ied it, ran a comb through
his hair, and went back to the lounge.

* * * * *

The man Panek was not in the Observation lounge, so Hanlon went seeking
him. Just as he neared the game rooms on his rounds, he saw his man
leaving them. Allowing the stranger to get some distance ahead, Hanlon
trailed him as carefully as he could, all the time trying to read what
the killer had in mind.

Not entirely to his surprise, Hanlon found he could now read the surface
thoughts even more easily than formerly. Thus he soon knew,
emphatically, that the man was definitely bent on that contemplated
killing right now--that the victim was in his stateroom but was going to
leave it shortly in response to a faked video-call.

Hanlon also learned that the murderer had a knife concealed in his
sleeve--and was adept in its use.

The SS man's mind rocketed swiftly. What was he to do? He didn't want a
murder done, but neither did he want this man killed nor jailed--at
least not until he had learned a great deal more concerning him and his
part in or knowledge of that "plot" on Simonides that Hanlon and the
Corps were trying so desperately to solve.

"I've got to learn to consider mighty carefully all the angles about
even the most apparently-insignificant things," he thought carefully. "I
can't take chances of gumming things up, but on the other hand, I want
to get an 'in' with that gang if I can."

A possibility occurred to the young agent--and he quailed a bit, then
grinned wolfishly at the thought. It was plenty dangerous, but if he
could put it over maybe it would give him that "in" he needed.

He hurried his steps and caught up with the big man just as the latter
was stopping momentarily to peer cautiously around the corner and down a
corridor which, Hanlon could read in his mind, led to the victim's
stateroom.

Hanlon tapped the man on the shoulder, and as the fellow whirled, a
snarl on his face, Hanlon stepped backward a pace and held up his hands
in the "I'm not armed" gesture. Then, before Panek could speak, he
stepped closer to whisper.

But the thug was both angry and frustrated at the spoiling of his
carefully-worked-out plan, and in no mood for conversation. That lethal
knife seemed to jump out of his sleeve and toward Hanlon, in the strong,
swift, practiced hand of the killer.

The SS man jumped backward, then his own hands darted out and grabbed
for the other's wrists in the manner he had