Man of Many Minds/Chapter 20

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!”