The two admirals exchanged glances, and Ferguson nodded. "Go ahead if you want to. We won't need you here for now."
In the airlock of the cruiser Hanlon removed the disguising makeup, and it was as his Algonian-known self, dressed in civvies he had brought for that purpose, that he descended at the familiar little spaceport.
His father was intensely interested in that fantastic, seemingly-alive jungle through which they walked to the mine clearing. "I've never seen anything like this," he commented in amazement. "Are these trees and bushes conscious, too?"
"Very slightly," his son told him. "The Guddus call them their 'little cousins,' and I believe can communicate to some extent, but I never could."
As they broke from the jungle's fringe, they saw a double-squad of marines on guard. The two were allowed through the lines, and entered the office. Behind his desk, his face dead white from suspense, sat Peter Philander, and about the room sprawled the engineers, guards and other workers.
"Hi, Mr. Philander!" Hanlon called cheerfully, and at sound of that remembered voice, the superintendent's head, as well as those of all the others, snapped up.
"You!" There was incredulity in the super's voice and manner.
"Yep, it's me," Hanlon grinned. "I'm glad nothing happened to any of you."
"Hmmpff!" Philander snorted defeatedly. "What's the difference between being killed cleanly in a fight, as against a lifetime in prison, or a firing squad?"
"You'll get neither one," Hanlon said quietly, remembering the power he, as a Secret Service operative, carried. "There'll be a trial, of course, but I know that you, at least, are all okay."