Once inside, he locked the door, then breathed a sigh of deep relief. He began stripping off his wet and bedraggled clothes, thankful, as he remembered the loss of his shoes, that he had an extra pair of those specially-made ones.
When he saw that much of the hair so meticulously glued onto his body was also coming loose, he thankfully ripped the rest of it from him, then went in and turned on the shower—really only a stream of water from the end of a pipe. For nearly a quarter of an hour he stood under it, revelling in the first feeling of real cleanliness he had known since leaving Simonides, relieved as the warm water washed the salt from his wounds and pores.
Finally, having treated his burns and bruises, he put on a dressing gown to partially cover his nakedness, and sank into his comfortable chair. Then he let his mind review the happenings of the past night.
Hanlon was once more in a cockily jaunty mood. He had taken some terrific risks, had been in almost-fatal jeopardy several times, had had adventures and escapes no one would believe if he tried to tell them—except some of the few S S men who knew about his special talents, and dad, of course....
Dad! He had almost forgotten his father's predicament in the excitement of the night. Now, as he considered and concentrated on this problem, Hanlon began to realize—dimly, sketchily, and much against his will—that things were not at all right as he had felt for the moment.
He tried to dodge that flickering thought, but it persisted, grew stronger, would not be denied. He finally was forced to consider it more thoroughly. And slowly it dawned upon him that he had not won—he had lost. He had smeared up the works, but good. His campaign was done, finished, kaput. He had put his foot in it, clear up to the sacro-iliac.
Worse than that—far worse—he had undoubtedly gummed up this whole Estrellan business. Not only was his own work undone, but now the natives would know that the Terrans were here, just as that propaganda machine had said. Now it would be practically impossible to make them believe that the Terrans were not responsible for their crime wave—and all the other things said about them.
"Me and my big swelled head," he castigated himself furiously. "I oughtta be horse-whipped."
Almost he cried. His body was by turns ice-cold and feverish. He cringed mentally and physically.
Was there any way—any possible way—he could redeem himself? Could he publicly admit that he and he alone was to blame, that he was here entirely on his own initiative, because he wanted to see Estrella join the family of nations?