Man of Many Minds/Chapter 9

Chapter 9
SS man George Hanlon went slowly back to his room where he could think seriously without the outside abstractions he would be sure to encounter in any of the public rooms.

He had made a good bid, he thought, for contact with what he felt sure must be the group he wanted to get in with. Hanlon felt Panek's statement that he, personally, was not in on it, was just so much hog-wash. That last crack about “you'd better pray that ‘he’ likes you,” was almost sure proof.

But what did it mean? Who was this “he,” and why had Hanlon better pray “he” liked him? Probably the leader … and if so, undoubtedly a dangerous man to play around with. Hanlon remembered the fear of his boss he'd read in Panek's mind.

Also, what about Abrams? Hanlon felt sure it was the same man he had guarded that day. Oh, oh, was that “failure” he had also read in Panek's mind that unsuccessful attempt he, Hanlon, had thwarted? Was Panek—and through him this as-yet-unmet leader—behind that attempt on Abrams' life?

These were questions he could not answer yet—not enough data. But he would have to find the answers sometime. And once in Panek's gang, he might find them. And even if this particular gang was not the one doing the plotting in which the Corps was so interested, Hanlon felt that getting into even one of the organized gangs on Simonides would be a step in the right direction.

But he would have to watch his step. Those fellows would be about as safe to play with as a pitful of cobras. For a long moment he grew cold with fear; a deadly, paralyzing terror that twisted his vitals into hard, hard knots. What business did he have, mixing with mature, deadly killers such as these?

On the other hand, he consoled himself after awhile, being able to read their surface thoughts should warn him when he started getting out of line. Then, if or when he did, he would walk more softly, travel inch by inch, and not make any attempts to jump into the big middle of things until he got a lot more information … and more experience in the ways and means of gangsterism.

But suddenly he felt that cold fear return. Those men were—must be—hard, trained killers all. This Panek was not even the boss—was just a gunny. And those higher-ups would be much worse than Panek—more ruthless and more contemptuous of human life and rights. They would have to be, to be the higher-ups. For Hanlon sensed that in such a group, Might very decidedly made Right … and Power.

It took some time to quiet his shrieking nerves. Nor did he ever forget the awfulness of that fear that so nearly brought him down out of control. On the other hand, never again did he reach such depths of utter panic.

He finally rose, bathed and dressed for dinner. But during the meal his mind was in such a turmoil he had trouble keeping himself outwardly calm. For the first time in more years than he could remember he merely toyed with his food … and he had always been a good trencher-man.

But he had something very important to do tonight, and he would let nothing keep him from it. So he went to the Hellene's library and studied from such books on biology and physiology as he could find, all he could about the brain and the nerves that formed the connecting links between it and the muscles. He studied until the dimming of the lights told him that “day” was over.

He then sent his mind down into the brain of the bulldog, and watched through its eyes until he saw the kennel steward leave for the night. Then Hanlon went down to the kennel deck.

Sitting on the same bench as before, Hanlon sent his mind into that of the white bull. Again he had no trouble attaching a portion of his mind to the dog's brain. A little experimentation soon showed how much of his mind that brain could contain.

Then, from the inside, he studied that brain line by line, muscle and nerve channels and connectors, even more surely than he had been able to do before.

The first thing he learned, and put into practice, was to make the dog sleep, so he wouldn't tire too much. After nearly three hours of intensive study he was convinced he was beginning to know it quite well, although he realized how much there still was for him to learn—how much study and practice he would need.

He then woke the dog, and while still leaving that part of his mind in its brain, scanned the next cage which held a beautiful female Airedale. Into her brain he sent another portion of his mind. Then into the next dog another portion, and on and on until he had detached more than three-quarters of his mind, and was controlling directly eight dogs.

His body felt weak and listless as it sagged on the bench, and he made it lie down there in the semi-darkness. There was, he was afraid at the time, little more than enough mind left in his body to keep the semi-automatic functions going.

It was the most weird sensation imaginable, having portions of his mind in nine places at once—having nine different and distinct viewpoints!

He found he could do, although not too well at first, nine different things at once and the same time, or could make all the bodies he was controlling do the same thing at the same time.

He “drilled” the dogs, making them line up, walk left or right or back up, all in unison. He found that while his mind was divided and controlling different bodies, there was a thread of connecting thought between them all, so that he knew what each of the others was doing. Yet it was not a central command—each individual mind-portion could and did do its own deciding and commanding.

For hours Hanlon practiced with the dogs until he had worked out the procedure to the point where he knew he could make them perform—singly, as a group, or each doing a different thing—almost any task of which their body muscles were capable, whether they had previously known how to do it or not.

Bringing his mind-portions back from seven of the dogs into his own brain, after commanding them to sleep, he went over to the cage of the Airedale he was still controlling. Squatting down before the bars, he took a pencil-stub and piece of paper from his pocket. These he passed through the bars and laid at her feet.

Then, while he watched with his own mind through his own eyes, he used only the portion of his mind that was inside her brain, and made the Airedale pick up the pencil in her teeth, blunt end inside her mouth. Holding it thus, she attempted to write on the paper, which she held steady with her two front paws.

Anxious minutes passed while Hanlon sweatingly experimented. At last the dog managed to print, very roughly and clumsily, a few letters. They were large and very crude. It wasn't that he couldn't control her muscles—it was, simply that the muscles were not built to do such things without infinite training.

When it finally became so near “morning” that he knew he had to quit, Hanlon left the kennels and went to bed. He was still amazed, excited and thrilled about this strange and weird ability, but he was also well content with his studies. If a time came when he might wish or need to use animals in his work, he felt capable of managing them. Yet again he realized how much there was to learn; that he must continue practicing and studying at every opportunity.

Did cats or horses—or birds or insects—have brains that worked the same as the dogs? He would have to experiment to find that out, first chance he got.

But now there was another very serious problem demanding his attention. He had made a wonderful start at getting an “in” with Panek, the Simonidean thug. Now, how could he best turn that to his advantage?

It was some time before he fell asleep from sheer weariness, nor had he solved the problem before he did so.

The moment he awoke, late the next morning, he knew he had the answer. His sub-conscious must have solved it for him while he slept.

At brunch he kept his eyes open, and before too long Panek came into the dining room for his lunch. Hanlon signalled, and his new-found acquaintance came to his table. Their orders given and the waiter on his way, Hanlon opened up.

“Look, Pard, I don't want to butt into your business, but if you want this Abrams out of your way, I'll be glad to take a crack at it for you.”

The Simonidean looked at him scornfully. “Think you're that good, eh? Better'n me at bumping off a man, huh? Better'n me?”

“Oh, no,” Hanlon made his face seem very apologetic, and his tone the same. “I'm not setting myself even one notch ahead of you, nor criticizing your way of working …”

“Better not, neither!”

“… but every man has his own techniques. Look, in this case, aboard a ship in space where you can't run or hide, I think my way would work best.”

The other was becoming interested in spite of himself, and his truculence melted a bit, although his tone was still sneering. “All right, Master Mind, how'd you handle it, how would you?”

“A gun or knife is all right on some jobs,” Hanlon leaned closer and spoke in a semi-whisper, but earnestly. “But there are times when it's plain foolish to sneak up behind a man and hit him on the head with a club.”

“Yeah, you got something there, got something.”

“In such a case, I figure it's a lot better to make friends with the guy, take him to dinner, then sneak a little cyanide in his coffee—something like that.”

Panek was impressed. Hanlon read the swift thoughts racing across the other's mind. He hadn't liked the idea of using his knife, here on this ship. But neither did he dare report back to that feared “boss” that he hadn't succeeded in killing Abrams.

Panek spoke doubtfully. “Yeah, that may be all right, but not when the guy knows you, then you can't get away with a thing like that, not when he knows you.”

“Exactly what I'm getting at,” Hanlon said eagerly. “Me, I'm the Unknown Quantity. Nobody knows me. I can get to old Abrams and make it all seem natural.”

“He ain't easy to fool, no, he ain't.”

“I'm sure he isn't. But since I've got to make a start somewhere if I want to get into things on Simonides, I figure giving you an assist is worth the trial.”

“Well,” Panek hesitated and his cold eyes bored into those of this enigmatic young man. “I still don't quite trust you, can't be sure I trust you. I still figure you're some kind of a cop …”

Hanlon half-rose, his face dark with intense anger. “Don't ever call me a cop!” he blazed, though still in a whisper. “I hate 'em. As a kid I thought they were tops, and did everything I could to get into their school. But I mighty quick found out how wrong I was. I was good and sick of 'em, and about ready to quit when they threw me out on that lie about cheating … say, I knew more'n their knuckle-headed instructors, so why'd I need to cheat?”

“Easy, Pal, take it easy.”

“They just want to use their high and mighty authority,” Hanlon ignored Panek's shushing. “They just like to push people around 'cause they got on a pretty uniform.”

His voice had risen in pitch until Panek had to grab his arm and shake him to make him keep still. People at the nearer table were beginning to look at them. But Panek was impressed now with Hanlon's sincerity—the SS man could read that in his mind.

“All right, Pal, all right. Don't bust a gut. You bump off old Abrams without getting caught, and I'll get you in with a gang on Sime where you can really do yourself some good, really some good.”

Hanlon nodded shortly and rose. “I'll keep in touch. And your man's as good as dead right now.”

His heart was singing—his plan was working smoothly. Now if that government man had any brains, and would play along …

Hanlon found Abrams in the library, and slipped into the seat next to him. Opening a magazine and holding it fairly high before his face while apparently reading it, Hanlon started talking in low but penetrant tones.

“Don't look up, Mr. Abrams, but listen to me. You may or may not know it, but there's a plot against your life. I managed to delay it yesterday, but they intended getting you before we reach port. Now I have a plan. I earnestly beg you to listen and work with me.”

The Simonidean had given a slight start when he heard Hanlon's first words, but he had been well-trained in a hard school, and in no other way had even shown that he heard. Now, however, he spoke as guardedly as Hanlon. “Who is trying to kill me?”

“A man named Panek, but someone's behind him that I don't know. But the question is: will you work with me?”

“Yes, if I can.”

Abandoning his attempts at secrecy, Hanlon started laughing out loud, as though at something he was reading. As Abrams looked up in surprise, Hanlon leaned over and held out his magazine in front of the Simonidean, pointing at it.

“Play up now,” he said softly, and the diplomat, quick on the up-take, pretended to look at what Hanlon was showing him, then began laughing in turn. Thereafter, the ice broken as far as any on-lookers might know, the two talked naturally as shipboard acquaintances might do.

“Why,” Abrams really looked at Hanlon for the first time, “you're the young man who saved my life on Terra, aren't you?”

“Yes, but keep it quiet. I want us to stick together more or less the rest of the day, as though we'd just met and liked each other. Then have dinner together. Do you have your own servant?”

“My valet, yes, and he is absolutely trustworthy. Why?”

“While we're eating I'll appear to put something into your drink while you're not looking. A few moments later you'll act as though you were suddenly taken ill, and go to your room. Have your valet later let the word out that you're very ill, and send word by space-video for an ambulance to meet the ship. Just before landing, let him say you've died. The ambulance can take you wherever it's natural your body would be taken, and you keep under cover for some time, until I notify you. Can do?”

“Hmmm.” The other thought rapidly but cogently for some minutes. “With a few minor variations, yes. But why? … oh, I see. You want to get in with the gang, is that it?” When Hanlon nodded Abrams continued, “you're playing a dangerous game, but that's what we've learned to expect of your Corpsmen. A wonderful group!”

“Thanks.” Hanlon did not want to explain anything, so let it go at that, and the two talked companionably of many things as they moved naturally about the ship. They listened for a while to a concert in the music room, then played a few games of cards. Each time the diplomat tried to ask questions, Hanlon side-stepped.

The SS man had seen Panek cautiously spying on them from time to time, and when the two went in to dinner the thug took a seat nearby, but where Abrams could not see him.

Hanlon had been probing Abrams' mind all this time, but had been unable to get any clue as to a plot that might upset the peace of his world, or the Federation. Hanlon realized the man was an intense patriot, and he came to the conclusion that Abrams did not particularly like the Prime Minister. But the “why” of that dislike eluded him.

The two were about finished with dinner and their coffee had been served. Hanlon called his companion's attention to something behind him. As the latter turned to look, Hanlon's hand flashed out and hovered an instant over the other's cup.

A few moments later the Simonidean played his part to perfection. He took a drink, then another, and almost before he had set his cup down, gave a groan, and clutched at his stomach and throat.

He rose shakily, and tottered away heavily on the arm of an anxious steward who had come running up.

Hanlon, although he rose quickly and made his face seem concerned and sympathetic, resumed his seat and finished his coffee. When the steward returned, he called him over, and seemed reassured when the latter reported that Mr. Abrams had said it was apparently only an attack of indigestion, to which he was prone, and that his man could take care of him.

But the next day word ran about the ship that Abrams was very ill, and not expected to live the day out.

Panek sauntered past where Hanlon was sitting, reading, and stopped to ask for a light.

“Nice work, Pal, nice work,” he whispered as he was lighting his cigaro. “See me at the Bacchus.”

But his thoughts, as Hanlon scanned them, were muttering viciously, “I'll cut out his guts if he's planning to louse up ‘his’ plans, I'll sure carve him!”

And a bit later, as Hanlon reviewed the entire episode, he thanked his stars that Panek was a lot less than an intellectual giant. A brighter man would have wondered about the source of Hanlon's knowledge of his homicidal plans; and how it happened that Hanlon carried a supply of poison. There had been no indication that either question had occurred to Panek.