Man of Many Minds Part 20

"One guard has charge of all the natives in one section, and they all work each shift," Philander explained.

"What if one of them is sick?"

"They don't get sick," the man's voice was gruff, and Hanlon's first thought was that what he really meant was that the natives were worked no matter how they felt. But he quickly became ashamed of the thought--he didn't know anything about them yet, and perhaps they actually never did get sick. He would have to quit jumping to conclusions that way--it would seriously r.e.t.a.r.d his ability to make correct deductions.

At the rearmost section, Philander opened another gate with the same key, and flashed his portable glo-light inside the large hut that covered most of the s.p.a.ce of the section. Hanlon, close behind, could see about twenty of the "Greenies," as he had learned they were usually called, standing or lying about. There was no furniture inside, no chairs nor stools, tables or beds.

"They eat and sleep standing up--that's why the huts don't need any furnishings," Philander explained.

At sight of the men and the light, most of the natives began moving toward the door. A few at the back didn't move fast enough to satisfy Philander, and with a curse he ran back and touched them with that shock-rod he carried.

Hanlon could see an expression of agony on the faces of those touched, and as they writhed away from the rod he realized it must be very painful, indeed, if not exquisite torture to them. They now jumped forward, and huddled pathetically near the door.

Philander took a long, light but very tough line from his pocket. It had a series of running nooses in it, and he slipped one of these about the wrist of each native, drawing it tight. Then he half-led, half-dragged them out of the stockade, to the mine entrance, and down the drift to the rise they had to climb to get to the stope Hanlon's crew was to work.

Once there, and released from the rope, the natives seemed to know what they were supposed to do, and sullenly started doing it.

"You usually use three pickmen, four shovellers, four for your timbering crew, three sorters, and six on the wheel-barrows," Philander explained.

"Sometimes, if the vein widens out enough, you get extra hands to work the wider face, but this size crew generally works out best. You'll soon get used to it so you'll know how many you need. If more, just yell and you'll get 'em. If it happens the vein narrows so you can't use all these to best advantage, someone working a wider vein can use your extras temporarily."

"I get it," Hanlon was very attentive. He was determined to learn this work quickly and thoroughly, and to make a good record.

Philander showed Hanlon the difference between the ore and the surrounding rock, and explained very carefully how he was to watch especially for any side veins branching off from the main one. "Make sure the Greenies clean out all the ore as they go along, before it's timbered up."

"I understand everything so far."

"Keep the lazy beggars going full speed," Philander was very emphatic.

"Don't let 'em lag, or they'll wear you down. Don't ever let 'em get out of control, or put anything over on you, especially in sorting ore from rock. They're tricky. Use your shock-rod at every least sign of mutiny or loafing. Make 'em respect you. They know better'n to try to get away, 'cause they hate the rod."

"What does it do to them?"

"We don't know exactly, except they can feel it, and will do anything to get away from it."

"Maybe it hurts them terribly."

"Look, punk!" Philander lost his friendliness, and snarled at Hanlon with twisted face. "We don't care whether they like it or not. They know their jobs and they don't have to get shocked if they keep working. So it's strictly up to them. Don't go getting any soft notions about these lousy Greenies. They're only dumb brutes fit for working--so work 'em!"

"I'll work 'em," Hanlon said.

Chapter 14

Yes, Hanlon would work the natives, but without cruelty. His thoughts were a seething of contempt for these brutal thugs. He was willing to bet, right there and then, without knowing anything about this situation, that these natives could be controlled without bullying or hurting them--and better.

Having had military training, Hanlon knew it was possible to enforce the most strict discipline without such means, and that any man ... or ent.i.ty, probably ... could and would submit to discipline fairly and decently enforced, with far less trouble and animosity, and with far greater productivity than if he were driven to it.

"Anybody works better for a pat on the back than for a kick in the pants!" he thought indignantly.

Philander stood about for an hour, and when he saw that Hanlon understood exactly what was expected of him and his crew--when he saw Hanlon several times correct the sorters who had left too much rock in with the ores--he turned to leave.

"You'll hear the siren when the shift's over," he said. "Bring your gang back and lock 'em in the stockade then. Be sure you lock both gates carefully."

"Cookie gave me a lunch for half-time," Hanlon said. "What about the natives? Do they eat then, too?"

"Naw, they don't eat," was the surprising answer. "Once a day they stick their hands into the dirt for nearly an hour. Must get nourishment that way."

"That seems to prove they're vegetable matter. Their fingers must be some sort of feeding roots," Hanlon observed sagely. "They sure are the strangest beings I've ever heard of."

The superintendent shrugged and left without further words.

Hanlon looked about and found a rock near the sorters, and used this for a seat. He sat watching the natives work, and speculating about them, and also about what this was all about. The mine seemed to him a very rich one, and by using slave labor those men could well be reaping a huge fortune from it. No wonder they could afford to pay guards a thousand a month.

After a bit one of the natives, seeing Hanlon merely sitting there instead of being alertly on guard close to them, dropped its shovel and turned away from its work. Hanlon got up leisurely, but walked purposefully over to confront the Greenie. He smiled and motioned the native back to work.

The Greenie's face showed surprise at Hanlon's action, but it made no move to go. It did, however, appear to be keeping its eyes alertly on that dread shock-rod hanging loosely in Hanlon's hand. The guard could see that the others had also stopped work, and were carefully watching the little drama.

Hanlon smiled and again motioned the native back to work, and when it did not move, he reached out, grasped it gently by the shoulder and, still gently, pushed it in the direction of its shovel, with what was really a pat on the back.

There were looks of surprise that amounted almost to stupefaction on the faces of all the natives. The one who had first stopped now picked up its shovel and resumed work, and the rest followed its example. Hanlon resumed his seat, still with that friendly smile on his face. He noticed with satisfaction that they were soon working harder and faster than before the incident.

"I was right," he told himself almost smugly.

The six hour shift was finally ended without any further show of resistance. That is, it was six hours by Algonian time, but about eight by Terra standards. For on Algon, while the day had been divided by the humans into twenty-four hours, the same as on Earth, each hour was almost seventy-eight minutes long. They divided the year into five day weeks, though, so it averaged out about the same.

When the siren blew Hanlon smiled happily at his crew as he herded them together, and made applauding motions with his hands, wondering if they understood what he meant.

When he had locked the natives in their stockade, he hunted up the checkers. "How'd I do?" he asked. "Come anywhere near what I was supposed to get out?"

One of the checkers totalled up his figures, then looked up in surprise.

"Hey, kid, you did all right. Nearly a hundred pounds over the usual output, and clean, too. That's really okay for a new guard, and then some. Didn't have any trouble, eh?"

"Trouble?" Hanlon asked naively. "Was I supposed to have some?" Then he couldn't help grinning. "Thanks for the info," and went to his room, took a shower to cool off after that muggy heat in the mine, then tumbled onto his bunk for a nap until dinner-time.

Those first days so thoroughly disgusted George Hanlon as he saw the continued and senseless brutality the guards used toward their native "slaves," that he had trouble concealing his feelings. He continued to treat his Greenies with the respect he felt was due them, and he could not help but notice they seemed to look on him more and more as their friend. They always smiled when he looked at them, and before many days he discovered that his crew was doing more work than any of the others.

His mind-probing had convinced him they were high enough in the scale of evolution to know the meaning of grat.i.tude, and he could tell they were repaying his kindness with co-operation.

He had begun to make much more sense out of the pictures he saw in their minds, and to get some glimmerings of understanding about their alien concepts. Also, it was increasingly borne in upon him that they did "talk" to each other, and he guessed shrewdly that the reason no one could hear them was because their voices were above ... or below? ... the range of human hearing. "Above," he finally deduced.

That gave him the idea for an experiment, and he started whistling as loud as he could, gradually raising his tones until he was at the top of his range. He saw with interest and excitement that the last one or two shrillest notes seemed to attract their attention. Their silly-looking little triangular ears perked up and began twitching. They turned about, as though seeking the source of that sound, while every mouth began working with signs of utmost excitement, and his mind caught concepts of surprise and wonder.

That convinced him and so, in his next several off-hours, he surrept.i.tiously collected various articles and pieces of material, and in his room started the construction of a little machine. His course in the Corps school had included considerable mechanics and electronics, and the tearing down and rebuilding of many of the machines and instruments the Corps used.

What he was trying to make now was a "frequency-transformer." If it would do what he was sure it would, and if he was right about the Algonians having vocal ability, they should be able to hear each other, and some day he might learn their language well enough to converse with them.

He finished it and smuggled the little box-like machine into his place in the mine. When he had his crew down there and working at their tasks, he got out the little box. He turned on the current from the small battery installed in it, then began talking at the same time he was turning a rheostat higher and higher. Finally he noticed those mobile ears began to twitch, and as he turned the tones higher and still higher, more and more of the natives stopped work and turned toward him.

Finally he noticed an intenser excitement among them, and they dropped their tools and came crowding closer to him and his machine, their little eyes almost emitting sparks of excitement.