ... this getting two sets of thoughts at the same time. Also, Hanlon felt a bit as though he was a trespasser in some forbidden temple. Yet he persevered, trying to see if he could read anything there ... and was disappointed to find he could peruse and understand only the fleeting surface thoughts.

With all his might, in every way he could think of, he tried to probe back and beneath those passing thought-concepts, but could get no information whatever of the young man’s past or knowledge. Only vacuous, self-centered thoughts which were flowing idly through the youth’s mind were available to him.

He wondered if he could influence the other to do something. If he could control another’s mind--even just a little--it would really help in his work. So he now tried every method his agile mind could imagine, to make the fellow pick up the book that lay beside his chair. He concentrated on it, he insisted, he willed it. But in vain--he could make no impression whatever.

Hanlon withdrew his mind. “I’ve no control,” he thought to himself. “I can’t take over his mind in any way. Neither can I read his past; just his present thoughts. That’s not too bad, although I hoped I had hit the jackpot at last.”

After some further reflection the thought occurred, “Maybe I can do better with someone else.”

During the balance of the day he kept trying to read the minds of others of his fellow passengers, but found the same results in each case. He did, however, develop the technique of making a much quicker entrance into a mind--could do that reading more swiftly, and yet know he was correct.

“I get it now. I’ve got to approach it relaxed, not all tensed up like I was at first,” he finally realized.

But when it came to probing into and reading the whole mind, into its past thoughts and knowledges, no. Just that ... no!

Pessimistically he began to feel he wasn’t going to be able to do as much with his “mind-reading” as he--and his superiors--had hoped.

Did this mean, he wondered disconsolately as he went to his stateroom, that he was to be a failure in the Secret Service? Or, he brightened momently, could he develop other methods of ferreting out information? But that, he told himself honestly, was out. What did he know about detective work? The SS already had the best detectives in the Universe.

This dark mood persisted while he went to bed and finally dropped off to sleep. But when he awoke the next morning he felt cheerful again. He had a lot--and he would get more.

He ate a good breakfast, then went back to his deck chair and there, resolutely, he opened his mind once more to general impressions. He would keep working at it, and more was bound to come. Look how far he’d advanced already. A lot further than when he had started. And at that, he probably--no, undoubtedly--could do more than any of the other fellows on certain problems. As far as he knew--and Dad and Admiral Rogers had talked as though he were the only one they knew about--no one else could read even surface thoughts.

So he kept diligently at it. And very soon, so strongly he deduced the mind must be very close to him, he again found those sinister impressions that had bothered him so much.

This time he glanced about, in apparently casual curiosity, yet touched mind after mind of those nearest him. Then hit pay dirt!

Why, it was that bluff, hearty-looking, red-headed man in the third chair to his right. He didn’t look vicious, that was certain, though there was a grim set to his jaw. Yet his surface thoughts showed the man to be hard, cold and ruthless--a pure killer type. Hanson sensed he was one of those men who have such a will to power that the lives and rights of others are held cheaply, contemptuously. The kind who, if another gets in his way, removes him ... but carefully, lest his own highly-valuable skin be put in jeopardy. If he could get some one else to do the dirty work, so much the better. Such conscienceless killers were, Hanlon knew, usually arrant cowards.

There was someone on this ship who was in this man’s way--of that Hanlon felt sure. The killer was determined to destroy this other the first chance he got. His mind was now weighing chances and possible opportunities--and Hanlon read and learned.

Yes, this must be one of those “interesting people” that unknown SS tipster back on Terra had mentioned. Was the victim another? Probably. For Hanlon had not yet read any thoughts in this killer’s mind about any confederates.

Hanlon kept close watch on this man and his mind, and picked up many other stray bits of information, including his name, Panek. None seemed of too much immediate importance regarding the matter at hand. Yet they gave the Secret Service man a fairly good picture of the assassin’s personality, when pieced all together.

Suddenly, and but a barely passing whisper of thought, Hanlon caught the concept that the intended victim’s death was necessary to the coup “they” were planning on Simonides.

Hanlon was instantly alerted by that planet-name. Perhaps this was a definite lead for him. He strained to get more. The killer thought occasionally of a man he called “The Boss”, but not the name of that dignitary, nor his actual position--politically, socially, economically, or otherwise.

The SS man fumed inwardly because he could not get a clear picture of that “Boss.” This murderer did not have a visual type of mind, darn it. He didn’t see clearly in pictorial terms any of the people or scenes about which he thought.

Hanlon had been gradually impressed, though, with the realization that this man was very much afraid of his boss. There was a mental shiver every time thought of his employer entered his mind. There was something about a previous failure, and what would undoubtedly happen unless it was done now, but Hanlon couldn’t get enough of that to make any sense to him.

Again Panek began thinking, though very sketchily, about “Sime”, as he called Simonides, and the “plot” that was being hatched there. Hanlon felt the man’s sneering contempt for “those beasts”--but could gain no idea whatever about what that reference meant.

In so many ways this puzzle seemed to be growing worse instead of better, and Hanlon knew a moment of frustration. But his sense of humor came to his rescue. “You want the whole thing written out for you in black and white?” he jeered at himself. “Snap out of it! Quit being a defeatist.”