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"As a Psalter a book?" No answer followed. Faster and faster the southern night went on descending, and wiping the land clean of heat, as though that heat had been dust. Upon me there came a feeling that I should like to go and bury myself in some sweet-smelling hay, and sleep there until sunrise. "Maybe Panek has one of those things?" hazarded Ufim after a long pause.
He wasn't the killer type he believed in the sacredness of human life. Yet he knew he would have to steel himself to go through with it. The job was more important than one man's life. But to kill in cold blood a deliberate, planned-out murder! Just then Panek returned with a slender, middle-aged man. "Ah, Rellos," the leader greeted him.
Hanlon tapped the man on the shoulder, and as the fellow whirled, a snarl on his face, Hanlon stepped backward a pace and held up his hands in the "I'm not armed" gesture. Then, before Panek could speak, he stepped closer to whisper. But the thug was both angry and frustrated at the spoiling of his carefully-worked-out plan, and in no mood for conversation.
He had half-consciously noticed when he first glanced about this room, that there was a small ventilator near the ceiling in one corner. Desperately he pushed his mind through it, and could sense that it opened onto a park-like place, probably around one of the city's palaces. Hanlon finally heard His Highness call, "Panek, you and the others bring me the hypodermic.
But his thoughts, as Hanlon scanned them, were muttering viciously, "I'll cut out his guts if he's planning to louse up 'his' plans, I'll sure carve him!" And a bit later, as Hanlon reviewed the entire episode, he thanked his stars that Panek was a lot less than an intellectual giant.
"This is George Hanlon," Panek introduced him, "the guy who did that job on old Abrams, the same guy." Hanlon noticed that Panek did not name the men there, but he could see they appeared to know all about him, and were giving him a close once-over. Hanlon scanned back in return, his mind quickly touching one after another of the three sitting in large, easy chairs.
It was like no other mind he had ever tried to read. But he was careful not to let his face show anything of his inner thoughts as he saluted them gravely after that first brief pause. Then suddenly he made his face show a boyish enthusiasm ... almost a naivete. "Maybe Mr. Panek has already told you about me.
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?
Finally he sensed they were in a small room, and the adhesive was ripped from his face. The leader and Panek stood in the small cabin with Hanlon. "This is to be your cabin. Sorry for the precautions, but you can see why, I am sure. But if you behave, and make a good record, you won't have to ... uh ... worry about them any more. Take-off almost immediately, so we have to leave.
But the next day word ran about the ship that Abrams was very ill, and not expected to live the day out. Panek sauntered past where Hanlon was sitting, reading, and stopped to ask for a light. "Nice work, Pal, nice work," he whispered as he was lighting his cigaro. "See me at the Bacchus."
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