e guns.

That name--Abrams--rang a bell in Hanlon's mind, though he quickly
decided he'd better let it lie for the moment--file it away for future
investigation.

He smiled in comradely fashion. "The way you were walking into it made
me sure you didn't know. And thanks. Maybe I will look you up. I don't
know anyone on Simonides, and it doesn't hurt to have a friend or three.
Where do I find you there?"

"Evenings I'm often at the Bacchus Tavern. And," with a sinister
grimace, "if you come, you'd better pray that '_he_' likes you, you'd
sure better!"

Chapter 9

SS man George Hanlon went slowly back to his room where he could think
seriously without the outside abstractions he would be sure to encounter
in any of the public rooms.

He had made a good bid, he thought, for contact with what he felt sure
must be the group he wanted to get in with. Hanlon felt Panek's
statement that he, personally, was not in on it, was just so much
hog-wash. That last crack about "you'd better pray that 'he' likes you,"
was almost sure proof.

But what did it mean? Who was this "he," and why had Hanlon better pray
"he" liked him? Probably the leader ... and if so, undoubtedly a
dangerous man to play around with. Hanlon remembered the fear of his
boss he'd read in Panek's mind.

Also, what about Abrams? Hanlon felt sure it was the same man he had
guarded that day. Oh, oh, was that "failure" he had also read in Panek's
mind that unsuccessful attempt he, Hanlon, had thwarted? Was Panek--and
through him this as-yet-unmet leader--behind that attempt on Abrams'
life?

These were questions he could not answer yet--not enough data. But he
would have to find the answers sometime. And once in Panek's gang, he
might find them. And even if this particular gang was not the one doing
the plotting in which the Corps was so interested, Hanlon felt that
getting into even one of the organized gangs on Simonides would be a
step in the right direction.

But he would have to watch his step. Those fellows would be about as
safe to play with as a pitful of cobras. For a long moment he grew cold
with fear; a deadly, paralyzing terror that twisted his vitals into
hard, hard knots. What business did he have, mixing with mature, deadly
killers such as these?

On the other hand, he consoled himself after awhile, being able to read
their surface thoughts should warn him when he started getting out of
line. Then, if or when he did, he would walk