The three finished dressing, and now ran from the room and down the stairs. Outside the admiral commanded "Follow me," and ran toward the back of the house. They saw the dim outlines of a shed, and a high-powered, family-sized touring tricycle. They piled into the seats even as the admiral was getting it started.
Swiftly he backed the car out and into the street, and then took off with a full-throated roar from the powerful, souped-up engine.
"Special job the Corps' experts fixed up for me," he explained as the others gasped at the unexpected speed.
Hanlon, through the bird's eyes, was still watching that distant effort to unlock the door, and relaying to the others from time to time what he was seeing.
"Ah, it's unlocked . . . it's opening . . . but the Ruler is in the other room and has locked that door."
"The old boy's not so dumb," Hooper applauded.
"I'll say he isn't," Hanlon agreed joyfully. "He's plugging the keyhole."
He was silent a moment, then exclaimed, "The intruder's Irad, just as I thought it might be . . . he's surprised the Ruler isn't in bed asleep . . . he's gone over to try the other door . . . he's found it's locked and the keyhole plugged . . . he seems to have lost his head—he's pounding on that door, and yelling."
He half-straightened, then slumped down into his seat, and his face strained with concentration. Hooper, in the back seat, leaned forward and started to speak, but Newton restrained him. "Let him alone, Curt—he must be working on something difficult."
Hanlon was beating at the barriers in Adwal Irad's mind, trying to get in, even though he knew he had never been able to do so before. But it was all he could think of to do at the moment, and he had to do something. Besides, it was plain to him now that the man was completely insane —the way Irad was acting and the things he was saying and thinking showed it so clearly. So Hanlon had withdrawn entirely from the bird's mind, and was now working on Irad's with all his power.
The Second-In-Line had drawn his flamegun and was firing at the door, trying to burn out the lock or through the door panels.
Hanlon was almost in a frenzy of desperation. They had to stop this madman someway. He knew his father was pushing his car at its unexpected top speed, and that they would be there in a matter of minutes. But he was afraid that even those minutes might be too late. He did not see how they could possibly get there in time. For the door was beginning to burn from the fierce heat of the flamer.
Hanlon still beat at that barrier in Irad's mind. He seemed to sense somehow that it was weakening, was . . . was disintegrating . . . was changing horribly under the influence of hatred and the madness the man seemed to feel.
All this time the admiral had been trying to coax even more speed out of his souped-up tricycle, and now in the swiftly-nearing distance they could see the few lights that denoted the residence. Soon they were close enough to see that the gates were closed.
"Those gates strong ones?" Newton asked without turning his head.
"No, mostly ornamental."
"Hang on, then, we're going through. Curt, grab the kid."
Hooper leaned forward, took hold of Hanlon's shoulders with his strong hands, and braced himself against the back of the front seat in which the younger man was sitting.
A couple of guards had run up to the gate at sight and sound of that speeding machine. But they ducked hastily back as they saw it was neither going to stop nor swerve.
There was a rocking jolt, a crash, and the car was past the crumpled gates, careening wildly. The admiral fought the wheel with all his strength. By the time they came close to the steps leading up to the main entrance, he had it under control.
There was a screech of brakes that brought several attendants on the run through the door. The trike slid to a halt, and two of the three men in it jumped out and dashed up the stairs.
"The Ruler's being attacked," the admiral cried imperiously. "One of you show us his rooms."
A servant, half-dazed by sight of those strangers in their peculiar uniforms, and subconsciously controlled by the command in Newton's voice, obeyed.
They raced across the entrance foyer to the great stairs that led to the upper story. Other servants were coming into the hallway, sleepily rubbing their eyes, and most of them only partially dressed. Their wondering eyes followed the racing men in a stupefied way, but none tried to stop the intruders.
"Down here," the servant dashed into a side hallway, and the two secret servicemen pounded after him.
They turned another corner, and the servant slid to a stop. Two guards were standing there, flamers in their hands, menacing a small group of servants.
Newton took it all in with a single glance. From what Hanlon had said he knew the men were Irad's. "Burn those guards!" he snapped the command at Hooper, and the latter's blaster spoke twice—fierce blasts of death that made the flashes of the flameguns seem like candle-flames. The two guards died instantly.
Newton and the servant were already dashing into Amir's bedroom.
Meanwhile, back in the machine where he had stayed, Hanlon was still working on Irad's mind. Now he thought he perceived a minute opening toward one edge of that decomposing barrier. He attacked it with all his mental strength, and it began to crumble a bit faster. Further and further Hanlon dug away at that tottering mentality until there was an orifice completely through the shield. Instantly he pushed his mind through. . . down and down, in and into the deeper parts of Irad's thoughts and memories.
And his body stiffened suddenly at what he found.
Newton and the servant pushed on ahead into the bedroom, just in time to see the man, Irad, sink to the floor, writhing in apparent pain.
But even so there was still enough control in the maddened conspirator so that he swung his flamegun and sent a streak of fire flashing toward the intruders.
The servant, not expecting such a thing, and slow of reflexes, caught most of the blast, and died almost instantly. Newton, trained to quick action and always expecting the unexpected, ducked down and away. Even so, an edge of the flame caught him in the shoulder. The sudden, intolerable pain threw him off balance, and he sank to the floor, his uninjured hand grasping the wound, trying to stanch the flow of blood.
George Hanlon was still in the tricycle, his mind a welter of conflicting emotions. He must be nuts—such a thing as he had just discovered was simply not possible.
"But it is," a cold, precise, soundless voice spoke in his mind. "It is not the mind of this Adwal Irad you are now
ALIEN MINDS 203
contacting, but that of another, who has been controlling this entity for some time now."
"Who . . . who are you, then?" Hanlon gasped.
"I am from another, distant section of this galaxy, here on much the same errand as yourself and your assistants. I am banding together the various inhabited planets in my sector the same as your Federation is doing in yours. This planet is about midway between the two groups. I discovered it some time ago, and after thorough study of it decided to annex it to my oligarchy. But I have failed, and you have won."
"You mean you were responsible for all the opposition we've encountered?" Hanlon asked in surprise.
"That is correct. Working through the mind of this now-dying entity called Adwal Irad, I caused certain things to be done, including the increase in what you call crimes, in hopes they would alienate these people from your Federation's invitation, which was made shortly before I came here to work. It was my plan to make them join with me after denying you, and for certain things promised this Irad in the way of personal power, he more or less agreed—although I had to force him on several occasions."
"So that's why he changed so," Hanlon now knew the answers to many puzzles.
"Yes, there was continual conflict in Irad's mind. It was conditioned to a love and loyalty for his world, and certain ethics of what he considered the fundamentals of right and wrong, that are totally unknown to me. In fact, these people are almost non-understandably different from
the races in my oligarchy, but they have many resources I need. Thus the disturbance between what this Irad innately felt and what I forced him to do, drove him insane. Even now his body is dead, and I am keeping his mind alive merely while I converse with you—a thing I have wished to do for long and long. I shall leave now, for my project has failed. I congratulate you on your victory."
There was a moment's hesitation, then the thought came again to Hanlon. "But there is one thing I would like to know before I go."
There was almost a trace of pleading, of indecision in that hitherto coldly logical, precise thought—and Hanlon wondered anew what sort of being this could possibly be with whom he was telepathing. For he could perceive nothing whatever as to the bodily shape or size of this enigmatic stranger.
"Why was I unable to make contact with your mind?" the alien asked, and its thoughts were almost a wail. "I perceive now that you are very young, very immature and inexperienced. I should have been able to read you easily. My abilities must be very small indeed, even though I have always considered myself so competent. Are you of a different race from those others with whom you worked? I know you are not a native of this planet, for your mind texture is far different from theirs, as is your fellows'. Even as yours, in some ways, differs from theirs."
"I honestly do not know the answer," Hanlon thought frankly. "I am of the same race as my companions, but I have some slight additional mental powers not usually found in my people. It may be I have a natural block or barrier in my mind they do not possess."
"It must be so. I could make no contact with you at all, whereas I could penetrate and control easily with the others. It is only now, while we are jointly tenanting this weaker mind, that I can converse with you through its brain—I still cannot do so directly. It is very puzzling . . .”, and Hanlon felt the withdrawal of that mind.
Irad's body, now that the mind which had been keeping it not-dead, or semi-alive, had slumped to the floor in full death.
CHAPTER 20
CAPTAIN GEORGE HANLON JUMPED FROM THE big tricycle and ran into the residence. None of the guards or servants tried to stop him, so dumb-founded were they by all that had been happening. Knowing the way from his controlling of the bird that had found Amir's rooms, Hanlon was soon there. He did not stop to see what was happening to the others, but ran across the bedroom to
that far door, and rapped on it to attract the attention of the Ruler, hiding behind it.
"Everything is safe now, k'nyer," he called through
the badly charred panels. "The assassin is dead. You can come out now."
"Is this some new trick?" a voice came thinly.
"No, sire, it is no trick, but the truth. You are safe now."
"Who are you?"
"I'm . . . ", Hanlon started to give his name, then remembered that the Ruler did not know anything about him. He quickly changed it to, "I'm Ergo Lona, the groom with whom you talked on the ride the other morning."
"Lona? Where did you disappear to—and why?" suspiciously.
"Endar discharged me, but I have been watching over you, just the same. On my honor, k'nyer, you may believe me."
After some further hesitation there was the sound of the padding being removed from the keyhole, the insertion and turning of the key. As the door opened a mere crack, Elus Amir peered cautiously out. But instead of the clothing of a groom or a countryman, he saw the brilliant space-blue and silver of an Inter-Stellar Corps uniform.
He started to pull shut the door, but Hanlon had stuck the toe of his boot in it.
"It's all right, k'nyer. I am Lona, the groom. I am also George Hanlon, a captain in the Terran Inter-Stellar Corps. We discovered that another attempt was being made on your life, and were lucky enough to get here in time to block it."
He took hold of the edge of the door and pulled it open, for the Ruler was so surprised by this revelation that he made no real effort to hold it shut. Amir came slowly, surprisedly into the bedroom, staring keenly at Hanlon.
"You don't look like Lona . . . but the voice does seem to be the same. How does it happen the Federation has men here? Were you spying on me?"
"Not on you, sire, but on your enemies," Hanlon said earnestly. "Let me introduce you to Admiral New . . . ".
He had half-turned back as he spoke, and now for the first time saw his father on the floor, a hand clutching his shoulder, from which a great stain of blood was drenching the uniform sleeve.
"Ring for your physician," Hanlon turned and commanded the Ruler. Then, realizing this was no way for him to be addressing a planetary head, he quickly but entreatingly added, "please, k'nyer."
Elus Amir called in one of the servants clustered outside, and commanded curtly, "Get the doctor here, immediately." Then he went over to the two on the floor. "Let me look," he half-pushed Hanlon aside, and stooped to peer closely at that wounded shoulder.
"Help me get him onto the bed," he said after a quick inspection. "I don't think any of the bone is gone—it's just a bad flesh burn."
Tenderly the two men raised the admiral, who protested weakly that he could get up by himself, and lifted him onto the bed. Amir himself began pulling off the admiral's tunic, while Hanlon helped.
By the time the doctor came running in, and took over the dressing of the wound, they had the arm and shoulder bared. But the elder Newton, in spite of his protestations, had fainted from the loss of blood and shock.
Amir sent the assembled servants away, retaining only his dresser, who helped him on with his day clothes.
The doctor worked swiftly, as Hanlon watched anxiously, applying ointments to the burn, and finally bandaging it.
"He's weak from all the blood he lost, and doesn't seem to have been in too good condition anyway," the doctor said at last. "I hope the man is strong enough to pull through."
"Then give him some plasma," Hanlon said frantically. "He needs it."
"I don't know what you mean," the doctor was bewildered by the word, for Hanlon had had to use the Terran word "plasma", not knowing any translation for it.
"A blood transfusion, then, or at least some glucose."
"I don't know anything about those, either . . . say, you're not an Estrellan, are you?"
"No, we're Terrans. You mean you folks don't know anything about giving one person's blood to another?"
"Sorry, but I've never heard of such a thing. How is it done?" The doctor was apparently more interested in this new idea than in the admiral's desperate condition.
Hanlon felt faint. He staggered away from the bedside without answering, and went into the anteroom, where Hooper stood talking to Inver and some other officials, who had heard the commotion and had come to see what it was all about.
Hooper saw Hanlon's haggard face, and knew something was wrong. "Were we too late?" he gasped.
"Oh, no, we got Irad and saved Amir, but dad was blasted—shoulder. The doctor has fixed him up as best he can, but dad's in shock, and these backward fools never heard of plasma or blood transfusions."
Hooper jumped forward. "I can give a transfusion. What's your dad's blood type?" he asked as they hurried to the bedside.
"Same as mine," Hanlon was peeling off his coat as he spoke, his eyes lighting with relief.
Hooper rapped quick questions at the doctor, but the latter shook his head. More questions, and more negative answers, then Hooper turned disconsolately to Hanlon. "They don't even have anything I could use to give a transfusion; no hollow needles; not even hypodermics."
The doctor pulled on Hooper's arm. "Please, tell me what you mean by blood transfusions, and plasma. How do you give them? What for? And what did the other man mean when he said he had the same blood type as the wounded man?"
Hanlon went to sit beside his father's bedside, and sank into an apparent mood of despair.
Meanwhile, the Ruler had finished dressing, and with his son, Inver, went over to listen to what Major Hooper was telling the doctor.
"Will you please tell me what all is going
on here?" Amir asked so plaintively that the SS man had trouble concealing a grin. But Hooper sobered instantly.
"The Federation's Inter-Stellar Corps, sire," he began his explanation, "found out about the fact that opposition to your desire to accept their invitation was becoming stronger—and dangerous to you and to the peace of your planet. They sent four of us here to study the situation and to protect you if possible. To do that it was necessary for us to disguise ourselves as natives of your world, so we could move about freely and unnoticed. That is why Captain Hanlon worked it so you would notice him, hire him as a servant of some sort here, and he would thus be able to watch over you and conditions in general from close at hand. We had found out that Adwal Irad was at the head of this opposition and crime wave, and that his plans included your death."
"But now you're all in uniform—and your disguises removed."
"Yes, k'nyer. We were planning to come as ourselves tomorrow—or rather, this morning—and seek an audience with you. We knew about the attempt to assassinate you that was made on your daily ride, and so were watching you more carefully than ever. When we saw Irad trying to get into your room, and his men he had planted in your guards keeping back the servants who wished to come to your assistance, we hurried here to help protect you. It was so apparent Irad was determined to complete the killing he failed at the other time."
Elus Amir, Ruler of Estrella, took that startling news with barely a tremor. He motioned them to a seat along the side of the bedroom, to continue his questioning.
The doctor was dismissed, although it was plain he wanted to stay and ask this Terran more about those strange and new methods of treating wounds.
So until dawn the Ruler and his son—now Second-In-Line following the death of Irad—sat talking to Major Hooper about the Federation of Planets, and the benefits Estrella would obtain from joining the other worlds.
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