Man of Many Minds by E. Everett Evans (i want to read a book txt) 📗

"I'm clean. Strictly on my own in this. Just got kicked out of that snake's nest of a Corps school on Terra ..."

The killer's head snapped up at mention of the Corps, and he stared harder and more suspiciously than ever into Hanlon's eyes.

"... They said I cheated at exams, and wouldn't give me a chance to defend myself," Hanlon continued quickly, but with heat. "That soured me on 'em, but good! So I says to myself, blast John Law! From now on I'm on the other side. Anything he's after must be worth plenty to any guy who can outsmart him. Knowing his side of it and how he works, I figure I'm just that good!"

He said all this with such a deadly serious voice, that although it was bravado Panek could see it was also confidence. Hanlon had figured this straight-forwardness was his best bet. Tell his side of it first, for if he got in with them—or any gang—they would be sure to check, and would find out he had been a cadet, anyway. "Beat 'em to the punch before they form any contrariwise conclusions," was his judgment.

His plan seemed to be working, for as his explanation continued and was completed the killer looked at him with some measure of respect, although his eyes and manner were still filled with suspicion.

"Can't blame you for feeling sore, can't blame you, if they really did kick you out. But I don't trust nobody that's ever had any connection at all with the cops, don't trust 'em!"

"Look, Pal, use your head! If I was a John Law would I merely have stopped you? I'd be arresting you—or killing you for pulling that knife on me. I tell you I'm clean—and that I want an 'in' on Simonides."

"I heard, too, there was good pickings on Sime," the man said slowly. "'Course, I'm not in on anything special, myself, not in on it. This here's a purely personal grudge deal. But you prob'ly did me a good turn, a good turn, and if you want to look me up after we land, I maybe could introduce you to a man or two. I didn't know old Abrams carried one of them needlers, didn't know that."

The thanks in his gruff voice showed his respect for those silent, deadly little guns.

That name—Abrams—rang a bell in Hanlon's mind, though he quickly decided he'd better let it lie for the moment—file it away for future investigation.

He smiled in comradely fashion. "The way you were walking into it made me sure you didn't know. And thanks. Maybe I will look you up. I don't know anyone on Simonides, and it doesn't hurt to have a friend or three. Where do I find you there?"

"Evenings I'm often at the Bacchus Tavern. And," with a sinister grimace, "if you come, you'd better pray that 'he' likes you, you'd sure better!"

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