His Highness regarded Hanlon silently but with a steady concentration for some minutes. "That might be true. I had about begun to believe you when we found Abrams, and when we questioned him he ... uh ... admitted what you had done, and why. That revived my doubts. Are you willing to be tested under a truth drug?"

Hanlon almost gasped in dismay, but stifled it. He knew only too well the efficacy of modern truth drugs. They would reveal every thought and bit of knowledge he had ever had—all about the Corps, the Secret Service and everything.

That hurt look came back into his face. "You sure are asking a lot, sir," he said. "I haven't anything to conceal from you, but no man likes to have his whole mind invaded that way—all his private thoughts and feelings. I don't see why you need suggest such a thing. I've told you the truth on matters you want to know about."

"You appear to have done so, and I honestly want to believe you. For you see, Hanlon, I want you with me. You're my kind of a man. I like you because you have tremendous drive and imagination and ability—yes, and perhaps a bit because you're the only man I've ever met who wasn't ... uh ... afraid of me. I have tremendous plans for the future—and I would like to have you as my chief aide in them. I would train you as you've never guessed it possible for a man to be trained. And then, together, Hanlon, we could rule the Universe!"

But George Hanlon was only half-listening, even to that last, that shocking, that totally unexpected proposition, his real goal. Here was the plot he had been seeking, the plot the Corps needed so desperately to know. Yet his personal crisis was, for the moment, more important if he was ever to be of any further benefit to the Secret Service or the Corps. To use his just-discovered knowledge, something else must come first.

His mind, therefore, was seeking a way out. He well knew that once the truth drug was administered—and this Highness would not now be satisfied with anything less—he was as good as dead. They would find out the truth in minutes, and then would have no other recourse but to kill him.

His spirits sank to nadir with the knowledge that he had failed ... failed the Secret Service and the Corps, failed his father, failed the Guddus, failed himself. Curiously, perhaps, at that moment the thought of failure was far more important to him than the imminence of death, as such.

He had half-consciously noticed when he first glanced about this room, that there was a small ventilator near the ceiling in one corner. Desperately he pushed his mind through it, and could sense that it opened onto a park-like place, probably around one of the city's palaces.

Hanlon finally heard His Highness call, "Panek, you and the others bring me the hypodermic. We'll have to give him the truth serum. I'm sorry, Hanlon," he addressed himself now to the young man, "but this is the only way. I hope we won't have to use enough to harm you, but that depends on your co-operation. If you will tell us the truth quickly and willingly I can, as I said ... uh ... use you, and you will profit greatly by it."

Hanlon didn't struggle when they bound him firmly in the chair with manacles on hands and feet. He knew it would be useless anyway. He let his body slump into his chair, and again directed his mind through that vent. He must not let them defeat him! He had to survive—to get word—to the Corps!

Then his searching mind contacted another—a weak, primitive one, but a mind. Avidly he fastened onto it, merged with it ... and found himself inside the brain of one of those Simonidean pigeons.

Ah! This is wonderful! Pigeons seldom fly alone. Where you find one you almost always find a number. Activating the bird's brain he sent out a call to others of its kind that it had found food in abundance. Soon more and more of them flew down to where the now enslaved pigeon was standing, and as each one came, Hanlon sent into its brain all of his mind it would hold.

Inside the cellar room His Highness rose and stepped up to Hanlon's body, the hypodermic in his hand. "Remove his coat and roll up his sleeve," he directed Panek, and the small part of Hanlon's mind still remaining in his body felt the latter doing so, and an instant later, the prick of the needle.

Slowly at first, then with increasing swiftness he felt his remaining mind growing numb and his will weaken. His body slumped against the restraining manacles.

"Can you hear me, George Hanlon?" he dimly heard His Highness' voice.

"Yes." It sounded like a whisper.

"Are you a member of the Inter-Stellar Corps?"

"I ... I ...", he struggled not to answer.

"Tell me!"

"I ... I ..." and then, in a last desperate effort to keep from telling what he must not tell, George Hanlon did a thing he had never dared attempt before. He sent all the remaining parts of his mind into the last of the pigeons.

One of the first birds he had already sent into the ventilator so he could look through it into the room below. He got it there just in time to hear the Leader's gasp of dismay as he saw Hanlon's body slump still further in apparent lifelessness.

"Is he dead, Boss, is he?" he heard Panek's anxious cry.

His Highness felt the pulse in Hanlon's wrist and the one in his throat. "No, he's still alive."

The man stood there in deep thought, his forehead creased with a frown of concentration. "There's something peculiarly wrong here," the Leader finally said aloud. "Something very wrong and very strange. This isn't an ordinary fainting spell. It's ... uh ... beyond my previous experience."

He straightened and addressed Hanlon's body once more. "Can you still hear me, George Hanlon?"

There was no answer, no slightest indication that his words were heard. He reached forward and lifted the body into a more upright position in the chair. "Answer me, George Hanlon. Do you hear me? I command you to tell me, are you a Corpsman?"

Still no answer, no twitch of muscle, no movement of awareness. He shook the body a little, and raised his voice still more.

"I demand an answer, George Hanlon! The truth drug must make you speak!"

But only silence, and when he let go of the body it fell backward into the chair, and the head lolled forward as though the neck was broken.

"Let me work on him, Boss," Panek pleaded. "Let me give him a going over, let me."

Barely waiting to see that His Highness did not forbid it, the thug raised a short, ugly piece of rubber hose, and struck the unresisting body again and again—across the face, over the top and back of the head, vicious blows at the ribs and even in the groin.

But he might as well have been pounding a sack of meal. The body sagged beneath the blows, and became bloody and discolored, but no movement—no conscious movement—did it make.

"That will do, Panek," His Highness finally commanded. "That does no good. This I cannot understand, but I do know there is ... uh ... something most peculiar here. It is almost as though ...", he paused and frowned again. "But that is ridiculous!"

"What's ridiculous, Boss, what is?"

"It is almost as though there was ... uh ... no mind left in the body," His Highness said slowly. Then, abruptly, "Are you sure that was truth-serum in that hypodermic?"

"You fixed it yourself, Boss."

His Highness wheeled suddenly, rudely awakened from his thinking by the loud shoo-ing noise one of the guards was making. He was astonished to see the man making vain motions toward a pigeon whose head was sticking through, the ventilator vanes.

But the bird didn't leave.

"Stop it!" the Leader commanded impatiently. "We've more import ..."

He checked himself, and turned back to stare wonderingly at the bird, which peered back at him with apparently unfrightened, beady eyes, turning its head to first one side and then the other, as though better to see all that was going on.

"That's peculiar," His Highness said thoughtfully. "I never saw a bird act like that before. Hmmm, I wonder?... But no, that's absurd."

He turned back to Hanlon's body as though disgusted with himself for entertaining such a fantastic notion. Hands behind his back, that scowl of concentration engraving deep lines on his face, the Leader paced forth and back across the floor of the little room, his glance ever and again returning to stare in exasperation at that slumped-over, dead-but-alive body.

Who was this amazing young man? What sort of talents and abilities did he possess, that he could react thus to a truth-serum? Had he been so treated by the Corps experts that his mind would be blanked out in such emergencies? Was he some kind of a mutant with powers never before known? Or—startling thought—was he actually a human being at all?

Better than anyone else, His Highness could appreciate the fact that the universe contained many types of sentient and highly mental life other than those originating on Terra. Since he had come here to Simonides, and had wormed his way into the very highest position beneath its emperor—a weak old man he had had no trouble dominating—he was naturally suspicious of anyone who might be attempting to discover and wreck his carefully-laid plans.

Such a one, he was now convinced, was this young Hanlon. It would be the simplest thing to kill this almost-dead body now, but that would not solve this baffling problem. If Hanlon, perhaps others of the Corps had similar powers. No, one with such abilities must not be killed. He must be kept and studied, and the secret learned if possible.

But his thoughts were interrupted by Panek. "That fool bird's still there, still there. Is it another of your pets, Boss?"

His Highness wheeled. He had forgotten the bird. Was it possible that Hanlon had, in some inexplicable manner, transferred ... on the surface it was an absurd concept. But, there were magicians on his home planet who could do things almost as unfathomable.

He suddenly made up his mind. "Kill it!" he commanded.

Whatever else he was or was not, Panek was fast with a gun. The words were hardly spoken when he had drawn and fired.



Chapter 20

The twentieth part of Hanlon's mind activating the pigeon in the ventilator, commanded it to scramble back out the moment he sensed what that command would be. But it wasn't quick enough.

He felt the burning sensation along the bird's side, and the agony it suffered. The wing had been almost severed by the shot, and its life was swiftly ebbing.

He had to get out of that body and quick ... but there were no more pigeons around except the other nineteen he was already occupying. Nor did any of them have brain capacity enough to contain more than a twentieth of his mind.

Desperately he sent the rest of the flock swirling into the air, seeking other life-forms nearby. There were no other pigeons close enough to hear their calls nor to get there in time if they did, for the wounded bird was dying fast.

Nor were there any dogs about, nor cats, nor animals of any kind to be seen. In desperation Hanlon even tried the trees or plants there, to see if they had minds like the Guddus—but none of them did.

He dreaded to think what would happen if the brain that a portion of his mind was occupying died while in his control. Would that part of his mind then be lost? He had no way of knowing, nor was he anxious to chance it, for he was terribly afraid it would be so. And he certainly had proved he had no mind to spare, he thought in disgust. He had really made a mess of this mission. The only way he could get word to the Corps was through his body, and if he sent his mind back into that now he was a deader duck than he seemed to be. For even that twentieth part could be made to talk.

Why didn't those pigeons hurry?

Yet he knew they were searching frantically. This was the weirdest sensation imaginable. People had often expressed the wish they, could be in two places at once ... he was in twenty. And each body was connected with the others by a thin thread of consciousness, yet was thinking and acting independently.

His composite mind almost grinned. If anyone had told him a year ago such a thing was possible, he would have called for the paddy-wagon and rushed that person to the nearest nut-house.

The other parts of his mind were flying all about the enclosed park that was a part of the great palace, searching, desperately seeking some other form of life that could be used as a housing for the dying part of Hanlon's mind.

Suddenly one of them uttered a cry that drew the rest to it on swift pinions, to see attached to one of the trees a huge swarm of Simonidean bees.

"Will the queen do?" the one mind-portion asked anxiously.

There was a convulsive shudder in all the minds, for the birds knew—and Hanlon had heard—how deadly poisonous these native bees were; how they were hunted down and exterminated when found. They were twice the size, and many, many times more vicious and deadly than Terran bees. Even now two gardeners were running toward the tree with a great metal net and flame-throwers.

But Hanlon was desperate. "She will have to do," the aggregate mind decided.

Instantly, then, the part of his mind in the dying bird detached itself and entered the brain of the Queen Bee. There were long, disheartening moments of twisting and struggling to fit into that strange, vicious insect brain. He finally managed to take control, yet was not fully en rapport. Sight through her multi-faceted eyes was very nearly impossible with the little time he could give to learning their texture.

But the close rapport between the various portions of his mind was a good guide. The Queen flew swiftly towards that ventilator, her swarm following closely at her command.

Into and through the vent she flew, and almost before the four men inside were aware of the strange buzzing, she was directing her swarm towards them.

"Bees!" Panek yelled in terror, and the four started fighting the hundreds that swarmed all over each of them. That may have been their mistake—had Panek and the other two stood perfectly still it was a bare possibility they might have survived, although in Hanlon's grimly determined frame of mind that was now doubtful.

Not that Hanlon was angry, even at Panek for the terrible beating of his unconscious body. For he realized it was the man's cruel, sadistic nature; that he could not have acted otherwise.

But Hanlon knew now that the peace of the Federation demanded that he live and be free to make his report, and only the death of His Highness and the others could now possibly save him.

So, much as it sickened him, Hanlon had to keep on, and as those bee-stings plunged in their hundreds into the four, the poison working far more swiftly than does the venom of Terrestrial bees—more akin to that of the mamba—one after another of the four fell to the floor and were quiet—stung to death.

Hanlon then sent the Queen and her swarm back outside, after first impressing on her mind that she must fly far away if she was to survive. He could not send her to her death by the gardeners after she had saved his life.

As she flew away he recalled his mind back from her and the nineteen birds, into his body. He sat erect once more—but instantly such a tide of pain washed over him that he nearly fainted. For all the agony of that terrible beating hit him at once.

His mind, too, was sluggish and slow once it was back in his own brain where that drug had taken effect. But he felt a sense of satisfaction and gratitude that he had come safely thus far through that terrible ordeal. The drug would wear off, the wounds would heal, and the pain would disappear in time. Meanwhile, he was alive ... impossible as it seemed, he was alive!

But George Hanlon had enough mind-power functioning in spite of the truth-drug, to realize he was not yet out of the pit. His body was still manacled to the chair, that in turn was fastened to the floor so he could not move it.

He was still inside the palace of the conspirators, and it would undoubtedly not be too long before someone would enter the room seeking His Highness, and would find him and the dead men.

For desperate minutes Hanlon considered every angle of the matter, and found only one possibility that might offer some chance of release and safety.

Once more he sent a portion of his mind out through the ventilator and found one of the pigeon-like birds still nearby. Again he took possession and crowded into its tiny brain all of his mind it would hold. Then the bird was swiftly winging its way up and over the roofs of the palace, into the dusky sky.

High in the air it floated on out-spread pinions while he surveyed the city beneath him, hunting for landmarks. He quite easily located the downtown section because its lights were being turned on now that evening was here.

That oriented him, but the fact that it was so late brought dismay. Would the Corps officers have gone home? And if so, how could he locate any of them, tonight, with whom he could possibly communicate? He had not thought of that before—he had been thinking of himself as a man, not as a bird.

But even as these baffling thoughts and questions were plaguing him, he was flying as swiftly as the bird's wings would carry him, directly towards the great building that housed the Corps' contingent here on Simonides.

Actually, it was only minutes until the bird was outside the great structure, and rapidly looking into windows. Lights were blazing in almost every room, and Hanlon's mind knew thankfulness that so many of the high officers were still at work.

Window after window the bird peered through in furious haste, searching for an admiral's office. If it could get inside, Hanlon had thought of several ways in which it might communicate ... providing the admiral was not an orthodox brass hat.

But, he told himself to maintain courage, any man who could gain as high a position as any of the various types of admirals would have had to show his resourcefulness time and again. You just didn't get that high in the Corps otherwise.

Luck and persistence achieved his ends, for he finally located the offices of the Planetary Admiral, himself, and that officer and his secretary were still inside at work.

Hanlon made the bird land on the window sill, and then begin tapping with its beak on the glass. Time and again it did this, until the two inside, attracted by the sound, looked about for its source.

"Look, Admiral Hawarden, it's a pigeon, tapping on the window," the secretary laughed.

"Must think there's something to eat in here," the officer grinned back.

"It really acts as though it was trying to attract our attention," the girl commented a few seconds later.

"Hmmm, I wonder," the admiral spoke half aloud, then as the bird kept up its purposeful tapping he recognized the Inter-Stellar code S O S. Quickly he rose, went to the window, opened it, and stepped back.

The bird, showing no fear of the humans, entered and flew to his desk. The secretary had also risen, and now shrank back against the wall, her hand at her mouth stifling a scream.

"It's magic," she said in fright. "No bird ever acted like that."

"It certainly is unusual," he said, and his eyes were puzzled. "I can't make it out."

The bird flew toward the officer, and with fluttering wings poised in the air before him, its beady, bright eyes peering directly into his. Then it flew toward the door. When the admiral made no move to follow, the bird repeated the performance.

"It seems almost as though it wanted me to go somewhere with it," the officer said in a dazed manner. "Are we dreaming this, Thelma?"

"I ... I don't know, sir. We ... we must be," she stammered. "It just couldn't be possible otherwise."

But now the bird apparently noticed something else in the room, for it flew over to the secretary's desk and alighted on it. It hopped up to her electro-writer.

That was too much. The girl rushed over, waving her hands. "Shoo!" she scolded. "Get off my desk, you crazy creature!"

But Admiral Hawarden was no fool. This was far beyond any experience he had ever had, but there was such a purposefulness in the bird's actions, strange and unusual though they were, that he felt this little drama should be played out without interruption.

"Leave it alone!" he commanded sharply in a tone that startled her, so different was it from his usual polite manner.

Looking at him in astonishment, she stepped back, and watched with him this unprecedented action.

With its foot Hanlon made the bird throw the little switch that activated the writing mechanism, and then with its beak began pecking at the keys. Luckily there was paper in the machine, a letter she had not finished. The admiral stepped up to where he could see, but waved the girl back when she started to follow. It seemed impossible that the bird could write anything sensible ... but the admiral was beginning to be not too sure of that.

His eyes opened wide with surprise as he saw the letters appear one by one on the paper:

a n d r m a 7

No longer did he doubt. How it was possible, the future might tell. But he did know the significance and the urgency of that message. He ripped the paper from the machine and pocketed it, then jumped to his desk and flipped the intercom switch.

"Captain Jessup! A company of marines, in full armor and all weapons, at the main gate in trucks in two minutes. Hipe!"

He ran to a cabinet in one corner of the room and threw open the door. "Come and help me!" he commanded the astonished girl, dragging his own long-unused space armor out and starting to climb into it. With her help he was completely encased in the minute, and was strapping on his weapons. "You can go home now," he told her.

He turned to the desk where the bird was watching with its beady eyes, and held out his arm curved at the elbow. With a quick swish of wings the pigeon launched itself toward the suited figure and rested on the out-stretched wrist.

The admiral plunged through the door and into the hall, where his private elevator waited. "Ground!" he yelled, and the bird was lifted from his wrist by the sudden plunging descent, but fluttered back and rode that wrist as the admiral dashed out of the elevator, through the halls and out the front door to the waiting, marine-filled trucks. Willing hands hauled him aboard the lead truck, and he threw the pigeon into the air.

"Follow that bird!" he commanded, and the incredulous driver did so, wondering secretly if the Old Man had suddenly gone bats.

When he saw beyond doubt the bird's destination, Admiral Hawarden gasped, but he was too old a campaigner to be stopped now. There was something here that needed himself and his men, and he would go through with it, no matter where it led.

He knew the calibre of the men of the Secret Service, and while he could not know how it was possible for one of them to train a bird in such a manner, he knew his job was to back up whatever that high-powered individual was doing.

As the trucks skidded to a halt at the entrance of the Prime Minister's ornate palace, he issued swift commands. His men, disregarding the indignant cries of the palace guards, who swarmed out to stop this unbelievable invasion of their rights, deployed to their designated positions, weapons at the ready.

To the officer of the guard who tried to bar his way, the admiral snapped, "I'll apologize later. Now get out of my way!" Then, with a squad of husky marines at his heels, he followed the fluttering pigeon through the opened door, along a hall, and down some stairs.

But here the bird seemed at a loss, fluttering from door to door, seeking that certain room.

As Hanlon had so shrewdly guessed, Admiral Hawarden was no fool, but quick on the up-take. "Open all these doors!" his voice rang out commandingly.

As fast as doors were opened—whether locked or not made no difference to the marines—the pigeon darted forward and glanced into each one before flying on the next. Then it disappeared through one of the doorways, and the admiral, who had kept as close to it as possible, yelled "Here!" and ran into the room, his men streaming after him.

"Welcome to out cozy nest, Mister," a voice from the depths of a big chair called, and the officer ran forward to where he could see. "You certainly made time, and am I happy to see you soldiers. Get me out of these things," and Hanlon rattled his chains.

At the admiral's gesture the marines made short work of the manacles, and Hanlon stood up, tottered a moment and would have fallen but for the quickly extended friendly arm of the admiral. He was still groggy, even though the serum was wearing off. But he was almost in complete control of his mind.

"We got here in time, then?" anxiously.

"Yes, thanks to my little friend here." Hanlon took the bird, and handed it to one of the marines, meanwhile impressing on its mind that it was safe among friends. "Look after her." And withdrew his mind.

"She gets good care the rest of her life," the admiral ordered the wondering marines. "Wait outside."

Hawarden looked about the room. "Who are these men ... and what in Snyder's name happened to them?"

"They were stung to death by bees," Hanlon said, and there was a trace of vindictiveness in his voice. "One of 'em's the Prime Minister; the others his gunmen."

"Great John!" the admiral breathed. "This'll raise a stink!"

"There'll be a bigger one before I get through," Hanlon was grim. "Get me back to your office, and get a doctor. They gave me truth serum, and it hasn't all worn off yet. And I'm hungry," he added so plaintively that Hawarden, accustomed enough to sight of death so it didn't affect him too much, laughed.

"What'll we do with the bodies?"

"Guard the Prime Minister's closely. Merely notify the people here where to find the others."

Hawarden called back two of the marines. "Bring that body with us," and they left.

At the entrance the admiral recalled his men. To the palace officer he partially explained. "The Prime Minister was killed, and we're taking his body with us. There are three of his men, also dead, in Room 37-B down there. I'll notify the Emperor, and assume full responsibility."

He jumped into the truck's front seat beside Hanlon and the driver.

"Back to base!"



Chapter 21

The doctor, notified by the truck's short-wave, was waiting in the admiral's office to give Hanlon the shots of antidote and attend to his wounds. He had barely finished when a waiter brought food.

These two gone, Hawarden felt free to demand of Hanlon, "Open up, please. What's this all about?"

"Full coverage?" Hanlon asked meaningly.

The admiral flipped a couple of toggle switches on his desk. "There is now."

"I'll tell you the story in a bit, but there are several more things to be done, fast."

He described the location of the hidden spacefield. "Get some scouts out there quick, but if the freighter's not ready to leave, have 'em keep hidden and merely watch it. I don't want anything done until just before take-off—it's important we arrest all of its crew and passengers."

"Right!" Admiral Hawarden turned to his communicators, and orders rapped out.

"You'll have to tell me procedure here, sir, for I don't know how to get what I need. I want to recommend that the entire Corps fleet rendezvous near here immediately so we can go to a planet called Algon, and take it over. But first we'll have to find out exactly where in space Algon is. May I talk with your planetographers, please?"

The admiral looked at him quizzically. "You haven't been in the SS very long, have you, Hanlon?"

"No," the young man looked up in surprise. "This is my first assignment. Why do you ask?"

"Because in emergencies such as this you give orders, not ask for permission. Every resource of the entire Corps is yours to command when you feel it necessary."

"Why ... why, I didn't realize that," Hanlon shrank back in astonishment. "You ... you mean they'd let a pup like me issue commands to the whole Corps?"

"They certainly would, sir. I don't know if you realize it yet or not, but no one gets into the Secret Service unless the High Command is pretty sure they are exceedingly high-powered individuals. So whatever you want, just yell. I am entirely at your service."

There was a moment of incredulity in the young man's eyes, then he straightened, and that depth of character which the men in command had foreseen came to the surface, and he issued crisp orders. "Very well, sir, I'll take you at your word. Please connect me with the planetographers, then get me the High Admiral."

Hawarden activated the intercom, and when a face appeared on the screen ordered, "Give this young man any information he wants."

"Do you know a planet named 'Algon' or 'Guddu'?" Hanlon asked. "It's about twelve and a quarter light years distant, right ascension about eighteen hours, declination around plus fifteen degrees. Here's a rough chart of what I could see from there." He held up to his screen a sheet on which he had been busily, marking such super-giant suns and nebulae as he remembered. "... You don't know it? Then find it immediately. Rush it through. I must have its closest approximation inside of two hours!"

He closed that switch and looked up as Admiral Hawarden handed him a microphone. "Grand Fleet High Admiral Ferguson is awaiting your orders, sir."

George Hanlon's young hand was shaking as he took the mike, but his voice was steady and crisp. "Admiral Ferguson, sir, this is George Hanlon of the Secret Service. I was detailed to the Simonidean affair. I've just returned from a planet I know both as 'Algon' and as 'Guddu.' The planetographers are checking now for its exact location.

"The enemy—and I don't yet know entirely who they are, although the Prime Minister of Simonides was one of the top men, if not the actual head—are building a great fleet there. They already have at least thirty-two capital ships in building, and each one of them is about twice the size of our largest battleship. Yes, that's right—twice the size. However, as near as I could find out, none of them are yet far enough completed to fly, and perhaps not even to fight. They also have nearly a hundred medium and light cruisers, and over two hundred smaller ships—scouts, destroyers and so on. Many of those latter two classifications are fully completed and at least partially manned.

"That fleet must be captured or destroyed before they can get it finished. I know you realize that better than I, sir, but it must be taken care of immediately.... Oh, no, sir, you can't just blast the planet. There are natives there that are high enough in the cultural scale so the planet cannot be colonized, but they must be freed from the slavery under which they are now held. They are fine, friendly people.... You'll rendezvous the fleet immediately? That's fine, sir. Oh, one more thing, please notify SSM Regional Admiral Newton to send all available SS men here at once. There's a lot of cleaning up to do here on Simonides.... Thank you, sir, I hope I was in time with this information."

Hanlon broke the connection, then sank back into his chair for minutes, thinking seriously, and the admiral respected his silence. But after a time the smell of that delicious food made Hanlon's hunger and weakness reassert itself. Feeling he had done all he could at the moment, he sat up again, pulled his chair closer to the desk, and lifted the napkin from the tray.

"I'll talk while I eat, if you'll pardon the discourtesy, sir," he began, picking up knife and fork. And as he ate he gave Hawarden as full an account of the situation as he could, except for references to his mental abilities and the part they had played.

The admiral listened attentively, and when Hanlon paused at what seemed the end of his narrative, the officer straightened with determination.

"Then the thing to do now is to find out who all is in back of this. That's why you asked for all available SS men, I understand that. But about His Highness—was he top man?"

Hanlon knit his forehead in concentration. "I ... don't ... know," he said slowly. "No one ever spoke of anyone as his superior. He's the man they were all afraid of...." He paused a moment, then said, even more slowly, "I've a peculiar hunch. I wish you'd have your best physicians examine that body. Have 'em use X-rays and fluoroscopes, rather than an autopsy. I'm not entirely convinced he was a human being."

"What?" There was incredulity in that question. "What gives you that idea?"

"Sorry, sir, I can't give you my reasons just now," Hanlon's face flushed, and his eyes were appealing. "It isn't that I don't trust you, sir, but there's one secret I feel shouldn't be told now. Maybe later—and if I do tell it to anyone outside of SS men, you will be the first—you deserve that."

"Right, sir. I didn't mean to prowl," the admiral showed no resentment, much to Hanlon's relief. "Your orders go, as I said."

He touched a stud on his desk and when the doctor's face appeared on the screen, gave the necessary orders. "Look carefully to see if the internal arrangement of bones and organs is human—but do not cut without specific orders."

"What about the emperor, sir?" Hanlon asked. "You've undoubtedly formed some sort of opinion about him."

"He was a wonderful soldier and executive as a young and as a middle-aged man," Hawarden said thoughtfully and, Hanlon sensed, sadly. "It was his grandfather who pulled the original coup that made this planet into an empire with himself as first emperor. His son, the second emperor, was also a very good co-ordinator, and solidified the empire status. The present emperor went into the army at sixteen, and rose rapidly through sheer merit rather than because his father was emperor. All historians agree on that. Just before he reached thirty he was in full command. He was thirty-six when his father died, and he became the third emperor."

"Then you think he may be back of this whatever-it-is?"

"No," the admiral shook his head. "Somehow I can't quite feel that way. During his first years as emperor he was one of the most co-operative of all Planetary rulers within the Federation."

"What about his Prime Minister ... and by the way, what was his name? I never heard him called anything but 'His Highness'?"

"His name was Gorth Bohr. He seems to have appeared from nowhere almost overnight—as an important personage, I mean. We've traced him back, and he came to Simonides about fourteen years ago, from Sirius Three. He's been Prime Minister for about ten years and it has been noticeable that he has gained more and more power during the past few years, as the emperor has been failing both physically and mentally."

"I wonder ..."

"Yes?"

"D'you suppose that failing health and mind could have been caused, instead of natural?"

The admiral was plainly taken aback. "What? Caused?"

Hanlon nodded. "Just that. From what little I know of His Highness he was just the kind to do a thing like that—and capable of it, too." He sank back in deep thought for some time, as did Hawarden. They were interrupted by a buzzer from the desk. The admiral sat up quickly and switched on the intercom. "Yes?"

"Bohr certainly was not a human being," the doctor reported, and Hanlon could see the surprise and wonder on his face in the screen. "There are structural differences so far removed from ours that they could not possibly be Homo Sapiens."

"Any idea where he came from?" Hanlon asked, and the admiral relayed the question.

"Never saw anything like it before, and I've just made a quick search through all my books here that contain pictures and diagrams of the races of which we know."

Hanlon shook his head in resignation and Hawarden, after thanking the doctor and giving orders for the disposition of the Prime Minister's body, disconnected.

"Is it too late to get an audience with the emperor?" Hanlon sat erect.

The admiral glanced at his wrist chronom. "Pretty late, but I'll see."

He had just reached for a switch when his call buzzer sounded, and when he activated the screen the planetographer reported, "We can't find any such system on our charts."

Hanlon's spirit sank. "Keep looking!" he ordered. "Check with the astronomers. It's somewhere around there—I just came from that planet. The sun is hot—looks like Sol from inside Venus's orbit, although I don't think it's as large as Sol."

Hawarden then put through his call to the imperial palace, his position as local head of the I-S C getting him fast service. After some haggling with the emperor's secretary, and his insistence that it was a matter of the utmost importance that could not wait until morning, he was finally told His Majesty would see him.

"Got it," Hawarden rose. "Come along."

Hanlon started toward the door, then looked down at his torn and dirty clothing. "I'm not very presentable."

"We can get you a uniform from the barracks."

Hanlon thought swiftly. "No, I'd better not chance it, although I'd sure like to."

The admiral thought a moment, then stepped back to his desk and pressed a stud. "Roberts, come in here."

A young man almost exactly Hanlon's size, wearing civilian clothes, came into the office. Hawarden grinned. "Those do?"

The SS man smiled back. "Swell."

"Strip," the admiral commanded the astonished clerk. "We need your clothes in a hurry for this man. Quick," as the young man hesitated.

Hanlon was already removing his own. "I'll give you a hundred credits for them, Roberts, but this is prime urgent."

The other laughed then, and started pulling off his suit as fast as he could. "A hundred'll more than buy me a new one—it's a good bargain."

The exchange was quickly made. Hanlon gave the clerk his money, then he and the admiral hurried to the palace, where they were ushered without delay toward the emperor's private study.

"Watch me fairly closely," Hanlon whispered as they were walking down the hall. "If I shake my head, he's lying."

Admiral Hawarden's eyes widened, and though he said nothing, he was thinking, "This is certainly the most amazing young man I've ever met. Where does the SS get 'em?"

They had barely entered the study when a door on the far side of the room opened, and the emperor came in, leaning on the arm of an aide. He sat down heavily behind the ornate desk.

"Well well well," he barked pettishly. "What's all this about, sir? What's so important you have to get me out of bed?"

"I am most sorry to have put Your Majesty to such inconvenience," Admiral Hawarden said diplomatically, "but you will soon see that this is, indeed, most urgent. It is also very secret, and I respectfully request we be permitted to speak with you alone."

The emperor waved his hand impatiently, and the aide retired from the room.

Admiral Hawarden set a small box on the desk and turned on a switch. "Just a portable spyray block," he apologized.

"I know, I know," came the exasperated voice. "Get on with it, man, I'm tired."

"Permit me to introduce George Hanlon, of the Corps. We have, first, a bit of sad news to give Your Majesty, and then some questions we most urgently request you to answer as fully as you can."

The emperor did not look pleased at this suggestion that he be questioned, but said nothing.

"Your Prime Minister, Gorth Bohr, was killed a few hours ago, Sire."

"What?" The emperor sat upright, his face showing the utmost incredulity, but Hanlon's mind-probing had prepared him for the reaction, so he was not surprised to note neither dismay nor regret.

For the monarch suddenly sank back into his chair, and a long, loud suspiration of relief came from him. He closed his eyes and his face finally relaxed a bit. Suddenly he sat bolt upright. "Are you sure?" he barked.

"Positive," the admiral assured him. "The body is at Base, and has been for several hours."

"How did he die?"

"He was stung to death by bees, Sire," Hanlon answered.

"Bees?" incredulously.

"That's right, Sire. He and three of his men were attacked by a swarm of bees in one of the basement rooms of his palace, and died within minutes."

The emperor was silent for moments, mind roiling. Then he shook his head as though almost not daring to believe this news.

"It may sound strange, Hawarden," he said at last, "but I do not think I was ever as glad of anything in my life as I am of this. He was an evil thing, though I did not even begin to suspect it until years after I appointed him my Minister. By the time I felt sure, it was too late. He had ... gotten some sort of a hold over me ... I no longer seemed to have a mind or will of my own any more."

The admiral risked a glance at Hanlon, who nodded agreement.

"Do you know what he was planning, Your Majesty?"

"Planning? Planning? You mean something else beyond ruling Simonides through me, or possibly supplanting me entirely?"

"I'm afraid he was, Sire. Did you know he was secretly building a great war fleet on another planet?"

There was an almost-imperceptible pause before the answer was barked out. "Nonsense, sir. That I can't believe!"

Hanlon shook his head. The emperor was lying now. Why? Was he part—perhaps head—of the plot?

His mind-probing had not yet reached an answer to those important questions. They would have to question him skillfully to make him think of the things Hanlon so desperately needed to know.



Chapter 22

"They certainly are building a great fleet Sire, on a planet they call 'Algon'," Hanlon stated crisply, and almost gave a yell of glee as, the emperor's mind fleetingly called up a picture—distorted as though it had only been described to him—of one of the Greenies. He hurriedly continued punching. "I know His Highness was the guiding mind behind that, for I was supposed to be working for him, and I've just come back from four months there."

The emperor started to deny it, but Admiral Hawarden stepped closer to the desk and fixed the monarch with a stern eye.

"We don't wish to be discourteous or insolent, Sire, but we know that you do know something about this. Wait, please," he held up his hand as the emperor opened his mouth, so apparently about to demand an apology for the lese majeste of calling him a liar. "We do not believe you were doing this of your own accord, nor that you initiated the conspiracy. But we do feel positive you know something about it. And for the peace of the Federation we must have every possible scrap of information you can give us."

The emperor became gradually less antagonistic, and as his face flushed his eyes became pleading.

"I ... I ...", he struggled to go on, then realizing that something was holding him back, changed the subject slightly. "I hope, gentlemen, you will forgive me. I don't know what has come over me these past years. I think you know, Hawarden, that I was always heartily in favor of the Federation, and did all I could to make it a force for peace throughout the System. I know only too well how inter-planetary war would wreck all our economies, and I do not want that. But I seem to have ... changed ... these last years ... and I didn't want to!" It was almost a sob.

The admiral, as man to man, went quickly around the desk and laid his hand comfortingly on the imperial shoulder. "We all felt that, Sire. You were far too great a ruler to have changed so radically. It puzzled and saddened us all, but now I believe we can begin to see the reason—and it doesn't harm you in our estimation now that we realize you couldn't help it."

The emperor raised puzzled eyes. "What do you mean by that?"

"May I answer that, Sire?" Hanlon stepped forward. "We know now that Gorth Bohr wasn't human—he was an alien from ..."

"An ... alien?" the emperor quavered.

"Yes, Sire, definitely. We do not yet know where he came from originally, but we do know he had considerable more—or different—mental powers in some ways, than most humans. You are under some sort of a compulsion or hypnosis that prevents your speaking out. The fact that your health failed and your body deteriorated so rapidly proves it was against your desires."

The emperor was startled by that, and his body shook as with a palsy. He repeated his query, dully, "An alien?"

Hanlon and Hawarden nodded silently. After a moment Hanlon took a deep breath and dared the question: "May we have permission to search Bohr's quarters and offices to see what evidence we can find that will perhaps tell us more about his projects?"

His Majesty straightened with decision, and years seemed to drop from his face and figure. "You certainly may, I'll give orders at once, and you can send in as many of your experts as you desire. I can sense the need for speed."

Hanlon bowed his thanks, and the admiral voiced his. "That is very gracious, Sire. The Corps thanks you."

The emperor was gaining strength and his old shrewdness by the moment. "What about that fleet you say is being built on ... on some other planet?"

Hanlon noticed that hesitation and guessed the reason. But for the moment he let it lie, and answered the question. "It is not yet a serious menace, Sire, but will be shortly if not taken into the Corps' hands."

Admiral Hawarden explained further that the grand fleet was being assembled, and would cope with the problem within days.

"Good. Good. Call on us for whatever assistance we can give."

They talked over many details for some time, then the admiral rose as though to take his leave.

But Hanlon wasn't yet ready. He wanted to pick up that matter he had let lie some minutes ago. He stepped up to the desk and looked straight into the imperial eyes.

"Sire, please think hard with all your will. I believe you know more about Bohr's plans, but that the knowledge was hypnotically sealed in your sub-conscious. Bohr had that power, we know. Please try to break that seal. Bohr is dead now—his compulsion can no longer bind you!"

The emperor seemed doubtful, but at Hanlon's continued, assured insistence, finally agreed to try. He concentrated for long, long, agonizing minutes. Great beads of sweat stood out on his white, strained face, and his hands clenched into tight balls.

Hanlon almost repented, and thought of breaking the spell and telling the suffering ruler it didn't matter that much, that they could get the knowledge elsewhere. But he had to have those facts—and if he could suffer as he had done, so could others.

But just then the emperor suddenly relaxed. His features became more composed and natural, and he smiled in relief.

"It is coming now," he wiped his face with his silk kerchief. "Bohr did boast to me that he would one day rule the galaxy. But then he told me I must forget what he said, and I did."

That speech seemed to release him still further from the awful tension that had held him for so many years. He was weary but happy. "He didn't tell me much in detail, as nearly as I can remember. Merely that plans were being made to gain control first of this planet, then the Federation, and after that the whole Galaxy."

"Did he say who was with him in this outrageous undertaking?" Hawarden gasped, and Hanlon added, "We mean, was he alone in it, or was some other planet or system backing him?"

The emperor thought steadily for some time, then shook his head. "I don't seem to remember," he sighed sadly. Nor could he, after half an hour's more concentration. "I am sorry I cannot give you that information, gentlemen. But you will soon, we trust, have reason to believe that we are once more desirous of doing everything possible for the peace and well-being of the Federation."

There were tears in Admiral Hawarden's eyes and he impulsively stepped forward and grasped the emperor's hand.

"Welcome back, Sire," he said sincerely.

Back at Base, there were messages awaiting, that had come in while they were gone. The admiral handed one of them to Hanlon. It was terse, but brought a happy smile to his face.

"Coming immediately, with full crew. Congratulations. NEWTON."

* * * * *

Others were from Grand Fleet, regarding the measures being taken for the fleet rendezvous, and the part the Simonidean sector was to play. Another was from the planetographers, giving the spatial location of Algon, with the note that they had finally found it on a star map, and that a survey ship was being sent there at once.

Hanlon punched a stud. "Stay away from Algon," he rapped out when the scientist's face appeared on the screen. "Don't send that ship until you get permission. Just forget all about even having heard of Algon!"

The elder looked questioningly at the youthful civilian giving him such orders. "I don't know ..."

"Hawarden speaking," the admiral pushed Hanlon aside and glared into the screen. "That's an order! Forget it, as you were told!"

"Yes, sir. It's forgotten."

Hanlon turned wearily to the admiral. "I'm minus on sleep and strength right now, sir. Think I'll go get some rest. In the morning I'll come back and we'll start searching Bohr's stuff."

"Right, I could use some caulking-off myself. A couple more orders, then I'm going home. Do you want to bunk here at Base?"

"No, guess I'd better go back to the hotel. I can't appear here too much, you know—might be recognized by some Terran officer. And that brings up a problem. What will be my apparent status before the crews doing the searching?"

"Civilian specialist, called in by the Corps," Hawarden was used to quick decisions. "We often use such. I'll sign a pass for you. Better use a disguise and different name, hadn't you?"

Hanlon nodded. "False mustache, skin darkened, contact lenses to color my eyes. And I'll call myself Spencer Newton."

Hawarden looked surprised. "You pick a name fast."

The SS man grinned back. "It's the one I was born with,"—and then the admiral really was surprised, but asked no questions. He filled in the pass with that name. "Better come directly into this private office."

* * * * *

When they met in the morning Hawarden complimented Hanlon on his disguise, then quickly reported he had already assembled crews and one was working at the imperial palace and the other at the ex-Prime Minister's own residence.

"Good," Hanlon was well-rested and his voice was crisp. "I think I'll start at Bohr's place."

The two officers left Base, a staff car rushing them to the ministerial residence. They entered and Hawarden led the way down a hall towards Bohr's private office.

But just as they reached the door and were turning to go in, Hanlon suddenly pushed the admiral past it, then jumped across the opening himself. Hawarden turned in puzzlement, but Hanlon signalled quiet and led him into a small reception room adjoining.

"There's one man in there you'll have to get rid of before I can go in," he explained in a swift whisper. "Young junior lieutenant named Dick Trowbridge. He'd recognize me even in this disguise. How'd he ever get here to Sime?"

"Trowbridge? Oh, yes, he was sent here from Terra when we asked Prime for a code-expert."

"Umm, that's right, Dick was a code-specialist," Hanlon nodded. "He was my roommate all through cadet school," he explained. "It would give the whole works away if he saw me here."

"He's our only good decoder," Admiral Hawarden frowned. "We lost our best man. We'll have to use him if any code shows up."

"I realize that, but send him away for now. If we get code we can send it to him at Base."

"Right, sir, I'll fake an excuse."

Some five minutes later Hawarden returned. "All clear now, sir."

They started out, then Hanlon stopped the admiral with a hand on his arm. "Please, sir," his face was flaming, his eyes miserable, but his voice was fairly steady. "Please don't call me 'Sir' all the time. It may be that my position as an SS man carries that distinction, but it makes me nervous. A youngster like me has no business being called 'Sir' by a top brass like you who has worked nearly half a century to achieve the honor."

Admiral Hawarden grinned suddenly, and hugged Hanlon with a fatherly gesture. "You're all right, Son, and I'm for you. From now on you're simply 'Newton'. Anything to make you ... hey, 'Newton'? Are you...?"

Hanlon nodded. "His son."

The admiral's eyes glowed. "Wonderful man, your dad. One of the Corps' greatest."

The young man swallowed hard. "I think so, too."

They had been working nearly a quarter of an hour, sorting through the voluminous papers in the minister's desk and files, when another Corps lieutenant came in, his hand bandaged.

"What happened to you, Patrick?" Hawarden asked in surprise.

"That blasted toogan bit me, and I had to get my hand dressed."

"What toogan?"

"One that must have been Bohr's pet. It was flying all about the room yelling and cussing us out. I was crossing to the corner of the room, there, when it screamed and bulleted over, slashing my hand when I threw it up to protect my face."

Another of the men spoke up. "Took three of us to capture it, and I wanted to wring its neck, but Captain Banister wouldn't let me, so we stuffed it into its cage and sent it to the Zoo."

Hanlon was intensely interested in this, but one thing puzzled him. He signalled Hawarden to one side, and asked in a whisper, "What's a toogan?"

"A native bird here much like your Terran parrots, but with even more beautiful plumage, and they can talk much better than parrots. They seem to have quite a lot of intelligence."

Hanlon was instantly alert. "Get it back here for me."

Puzzled but unquestioning, the admiral went to the visiphone and dialed the zoo. "Admiral Hawarden, Curator. I believe the Prime Minister's toogan was just delivered to you. There was a mistake. Please send it back ... never mind, sir, what the 'why' is, just return it immediately."

He flipped off the switch impatiently, and looked at the young Secret Serviceman with wondering eyes. A toogan? What on earth did the fellow want with ... this was the most amazing man he'd ever seen. But he sure did get results.

He turned back to his men. "Anything yet?"

"Nothing but ordinary state papers so far, sir," was the consensus.

"Keep looking. Remember, we especially want any mention of any planets whose names you do not recognize; anything about ship-building, or about mining or other planets."

Hanlon handed Hawarden a note, and the admiral sent a couple of marines off on a run. Half an hour later a truck pulled up in front, and the marines carried in another desk. It was the one from that back room in the Bacchus Tavern.

Hanlon himself went through this, but was quickly disappointed. There wasn't a thing he wanted in any of the drawers. He turned the desk upside down, looking for secret compartments. Finding none, he ordered the marines to take it to pieces. At a nod from the admiral they dismantled the desk.

But it was perfectly innocuous.

Hanlon was just turning away, disgustedly, when a man came from the zoo with the caged toogan. At sight of the familiar room the bird perked up.

"Hey, Boss!" it called out in a clear but whistling sort of voice, "I'm home again." Hanlon had no trouble understanding its words, spoken in Simonidean, of course, but was busy examining its mind. He walked over to the messenger and held out his hand. "I'll take the bird."

The zoo attendant looked at him doubtfully. "It's a vicious thing, sir," he said. "Be careful—it's already injured one man. They say no one but the Prime Minister can handle it."

"It's all right," the admiral spoke. "Thank you for bringing it. That will be all."

Hanlon took the cage and, giving the admiral a meaning look, walked out of the room with it.



Chapter 23

In the next room George Hanlon sank into a comfortable chair, then opened the cage door and the toogan fluttered out and perched on the chair arm. The young man fitted his mind more closely to the bird's brain and began probing. Carefully he studied its every line and channel, utterly oblivious to everything else.

His first brief examination brought a slight sound of pleased surprise to his lips. This bird had a real mind, far better than any he had previously discovered in any animal or bird, even better than a dog's. And he could read everything in it.

Best of all, the toogan had a pictorial type of mind—it remembered in scenes as well as words. It transmitted an almost perfect likeness of the being Hanlon had first known as The Leader and later as His Highness Gorth Bohr—any slight discrepancies being caused by the difference between a bird's ability to see and that of humans.

Like a swiftly unreeling three-dimensional film, Hanlon saw the Minister working at his desk, walking about the room, receiving callers, playing with the bird, eating—and sharing his food with it—talking to it confidentially as he might have done to a well-trusted aide.

For over an hour Hanlon sat there, and the bird, seemingly asleep, sat on the chair arm without making a move. Finally Hanlon rose, and the toogan flew onto his outheld arm much as a falcon might ride. In that manner they returned to the main office where the others were still working.

They were all amazed at this peculiar situation, but only Admiral Hawarden came even close to guessing what was going on. The memory of that astounding performance of the pigeon made him think perhaps this surprising young man had actually been reading the bird's mind—or something equally fantastic.

Hanlon set the toogan down on a corner of the big desk, then started walking toward a corner closet. As he neared it the bird seemed to come to life. It began screaming, "No need looking there! There's nothing in there. Nobody's ever to look into that closet! Sic 'em, Pet!"

It dove straight at Hanlon, beak open and screaming in rage. But the man's hand and mind were quicker. Taking possession of the bird's mind again, he silenced it and grabbed it by the neck, holding it gently but firmly under his arm.

"Open that closet and search it thoroughly," Hawarden snapped.

Several of the Corpsmen jumped forward, and again the toogan struggled, but Hanlon was holding it firmly by force, as well as tightening his mental control, which the powerful compulsion Bohr had implanted in the bird's mind had momentarily broken through.

In minutes everything was out of the closet, and while some of the officers were examining every bit of the contents, others, with powerful, portable glo-lights, were going over the walls and shelves. There was a three-foot ladder-stool in the closet, and one of them started to mount it to search the ceiling.

But the moment the man touched the stool the bird's mind gave Hanlon a clear picture of a procedure it had witnessed many times. He gasped, and called out to the Corpsmen, "That stool! Never mind looking at the closet itself or that other stuff. Bring the stool out here!"

The surprised lieutenant jumped down, and carried the little ladder over to where Hanlon was standing with the bird.

"Unscrew the left rear leg—about the middle, I believe."

The officer up-ended the stool, and after a moment's work found out how to unscrew the leg—it had a reverse thread. In a few more instants he had it off, and they all gasped.

The leg was hollow, and in it were a number of tightly-rolled sheets of very thin, tough paper.

The Corpsman started to unroll the papers, but at a quick signal from Hanlon, Admiral Hawarden stepped forward.

"I'll take those, Lieutenant. I think, for the time being, at least, we need search no further. Since most of the papers we have found here are purely planetary matters, they're not for us to meddle with, even though we have permission to do so. Back to Base—if these are not what we want we can start again later."

As the men filed out, Hawarden activated the visiphone, and got the minister's office at the imperial palace. "Find anything we want there, Captain?" he asked the man who answered.

"Not yet, sir."

"Report back to Base, then. I think we've got it here."

He disconnected and handed the papers to Hanlon who had, in the meantime, returned the toogan to its cage, and now sat down. He saw the young man's face fall at first glance at those dozens of rolled sheets.

"What's wrong?"

"It's in code," came the explanation reply as Hanlon swiftly examined each page. "In code—or in Bohr's native language, whatever that may be."

"Ouch! If it's that, we're sunk. Better get Trowbridge on it anyway, hadn't we?"

"Yes," slowly, "that's all we can do now." After some moments, "Guess I'll keep out of sight for a while. I'll go back to the hotel. You can get in touch with me there. I'm still sort of shaky from that beating I got, and need a lot of rest."

"Want the doctor to look you over again?"

"No, I don't think I need that now. He said to have the dressings renewed in two days, so I'll see him tomorrow."

"Right, Newton. If anything comes up, I'll get in touch."

"Oh, be sure and let me know about that freighter. You've had no word yet, I suppose."

"Only that it's still there, being loaded. The scouts are watching it closely, ready to blast at first sign of departure."

"Warn them that we want all of the crew and passengers."

The two started out, but suddenly Admiral Hawarden stopped Hanlon with his hand on the young man's arm. "About that business with the toogan. I'm not prying if you don't want to talk, but shouldn't I warn all the men who saw it, to keep quiet?"

"Shades of Snyder, yes! I got so interested I forgot all about others seeing me with it. Yes, absolutely, it must never be talked about."

He again looked pleadingly at the admiral. "I ... I'm sorry, sir ... but at that I know you're smart enough to have figured out most of it. All right, highly confidential, I can do a bit of mind-reading, and especially with animals and birds, whose minds are not as complex as human's. I can even control 'em to some extent."

The admiral nodded. "I sort of figured as much, with the amazing performance of that pigeon. Your secret is safe with me—it certainly must not be spread around. But I don't mind saying I'm glad it's you has that ability, not me," with a half-hearted laugh.

"It is a load," Hanlon admitted soberly, then brightened, "but it sure saved my neck when Bohr had me prisoner and was about to torture me."

The admiral looked surprised, then shivered. "The bees! I hadn't connected ...", his voice died away, and after another brief hesitation he left, while Hanlon slowly made his way outside, took a ground-cab, and was driven back to the hotel.

* * * * *

About five the next morning Hanlon was awakened by the stealthy sound of a key in the lock of his hotel room door. His hand slid swiftly under his pillow, and firmly grasped the blaster there.

As he saw the door open and a figure slip inside, in one swift movement he sat up, and switched on the bed light. "Up with those hands!" he commanded the man who was closing the door carefully, his back still towards the bed.

The hands went up, and the man slowly turned.

"Dad!" Hanlon yelled in relief, and climbed out of bed. "How did you get here so soon?"

His father met him halfway, and said from their embrace, "I was on Estrella when your call came. That's only a few lights from here, and they sent a speedster." Then he grinned. "I'm glad to see you're learning to keep your eyes open, even in your sleep."

Hanlon started dressing while they talked. In swift, concise sentences he told his father all that had occurred to him since he started his job.

"Nice work, Spence," his father applauded when he had finished, then grinned again, "although I ought to spank you for taking such risks, after I told you to take it easy at first. I was a bit worried when you disappeared, until Hooper reported what you were after. But about your job," he continued after a moment, "we had no idea you could get so much. We merely hoped you might find a lead or two for us to work on. But you've practically wrapped this up for us."

"Unh-uh," his son demurred. "It's far from finished. We've got to get to Algon and grab those ships. And if any of them, or enough of them, are in shape to fight, that may take some doing ... if we can do it at all. Then there's the job of finding out where Bohr came from, and how much of a menace his planet or system or whatever it is, will be."

"Sure, sure, I realize that, Son. But those are incidentals. You've given us the 'what' and 'who' we needed to know. But I see you're dressed, and I'm hungry. Let's go eat."

As they were breakfasting his father asked for details, and Hanlon explained about his new mental powers, and how they had helped him. "I can't do much with men, except to read their surface thoughts," he explained. "But with animals I can do more. I can follow those surface thoughts and memories back and down into their total mind, and can take over and control them. But it won't work with people—humans seem to have a sort of natural block or screen I can't penetrate."

Newton's face was a study as he shook his head. "To think my boy can do things like that!"

"How do you suppose it happens I can, Dad?"

"You didn't get it from me, that's for sure," his father grimaced ruefully. "Perhaps through your mother, from her father. He was a peculiar duck. They used to call him psychic, for he'd get some of the craziest hunches—for lack of a better descriptive word. He often seemed to know a lot of things when no one could figure out how he could have learned them. Say, now that I remember back, he used to have quite a way with animals, too, although I doubt if he had anything like your powers."

"You said I'd probably develop other mental abilities," Hanlon grinned nervously, "but I certainly never imagined anything like this."

"Me neither," ungrammatically. "It's weird!"

They had nearly finished eating when their waiter brought a portable visiphone to the table. "A call for you, Mr. Hanlon," and he plugged the set into a wall-socket.

Hanlon flipped the switch and saw Admiral Hawarden's face smiling from the screen. "We got the freighter just a few minutes ago," he reported. "One of our men daringly mingled with the crew as they were boarding, and jammed the airlock so it couldn't be closed. We arrested them all, with only two of our men injured, and five of the enemy. They're bringing them into Base now."

"Fine work, sir. Admiral Newton is here with me—we'll see you in your off ... wait, sir ... Dad says you'd better come here to the hotel. Room 946."

They were barely back in Hanlon's room when Admiral Hawarden knocked. He and Newton were old friends, and greeted each other with genuine warmth.

"That's quite a boy of yours, Newt. He's got the stuff."

"Yeah, I'm sort of proud of him, myself. He's really done a job, especially for first assignment."

"Have either of you any orders for me concerning the mopping up?" Hawarden asked, but looked at Hanlon.

"Ask Dad ..."

But his father interrupted. "It's your party, Son. Speak up. Right now you're not a youngster just out of school, you are the Inter-Stellar Corps," he added impressively.

Hanlon flushed, but there was a sureness in his voice as he answered, that only the bitter experiences through which he had so recently passed, and which had matured him so greatly, could have brought.

"We've got to liberate Algon and capture those new battleships as quickly as possible, of course. But at the same time we must be trying to find out what planet or system Bohr came from, and take steps to see they can't harm us. That means we've got to exert every effort to get every single person who was working with or for Bohr, and especially to find out if he had any superiors."

"Right. The fleet should be here in another two days, and then Ferguson will want to blast for Algon. The other matter will depend on so many things we don't know yet."

"Has Trowbridge cracked that code yet?"

"He reported first thing this morning that he broke it late last night. I've assigned several men to help him, and they should have it transcribed soon."

Hanlon turned to his father. "Your men here yet?"

"They're coming in as fast as they can get here."

"Better examine those men from the freighter, and have your gang follow up all leads. They'll have to break down Bohr's hypnosis to get any information. Although," he paused and his face grew thoughtful, "I'm wondering if anyone besides Bohr really knew all he was planning. I'm beginning to believe he was a lone wolf."

Admiral Hawarden nodded in agreement. "I've been forced to the same belief."

Something clicked in Hanlon's mind. "The emperor," he exclaimed. "Maybe we'd better have another go at him. I'll bet his mind's a lot freer from that compulsion now, and perhaps he can remember more of what Bohr sealed away from his conscious memory."

Hawarden nodded. "That's a good bet. I'll arrange it."

Two hours later the emperor was free to receive them, and the four were soon closeted in his study.

"It's a strange, weird feeling, gentlemen," he said when they had explained what they wanted. "It's almost like trying to read some other person's mind. I've felt that Bohr's influence was receding, and I've been trying to see what more I could find."

He sat silent for a moment, then said slowly, almost in a sing-song voice as though reading from a printed page, "I knew he was building some ships on Algon, but I did not know they were warships. He told me they were a new type with an entirely new propulsive principle that one of our scientists had worked out."

"There's always that possibility, of course," Newton said.

"Why did he say they were building them elsewhere than on this planet?" Hawarden asked.

The emperor frowned in concentration, then a peculiar look came over his features. "That's strange," he marvelled. "You would think I would have been sure to ask that, but I cannot find any memory of ever having done so."

"Algon had most of the natural resources for the building of ships," Hanlon ruminated aloud. "There were the mines, the forests, and slave labor to cut down expenses. It was mostly engineers, scientists and special technicians who were there, overseeing."

"I cannot find in my mind the names of any others who might have been in the conspiracy with Bohr," the emperor answered another question. "He brought only one man to see me, with the request that I present him a decoration. It was the scientist who devised the new drive, he said. A Professor Panek, I believe ..."

"Panek?" Hanlon interrupted. "A heavy-set, ruddy-faced, red-headed man?"

"Yes, that about describes him."

"But Panek was only one of his gunmen," the young SS man was perplexed. "He didn't have brains enough to invent an excuse."

"I wonder, then, what Bohr had in mind to bring such a man here like that?" Hawarden frowned.

"Maybe a trick to help throw His Majesty off guard," Newton suggested.

"Or else just a sop to Panek's vanity, to tie him closer to Bohr," Hanlon said. "A thing like that would have tickled Panek."

"We'll have him rounded up, then."

"No need, Sire," Hanlon explained. "He was one of those men who were torturing me, and was killed by the bees."

The emperor looked at the young man quizzically, and a knowing smile erased much of the tension from his face. "I've heard about that incident. Wasn't it rather peculiar you were not harmed by any of those ferocious bees?"

Hanlon's face was as bland as he could make it. "Not necessarily, Sire. I was sitting still, manacled, you remember. They were moving around and fighting the insects."

The emperor winked, and Hanlon probed into his mind, receiving the distinct impression of friendliness, while the surface thoughts were saying, "I won't pry, but I'd give a lot to know what really did happen—and how."

"The Corps thanks Your Majesty," Admiral Hawarden rose to leave, and Newton and Hanlon did likewise. "We'll keep you closely informed of things as they break," and the three backed from the study, bowing.



Chapter 24

Grand Fleet had been rapidly assembling in the region near Simonides, just outside visual range, and away from the passenger and freight lanes. Mobilization was now complete.

Admiral Newton and Senior Lieutenant Hanlon had been invited to ride the Sirius, High Admiral Ferguson's flagship, and were glad to avail themselves of that privilege. They wore uniforms conforming to their rank, but were disguised so that any chance acquaintances could not recognize them, although there were no other Terrans aboard.

Orders were given, and in strict formation the fleet blasted for Algon. First went the great screen of scouts, fanning out in all directions from a common center, the outer fringes at higher speed until a great bowl-like formation was secured. Then all the scouts standardized their speed. When they reached Algon they would completely englobe the planet just beyond detection range.

Next came the light cruisers, in the same formation, but when they englobed at Algon they would go inside the globe of scouts, nearer the planet's surface. Then the heavy cruisers and battleships would descend in three mass formations, one directly over each of the three known shipyards.

"If any of the ships being built there are in shape to attack—if they have weapons installed and crews to use them," High Admiral Ferguson's orders had been very explicit, "you'll have to burn them down. Otherwise we want those ships untouched."

George Hanlon was thrilled with the excitement of what was coming, yet knew a touch of fear. He had never been under fire, and knew only from hearsay just what it meant to be in a ship that might be destroyed any instant without the least chance of anyone escaping. In space warfare, there usually just were no survivors. You won and lived—or you lost and were blasted out of existence.

But it wouldn't be long now—the scouts were already establishing their globe just outside of detection range. "No signs of being discovered yet," they reported.

Then the light cruisers began slipping through the screen of scouts to take their positions. Suddenly, a number of great beams of energy stabbed up toward them from below, and the screens of the cruisers flared in brilliant confiscations of flame as those mighty rays struck them.

"Don't you cruisers and scouts take foolish chances!" High Admiral Ferguson's voice rasped into the mike. "If those beams are too hot, get back fast! Heavy cruisers and battleships, down!"

Instantly Hanlon could feel the surge of acceleration as the great ship he was riding plummeted planetward. In the plate he and his father were scanning, he could see the dots of blue light that identified the nearest scouts, and a moment later the greens of the light cruisers.

Then those dots fled behind his range of vision as the heavies flashed past them.

The plate Hanlon was using was of limited vision, so he could not see the battle as a whole, as High Admiral Ferguson could in his wide-coverage screens. Only what was going on directly below and close to either side was visible to Hanlon. Yet he could see several of those great, stabbing beams reaching out toward the fleet.

A change in color at one edge of his plate caught his eye, and he saw the ship nearest on his right begin to glow as a heavy beam from below worked on its screens, burrowing its way in and in, trying to blast the ship out of existence.

Great streams of radiance struck and ricocheted from its screens, which were swiftly mounting through the spectrum as more and more power was thrown against them by the enemy below.

The air in the Sirius began to grow hotter, and his father answered his inquiring look, "They're attacking us, too, and that's heating us up. Hope our screens hold," he grinned grimly.

"You said it." A shiver of fear gripped the young man, and he could feel himself trembling. His father threw a comforting arm across his shoulders. "First battles are always toughest," he said evenly, and Hanlon calmed instantly.

He turned his attention to the screen again. That neighboring ship was struggling desperately to escape, knowing she could not stand much more.

"What's the matter with that pilot?" Hanlon yelled. "Why don't he flip her over and beat it?"

"Seems to be held by something," his father's anxious voice was tense. "Have those others got some sort of tractor beam?"

"Tractors?" Hanlon looked up in surprise. "I've read about them, but thought they were impossible."

"Impossible to us because we haven't got 'em yet," Newton said absently. "They are theoretically possible."

Every beam from every Corps ship was piercing downward. Suddenly other ships were appearing, and the young man realized that the light cruisers were coming down to add their might to that of the battleships and heavies.

Four of the light cruisers maneuvered swiftly below the battleship next to the Sirius, one below the other, and in the instant of their alignment the big ship broke free, while the others flashed away from that restricting, holding tractor, or whatever it was.

It seemed like hours that Hanlon's eyes strained, trying to see what was going on. They had slowed, his spaceman's sense told him, and now he could see they were within the atmosphere, not too high above the ground. Now he could make out huge, squat mechanisms from which those deadly rays were pouring.

The Guddus, with their lack of knowledge of things mechanical, had not reported these to Hanlon, else he could have warned Admiral Ferguson about them, and the attack might possibly have been handled differently.

Suddenly a speaker blared, "Sector Two is in our hands. No total losses. A number of the enemy scouts got away—they're far faster than anything we've got."

A yell rose from every throat there in the control room.

Sector Two, Hanlon knew, was the spaceyard where the scouts and light cruisers were being built. "They probably hadn't armed that field as much as these others," he said to his father.

Newton nodded, then the two walked over to the High Admiral's station and glanced into his larger bank of plates.

Now Hanlon could see clearly, and at first glance knew that none of the new enemy ships below them were fighting—only those ground batteries which encircled the shipyard. He could see that most of these were now out of action, destroyed by the Federation ships. The others were under terrific bombardment, not only from the ships' beams, but from their bombs and guided missiles as well.

From the looks of the destroyed batteries, Hanlon guessed the explosive bombs had been followed by thermite to complete their destruction.

"We lost many?" Newton asked.

"No totals," Ferguson's voice was gleeful, "except one light cruiser. We must have caught them napping. If they can't put up any more forces, it'll all be over in a couple of minutes."

A couple of minutes! Hanlon's thought was a gasp. He glanced at his chronom, and was amazed. He had been sure this battle had lasted for hours—but it was less than ten minutes. It didn't seem possible ... but he quickly remembered what he had learned in school, and knowing something of those terrific powers unleashed there, the wonder was now that it had lasted that long.

A speaker near them blared. "Admiral Houghton reporting. Sector Three taken. Two of our cruisers blasted, and one battleship crippled. One enemy battleship was fighting us, and had to be destroyed. They've really got something, sir, that we'll want to study and get for ourselves."

Another yell of triumph came from the Corpsmen, and Hanlon felt a thrill of pride in the Service of which he was a part.

Then a moment later Admiral Ferguson called into his mike, "Cease fire, but stand by on careful watch. Orion and Athenia, send your specialists down in gigs. I'll meet you there."

The landing successfully completed without further activity from the enemy, Ferguson, a number of designated officer-specialists, Newton and Hanlon, some technicians, and a company of marines in full armor, disembarked and marched to the safest part of the ruined, still-burning spaceyard.

Careful examination of the ships there was ordered. The officer-technies, who swarmed aboard the enemy ships, soon began reporting one after another, that none of these partially-built vessels seemed damaged beyond repair.

"Thank heavens they built what few ground-batteries they had well outside the field," Ferguson said to Newton and Hanlon. "We'll get crews in here at once, and complete these ships."

George Hanlon, after his first quick looks about at the damage done, had been sending his mind out and out, trying to get into telepathic communication with any of the natives, but had not had any success. Had they all been killed? Those here at the shipyard, probably yes, he had to admit sadly. The terrific heat would have burned them. But what about the others? Why couldn't he contact them?

"Excuse me, sir," he addressed the High Admiral. "What about the mines and factories?"

"All under control without any trouble, outside of a few individual casualties. Light cruisers and scouts took care of those while the main battle was on."

"I'd like a small cruiser to take me to the mine where I worked," he said, and one was ordered to come down and place itself on special assignment at his disposal.

"Want to come with me, Dad?" he asked.

The two admirals exchanged glances, and Ferguson nodded. "Go ahead if you want to. We won't need you here for now."

In the airlock of the cruiser Hanlon removed the disguising makeup, and it was as his Algonian-known self, dressed in civvies he had brought for that purpose, that he descended at the familiar little spaceport.

His father was intensely interested in that fantastic, seemingly-alive jungle through which they walked to the mine clearing. "I've never seen anything like this," he commented in amazement. "Are these trees and bushes conscious, too?"

"Very slightly," his son told him. "The Guddus call them their 'little cousins,' and I believe can communicate to some extent, but I never could."

As they broke from the jungle's fringe, they saw a double-squad of marines on guard. The two were allowed through the lines, and entered the office. Behind his desk, his face dead white from suspense, sat Peter Philander, and about the room sprawled the engineers, guards and other workers.

"Hi, Mr. Philander!" Hanlon called cheerfully, and at sound of that remembered voice, the superintendent's head, as well as those of all the others, snapped up.

"You!" There was incredulity in the super's voice and manner.

"Yep, it's me," Hanlon grinned. "I'm glad nothing happened to any of you."

"Hmmpff!" Philander snorted defeatedly. "What's the difference between being killed cleanly in a fight, as against a lifetime in prison, or a firing squad?"

"You'll get neither one," Hanlon said quietly, remembering the power he, as a Secret Service operative, carried. "There'll be a trial, of course, but I know that you, at least, are all okay."

"He's boss, ain't he?" one of the guards growled truculently. "Why should he get off free iffen th' rest of us don't?"

"None of you will be harmed because of your part in the plot His Highness Gorth Bohr was scheming. That is broken, and we know you were all just his tools. All any of you will be tried for are your actions as regards the Greenies. If brutality against them is proven, you'll be properly punished for that alone."

He turned to Philander. "Are the natives all right?"

The man looked up hopelessly, unable to believe Hanlon's statement about himself. "How do I know?" his voice was dispirited. "When the Corps captured us, they dragged us from wherever we were working, and as far as I know left the Greenies untended. They've probably all run back to the woods."

Hanlon looked at his father. "I'm going out to look. I have a feeling ..." and he walked out without saying more. Nor was he greatly surprised to see the natives all sitting or standing quietly in their compounds, some feeding from the fertilizer Hanlon was glad to see was still being fed them, others merely resting, waiting.

The gates, of course, were unlocked and wide open, so Hanlon walked quickly back to the hut his crew occupied and stepped inside the doorway. While waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimness he saw a figure launching itself at him. But as he quickly stepped back outside, in case it was an attack, he saw that it was Geck.

"You came back, you came back!" the native was babbling telepathically in an excess of joy. "When the new humans came and took the old humans prisoners, me said it was your work. Me knew you would come. Me tell other Guddu to wait for you here."

"What about those near the places where the ships were being built?" Hanlon's mind asked anxiously. "I tried to get into contact with them but couldn't."

"Many of they were killed, yet most ran to forests when great fires that destroy were started," was the sad response.