That feeling of being watched made him cautious, so he did not practice much with his mind-control on any of the pigeon-like birds! He did, however, make a trip to the local zoo, and as he paused momentarily in front of each of the cages to look at the exhibit it contained, he briefly made an excursion into the mind of each different type of animal, bird or rodent. Outside of minor differences of texture, they all seemed about the same. Each of them had, naturally, different muscular abilities that would need considerable study if he ever intended using one of them.

And every minute he was seeking, searching for any tiniest thread of evidence as to what it was that was causing this undercurrent of secret intrigue that was so plainly evident to his super-sensitive mind.

But there was no factual data to be learned. Only that "feel" of it in the very air. Yet as the day wore on he came to believe that much or most of what he sensed was not that plot which was causing the Corps concern. Rather, it seemed more as though all the people here were engaged in some sort of secret aggressiveness.

And it was finally forced into his consciousness that it was "business,"

not "politics." For it was well-known that Simonides, even though it had become the Federation's wealthiest world, was not yet satisfied ... that its merchants and traders wanted to capture more and still more of the System's business.

There were far too many minds engaged in aggressive thoughts for a political revolution, he felt sure. If it was this wide-spread, surely others of the Corps of the Secret Service would have found out something definite about it. No, whatever this was, it distinctly was not what he was here to find.

The feeling that he was being spied upon was always more or less present, but he could not spot the man or men who were watching him.

Either several were working in short shifts, or else the trailer kept so far behind him that the multiplicity of thoughts from the hundreds of people always around masked those of the spy.

Hanlon ate a leisurely lunch in a small restaurant, and during the afternoon continued his apparently-aimless sight-seeing. If they were shadowing him, they would have nothing to report, he grinned. Not during the day, at least. What the evening would bring forth would perhaps be another matter.

For he had determined to at least get in touch with the SS man who had written that note. He would have dinner at the Golden Web, if they served meals. If not, he would have a drink anyway. The two men certainly should know each other by sight.

He went briefly to the hotel, but there had been no calls for him. So he took a ground-cab to the cafe, which turned out to be a pretentious, garish one. Inside he made his way to that part of the long, busy bar presided over by a slim, blond man.

Hanlon climbed onto a stool. "Gimme a good old Kentucky mint-julep, suh," he demanded, "an' be doggoned suah it's made right."

The bartender eyed him peculiarly. "Where's this Kentucky and what's a mint-julep?"

"On Terra, of course, where I came from. Where'd you think it was, on Andromeda Seven?"

"Pardon me, sir. I seem to remember now, having heard of such a drink.

I'll have to look it up in the recipe-book--I disremember the ingredients."

Hanlon grinned and lost his appearance of truculence. "It's partly made of Blue Gra.s.s, like a 'horse's neck.' But if it's too much trouble, just give me a Cola."

The barkeep grinned, too. "I gotcha, Steve," and poured out the soft drink.

Hanlon sat sipping his innocuous drink, looking about him quietly. A large-sized crowd was beginning to fill the place--well-dressed, evidently fairly prosperous people, but he could see that they were not the real upper-cla.s.s, but the slightly-off-shade climbers.

His drink finished Hanlon signalled his friendly barman. "The grub here any good? This looks like a nice place."

"Yes, it is. One often hears some interesting things here. As for the food, it is very good, and not too expensive. They have a native fowl much like chicken I think you'd like. Ask for _poyka_, in whatever style you like it fixed. Glad to be of service, sir, any time, in any way."

The last words were slightly emphasized.

Hanlon had ordered and was waiting for his food when a man he had never seen before slipped into the seat opposite him.

"The Boss wants to see you."

"Yeah?" Hanlon looked him up and down almost contemptuously. "Just who is this 'boss' who's interested in me?"

"Cut the clowning. You know who. At the Bacchus. Now!"

"So." Hanlon let himself appear slightly interested. "Well, after I get through eating, if nothing else shows up to interest me more, I might drop over."

"You'd better, and mighty quick, too!" the man snapped, although it was apparent he was puzzled by Hanlon's manner. "He don't like to be kept waiting."

"And I don't like to be hurried--or ordered about!" Hanlon snapped back.

"If I come, and notice I said 'if,' I'll be there in about an hour. Now, do you mind? I like to enjoy my food."

The man rose, still with that perplexed expression. It was evident he was not used to people not jumping when his "Boss" issued invitations--which were really commands. He shook his head slowly. "I hope for your sake he's in a good humor," he said as he left.

Hanlon's mind was not too easy as he ate swiftly, and his relish of the excellent food was not as keen as it might have been but for this interruption. He shivered, remembering that cold ruthlessness he had sensed behind that leader's suave manner. But he had to play out his string as a somewhat brash youngster who wasn't afraid of anybody or anything. He had made a clean score with that reckless "can you dish it out, Mister?" but he had better not press his luck too far.

Thus it was only about half an hour later when he presented himself at the Bacchus.

"You took your time coming," the leader looked at Hanlon curiously.

"I was hungry," Hanlon answered simply. "I'd just ordered dinner when your message was delivered. I came as soon as I'd finished."

"Those who work for me usually ... uh ... come running when I call."

Hanlon grinned wolfishly. "Maybe they're afraid of you."

"And you aren't?"

"Should I be?"

"I don't like impudence or insolence," the voice was more curt and the eyes lost some of their calmness in a flash of anger.

Hanlon knew he had gone far enough for the time being, so instantly became less brash, more apologetic.

"If I take your job if you offer me one, sir, I'll obey all orders promptly, and I'll give you everything I've got, naturally. But I'm not one of your snivelling toadies."

The leader regarded him once more with silent appraisal, in which a measure of respect, or at least approval, seemed to show. Hanlon, probing the other minds present, was secretly amused at their astonishment at his temerity ... and the fact that he was getting away with it.

After long moments the leader nodded his head, as though he had reached a decision.

"What were you doing in the bank this morning?"

"Why, just depositing some of my stuff in a safety deposit box," he said, surprised. "Why?"

"How did you get your own box so quickly?"

"What do you mean so quickly? I went in yesterday and asked if one was available, and the girl clerk signed me up for it, and said I could get entry today."

"Oh, I see. I was told it was done like you already had a box and ... uh ... wondered about it."

Hanlon reached in his pocket and threw a key onto the desk "Go look in it for yourself if you think it's important. And incidentally," he said contemptuously, "I've known all day long I was being shadowed." But was instantly sorry he had said that last.

For there came a deadly coldness in the leader's tone, and a gleam in those hard eyes that boded ill for someone. "I see. Well, let it pa.s.s."

He pushed the key back toward Hanlon, who pocketed it thankfully. His bluff had worked. This was the key to his own box, of course; his master key was in a hidden pocket in the cuff of his trousers.

The leader sank back into his chair and was silent for long minutes, thinking deeply, while Hanlon waited patiently, still trying to get some glimmering of thought from that unreadable mind, still frustrated almost to the point of despair that he couldn't.