Alien Minds (14 page)

The three SS men had been brought together in some little stone building. There the unknown, whom they never saw nor heard, had interrogated them mentally, a process that was extremely painful in a way that Hooper could not, or did not, specify, save that his mind seemed to wince and recoil from any thought of the method, despite Hanlon's utmost attempts to learn it.

There seemed to have been days and nights of this painful questioning, although Hooper could not tell exactly how long—and Hanlon knew it could not have been very many days, since he had seen Manning so recently.

Then, early this morning, shortly after Manning's death, and while Hooper was being questioned, it seemed to him the mental voice had gone away abruptly, leaving him in full command of his senses. He had immediately begun to examine the room, and soon found that the low door was unfastened. Cautiously he opened it, and discovered that it opened to the outside of the building. The admiral had not been in the room with him at the time, nor could Hooper find a way into the other parts of the building—if there were any other parts to it.

Therefore, he had lost no time in leaving by that providentially open door. He started running across a lawn toward the nearest road. Down this he ran, knowing only a terrified compulsion to run, to hide, to get away from that horrible inquisition.

"How long have you been running?" Hanlon asked sympathetically, yet in hopes it might give him a clue.

"Gotta run; gotta get away," Hooper's words said, but the thought flashed across his mind, "since after dawn."

"Then dad's not too far away," Hanlon thought, and began trying to guess where or in what direction the prison might be, and how he could locate it most quickly.

He was awakened to reality to see Hooper rise from the bed, the paralysis broken by that inner compulsion to flee. Before Hanlon could jump up to stop him, Hooper was out of the room.

Hanlon let him go. He hated to do it, but there was no apparent way he could save Hooper now . . . and he
had
to get to his father just as fast as he could. Not only because the admiral was his adored dad, but because he was second in command of the whole I-S C's secret service, and in charge of this mission, and thus the more important at the moment.

"But where is he?" Hanlon's thoughts were an agonized wail. For the first time in months he felt very young, and inexperienced, and unsure.

He jumped to his feet to leave the house and start searching, but restrained himself before he got to the door.

"Whoa, boy, not so fast. I haven't got the faintest idea where dad is. Must think this out first, and not waste a lot of time during which he might die or be killed."

He sank back into his chair again, and his mind swiftly reviewed the pitifully small bits of information he had been able to glean from the deranged mind of his friend Hooper.

Someone, or something, or some group, who were the main support of this opposition, had a mental ability Hanlon thought he knew the Estrellans did not have. At least, he had not found any traces of it anywhere here. Or, wait now. Did the Rulers have it? Was this one of the traits and abilities especially bred into them in the course of making them capable of handling their tremendous task of being Planetary Ruler? Could be. He had not yet had the chance to scan mentally Elus Amir, the present Ruler, except for that one night at the theatre, and then he had not really tried to see what the man had in the way of mental equipment. Hanlon had been so relieved to find he and the audience were applauding, instead of booing, that he had not tried to do so.

If Elus Amir as Ruler had it, did Adwal Irad as Second-In-Line also have those mental powers?

Whoever or whatever it was—and that would have to be studied more thoroughly later—some mind or minds had forced the other three secret servicemen to go to a certain place . . . at present unknown to Hanlon . . . and had there imprisoned them and tried to extract information from their minds.

Information about what . . . and why? What could these unknowns want to know that couldn't be learned by asking direct questions? For the Federation statesmen and Survey men had been glad and anxious to answer fully and truthfully every question that had been asked of them.

And that puzzling thought Hooper had said they received when Manning died. "Your nerve sensitivity is greater than ours—we had not realized it would kill you to be thus interrogated." Or words to that effect. As far as Hanlon knew, the native Estrellans did not have unusual resistance to pain. He had had several encounters with them so far, and had known cases where they were hurt or wounded, and had not noticed any great immunity to pain. Was this, then, another special attribute of the Rulers? But Egon, or Irad, had certainly felt pain when Ebony scratched his chin, and had made quite a fuss about it. Was it real—or was he "putting on an act" to conceal his immunity? Somehow, Hanlon was not willing to accept that last.

Dimly, in the back of his mind, there seemed to be another puzzling thought. What was it? Hanlon worried at it like one of the roches might worry a bone and finally it struck him—hard.

If the other three had been captured, why hadn't he?

At its multiphased scanner in the spaceship high above, the being stiffened suddenly. For long minutes the mind concentrated on this new problem. The plan put into operation that morning had been partially successful. The "location" of that unreadable mind before noticed, found once and then lost—was now known again.

But still, despite every effort, contact with that mind could not be made.

After a time, therefore, with the utmost precision a thought was insinuated into the Estrellan mind constantly being held captive. The thought was seen to take hold, then its strength and urgency was increased.

Soon, although the native was at a loss to account for the reason why such a thought should come to him at that particular time, he nevertheless sent a note to a certain person, giving forceful orders that were to be obeyed immediately.

CHAPTER 11

AT THAT THOUGHT, FEAR STRUCK AT GEORGE Hanlon's vitals, almost like a physical blow. What was planned for
him?

For certainly if these unknowns were onto what the Terrans—or the Corps and the secret service—were trying to do here, and had already captured and tortured three of the four, they would not leave him free to continue working against them.

Cold sweat starting from all his pores, Hanlon sank into a chair, nails digging into palms. His bravado, his cockiness, his belief in his own superiority—all ebbed away like a swift-falling tide.

He had been used to working alone in the service. He had been mostly by himself on Simonides, and altogether alone on Algon. Yet he had not felt such an
aloneness,
such an absolute withdrawal of all support, as he knew in this awful moment.

For at the other places he could contact the SS through the safety deposit boxes, or by the "Andromeda Seven" password, and get almost instant response, and the entire resources of the Corps to back him up. And here on Estrella, while he had been working alone, he met the others occasionally, and the men with the Corps' sneakboat every fortnight. He had known they were
there.

But now they were gone. And Hanlon was to be the next victim . . . and he had no idea who, when, what, where, or why.

For long minutes he sat, shaking with dread, his mind a chaos of nothingness but a swirling, roiling, panic fear.

This was far, far different from that terrible fear he had known back on the
Hellene
when he had first realized he was tangling with trained, unprincipled and viciously-conscienceless killers. Or the time he had been chained in the Prime Minister's dungeon on Simonides. For then he had been facing known problems. This one was totally unknown . . . and man has always felt far more fear of the terrors he cannot see, than of those he can face.

"Blast back," he thought determinedly, ashamed of his fear and resolved to conquer it, "I got through those other troubles all right in the end. How do I know I won't with this? At least, I can be a man, not a cry-baby, especially before I'm actually in danger."

It was sorry advice, and he knew it, but it was just enough at the moment to help him pull himself together.

"So maybe they can kill me . . . after torturing me. So what? I don't expect to live forever, and I knew when I got into this service that it was dangerous. After all, I could get killed any minute just performing routine Corps duties—or if I'd remained a civilian, at my daily job, or walking the streets of Terra."

By main force of will and character, Hanlon forced the fear back and away from the surface of his mind. He concentrated on the problem at hand:

How to find where his father was held captive.

Hooper had apparently been running for about two hours when Hanlon first discovered him, his mind had told. All right, where's that map of Stearra and vicinity he had bought. Ah, there on the table. Let's see now, a man in Hooper's condition could run maybe ten or twelve miles in that time, since his mental terror would have overcome physical fatigue until his muscles could absolutely obey no longer.

All right, circle this point with a ring with a twelve-mile radius . . . so.

But Curt was coming from the south. Concentrate on that direction for the moment. What lies ten to twelve miles from here to the south?

He examined the map carefully, trying to visualize in his mind what lay out in that direction. The Ruler's palace was more or less south, but nearer to fifteen miles. Could Hooper have run that far since dawn? Hanlon didn't think so, though the man had so evidently been running until almost exhausted.

The section Hanlon was visualizing was, he remembered now, mostly filled with the larger homes and estates of the more influential and wealthy.

Yandor's house? No, that was more to the west, and only about two miles from here. Of course, Hooper could have been circling and zigzagging during those hours—oh, but not that much, surely.

Carefully Hanlon pored over the map, trying to figure where his father could possibly be held.

Suddenly, a bit to the east, and about eleven miles from the street where Hanlon lived, he noticed a pencilled dot he had previously made on the map.

Irad's house!

Of course, Hanlon gasped. And that enigmatic stone building—Hooper had thought "stone"—behind the house. Also, all indications up to the present pointed toward the Second-In-Line as the head man of the criminal element . . . and that probably meant of the opposition, as well.

But Hooper's thoughts had been that the SS men's torture and inquisition had been mental. Did Irad have that power? Hanlon had asked himself that before, but now it became increasingly evident that he did, he must have. Besides, now that Hanlon was concentrating on the subject, there had been that curious sensation of a mental block or barrier Hanlon thought he had felt in Egon-Irad's mind. What was behind that curtain?

"Well," Hanlon shivered, "there's only one way to find out. I'll have to scout this place more closely, and see if he's
it."

He rose determinedly to start out. But halted as he realized it was broad daylight, and that he could not go there and investigate the house and grounds—and that stone building in the back—without being seen. He would have to take this slow and easy. Too much depended on him, and there was very little chance of his making it undiscovered even under the best of circumstances. He must not take chances that he knew beforehand were doomed to failure. For he was now the sole and only possibility of his father being freed. That sneakboat was not due for another week and a half, and with Manning and Hooper out of the picture . . . .

Chafing at the delay, his mind a turmoil of tortured thoughts, conflict between his desire to rush and the logical knowledge that he must wait until dark, Hanlon passed the most miserable time of his young life. He had thought he had plumbed the depths of mental agony during those dreadful seven minutes when he had stood at rigid attention in the office of Admiral Rogers, commandant of cadets. But that had been a mere child's game compared to all this fretful waiting.

But those deep, inner and innate characteristics which made George Hanlon what he was, came to the fore during those hours, as he forced himself to endure the wait he knew he must accomplish.

And in that period George Hanlon reached closer to full maturity. He touched, examined and accepted the tremendous concept that man's highest pinnacle of success, his greatest heights of achievement in personal integration, lay in working
with
others for the common good of all, not in feeling that any one man is indispensable; one man—himself, of course—better than others, and more capable than they of achieving all goals.

Sure, he had an ability none of the others had. But that did not make him any better than, nor above them. They, in turn, had many capabilities he did not possess, that were actually as valuable as his mental abilities—if not more so. As an individual, any of them could fail. As a
team,
each giving of his best, they could win out.

And now someone or some group had broken up the team. Well, it was up to him to get it back together again.

George Hanlon suddenly awoke. He sprang from his chair, astonished to see through the window of his room that it was dark outside. He grinned mirthlessly. He had actually fallen asleep there in his chair, in the midst of all his worry.

Then suddenly he realized why. He had thought the matter through, reached definite conclusions and had known, inwardly, that everything was now as it must be until a certain time. Thus calmed and facing that fact, however unconsciously, he had fallen asleep to gain strength for that coming ordeal. Now it was time to go, therefore he had awakened.

He took another half hour to prepare and eat a good meal—he would need all the strength he could get—then left his room and the house. Mounting his trike, he sped away at its swiftest pace toward the neighborhood where Adwal Irad's house lay.