Man of Many Minds by E. Everett Evans (black books to read .TXT) 📕

about that fleet you say is being built on ... on some other planet?"

Hanlon noticed that hesitation and guessed the reason. But for the moment he let it lie, and answered the question. "It is not yet a serious menace, Sire, but will be shortly if not taken into the Corps' hands."

Admiral Hawarden explained further that the grand fleet was being assembled, and would cope with the problem within days.

"Good. Good. Call on us for whatever assistance we can give."

They talked over many details for some time, then the admiral rose as though to take his leave.

But Hanlon wasn't yet ready. He wanted to pick up that matter he had let lie some minutes ago. He stepped up to the desk and looked straight into the imperial eyes.

"Sire, please think hard with all your will. I believe you know more about Bohr's plans, but that the knowledge was hypnotically sealed in your sub-conscious. Bohr had that power, we know. Please try to break that seal. Bohr is dead now—his compulsion can no longer bind you!"

The emperor seemed doubtful, but at Hanlon's continued, assured insistence, finally agreed to try. He concentrated for long, long, agonizing minutes. Great beads of sweat stood out on his white, strained face, and his hands clenched into tight balls.

Hanlon almost repented, and thought of breaking the spell and telling the suffering ruler it didn't matter that much, that they could get the knowledge elsewhere. But he had to have those facts—and if he could suffer as he had done, so could others.

But just then the emperor suddenly relaxed. His features became more composed and natural, and he smiled in relief.

"It is coming now," he wiped his face with his silk kerchief. "Bohr did boast to me that he would one day rule the galaxy. But then he told me I must forget what he said, and I did."

That speech seemed to release him still further from the awful tension that had held him for so many years. He was weary but happy. "He didn't tell me much in detail, as nearly as I can remember. Merely that plans were being made to gain control first of this planet, then the Federation, and after that the whole Galaxy."

"Did he say who was with him in this outrageous undertaking?" Hawarden gasped, and Hanlon added, "We mean, was he alone in it, or was some other planet or system backing him?"

The emperor thought steadily for some time, then shook his head. "I don't seem to remember," he sighed sadly. Nor could he, after half an hour's more concentration. "I am sorry I cannot give you that information, gentlemen. But you will soon, we trust, have reason to believe that we are once more desirous of doing everything possible for the peace and well-being of the Federation."

There were tears in Admiral Hawarden's eyes and he impulsively stepped forward and grasped the emperor's hand.

"Welcome back, Sire," he said sincerely.

Back at Base, there were messages awaiting, that had come in while they were gone. The admiral handed one of them to Hanlon. It was terse, but brought a happy smile to his face.

"Coming immediately, with full crew. Congratulations. NEWTON."

Others were from Grand Fleet, regarding the measures being taken for the fleet rendezvous, and the part the Simonidean sector was to play. Another was from the planetographers, giving the spatial location of Algon, with the note that they had finally found it on a star map, and that a survey ship was being sent there at once.

Hanlon punched a stud. "Stay away from Algon," he rapped out when the scientist's face appeared on the screen. "Don't send that ship until you get permission. Just forget all about even having heard of Algon!"

The elder looked questioningly at the youthful civilian giving him such orders. "I don't know ..."

"Hawarden speaking," the admiral pushed Hanlon aside and glared into the screen. "That's an order! Forget it, as you were told!"

"Yes, sir. It's forgotten."

Hanlon turned wearily to the admiral. "I'm minus on sleep and strength right now, sir. Think I'll go get some rest. In the morning I'll come back and we'll start searching Bohr's stuff."

"Right, I could use some caulking-off myself. A couple more orders, then I'm going home. Do you want to bunk here at Base?"

"No, guess I'd better go back to the hotel. I can't appear here too much, you know—might be recognized by some Terran officer. And that brings up a problem. What will be my apparent status before the crews doing the searching?"

"Civilian specialist, called in by the Corps," Hawarden was used to quick decisions. "We often use such. I'll sign a pass for you. Better use a disguise and different name, hadn't you?"

Hanlon nodded. "False mustache, skin darkened, contact lenses to color my eyes. And I'll call myself Spencer Newton."

Hawarden looked surprised. "You pick a name fast."

The SS man grinned back. "It's the one I was born with,"—and then the admiral really was surprised, but asked no questions. He filled in the pass with that name. "Better come directly into this private office."

When they met in the morning Hawarden complimented Hanlon on his disguise, then quickly reported he had already assembled crews and one was working at the imperial palace and the other at the ex-Prime Minister's own residence.

"Good," Hanlon was well-rested and his voice was crisp. "I think I'll start at Bohr's place."

The two officers left Base, a staff car rushing them to the ministerial residence. They entered and Hawarden led the way down a hall towards Bohr's private office.

But just as they reached the door and were turning to go in, Hanlon suddenly pushed the admiral past it, then jumped across the opening himself. Hawarden turned in puzzlement, but Hanlon signalled quiet and led him into a small reception room adjoining.

"There's one man in there you'll have to get rid of before I can go in," he explained in a swift whisper. "Young junior lieutenant named Dick Trowbridge. He'd recognize me even in this disguise. How'd he ever get here to Sime?"

"Trowbridge? Oh, yes, he was sent here from Terra when we asked Prime for a code-expert."

"Umm, that's right, Dick was a code-specialist," Hanlon nodded. "He was my roommate all through cadet school," he explained. "It would give the whole works away if he saw me here."

"He's our only good decoder," Admiral Hawarden frowned. "We lost our best man. We'll have to use him if any code shows up."

"I realize that, but send him away for now. If we get code we can send it to him at Base."

"Right, sir, I'll fake an excuse."

Some five minutes later Hawarden returned. "All clear now, sir."

They started out, then Hanlon stopped the admiral with a hand on his arm. "Please, sir," his face was flaming, his eyes miserable, but his voice was fairly steady. "Please don't call me 'Sir' all the time. It may be that my position as an SS man carries that distinction, but it makes me nervous. A youngster like me has no business being called 'Sir' by a top brass like you who has worked nearly half a century to achieve the honor."

Admiral Hawarden grinned suddenly, and hugged Hanlon with a fatherly gesture. "You're all right, Son, and I'm for you. From now on you're simply 'Newton'. Anything to make you ... hey, 'Newton'? Are you...?"

Hanlon nodded. "His son."

The admiral's eyes glowed. "Wonderful man, your dad. One of the Corps' greatest."

The young man swallowed hard. "I think so, too."

They had been working nearly a quarter of an hour, sorting through the voluminous papers in the minister's desk and files, when another Corps lieutenant came in, his hand bandaged.

"What happened to you, Patrick?" Hawarden asked in surprise.

"That blasted toogan bit me, and I had to get my hand dressed."

"What toogan?"

"One that must have been Bohr's pet. It was flying all about the room yelling and cussing us out. I was crossing to the corner of the room, there, when it screamed and bulleted over, slashing my hand when I threw it up to protect my face."

Another of the men spoke up. "Took three of us to capture it, and I wanted to wring its neck, but Captain Banister wouldn't let me, so we stuffed it into its cage and sent it to the Zoo."

Hanlon was intensely interested in this, but one thing puzzled him. He signalled Hawarden to one side, and asked in a whisper, "What's a toogan?"

"A native bird here much like your Terran parrots, but with even more beautiful plumage, and they can talk much better than parrots. They seem to have quite a lot of intelligence."

Hanlon was instantly alert. "Get it back here for me."

Puzzled but unquestioning, the admiral went to the visiphone and dialed the zoo. "Admiral Hawarden, Curator. I believe the Prime Minister's toogan was just delivered to you. There was a mistake. Please send it back ... never mind, sir, what the 'why' is, just return it immediately."

He flipped off the switch impatiently, and looked at the young Secret Serviceman with wondering eyes. A toogan? What on earth did the fellow want with ... this was the most amazing man he'd ever seen. But he sure did get results.

He turned back to his men. "Anything yet?"

"Nothing but ordinary state papers so far, sir," was the consensus.

"Keep looking. Remember, we especially want any mention of any planets whose names you do not recognize; anything about ship-building, or about mining or other planets."

Hanlon handed Hawarden a note, and the admiral sent a couple of marines off on a run. Half an hour later a truck pulled up in front, and the marines carried in another desk. It was the one from that back room in the Bacchus Tavern.

Hanlon himself went through this, but was quickly disappointed. There wasn't a thing he wanted in any of the drawers. He turned the desk upside down, looking for secret compartments. Finding none, he ordered the marines to take it to pieces. At a nod from the admiral they dismantled the desk.

But it was perfectly innocuous.

Hanlon was just turning away, disgustedly, when a man came from the zoo with the caged toogan. At sight of the familiar room the bird perked up.

"Hey, Boss!" it called out in a clear but whistling sort of voice, "I'm home again." Hanlon had no trouble understanding its words, spoken in Simonidean, of course, but was busy examining its mind. He walked over to the messenger and held out his hand. "I'll take the bird."

The zoo attendant looked at him doubtfully. "It's a vicious thing, sir," he said. "Be careful—it's already injured one man. They say no one but the Prime Minister can handle it."

"It's all right," the admiral spoke. "Thank you for bringing it. That will be all."

Hanlon took the cage and, giving the admiral a meaning look, walked out of the room with it.

Chapter 23

In the next room George Hanlon sank into a comfortable chair, then opened the cage door and the toogan fluttered out and perched on the chair arm. The young man fitted his mind more closely to the bird's brain and began probing. Carefully he studied its every line and channel, utterly oblivious to everything else.

His first brief examination brought a slight sound of pleased surprise to his lips. This bird had a real mind, far better than any he had previously discovered in any animal or bird, even better than a dog's. And he could read everything in it.

Best of all, the toogan had a pictorial type of mind—it remembered in scenes as well as words. It transmitted an almost perfect likeness of the being Hanlon had first known as The Leader and later as His Highness Gorth Bohr—any slight discrepancies being caused by the difference between a bird's ability to see and that of humans.

Like a swiftly unreeling three-dimensional film, Hanlon saw the Minister working at his desk, walking about the room, receiving callers, playing with the bird, eating—and sharing his food with it—talking to it confidentially as he might have done to a well-trusted aide.

For over an hour Hanlon sat there, and the bird, seemingly asleep, sat on the chair arm without making a move. Finally Hanlon rose, and the toogan flew onto his outheld arm much as a falcon might ride. In that manner they returned to the main office where the others were still working.

They were all amazed at this peculiar situation, but only Admiral Hawarden came even close to guessing what was going on. The memory of that astounding performance of the pigeon made him think perhaps this surprising young man had actually been reading the bird's mind—or something equally fantastic.

Hanlon set the toogan down on a corner of the big desk, then started walking toward a corner closet. As he neared it the bird seemed to come to life.