Secret Mission Moluk

by Perry Rhodan

  The colonel wanted to look at his watch but it had been a victim of the storm. Dr. Morton noticed the direction of Everson's glance.

  "It's been light for an hour," he said. "The men have been able to gradually come together here during the morning. We were in the middle of a rice little whirl-wind... and we look it."

  Everson was used to the physician's rough and informal style and it could not bother him. If Morton were ever fetched by the Devil—and there could be no doubt that such a fate awaited him—then Hell itself would face a revolution that would shake it to its very foundations.

  The condition of the small party was bad but it could have been much worse. Landi was involved with cleaning sand out of the radio, evidence that they could still communicate with the Mexico. But with the disappearance of the old Green, the search for the tower had become an undertaking that made the solution of an Aztec knot puzzle seem like child's play. Everson thought suddenly and vividly of thirty ants crawling about the main avenue of Terrania, hoping to find and destroy the trap of an ant-lion.

  It mattered little what direction they chose to take. There were no reference points to guide them to the legendary tower. They could divide up, spreading out from their present position in a star-like formation, but the farther they went, the greater the distance between the single groups would be... and thus the danger of missing the tower altogether. There were any number of other possibilities but none seemed especially promising. Because Everson was the kind of man who faced facts squarely, he told himself that the probability of their search being successful was so slight that, mathematically expressed, it was no more than one chance in a million. Not even a positronicon would have given a more favorable result because there simply was not any possible.

  Thus he limited his activity for the time being to watching Dr. Morton bandaging the injured men and listening to the doctor's terse explanations. The edges of the hollow in which they found themselves were so high that they blocked all view of the outer world. In effect, they lay on the bottom of a salad bowl.

  "What does it look like outside this hole?" Everson asked the doctor. "Have you been able to determine anything that would give us clues about the shape changers?"

  "I've been too busy all this time to investigate the hollow," Morton rumbled. "Incidentally, I've seen nothing more of the men who've left the area."

  The hollow had an oval shape, having a diameter of about 120 meters along the long axis and 70 along the short. Its side walls led up the desert surface just three meters above the hollow's floor at an angle of roughly 30°. Naturally, the edges were irregular, but at no point so low that one could look over them.

  Everson got up, making an effort to hold his head steady. He was only partly successful and he suffered a certain amount of pain as a result. At length he stood fully erect, still somewhat bent and stiff, but he managed to walk nonetheless. He hobbled over to Landi and smiled encouragingly at the radioman. Each step drove a fiery needle into his neck from below. After he had gone 20 meters, it seemed to be 10 needles. Everson wondered how he could walk several kilometers in such a state. He hoped that Dr. Morton had a painkiller for him. Sweat gushed from every pore. But he did not give up and finally reached a place in the hollow's edge that seemed less high and steep than other places. He let himself slowly forward and caught his sluggish fall with his hands. He now lay parallel to the sand wall—but that was all. Lying here was one thing—climbing up from here was another. He moved all his limbs but the only result was that the sand slid away from beneath them, forming a small depression. As usual, Everson thought bitterly, it was the simplest of problems that was rendering him helpless. He tried to climb with his feet alone, driving them into the sand and trying to push himself up. When he had slid back a few times, he recognized the idea for what it was: miserable. Trying to pull himself up by his hands had roughly the same results. Everson hopped like a giant frog... with the difference that a frog would have moved ahead while the colonel remained in one place.

  "I'll support you," said a voice in the helmet receiver.

  Everson turned his head and saw Poul Weiss standing behind him. The biologist reached his side with athletic skill.

  "Use me as a ladder," said Weiss, entwining his hands so that Everson could put his foot into them. Everson was large and weighed 190 pounds. Weiss bent somewhat at the knee as the colonel burdened him with his full weight plus that of the spacesuit. Even so, that was still not high enough for Everson to have a free view of the surrounding terrain.

  "Climb on my shoulders," Weiss suggested.

  Everson made an effort not to reward the man's helpfulness with a botched attempt. Somehow he worked his way up. When he reached the top, the pain and exertion had so exhausted him that he had to close his eyes for a moment.

  "Do you see something, sir?" asked his living support.

  Everson stared into the desert. At first he saw only sand and flickering brightness. Then, as he turned his head a little to the side, he saw something else. He blinked in confusion and glanced back into the hollow in the hope the mirage would be gone when he looked at it for a second time. But that which had been seen the first time still stood 100 meters from their current location.

  Weiss wavered somewhat and Everson had to cling to the upper edge of the hollow.

  "Do you see something?" Weiss repeated impatiently.

  "Yes," Everson answered slowly. And then, after a significant pause intended to impart the full scale of the wonder to the biologist, he added drily: "The tower!"

  6/ TRAPPED IN THE TOWER

  Weiss gave a cry of surprise, nearly throwing off his burden in the excitement.

  "Careful!" Everson reminded.

  The tower, which according to Napoleon's claims had been another two days' march away, was to be found directly in front of them. Either the old Green's information had been wrong, or the preceding night's hurricane—and that seemed to Everson the less likely answer—had brought them here in some mysterious fashion.

  The building, stretching high into the hot morning sky of Moluk not far from the spacemen, was impressive. At first glance, it seemed strange and uncanny. There was no possibility that it could have been built by the Greens. It reared about 150 meters above the ground. A horizontal cross-section, as far as Everson could see, would have shown that the tower had eight corners. Constant attacks by storms and hurricanes had forced it somewhat to the side, and certainly only deep-reaching, stable foundations kept it from toppling.

  For some time that could not be estimated, wind, sand, heat and cold had eaten away at the tower. It was covered with a grey-green coating. In some places there were cracks as wide as a hand and a meter long. There was an air of endless abandonment about the structure. It seemed to Everson like the monument of a long-forgotten giant who wanted to impress himself ineradicably on the memories of unknown beings. Whoever had been the architect here, he had not come from Moluk.

  Still half-entranced by the impressive sight, Everson climbed back into the hollow. If he had ever seen a curious face, then it was Weiss'. He chose not to make any premature comments.

  "Come with me to the others," he said to the biologist. "I don't want to have to repeat myself."

  Weiss registered his disappointment by kicking the sand but followed his commander. The other spacemen had been watching and waited eagerly.

  "We've reached the tower," Everson began tersely and reported briefly what he had seen.

  "What are we going to do now, sir?" asked Bellinger, who had probably suffered more than anyone else the night before.

  "We'll go over and investigate the building. Beforehand, however, well want to see if Mr. Landi can make contact with the Mexico. We don't know what's in store for us and a certain amount of covering our rear won't hurt anything."

  It was simple to listen to, less simple to put into practice. Was there any sort of opening at all through which one could make one five way inside the tower? Everson had not seen any. Of course there might
be a door or other entrance way on the other side. Nor was there much to be done about getting help from the spaceship. Even if after great difficulty they managed to make their position known to Scoobey, it would still be a long time before the First Officer could arrive on the scene with an auxiliary squad of men.

  No matter how one looked at it, they were left to their own resources.

  "You can talk with the Mexico any time now," Landi announced. He stroked almost lovingly the device, some parts of which were held in place by Dr. Morton's bandages. Everson tried to overlook the improvisation.

  "I had to fix it a little," Landi said with the intrepidity of a South Seas islander wanting to make his canoe watertight with the addition of a few leaves. Besides, it was radio technology's version of fraud to speak loftily of 'fixing' when at best it was an aborted attempt to bring medical help to bear on something that was already dead.

  "Very well," the colonel decided with a distrustful side glance at Landi's work. "We won'? lose anything by trying it."

  Despite his gloomy expectations, the radio man made audio contact with the Mexico after two minutes. Scoobey reported that the ship had also fallen into a branch of the storm but had not suffered any damage. The technicians were proceeding well with their work and the First Officer believed that the repairs would take only a few more days to complete. In this respect, their early pessimism had not been justified.

  Scoobey received a detailed report about the state of the expedition. The radio gave the men in the ship a way to find them if necessary without any known position coordinates or tracking signal device.

  In conclusion the colonel said: "There is no doubt there are forces at work here for which we are no match at all should they attack us in earnest. I am going to try to get into the tower with my men. Perhaps we will find further clues there."

  Everson spent the next few minutes being treated by Dr. Morton. The physician tried to dampen the pain enough that the commander could move normally.

  "We will all proceed to the vicinity of the tower," Everson said, announcing his next plans. "Bellinger, Goldstein, Weiss, Sternal and I will see if we can't get inside it. We'll arrange with the others a period of time within which we must return."

  It seemed that all the spacemen had withstood the terrible night relatively well. Since they helped one another, they all were able to climb out of the hollow. With the appearance of the huge structure, Everson had trouble interrupting the ensuing discussion.

  Thirty meters in front of their goal, Bellinger stopped suddenly. He pointed at the ground with outstretched hand. "Tracks, sir," he said.

  Everson pushed his way next to him. The lieutenant had not been deceived. Half blown-over prints of broad, four-toed feet were to be seen in the sand. There was only one individual who could have made them: Napoleon!

  But the Green had vanished. There could be no doubt about the direction of the tracks: they led straight to the mysterious structure. Had Napoleon been kidnapped or had he gone there of his own free will? They were questions whose answers Everson did not know. But his confusion was to be increased even more.

  "The tower, sir!" cried Landi.

  "What about it?" asked the large man.

  The radio man's answer solved one riddle, it was true, but at the same time posed an infinite number of new ones. Landi's realization was so surprisingly simple—and besides that so clearly obvious—that Everson wondered why no one had realized it long before this.

  "The tower," said Landi, "is a spaceship."

  • • •

  Not much fantasy or imagination was necessary to add detail to that conclusion: it was a spaceship that had crashed. Even if one assumed that a part of it was buried in the ground, it was still no especially large ship by Terran standards. It was slightly more than 40 meters wide at its base. That was still no reason to underestimate the ship or its builders. Danger could not be reckoned according to size. If this was the emigrants' ship of molecular transformites mentioned in Mataal's notes, then its size was utterly meaningless.

  "You're right," said Everson after awhile.

  As they came nearer to it, they made out other details. The actual outer hull of the alien ship was covered with a thin sandy crust. Beneath the grey-green layer emerged a black color of varying tone. Napoleon's tracks led around the ship. Despite intensive thought about the matter, Everson could not imagine what connection the Green had to recent events.

  On the other side they came across an opening. It was round, its diameter just two meters, and was located about the level of one's knee above the ground. Beyond was darkness, not even broken by the diagonally-falling sunlight far enough that one could see anything.

  "Can you make out any mental impulses or thought patterns?" Everson asked the mutant.

  "No, sir," answered Goldstein. "There doesn't seem to be anyone here."

  "My orders are clear," said the colonel. "If Sammy, Sternal, Weiss, the lieutenant and I are not back outside in an hour, inform Mr. Scoobey at once. Do not follow us under any circumstances."

  Without hesitating, he swung into the opening.

  At first he thought a breath of cool air had touched his face but that was his imagination for his helmet was closed. He glanced back and saw Poul Weiss put his leg inside.

  At the same time, a suction grabbed him and ripped him upwards.

  He whirled head over heels like a piece of paper caught in a warm air shaft. Fortunately he did not collide with anything. Out of pure instinct his hands reached out in the darkness in the hope of finding something to hold on to.

  Naturally it was not suction as such but a counterpoled forcefield that bad canceled out gravity. A magnetic traction pulled him upwards. Everson, in whose mind these thoughts only slowly formed, knew that there were still other possibilities. There could also be paramechanical forces at work. An oppressive feeling gripped his chest. Suddenly he felt a gentle jerk and was pushed to the side. He immediately felt a solid floor beneath his feet. Normal gravitation was again in effect.

  The colonel now found himself in a room about four meters wide and twice that long, illuminated by hidden light sources. The walls were of an undefined color and the floor and ceiling were white. The spaceman turned around and saw a rectangular opening in the wall, through which he had probably come. The room was entirely empty except for an odd thing at Everson's feet.

  The object looked something like a circus performer's rolling wheel, having two rims separated at chest width by supporting crossbars. Before Everson could examine it more closely, someone ran into him from behind. He gave a start but it was only Weiss, who had come stumbling out of the shaft.

  "Well, here we are," he said unnecessarily. "A fast and comfortable way of getting from one place to another, don't you think?"

  Everson could not share his enthusiasm. Nor were Sternal, Bellinger and Goldstein, who came in right after one another, very happy about their reception, either.

  "Snap!" said Bellinger. "The mousetrap has been triggered!"

  "What's that?" asked Sternal, pointing to the roller wheel.

  "It could be anything at all," said the lieutenant, bending down to look at it more closely. He touched it and then shook it. It did not move.

  "Pfllllrtsch!" exclaimed something in their receivers.

  "The shaft!" cried Goldstein. "Where is it?"

  The opening through which they had come seemed to have dissolved. Around them stretched smooth, seamless walls.

  "Nonsense," said Everson, disturbed. "Someone's closed the entrance."

  His words had the opposite effect of what he intended. The men shouted in confusion and began to feel around the walls like madmen, trying to find the shaft. Everson could understand that they were not happy to be locked in but they would not regain their freedom this way.

  "Stop!" he called. "This is useless."

  Was it possible that the events had not been caused by a living being but by a still-functioning machine that put its pre-programmed measures into e
ffect upon the entrance of aliens into the ship?

  "We come in peace!" Everson shouted. "We want to parley."

  He waited but no answer came. An alien intelligence would have had to assume he was talking with his companions. The fact their lives had so far been spared was a weak consolation.

  The 'wheel' began to glow before their eyes. Its color became a bright yellow. Everson bent over it. The temperature on his armband thermometer remained constant at 43°. Suddenly the colonel had the impression of looking into a mirror. Dizziness clutched him. He wanted to pull himself away from the sight. His lips opened to cry out a warning to the men but his vocal cords failed him. The image he saw was three-dimensional. As his eyes narrowed to make it out more clearly, the reflection came closer to him. A room of enormous proportions opened up before him.

  Then a voice sounded, echoing in his receivers like rolling thunder: "What do you want here?"

  Some time went by before Everson was fully aware of the fact that it had been Sammy Goldstein who had spoken. Desperately he forced himself away from the near-hypnotic power of the strange image. His body was coated with sweat. Goldstein was hanging limply in Bellinger's arms, apparently unconscious.

  "He simply collapsed," said Weiss lowly.

  "Someone asked a question through him," said Everson slowly.

  "I don't understand, sir," said the biologist in confusion. "What do you mean by that?"

  The disturbed expressions on the faces of Bellinger and Sternal gave the colonel the certainty that only he had heard the mutant's voice... in his mind. He was neither telepathic nor gifted in any other way with paranormal powers. That could only mean that the thing over which he was bending had put the question mentally to him.

  Exactly on the opposite side an opening appeared in the wall and saved Everson the trouble of answering. They went around the wheel, Bellinger carefully pulling the considerably lighter Goldstein behind him. They left the room together, stepping through the man-sized opening. Now they found themselves in a tube-like corridor. From the ceiling hung several cone-shaped objects. Spiraling tubes wound their way around and through them. In the walls could be seen three-cornered depressions in groups of four. The floor was rough in texture and looked like large grains of sand. At intervals there were irregular plates that gave off a pale light.