"None at all," the leader smiled again. "We have mining engineers in charge. Your job would be merely to keep the natives working at top speed. It is ... uh ... unfortunate, that they are high enough in the cultural scale so we cannot, under the Snyder dictum, colonize their planet and work it ourselves. But we will chan ..." he broke off as though realizing he was saying too much, and Hanlon stiffened inwardly.

This was a real clue. What planet was the man talking about? His most penetrant mind-probing could not get the answer from any of the minds there--to the others it was merely "a planet," nothing more. And this ape, with his perfect mental control, let nothing leak.

But the leader had caught himself and gone on almost as though there had been no break, "... chance using you, I think. If so, your salary will be a thousand credits a month, plus all expenses. And a nice bonus every so often, depending on how little trouble you have with your crew, and how much ore they take out."

Hanlon showed that gleam of avarice again. "Sounds very interesting."

Then he leaned forward. "One, more thing. How long does the job last?"

"For several years, if you want it, and if we continue to be satisfied with you. But we bring the men back every few months for a vacation. We find that best with most of them--the climate there is not too pleasant, and the conditions are confining."

"Nothing to do but work, eh?"

"Just about that. The shifts are about eight hours of our time, and between them you eat, sleep, read or play cards ... but you do not explore or anything like that! The ship goes there every three weeks, and we usually figure eighteen weeks there, then the three weeks back here. The guards and others rotate that way. They have a tendency to ... uh ... deteriorate if we don't."

Hanlon let himself shiver, but grinned as he did so. "Now that's one thing I don't want to do--go nuts. Can't make any credits doing that."

The leader raised his hand. "You understand, of course, there will be a short period of ... uh ... checking and testing before we decide to send you out on a job."

Hanlon's voice was almost servile, yet confident. "Sure, sir. You name it; I do it."

He was still probing with everything he had, but still getting nothing important. A couple of the men seemed to be chuckling about what might happen to him if he failed the tests--but he had guessed that much, anyway.

Suddenly the leader leaned across the desk, and his genteel manner slipped from him like a discarded mask. His eyes became glacial ice.

"Don't get any grandiose ideas in your head, Hanlon. We are not fools.

Nor are we offering you a chance to get in on our complete plans. I am just, possibly, hiring you to do a simple job."

"Oh, no, sir, I wasn't even thinking of such a thing," Hanlon looked hurt. "Why, I'm just a kid. I know I couldn't expect anything else ... at first. Not until I've proved myself to you, or until I've made my pile and got in a position of power. Then, naturally, I'd want to get into something where I could really go places. But that's for years and years ahead, I know that."

The now-hard, cold eyes scrutinized him carefully, but still doubtfully.

When the leader spoke his voice was more cordial, though still harder, not soft as it had been at first.

"I'll be frank, Hanlon. We're not too sure of you ... yet ... because you were a cadet. Oh, we know," as Hanlon started to protest hotly, "all about your being kicked out. We can see how all that might well have soured you enough so you will really do anything you can to get ahead, even if only to show the Corps. But you can understand our hesitation, I think."

"Of course, sir. But you needn't worry." He made his voice as bitter and hard as he could. "I've had my fill of all that law and order stuff. I was an innocent young punk, full of high ideals and the romance of the Corps and all that bunk. But those mangy slime-snakes knocked all that out of me. Anything I can do that'll give 'em a kick in the teeth I'll do with joy and gusto!"

"Fine words," snapped the leader, "but can you take it if the going gets tough?"

Hanlon was learning fast. Now he stared straight back into those hard eyes.

"Can you dish it out, Mister?" his tone was almost, but not quite, insolent.

Chapter 11

A black look suffused the leader's face at Hanlon's impertinent "can you dish it out, Mister?" He half-rose from his seat, while the other four men reached quick hands towards their weapons.

Then slowly the man sank back, relaxed, and smiled--an open, friendly smile of genuine cordiality, and his men also relaxed.

"You'll do, Hanlon, by the great ... uh ... Zeus, you'll do! But," he added significantly, "I think you will find that I can 'dish it out', as you call it, if the need ever arises. You had better pray it never does."

"Fair enough," Hanlon shrugged indifferently.

"The boys will take you out and show you the town, if you like," the leader smiled engagingly. "They will get word to you when I have a job ready, which may be in a day or two."

Hanlon thanked him, and felt it policy to go out with "the boys," even though he did not particularly care to do so. Nor did he especially enjoy the night that followed.

He had left a ten o'clock call with the hotel's visiphone operator when he got back to the hotel at last. When she called he groggily opened one eye half way, and fumbled for the toggle-switch.

"H'lo."

"Ten o'clock of a fine morning, Mr. Hanlon."

"Oh, no!" he groaned.

"Oh, yes," she giggled. "That bad, is it?"

"Worse'n that. But thanks anyway ... I guess."

She was laughing heartily as she disconnected.

Hanlon groaned with the utter misery of a hugely-distorted, throbbing head. The sunlight pouring through an open window directly into his eyes did not help any. He rolled over petulantly, but knew he had to get up.

He stumbled out of bed and went in to stand under a cold shower. Ten minutes later he began to feel a little more human, and decided maybe he would live after all.

"Never again!" he swore fervently. "I'm just not cut out for serious drinking. Hope I didn't give anything away to those guys last night."

He dressed slowly, meanwhile striving as best his aching head would let him, to review his situation. He was fairly well pleased with his success to date, but the grue of fear was still with him. He was getting part way where he wanted to be, but ... this was certainly no picnic he was muscling into. He remembered his father's injunction to take it easy at first, and grimaced wrily.

Eating breakfast in the hotel dining room, after taking an effervescent to relieve his headache, he tried to plan his next moves. There wasn't much he could do, he decided, until they called him. He had made his bid--it wouldn't do to try to push himself too much, or it would look mighty fishy to those sharp minds.

He shuddered again, involuntarily, thinking about that enigmatic leader.

Who ... or what ... was he?

Hanlon went first to the bank, and made out a card for his own box. But once in the vault, and the attendant gone out, it was box 1044 he opened. There was a note for him.

"Welcome to Simonides," he read. "My name--here--is Art Georgopoulis. I work at present as a bartender at the Golden Web, on Thermopylae street.

The high-ups in the underworld hang out there, and I pick up occasional bits of news. If you come in, introduce yourself by asking for 'a good old Kentucky mint-julep,' Practically no one ever asks for those. I'm the blond, skinny one at the far end of the bar. If I can be of any help, just yell. Me, I haven't got to first check station yet--but I'm still in there punching. Hope you do better--Curt Hooper."

Hanlon "ate" the note, then wrote one of his own, telling what he had learned to date, what he suspicioned, and what he was trying to do. Of his new mental powers he said nothing. He did not distrust this SS man, of course, but if the fellow didn't know he couldn't be made to tell.

As Hanlon left the bank he began to get the feeling he was being trailed, but could not seem to locate anyone doing it, although he did not dare search to his rear very carefully. Neither could he catch any definite thoughts about such a thing from among the welter of thought-sensations on the crowded streets.

He wandered about most of the day, frankly sight-seeing--but his mind was always open. He went into various public buildings, sat for some time in one or another of the numerous parks whenever he felt a bit tired of walking.