Horn: Green

by Perry Rhodan

Once more the majority of daily Press releases criticized the actions of the First Administrator. Some even suspected the existence of financial machinations behind Rhodan's orders, all of which the feature writers were able to embellish with colorful words and much imagination—yet no one came up with suggestions for any reasonable alternative. Such was the situation even after only the first day of putting the new measures into effect. Public opinion was a factor that Perry Rhodan could not ignore. It was true that tradition had often proved mass opinion to be not always infallible, yet this did not remove the political pressures which resulted from such attitudes.

  In the midst of all this, Reginald Bell came to Perry with a thick stack of newspapers and placed them on his desk with a gloomy expression. "It won't be long before they'll be crying for your head again," he predicted glumly. "They're starting to think of you as a monkey wrench in the machinery of finance."

  Rhodan didn't bother about the newspapers. As always in such situations he radiated an aura of calm and self-assurance. "Allan has already given me the rundown," he said. "What it boils down to now is who can hold his breath the longest; we with our control tactics or they." He pointed to the newspapers. "In time the shipping companies will get used to more stringent controls."

  "Free men don't like to put up with such restrictions for very long," reflected Bell.

  Rhodan smiled. "Are you telling me, Chubby? Anyway, as soon as we get a lead that will put this smuggling ring into our hands we'll cut back on the measures we've taken and then everything will be back to normal."

  "Oh sure, sure!" grumbled his stocky companion. "But meanwhile those crooks will lay low and refuse to make waves—they won't leave any trails to follow."

  "Don't forget we've put an army of agents to work on this and they're following up every clue, no matter how insignificant. In the long run there's no one who can pull the wool over our eyes," said Rhodan emphatically.

  Before Bell could answer him the air in front of them shimmered and out of it emerged an overgrown mixture of beaver and mouse. It was Pucky the mouse-beaver. Angrily he clutched in his delicate hands an issue of the Terrania Observer.

  "Lt. Puck," said Rhodan scoldingly, "this is a private chamber. You don't just waltz in here without knocking."

  "I didn't waltz in here, Perry," said Pucky defensively. "I teleported—and when you do that, how do you knock? Anyway, what's so private in here..." He paused for effect. "... when this character is, present?" And he glanced significantly at Bell.

  "The opposite of private is public," Bell explained to him. "So what difference does it make if I wring your neck privately or openly? In any case the result will be the same: we'll be rid of you."

  Pucky's incisor tooth raised up indignantly. He waved the paper in front of his friends. "You're almost as insensitive as these hack writers," he remarked in a tone of outrage. "This feature article here is the limit! And I quote: 'There's a possibility that Rhodan's friends will feel the effect of his precautions as well as the trading companies. One result of a slowdown in the supply lines could be a shortage of carrots, which Rhodan would not be able to vindicate in terms of friendship for extra-terrestrials.'"

  Pucky waddled over to Rhodan's desk although with his wild talents he might have moved much more swiftly. But at present he wished to give an impression of being weak and helpless.

  "It's ridicule from the idiot fringe," said Rhodan. "A greater mind would have simply bypassed such things."

  Pucky continued to air his complaints. "I didn't mean to say this represents an illustrious circle of literary-financial virtuosos. But that double-talk about carrots is a snide reference to my friends on Mars."

  "It's actually a snide remark directed at me," Rhodan argued. "But it's no particular tragedy. The reporter has a right to write whatever he thinks is justified. Of course he and I do not share the same opinion but that's no reason to get excited. We all tend to expound our own points of view."

  Then the mouse-beaver let the cat out of the bag. "It's time somebody lowered the broom on this dope ring. They're to blame for everything. Since summer vacation was more or less delayed this year, I thought that I might suggest—well you know, a capable mutant like me—"

  "That's enough," Rhodan interrupted him. "A capable mutant like you, Pucky, does what he's told. I have no intention of sending you into an assignment that would practically force you to subject innocent people to your special talents."

  The 3-foot mouse-beaver supported himself on his wide tail and patted his custom-tailored uniform complacently. "You know very well, Perry," he chirped, "that in the final analysis you won't have any other choice. While the heat's on the smugglers are going to keep under cover. They have time to think up new ways to get around your control measures. Customs officials can't take every freighter apart when they check them over. Sure they have detection instruments but these bandits aren't exactly stupid—they'll simply hide the stuff where it can't be found."

  Of course Rhodan knew that the little mutant's arguments weren't just something he had grabbed out of the air. Behind Pucky's proposal was not just a thirst for adventure, the little devil was truly concerned about the friends he had made among the human race. But if mutants were to be used they would have to be of the human variety, like Fellmer Lloyd or André Noir. They would be less conspicuous than Pucky.

  "I understand you're probably fidgeting with boredom," said Rhodan, "but there's enough work around here to keep you busy."

  Pucky grinned ruefully. "Routine garbage," he complained. "These brain sessions with half-crazy psychologists drive me up the wall. They just can't see that my method of teleportation is slightly different than Ras Tschubai's system. Now we're experimenting with—!"

  "Lt. Puck!" Rhodan interrupted again.

  The mouse-beaver started as though he'd been jolted by an electric shock. Whenever Rhodan addressed him as Lt. Puck he knew it was time to dispense with any further levity. "OK, Perry," he murmured, crestfallen, "I'll get back to the laboratory. But I'm telling you—" His voice struck a new high pitch. "If I ever catch up with this tripe scribbler for the Observer I'll turn him into a musical top—upside down on the ceiling!" And with this parting threat the mouse-beaver

  dematerialized.

  Bell smiled. "The little rascal's getting rambunctious again."

  "But he's not very far wrong," said Rhodan pensively. "It's just not possible to inspect every freighter and say with certainty that there are no narcotics on board. It would take days to make such a thorough search of each ship. We know that such a thing isn't practicable."

  "So that makes every inspection completely senseless," said Bell.

  "Let's say that they make sense psychologically. At least for the moment the criminals are blocked from keeping the Springers supplied. It'll take time for them to relax their caution and to try new tricks. In the interim we have to keep the

  screws on them."

  "Too bad there's nothing to hang our hats on."

  "Yes," agreed Rhodan, "that I would like to have."

  8/ A PINCER MANEUVER

  Firearms were always an argument which could not be overlooked in any altercation. At the moment when the stranger aimed the raygun at him, John Edgar Pincer knew that his opponent held the trump card. So near and yet so far, he thought. Between him and the radio console in the adjacent room stood this armed man.

  "You will do everything that I order you to do," said Amat-Palong in razor-edged tones. "It's up to you whether or not I shoot you and your companions."

  Pincer recovered from his momentary paralysis. "What do you want?" he asked.

  "Not far from here there is a clearing among the trees. I chose to land the glider there so that it would not be seen from the field. That is where we shall go now. I have no interest in the birdman—he may go. It will of course be a surprise to Valmonze when I return there with you two but it will also water down some of his self-confidence, I'm sure." He spoke as indifferently as though he were reading a very
boring travel schedule.

  Pincer had never encountered such a cold-blooded type in his life—or one more dangerous. "We have to do what he says," grumbled Pincer, completely defeated. His fear for Cora was increasing to an unbearable degree.

  Amat-Palong motioned with his weapon. "Let's go," he said in a low tone.

  A shadowy form swished past Pincer toward the Ara. Everything happened so swiftly that he didn't have time to react. Schnitz fell upon the Ara as though shot

  from a bow.

  "Schnitz!" Pincer cried out.

  Amat-Palong jumped out of the way and fired. Schnitz was knocked back by the impact. He staggered and then collapsed. The Ara immediately aimed his gun at Pincer again but the latter only had eyes for the feathered creature who had fallen.

  Together with Cora he ran to the birdman's side. Schnitz was still alive. The blue crown of feathers around his eyes was jerking spasmodically. Pincer stroked his head.

  "Schnitz try heap trick," stammered the birdman strenuously.

  "That's right," said Pincer hoarsely. "A big heap trick, my friend."

  The wide, blunt beak appeared to express the trace of a smile—or was it a grimace of pain? A claw hand clutched at Pincer's coat. "No-fly... make smoke?" Schnitz asked weakly.

  "Yes," Pincer told him. "Don't you smell it now?"

  The native creature lacked the strength to answer. Pincer saw him struggle to sniff the air. Schnitz nodded in imagined satisfaction and then sank back.

  "Schnitz!" Pincer called to him in despair.

  But Schnitz did not answer. He would never speak again. He was dead.

  It was the moment in which a transformation came over John Edgar Pincer. When he got up he was no longer the comical, clumsy-looking youngster of old; he looked like a grave and self-composed Terran. He stood tall and straight beside the body of his native friend, his eyes fixed steadily upon Amat-Palong.

  "You've murdered him," he said evenly.

  The Galactic Medico took an involuntary step back. Something in Pincer's appearance seemed to warn him. "Don't try anything!" he called out in a suddenly shrill tone. As Pincer merely shook his head he added: "It wasn't murder. He attacked me—and after all he was only an aborigine." He realized that he was attempting to justify himself to his prisoners and he waved his weapon angrily. "Alright, Pincer, let's go."

  Pincer silently gripped Cora's hand and led the way. Amat-Palong followed at a safe distance. After they came out of the building he directed them.

  "Head toward that big tree there on the edge of the landing field."

  Pincer followed these instructions without contradiction.

  "Faster!" commanded the Ara.

  Pincer hastened his steps and pulled Cora with him.

  "Oh Johnny, what shall we do now?" she asked him in English.

  "No talking!" warned their captor. "Quiet up there."

  "Be still, honey," Pincer told her gently.

  They arrived at the forest and pressed onward. From time to time the man behind them gave orders, telling them what direction to take. Ten minutes must have gone by before Pincer saw the clearing between the trees. The stranger's glider was standing there ready for takeoff. Pincer decided to go into action when they entered the small ship's airlock. He knew he would probably lose his life in the attempt but he owed it to humanity, to Schnitz and especially to Cora not to submit to his fate without a struggle.

  But it didn't come to that because they never reached the glider. Pincer suddenly heard noises behind him and a clash of physical bodies. There was a choked cry and then the concentrated flame of a raygun hissed upward into the dense foliage of the trees. When Pincer turned around, Amat-Palong was already lying on the ground. Bending over him were Kankantz, Lupatz and Tonitutz, preparing to kill him. They had undoubtedly found Schnitz. Unexpectedly they had followed Amat-Palong and jumped on him from the trees.

  "Get back!" Pincer called out to them. "Don't kill him."

  He tried to pull the raging birdmen back but by the time he finally calmed them down it was too late. One glance at Schnitz's murderer revealed that he had suffered the same fate. Pincer drew Cora away. But Kankantz came after them and Pincer was shaken by his appearance. The deep sorrow in his dark eyes was unmistakable.

  "Path of no-flies and Schnitz friends now go two ways," said Kankantz bitterly. "No-flies bring only trouble."

  It would have been useless to contradict the birdman. In fact from his point of view he was quite correct.

  "It is well, Kankantz," said Pincer. "Go in peace."

  Kankantz turned away and rejoined Tonitutz and Lupatz. The three birdmen swung up into the branches together and disappeared.

  Cora glanced at the Ara who lay on the ground nearby. "What happens to him?" she asked.

  "The Springers will find him," Pincer answered her without much conviction. He placed his arm around her shoulders. "We have to get back to that station. There's nobody there now so that should give us a chance to send off a message."

  By the time they got back to the building and entered it, Schnitz's body had disappeared. "They've come for their friend," said Pincer. "I'd have buried him otherwise—it's the least we might have done for him."

  They moved on into the adjacent room where Pincer's searching eyes discovered a hypercom console, or at least something that looked like a Springer version of such equipment.

  'We'll have to accept the fact that the Springers will trace our transmission," he told his wife. "They'll show up here within an hour but I still think we should try it."

  Cora merely nodded silently. Pincer drew a chair up in front of the console and sat down. He looked at his hands as though success depended upon them. He glanced over the controls. Before manipulating them it was important for him to know what each one was for. Every moment of senseless experimenting would be lost time.

  "I think I can operate the hypercom," he told Cora. "This is for turning on the viewscreen—I can tell by its position."

  His fingers moved hesitantly over the various keys. "OK," he muttered, "I'll give it a try."

  Now with more decision he pressed a few buttons. The equipment hummed softly. Control lights glowed on the panel. The hypercom began to transmit energy but energy could be traced to its source.

  The only thing that mattered now was for Pincer to make contact with Terrans before the Springers arrived.

  • • •

  Maj. James Woodworth was of the opinion that an unkindly fate had condemned him, causing him to always be stationed far from the focal point of cosmic events. Whenever something was going on, Woodworth always found himself far removed from the firing line. He had often glumly indicated to his friends that he'd probably have to earn his laurels in theory only, since he'd never been called upon for a practical demonstration of his training. Woodworth was a temperamental man who didn't care much for routine assignments.

  At the moment he was in the Control Central of the heavy cruiser, Cape Kennedy. Maj. Woodworth was of medium build with sparse hair and an expressive face. His chin had such a deep cleft that it seemed almost split in two.

  "What do you feel about this assignment?" he asked Jens Poulson, who was serving as pilot. That is, Poulson actually didn't have anything to do other than glance occasionally at the indicators, because the ship was in free fall and the autopilot was completely capable of keeping it on its specific course.

  Poulson yawned wearily, which expressed his opinion quite plainly, but since Woodworth was his superior officer he added: "Frankly speaking, sir—not much."

  Woodworth nodded and looked at his watch. "The next transition is due in two hours. Then we'll be six light-years away, sneaking through space in search of ghosts."

  "Gen. Deringhouse receives his commands from the Chief, sir," Poulson remarked. "If both of them suspect that it's important to fly these patrols, they certainly must have a reason for it."

  "You have nothing to do but keep a lookout for alien spaceships," Woodworth quoted while making a ho
peless attempt to imitate the voice of Gen. Deringhouse. "Jens, do you think maybe our assignment has something to do with this mysterious race of people that everybody in the Fleet is whispering about?"

  "I don't know, sir."

  The other men in the Control Central had looked up from their work when the alien race was mentioned but the major didn't say anything more about it. Instead he reverted to his favorite topic.

  "Jens, you know it's gotten to the point where men in the Fleet don't want to pull duty under my command. They think I'm a sure guarantee of just an extended furlough. So what spacer with any blood in his veins wants duty like that?"

  Since nobody commented, Woodworth seemed to regard their silence as a sign of agreement. He paced back and forth in the room with short swift steps.

  "Sir!" The sudden call came from Chief Com Officer Oliver Durban.

  Woodworth whirled around. Durban had leaned back in his seat and was staring incredulously at his console. However, when Woodworth rushed toward him the Com man came to life again. He manipulated several switches and the hypercom's viewscreen flickered on. Jens Poulson left his flight station and came hurriedly over to Durban.

  "What does that mean?' asked Woodworth as he pointed to some panel lamps that were coming to life. Naturally he knew very well what it meant but he liked to have crewmembers explain every welcome change in the routine so that he could make the most of it while it lasted.

  "It's a message coming over the hypercom, sir," replied Durban.

  "From Earth?" asked the major.

  "No, I "Don't think so."

  It was apparent that Woodworth could have hugged the Chief Communications Officer but since that wouldn't have seemed appropriate he contented himself with slapping Durban on the shoulder. Durban worked the venire knob on the viewscreen and a blurry image focused, finally revealing a face. In the same instant the speaker crackled and a voice became audible.

  "... advise Perry Rhodan immediately! Attention! I will repeat the message. Whoever hears this must advise Perry Rhodan immediately."

  "If he keeps it up, half the galaxy will hear him muttered Durban grimly. Woodworth signaled him to be quiet.