The knowledge that these Guddus of Algon were telepathic rocked George Hanlon back on his heels. That was a thing he had never even imagined. They were such a simple, almost childlike race, that such an ability was farthest from his thoughts.
“If you can talk with your minds?” he asked Geck in wonder, “why do you bother to speak with the voice to each other?”
“Because mind-talk more tiring to we,” came the simple explanation. “It take much of we's forces. Us grow weak after much of them.”
“That makes me hesitate to ask you to do any of it, then,” the young SS man said. “I was hoping you could find out for me how many mines are operated on the planet, and if all of them are using you Guddus as slaves.”
“Oh, yes, An-yon, me know that already,” Geck's peculiar little face, which had become so friendly to Hanlon through long association, broke out into a smile that was quickly shadowed by sorrow at thought of the plight of his people. “There is nine mines. Human masters make Guddu work in all of they.”
“Nine, eh?” Hanlon thought swiftly for a moment. “Do they all produce the same ores as this one?”
“Will have to find that for you, An-yon. You wait short space of time.”
The Greenie grew silent and strained with concentration. Hanlon probed into the native's mind, wondering if he could follow it. And haltingly at first, but with growing ability as he learned the pattern, he found he could ride along on that telepathic beam.
The thoughts were far too swift for him to catch more than an occasional concept, but he was thrilled to realize he was actually telepathing, even though at second-hand.
One after another mind he could feel joining in that conference. There was much hostility and great fear when Geck first tried to explain about the human who was their friend, and had learned to talk with them. The Guddus on the other end of that “line” were tremendously skeptical, afraid, and very, very suspicious of the motives of any human being.
But Geck was eloquent and persuasive. Before long their fears began to lessen, and later they seemed to accept his assurance that “An-yon” was, indeed, both friendly and anxious to help them escape their slavery.
“The human An-yon is but one of the most of humans who are kind and just and ethical,” he was surprised to hear Geck telepathing when he got so he could understand. “It is the few, such as those others who are here, who are not. These are bad men who come here just to get things for own selfish ends, and the good men, who are most, will stop them as soon as they can. An-yon come here just for that, to find out what those bad men do, and to stop them.”
That speech was another shock to Hanlon—he had never told Geck all that.
The distant natives finally bowed to Geck's importunings, and gave him the specific information for which he was asking because the friendly human wanted to know it.
There were two other mines that produced the same uraninite ore as the one at which Hanlon was stationed. There were three iron mines, and Hanlon was not too surprised to learn that at each of these mines smelters had been erected. He learned that humans were used mostly in the mills, the natives being used only for outside labor because they could not stand the heat.
“We burn quickly,” was the sad, horrified thought.
There were three other mines, but the natives did not know the English or Greek names for the metals found there. Even after considerable questioning by the roundabout “Hanlon to Geck to the Guddus back to Geck back to Hanlon” method, he still couldn't get that specific information.
“If it isn't tiring you too much, Geck, please ask them if there is any building going on besides the smelters at the iron mines?” Hanlon requested.
Soon other minds about the planet were coming in, and the story began to unfold—there were several factories making many machines. But none of the natives had the least idea what kind, or for what purpose they were being made.
“Think they are going to be put in great metal huts humans are making,” one thought ran, and Hanlon quickly grabbed onto that.
“What sort of metal huts?”
“Things that look like huge eggs.”
“Space ships, you mean?”
Another thought broke in. “Yes, they like ships human come in, but much greater.”
Hanlon fumed. Oh, if only he could see … but wait, maybe he could get the information he needed. “Ask if anyone is looking at one of those ‘eggs’ right now,” he commanded Geck through the transformer.
“Yes, An-yon, many Guddu right at edge of great place of making. Brother of me, Nock, him there.”
“Ask him, please, to describe what he sees. Maybe that will give me a good picture of what it is.”
“Will be glad to try, but not knowing your language and having no compare your measurement to ours, am not sure can do what you wish,” he felt Nock say.
This, too, surprised Hanlon. That native certainly had a real mind, to grasp that difficulty so well, and to realize the limitations of telepathic communications with one alien to his race.
“Please picture it in your mind as you see it, and use some common objects of the planet for comparison of their sizes,” Hanlon urged through Geck's mind. “That way I think we can get along.”
Almost instantly a picture of a gigantic egg formed in his mind, but with enough variations from an actual egg so that Hanlon realized it was, indeed, a space ship the native was viewing. Soon Hanlon saw a great tree pictured beside the ship, and at the base of the tree a native was standing.
Quickly Hanlon estimated. The adult natives he had seen were almost all about six feet tall. As nearly as he could judge that tree was a good fifteen times the height of the Guddu, and the ship was the same height as the tree, and nearly three times as long.
Wow! What a ship! But it must be wrong. Even the largest Corps' warships were nowhere near that huge. Nor were even any of the biggest freighters he had ever seen. He must be getting his measurements wrong.
He called Geck, using the transformer. “Are you seeing what I am in Nock's mind?”
“Yes, An-yon, and you is figure right. Is that big.”
Hanlon slowly shook his head in amazement. If that was meant for a warship, it certainly spelled trouble for someone. He thought seriously for several moments, then telepathed Nock. “Is there more than one ship being built?”
“Oh, yes, there are many many.” The picture built up of a whole row of ships, and Hanlon counted swiftly.
Eighteen!
For what purpose was such a fleet being built? Men would not defy the I-S C and the Federated Planets this way merely for business reasons, he felt sure. There certainly was a plot being hatched—and what a plot!
He felt Geck's hand on his arm, and heard his voice. “Are two more places where humans build many ship, An-yon. While you think me talk many minds. One place are fourteen more great ones. At other are many many many small ones five to ten Guddu long.”
Shock on shock! Someone was building a tremendous fleet here! He must get that news to Corps headquarters as quickly as possible. If those ships were once finished, they would be able to dominate the system. For the Corps had only a nominal fleet. They had never needed a large one.
To the best of his knowledge the Corps had only thirty-one first-line battleships, much smaller than these. The Fleet also had fifty heavy cruisers, a hundred and fifty light cruisers, and a thousand scouts running from one-man up to twelve-man size.
“Please find out if any of those ships they are building have ever left the ground.”
“Some little ones only,” Geck reported after awhile. “Some few disappear into sky then come back after time, then do same again.”
Trial trips, or training trips for the crews, Hanlon deduced.
Well, he had some data now, at least. Enough so that once he got that news to Headquarters they would attack this place in force great enough to stop this work … IF … he could get word to them soon enough.
“Let's see now,” he figured quickly. “I've been here almost twelve weeks. That means another six or seven until I'm supposed to be eligible to get back to Simonides. Hmmm. Wish I knew how near finished those big battle-wagons are.”
More moments of intense thought. “I don't dare take the chance of trying to sneak off to the yards,” he reasoned logically. “I've got to do everything I can to make sure I get my trip back when my eighteen weeks are up. If I got caught off bounds that would ruin everything—I'd really be in a mess.”
Also, even if he could get to the shipyards, the moment he was spotted trying to get inside any of those ships he would undoubtedly be killed by guards who would certainly shoot first and ask questions later—if any.
Nor were there any longer any native birds or animals left on Algon he could use—he had learned that the men had killed them off soon after they arrived.
“No, I'll just have to keep on trying, and get what dope I can without exposing myself. With a month and a half I should be able to get a lot more, and with what I already know, the Corps top brass will take steps, but fast!”
Suddenly a new idea sprang into his mind. Where was “here?” In his excitement and planning he had entirely forgotten to finish figuring out that point.
That evening after dinner he stayed outside, ostensibly walking about aimlessly, in reality looking at and studying the stars when he was sure no one was watching him.
He couldn't spot any of the more familiar constellations such as the Big Dipper, Bear, or the Southern Cross. He knew he was far to one side of the galaxy from Terra—that while from there one could see the “front” of those configurations, now he would be getting a “sidewise” view. But he could identify quite a few of the bigger suns and distant nebulae.
He picked out several blue-white and red giants he was sure he knew. That was Andromeda off there; that one was undoubtedly Orion—no other contained so many 4.0 to 5.2 stars, beside the gigantic Rigel, Betelgeuse and Bellatrix.
Good, he could fix all that in his mind well enough to draw it when he got back, and the Corps planetographers certainly would pin-point this system from those directions. Distance—let's see? He strained to remember the time it had taken that freighter to come here, and estimated that, with its slower speed, this world was somewhere between ten and fifteen lights. He would time it more carefully, going back, and estimate the ship's speed as closely as possible.
Young George Hanlon was maturing swiftly under the stress of the tremendous task he was attempting. He was learning that he must think and plan well ahead of time. He realized he could not afford to make any serious mistakes, lest not only his task remain uncompleted, but his life be forfeit as well.
He knew now that it was absolutely imperative that he get back to Simonides at the earliest possible moment, and that the way to be sure of this was to so impress Philander that he would feel duty-bound to give Hanlon his vacation at end of the minimum time.
So Hanlon devoted many hours of serious thought to this problem, and finally figured out several courses of action. The next day, as soon as his shift was over, Hanlon walked across the compound and knocked on the door of the headquarters office. When bade to enter he did so, hat in hand.
“Have you got a half hour or so to talk, Mr. Philander, sir?” he asked. “I've got a couple of ideas I'd like to gab with you about, that I think might speed up production even more.”
The man looked up in surprise, and his eyes bored deeply, suspiciously into Hanlon's. “You think you can tell me how to run my job?” he rasped.
“Oh, no, sir. I didn't mean about the engineering or supervision. It's about handling the natives, and getting more out of them. You've said I was getting out more ore than the others, and I think perhaps I've got a few ideas—a sort of hunch about making the Greenies themselves more productive.”
“Well, come in, come in then. What is it?”
“I've been doing a lot of thinking about the Greenies, sir. You remember I thought they were vegetable matter, and the way they feed themselves they'd need ground that either has lots of natural chemicals in it, or that has been well-fertilized, to keep 'em well and strong. That being the case, the dirt that forms the floors of their huts and stockades would very quickly become exhausted of those vital chemicals, and the natives would begin suffering from malnutrition, it seems to me. My gang has been slowing down recently, although they still seem to be trying as hard as ever.”
“Why … why, yes,” the superintendent's eyes had widened in surprise as Hanlon talked. “That makes sense. Imagine none of us thinking of that! But then, we've always thought of them merely as dumb beasts.”
“So I've been wondering if it wouldn't be a good idea either to move the stockades every month or so, or else let the natives ‘feed’ out in the open jungle every day—the sunlight would probably help them, too, being vegetable. They could be tied together and guarded, of course, so they couldn't escape.”
Philander slumped down into his chair in deep thought, and Hanlon glowed inwardly with the hope that something would come of this plan. It would help him with Philander, if it worked. Also, it would help the Guddus, for Geek had often grown almost hysterical when complaining about the terrible hunger they all felt so continuously.
Suddenly Philander sat erect. “I believe we've got a few sacks of commercial nitrates in the storehouse. Let's experiment and see if they can use that.”
He rose purposefully from his desk and the two hurried to one of the warehouses. There Philander soon found the sacks of chemical, and Hanlon carried one as they went to the corral.
“May we try it on my crew first, sir?” he asked anxiously. “They seem to sort of like me, and I've learned more or less how to guess their reactions by their facial movements, so I think I could tell whether they like it or not.”
“Sure, that's a good idea,” and they went on to the compound that housed Hanlon's special crew.
Inside, while Hanlon apparently chose at random, it was actually Geck to whom he beckoned. When the native approached, feigning fear and reluctance—Hanlon hid a sudden grin at Geck's unexpected acting brilliance—the young man opened the sack and poured out a little of the nitrate.
He stooped over and stuck his fingers into the stuff then rose and gestured to Geck to put his feeding fingers into it the same way. Meanwhile Hanlon was telepathing the exact information to his friend, as best he could with his limited ability.
Gingerly Geck stooped, and after a few false starts finally put one of his fingers into the little pile of nitrate, and activated the feeding sensories. For a few moments he stood thus, doubtfully, then his manner clearly indicated joy and surprised happiness. He began working that little triangular-shaped mouth, and the others crowded closer.
Telepathically he informed Hanlon that this was wonderful—exactly the food element the natives needed so desperately.
“It seems to think it's all okay,” Hanlon said aloud to Philander. “I'll spread out a little more for them all,” and without waiting for permission he made a long, narrow pile of the fertilizer clear across the width of the hut. Instantly the rest of the natives crowded along that line and stuck their feeding fingers into it. Soon their silly-looking faces expressed their equivalent of blissful smiles of complete satisfaction, and Hanlon's mind was suffused with thoughts of pleasure and gratitude for his kindness.