Man of Many Minds/Chapter 21

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.