Man of Many Minds Part 18

Hanlon stored his luggage in the racks made for it, then started to go outside and see what was going on. But the door was locked.

"They sure don't want me to know where we're going," he grinned ruefully as he sat down on the edge of his bunk. "That makes me know it's important, and I'll get it some day--they can't keep it from me forever."

Sirens screamed "take-off," and he strapped himself into his bunk. When he felt the pressure subside and knew they were in s.p.a.ce he unstrapped and relaxed. But there was nothing he could do.

Later there was the sound of a key in the lock. When the door opened a heavy-set man carrying a blaster stepped inside.

"Stand back, Bud, and keep your hands in sight."

Hanlon raised his hands while the messcook brought in a tray and set it on his bunk. As they were going out Hanlon spoke. "You got any books on board? I don't mind being locked in and won't make any trouble, but please give me something to do."

They made no answer, but when they returned for the empty dishes they left a couple of dog-eared magazines.

Late the following afternoon the siren warned of landing, and Hanlon strapped himself down again. After he had felt the landing, one of the s.h.i.+p's officers came and unlocked the door.

He was very apologetic. "Sorry, sir, about this, but we had our orders."

"It's okay with me," Hanlon said cheerfully. "Don't make a bit of difference with me where I am, long's I get well paid."

"I see you've put on your light clothing. That's good--this is a hot planet. These your bags?"

Hanlon nodded, and each carrying one, the officer led the way to the airlock and they climbed down onto this new world.

The air was thick and muggy--at least 110 Fahrenheit, Hanlon guessed.

There was a great bustle of activity on the landing field. Automatic machinery was unloading cargo, and loading it into trucks. There were several men, with their luggage, standing about.

One was a huge, brutish-looking man, another a slender young chap about Hanlon's own age, apparently well-educated, from his manner, but with a certain s.h.i.+ftiness in his eyes; the others common-place laborers.

"Any of you been here before?" the officer asked.

Two of the others nodded, and started away from the field. Hanlon saw that just beyond the edge of it there were heavy forests--almost a jungle, but strange and alien.

As they drew nearer and finally entered it, the young SS man saw that this was, indeed, unlike any jungle or forest he had ever seen or heard about. Tall trees whose branches writhed as though alive, yet never attacked one. Underbrush so thick it seemed impa.s.sable, yet which twisted away from their approach as though afraid of a contaminating touch, only to swish back into place as soon as the men pa.s.sed.

Hanlon, walking along and taking it all in, seemed to catch faint whispers of thought, but could make nothing of it. He wondered what it was--perhaps some alien animal-life very low in the scale?

The ground was soft and mucky. The young checker cautioned the others, "Don't step off the path; some of this stuff's almost like quicksand."

"There's a road to the mine," he answered Hanlon's further question, "but it's winding and about five miles, where this path's only a half mile. Ground here won't stand heavy loads."

"How big is this planet, anyway? Gravity seems about like Simonides and Terra."

"It's not quite as large, but seems composed mainly of heavier metals or something. Gravity about .93. The weather stays about the same all year 'round; very few storms of any kind, although there's a hot rain almost every night for about half an hour. The temperature goes down to about 90 at night; up to 110-115 days."

"No wonder they told me to buy light clothing."

"Yeah, it's sure hot. We'd go mostly naked, except the actinic's really fierce. Be sure to wear a hat all the time outdoors, and light gloves.

If your eyes start to smart, wear dark goggles."

"Thanks for the tips, Chum, I appreciate 'em. I'd begun to notice skin itching, but thought it might be this jungle."

They broke through the final wall of foliage and Hanlon saw a large cleared s.p.a.ce ahead that must have been roughly a half-mile across.

There were quite a number of buildings, mostly windowless, and he decided they were storehouses.

"There's the messhall," his new-found friend pointed.

They went on to another long, low, bungalow-type building, inside which Hanlon saw a long hall from which opened dozens of doors on either side.

The other men disappeared into one or another of the rooms, and the young fellow stopped at another door. "Grab the first room that has a key in the lock outside," he said. "They're all alike."

The SS man found one, with the number "17" on the door, and went in. The room was small but comfortably furnished. The bed had a good mattress, he found, and white linen sheets and a thin, fleecy blanket folded on the foot. There was a big easy chair, a closet for his clothes and a dresser with four drawers. Glo-lights were set in the ceiling, and there was another on a standard by the big chair for easy reading. A door opened into another room which proved to be a compact toilet and shower.

Everything was immaculately clean, and the air was cooled and sweet from air-conditioning.

"Not bad, not bad at all," Hanlon said half-aloud as he unpacked and stored his things. Then he took a shower. "Man, are you going to get plenty of work-outs, in this heat," he apostrophised the shower, thankfully. Dressing again, he went out to locate Peter Philander, his new boss.

He stopped at the messhall, and there he found the cook, a jolly, roly-poly sort of man. He introduced himself and they chatted for a few minutes.

"I'm going to like this guy--hope they're all as nice and friendly,"

Hanlon thought. "Where's the super's office?" he asked, and the cook pointed it out.

Entering the office-shack, Hanlon found himself in a fairly large room with a number of desks and several drafting boards with blue-prints and drawings pinned on them. Behind one of the larger desks was a heavy-set man with a great, angry scar across his left cheek and neck, running from the bridge of the nose to below the ear.

Something about the man brought a sense of distrust to Hanlon--perhaps his looks, for that terrible scar made him look like a blood-thirsty pirate.

Hanlon discreetly let none of these things show in his voice or demeanor as he stepped forward, a smile on his face and his credentials in his hand. "Mr. Philander, sir? I'm George Hanlon, a new guard."

The other nodded without a word, and s.n.a.t.c.hed at the papers, glaring at Hanlon in a squinting, suspicious manner.

Hanlon probed toward the mind behind that frown, and could sense a feeling of fear, suspicion and unrest. He caught a fragment of thought--"another one after my job?"--and in a flash of inspiration guessed what was wrong. This superintendent must have a terrible inferiority complex, which that disfiguring scar certainly didn't help.

He was undoubtedly competent, or he would not be here, but felt every new man was a possible challenge or replacement.

Knowing that his papers made no mention of his having been a cadet, Hanlon took a chance on a course of action. "Gee, Mr. Philander, sir, I envy you," he said the moment the man looked up. "Knowing all about metals and ores and mining and stuff like that. I sure wish I'd had the chance to learn something valuable like that. But me, I guess I'm just a 'strong back; weak mind' sort of guy."

The superintendent looked at him piercingly for a long moment, as though trying to decide whether this was genuine or subtle sarcasm. He must have decided it was the former, for he relaxed a bit. "Yeah," he growled in a deep ba.s.s that seemed meant to be pleasant now. "It takes a lot of study and a good mind to learn what I know. Very few men can make the grade."

And Hanlon, who was by necessity swiftly becoming a good judge of character, knew he had this man pegged, and that while he would be dangerous if crossed, could be handled adroitly.

"Just what will my duties be, sir? Or have you delegated the handling of us guards to some lesser man?"

"No, I handle 'em myself. 'If you want a job well done, do it yourself', you know. I'll take you out and show you around. Are you all settled and comfortable?"

"Oh, yes, sir. I have a very nice room, number 17, and am all unpacked.

Hunting your office I ran into the messhall, and Cookie told me about meal hours. I'm sure I'll get along fine here--as much as this awful heat'll let me. They sure weren't kidding when they said it was hot here. And I want to a.s.sure you, sir, that I'll work hard and tend strictly to business--nothing else."

The superintendent was becoming more mollified and less fearful by the second. Now he actually smiled, a rather pitiful travesty of a smile, and Hanlon's sympathy went out to him.

"Then we'll get along fine," Philander said. "Just remember that your job is only to keep the natives at work during your s.h.i.+ft, and that in your off hours you do not go hunting 'round into things that're none of your business."

"Oh, naturally, sir. You just list what limits I'm to keep in, and I'll stay there. All I'm after here is that thousand credits a month, and as big a bonus as I can earn. You see," with engaging frankness, "I'm a guy that wants to make his pile as quick as possible, so I won't have to work all my life. I've got to work to get 'em, sure, but I don't aim to work forever."