Alien Minds by E. Everett Evans Page A

and each man of the secret service should work the way that seemed best to him. Nor could the admiral argue against Hanlon's insistence that this sudden rise of hitherto-unknown criminal activity just at this time was not purely coincidental.
    But the whole thing was such a seemingly insoluble puzzle. From his own investigation since he had arrived—from the "feel" of the city and its inhabitants to his sensitive perceptions — Hanlon knew the people on the whole were such swell folks; the kind that would make wonderful Federation citizens, even if they did look so peculiar and animal-like to Terrans. Any race with a religion and a code of living based on such common decencies and high-principled honesties as theirs, was bound to be a good one.
    From all he had been able to learn, Hanlon thought the Ruler, Elus Amir, a decent fellow and extremely capable. Amir certainly had shown by his actions all during his tenure of office that while their system of government was a sort of limited autocracy, that he, at least, was trying to make it a benevolent one. Unless all the information Hanlon and the SS had gathered was haywire, this Amir was certainly not behind all this sudden opposition. He had seemed—especially at first—to be very much in favor of joining.
    Then who in the name of Snyder was?
    Suddenly a new idea brought Hanlon upright on the bed.
    Was Amir merely a tool—like the emperor of Sime had been under Bohr? Was there someone here who was comparable to that devilish Highness? Somebody with Bohr's brains and driving lust for power and ever more power?
    Hanlon sucked in his breath in sudden wonder—and worry. Was this unknown another alien from the same, or some other advanced and far-away planet as yet unknown to the Corps, working to take over Estrella and possibly—or finally—the rest of the Federated Planets and the whole galaxy?
    It took Hanlon a long time to go to sleep . . . nor had he found the answers to his puzzle when he finally did drop off.
    * * * * *
    When George Hanlon appeared in Ino Yandor's office just before midday, the dapper impresario ushered his visitor into an inner room and closed the door.
    "I think Ondo has left town—or died. For I have heard nothing more of him, nor have any of my men. You were right about a killing that could be traced to me being bad for my carefully-built reputation. Well now, about your working for me. You said you knew something about the entertainment business. What can you do?"
    "Well, I can't sing or posture, and I'm not much good at acrobatics. I can whistle a little, and . . ."
    "'Blow'? What is that?" Yandor used his definition of the word Hanlon had translated as meaning "whistle."
    Oh, oh. Hanlon knew he had blundered. In an effort to cover up he said, "This," and puckered up his lips and whistled a few discordant notes, concealing the fact that he was an excellent whistler, and could do perfectly dozens of bird-call imitations.
    "No. I'm afraid that is nothing our people would care for."
    "Then how about an animal act?"
    This was the crucial point. Hanlon had given a lot of thought to this, and had worked out the idea he thought might apply here. It certainly would go big back on Terra, lie knew, but he was not yet conversant enough with EstrelIan theatrical acts—even though he had gone to the theatre several times to study them—to know if these strange people would like it or not. But he had to get in the good graces of Yandor.
    "What sort of an animal act do you have in mind?" the impresario asked doubtfully. "Our audiences are very particular. It has to be good, very good, and unusual."
    "I think they'll like mine," confidently. "I have eight pet roches, and as . . ."
    "Roches !" Yandor looked incredulous. "You mean you've actually trained some roches?"
    "That's right. I've trained them as a hobby. I drill 'em just like our Ruler's residence guards do—and other things as well. I'm sure the people will like the act. I'll bring 'em down and