No, that was absurd. He wouldn't be believed. No one in their right mind would ever conceive that a young man like him would do such a thing without some backing—undoubtedly full Federation backing.
He would have to resign from the secret service. Or—he gasped—were its members allowed to resign? Admiral Rogers had said it was for life, once he got in.
"But he didn't guarantee how long my life would last," Hanlon grimaced.
Well, he drew himself up proudly, there was a way. He was not afraid to die.
"Whoa, now, wait a minute. Let's think this out. Death's no answer." For a new idea had just struck him. He forced the worry, the fear, the ... the self-pity ... from his mind, and settled down to consider this new concept. Maybe it wasn't as bad as he had thought, after all.
"Yandor and his goons were the only ones who knew I was a Terran, and they're dead," he thought. "So they can't tell on me. And no one else knows it. Maybe I can go ahead, just as I was."
He rose to get dressed. There was still his father's imprisonment to be taken care of—if possible. Hanlon was sure now that it was in that little stone house back of Irad's mansion that the admiral was being held prisoner.
A casual glance in the glass, and he was suddenly conscious of his appearance. Hey, he couldn't go out like this, in broad daylight. Not looking like a Terran.
Swiftly he considered the possibilities. He would have to disguise himself again enough to escape notice on the street. But he was no cosmetician ... even if he had the dyes, the plastics....
He sank into his chair again, and thought seriously. But even while he was trying to think and plan, his worn, tired body—exhausted as it had never been before, and depleted of all strength—could bear no more. Without even realizing it, he sank parsecs deep into profound slumber.