Hanlon was sitting at his usual place in the mine one day when one of the barrow-men ran up and spoke swiftly to Geck, who turned to Hanlon, alarm on his face. “Big boss man come.”
Hanlon jumped to his feet. “Get everyone to work; tell them to act real busy!” he snapped. “You, too!”
He thrust the frequency-transformer into a hole prepared for just such an emergency, grabbed up his shock-rod and stepped closer to the natives. He was standing there, to all appearances strictly on the job of making his charges work, when Philander came crawling up the rise into the pocket where this crew was mining the glossy, lustrous pitch-blank uraninite ore.
“How're things going?” the superintendent greeted Hanlon with at least the appearance of friendliness.
“Just fine,” the young man responded. “Everything's under control.”
“Been looking over the reports, and see your crew is getting out more ore'n any of the others,” the super's voice held just a tinge of anxiety, and Hanlon began probing that mind to see if he could discover just what all this portended.
“I just keep 'em at it,” he shrugged.
“No trouble?”
“Nope, no trouble. Look at 'em,” he waved his hand at the busy crew.
The big man regarded them closely, and could see that every single one of the natives was working at what he knew was their top speed, and without a single slacker. Even the barrow-men were moving almost at a jog-trot rather than the lazy saunter most natives used in an effort to do no more than they were forced to do.
Philander shook his head wonderingly. “How d'you do it?” he asked. “The other guards have to keep shocking one after another of the lazy dogs, yet you've made no move at a single one—and they keep right on hustling. I've never seen a crew work so hard.”
Hanlon wanted desperately to tell him, but he decided the time was not yet. So he merely shrugged the question away as of little consequence. “I dunno, sir. I just stand around watching 'em, and they work.” He grinned into the super's face. “Must be my manly charms—er sumpin',” he chuckled. Then sobered. “Maybe one reason is that I rotate 'em. Any job gets monotonous, so every hour or so I let 'em change around, from pick to barrow to sorting, and so on.”
A frown of annoyance came onto Philander's face, but he quickly erased it. After all, this man was getting out more ore than the others, and that was what he was here for. How he did it didn't matter so much, after all, as long as he kept up his record.
But Hanlon, reading those surface thoughts, knew that the official was still very suspicious—and vastly worried. Hanlon knew he had to disarm the super some way, to get him out of that mood. He decided his air of naivete could still do the trick.
“Mr. Philander, sir,” his voice was very ingenuous, “I don't want to pry into anything that's none of my business, but would you mind telling me what this stuff is we're getting here? It isn't anything dangerous, is it? I mean, it isn't one of those … those radium ores that make a fellow sterile, is it? I may want to get married some day, so I don't want to take any chances.”
The mining engineer looked at him blankly for a moment, then threw back his head and laughter rolled out until it seemed to fill the stope. Hanlon watched the other's mind clear itself of all suspicion … at least for the time being.
Philander rested his hand companionably on the younger man's shoulder. “No, it's nothing like that, so you can quit worrying. And the bonus you'll get, if you can keep up this output, will fix you so you can afford a wife when your time's up and you go back to Sime.”
“Gee, that's good,” Hanlon made his voice and face show how relieved he felt. “It had me worried, even though I haven't got a girl yet.”
The superintendent seemed in good humor now. Hanlon caught the thought that this punk was a good guard, and bright, and he did get the stuff out. The plan of rotating the workers was good—he'd order the other guards to use it. This Hanlon probably was no menace to their plans here, after all. In fact, maybe later they could use him on the bigger job. He (Philander) would so recommend to His Highness when he made his next report.
After a few more casual words the super left, and Hanlon sank back onto his favorite lounging place, thinking very seriously and contemplatively about this whole matter.
Again he had run into that thought about someone called “His Highness,” but never any indication as to who the man was, or what position he occupied. It was now apparent that this individual was the man he would have to ferret out, whose plans he would have to learn before the Corps could take any really effective action.
He certainly hoped that one was the top man. It was going to be hard enough to get a line on him—to say nothing of anyone even higher.
One evening at dinner, some time later, Hanlon became aware that the guard, Gorton, was growling at him. He looked up in surprise, and forced himself to pay attention to the big man's words.
“I ask ya, whatcha tryin' t' do, punk?” the small pig-eyes glared redly at him, and the voice was harsh and bitter. “Try'n'a show up us other guards? What'sa big idea, gettin' out more ore'n we do?”
Hanlon stared back in amazement, and his voice when he answered was a stammer of surprise. “Why … why … I'm not trying to do anything … except my job,” he added more forcefully.
“We been gettin' out a reg'lar three tons a shift,” the ugly face was shoved closer to his, and Hanlon shrank back from the stench of raw spirits breathed on him. “What'sa idea drivin' yer crew up t' three an' a half er four?”
“I was told to keep my crew working, and I've been doing that … and only that!” Hanlon snapped. “And take your ugly, stinking face away from mine!”
The disgust he felt at the brutality of these guards had made him so soul-sick with them he wasn't going to take any guff from one of them. Even though Gorton out-weighed him by a good sixty pounds and probably had at least four inches longer reach, Hanlon wasn't afraid of him.
Right now he was as much in the mood for a fight as the guard seemed to be, for at Hanlon's words Gorton's huge, ham-like hand suddenly slapped out at the younger man. Hanlon wasn't able entirely to dodge safely, sitting as close as they were. His head rang from the terrific blow. He grabbed his cup of steaming coffee, and threw it backhand into Gorton's face.
Bellowing in pain and anger, the guard jumped up, upsetting the bench, and almost Hanlon with it. But the younger man was agile, and kept his feet. As Gorton rushed, his long, heavy arms flailing, Hanlon ducked away and jumped back far enough to get a firm footing on a cleared space of floor.
All Corps cadets were well-trained in both Marquis of Queensbury boxing, Judo and no-holds-barred barroom brawling. He knew all the questions … and all the answers.
So Hanlon stepped back in quickly. While Gorton was out of position from that abortive mighty swing, he drove his fist to the wrist into the big man's soft belly. As Gorton doubled up with an explosive grunt, Hanlon swung from the heels. His uppercut caught the big fellow flush on the jaw, and staggered him.
But Gorton could take it, and charged again, roaring curses. By sheer weight he bore Hanlon back across the floor, and got in a couple of heavy blows. Hanlon's right cheek was badly bruised, and that eye almost closed. But he was fighting methodically, almost viciously. He was in and out, slashing and ripping Gorton's face to shreds.
The other guards had been yelling their delight at the fight, and their hatred of the brash newcomer who was destroying their easy set-up. It was plain they were all on Gorton's side, and hoped to see Hanlon get thoroughly whipped.
“Bat his ears off, Gort!”
“Pound some sense inta him!”
“Show him who's top man aroun' here!”
One of them was not content with yelling. As Hanlon stepped to one side to avoid another of Gorton's rushes, this guard stuck out his leg and tripped Hanlon, who fell backward. Instantly Gorton was on him, and a great heavy-shod foot shot out in a kick that would have broken Hanlon's every rib. But the SS man was watching for just such tricks. His feet snaked out and hoisted Gorton so high and so far that when he landed he crashed like a great falling tree. Hanlon jumped to his feet and swung to confront his foe. But Gorton's head was bleeding badly, his eyes were closed, his face contorted. He was out like a burnt match.
Instantly Hanlon sank to his knees by the fallen man, gently raising the head and yelling for cold water and a towel. When the cook came running with them, Hanlon worked as swiftly to revive the guard as he would have done for his friend.
The other guards were so surprised at this act of mercy they sat like dull clods. But a couple of the engineers rose and came swiftly to help Hanlon. One of the checkers ran to Philander's office for the first aid kit.
The men were working desperately to stanch the flow of blood when Superintendent Philander came running in with the clerk and the kit. Taking in the situation at a glance, he demanded an explanation.
“Th' punk jumped Gort an' tried t' kill 'im!” one of the guards yelled, but was shouted down by the engineers, the checkers and the cook before the other slow-witted guards came to their senses enough to corroborate their fellow's mendacious claim.
The senior engineer explained fully and concisely what had actually happened. “Yet after all that, the kid was the first to help him, even though Gorton started the fight for no reason.”
Just then the fallen guard groaned and began to regain his senses. The men helped him to his feet. He blinked for some moments, as though trying to figure out what had happened to him, then remembrance came.
“Why, that little squirt, hittin' me wit' a chair!” he yelled, and straggled to get at Hanlon again, nor did the men have an easy time holding him back.
Philander planted himself squarely in front of the angry man. “Shut up!” he blazed, and the tone of command halted the big fellow; he stared stupidly at his boss, as though disbelieving his ears. “You keep your hands off Hanlon!” the super emphasized his words by tapping Gorton not gently on the chest. “I hear of any more of this, and it's the jug 'til the next ship comes, then back to Sime.”
He whirled to face the table. “That goes for all the rest of you rats, too! If Hanlon does his job better'n you, it's 'cause he's a better man. Try to match him—don't go gunning for him!”
“He your pet, Pete?” one asked mockingly.
“No, he's not my pet, Pete,” the super's voice mimicked the tone, although his face went red at the accusation. “I just don't want this camp messed up with any feuds. That'd cut down production, and the Big Boy wants this ore out fast. If Hanlon can work his crew faster'n harder'n the rest of you, you'd a blasted sight better find out how he does it, not try to cut down his take. How'd you like to go back to Sime and try explaining to His Highness why you're not getting out as much stuff as's been proved possible?”
That stopped them cold. Hanlon, watching their faces and reading their minds, saw them shiver at thought of having to face that feared individual—whoever he was. They were more scared of him than of the Devil—that was evident.
The men resumed their eating without another word—that threat had cowed them as no amount of physical chastisement or other punishment could possibly have done. Philander set about sewing up and binding Gorton's head-wound and his cut and bleeding face.
Hanlon resumed his own seat after washing up and treating his own bruises with the cook's help. As he ate he sought mind after mind in the vain endeavor to discover any possible scrap of information about this enigmatic, unknown Highness.
But he drew blank after blank, as far as definite data was concerned—just as he had always done. The surface thoughts of each man there showed plainly their fear of that implacably cold and vicious brain, but none of them held a picture of him.
They knew no excuses for failure were ever accepted. They knew terrible punishments were certain to follow when anyone was luckless enough to incur that monster's displeasure.
But Hanlon shivered, himself, as he saw how clearly those hardened criminals feared that mysterious man's displeasure. He quailed momentarily at thought of what would happen to him if he were caught trying to locate that man and his plot.
Hanlon knew a long moment of utter discouragement. There was so much he had to know before he could lead the Corps in clearing up this mess. There had been so many mentions of a “main plot” that he knew this illegal mining and slavery was but a small part of what was … what must be … going on.
No, he would just have to keep on trying, keep on working. On second thought, he had done pretty well so far, at that—he felt he had a right to feel good about that.
But he wasn't done yet, by a whole tankful of fuel.
The problem stayed with him even in sleep, but in the morning he had an idea.
As soon as he got his crew down into the mine and working, he got out the frequency-transformer, and called Geck to him.
“Can you find out what is happening on other parts of Guddu?”
The native's answers stunned him.
“Yes, An-yon, all we can mind-talk with any Guddu anywhere. What you wish to know?”