Planet Mechanica

by Perry Rhodan

  Perry Rhodan

  Posbis #112

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  PLANET MECHANICA

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  1/ GALACTIC ENEMY #1

  TERRIBLY WRONG.

  Something was terribly wrong and Reginald Bell couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He shook his head in troubled thought as he laid the report aside. The document bore Perry Rhodan’s signature. It was one of many that Bell had read this very day. All these documents had come to his desk directly from Rhodan’s office. Some of them included Perry’s handwritten comment: approved.

  The same comment was on the report he was shaking his head about now: Examination of the proposal of the Galactic Traders to establish an additional 300 trading posts within sovereign territory of the Solar Imperium. The experts who had prepared the report had arrived at the unanimous opinion that the Springers’ proposal should be rejected. But Rhodan had written his comment at the bottom of it: These trading settlements are to be sanctioned. Signed: Rhodan.

  Bell sighed heavily. "Perry, Perry, what the devil’s come over you since we’ve come back from Okul?"

  Suddenly his temper got the best of him. He had to blow off steam by cursing aloud. Then he reached out to his button board and depressed the intercom switch.

  Allan D. Mercant’s face appeared on the videoscreen. When the Chief of Solar Intelligence saw Bell’s fierce expression it told him all he needed to know for the moment. Mercant waited for Bell to speak his mind. It didn’t look like very good news. Within two months after Rhodan had been brought back from Okul, wounded and in a deep state of mental shock, even laughter had become a thing of the past in his vicinity.

  In his exasperation Bell blasted out: "Mercant, I’ve just gotten the input from the experts—you know, about the proposal for letting the star gypsies spread out farther into our own backyard. You know what Rhodan’s written here? He says those rip-off artists can go ahead and set up their tents! Now how does that grab you?"

  To which Mercant calmly replied: "Well, if it keeps on going at this rate, unfortunately I’m going to be forced to increase Intelligence personnel by about 10 times their present strength."

  "Then tell him that, Mercant!" shouted Bell.

  Mercant begged off with a slight shaking of the head. "The Chief has become a man of solitary decisions, Bell."

  "So what’s it all going to come to, Mercant? The more time goes by, the stranger Perry becomes to me—like he’d been hooked on Liquitiv! He acts spaced out or something. I don’t know. He never smiles anymore—not a trace of humor left in him. Everybody keeps out of his way, even Pucky."

  "Maybe that’s the crux of the matter. Maybe we’re making it too obvious to him that he’s become strange to us. Could be that our reaction to him is the very thing that drives him further into his isolation."

  "Oh, butterfly pie, Mercant! If he’s head sick so let him take a vacation, but let’s not have these stellar pirates take over our whole back lot!"

  "Face it, Mr. Bell—you’re his closest friend," Mercant reminded him. "It’s your duty to indicate this to the Chief."

  "No way!" Bell exclaimed hotly. "Look, I’ve had to swallow some rough head-knockings already from the medicos. They leaned on me because I was giving Perry a bad time. Those drug-pluggers are after me all the time to lay off. They keep telling me to remember he’s under shock therapy and that I shouldn’t rock the boat when they’re trying to bring him through his convalescence. But somebody’s going to have to get to him when he makes wrong decisions. From all appearances I’m the worst candidate in the bullpen for that. But Mercant, you’re much more of a diplomat than I am. Now why don’t you drop by my office and pick up this proposal decision. Take it back in to Rhodan. I hope he’ll listen to you and stop this Springer invasion before it becomes a fact."

  He noted Mercant’s hesitation but didn’t press him further. Allan D. Mercant was not a man who could be pushed. The decision had to come from himself.

  "Alright," Mercant said finally. "I’ll give it a try. You may expect me in 10 minutes, Mr. Bell."

  "Great!" As Bell cut off the connection he uttered a heartfelt sigh of relief. But his concern for Rhodan remained.

  Things had started to go wrong from the time Rhodan had decided on Okul to face his son Thomas Cardif alone. When they finally picked him up again he was wounded and almost out of his head. They had made a high-speed emergency flight with him back to Earth in order to get him into the hands of the doctors.

  The greatest medical authorities had rushed to Rhodan’s bedside and all their diagnoses were amazingly in common accord. The panel of experts also agreed very quickly on the best method of treatment for him. This was the Thmasson shock method, a therapy jointly developed by Terran and Ara doctors which minimized the intensity of deep mental disturbances so that when the course of treatment was over with the patient would recall it only as a vague dream.

  After that the recovery process had moved forward with amazing swiftness in Rhodan’s case. Only three days after application of the Thmasson therapy the authorities were able to announce: Perry Rhodan, Administrator of the Solar Imperium, is on his way to recovery. He has passed all critical danger. No further bulletins will be issued.

  Within the stellar empire of Terra, Rhodan’s illness had only generated sporadic concern here and there. Everything was overshadowed by the Liquitiv crisis and the millions of raving addicts. While the administrative staff in Terrania was still worrying about Rhodan’s mental health, new large shipments of Liquitiv were brought into the Solar Imperium for the first time since the depletion caused by the blockade. This supply was sufficient to return the raging addicts to an apparent state of normalcy. In conjunction with this, however, the most gigantic preparations were being made both in Earth-controlled regions and in the Akron Imperium to complete an effort in only a few weeks which would provide massive production plants for generating sufficient quantities of the addiction-healing Allitiv.

  Rhodan had been released from the clinic in Terrania for some time already when it became known that all addicts would have him to thank if Allitiv succeeded in curing them of their narcotic addiction. At no time in the history of the Solar Imperium had Rhodan’s star gleamed so brightly in the firmament of popularity as during those weeks of new rising hope.

  And never before had any man been so accursed as Thomas Cardif. The Arkon worlds as well as the inhabitants of the Sol System knew the role that this man had played. A Universal search was being made for him; of course he was seen everywhere but whenever the clues were followed up they always led nowhere. Thomas Cardif appeared to be hiding out somewhere in the star jungle—in unexplored regions of the galaxy.

  No one had guessed the actual truth!

  No one could imagine that this man who was being sought by millions was in Terrania. Thomas Cardif had taken over the role of Perry Rhodan! Nobody knew that Perry Rhodan had been kidnapped and was now in the clutches of the Antis.

  But the man who represented himself as Rhodan realized more and more each day what a risky game of roulette he was playing. The danger wasn’t so much with the mutants whom he had feared so much at first. With them he used a double brain faculty which enabled him to simulate Rhodan’s brainwave patterns whenever he knew that a telepathic or tracer mutant was around. This fact eliminated even the slightest suspicion that he could be taken for Thomas Cardif.

  No. The danger of discovery lay in an entirely different area. Although he had absorbed most of his father’s knowledge, he did not possess the full magnitude of that intuition which had made Rhodan stand out from the masses of men.

  Prof. Kalup was the first to get suspicious when he went into dis
cussions with Cardif-Rhodan over development work concerning the linear space-drive. The scientist had stopped him in the middle of a statement to look at him incredulously. "Sir," he asked him, "where did you get such an idea as that?"

  So Cardif-Rhodan had no alternative than to fall back on the Thmasson shock therapy as an excuse for extricating himself at the moment.

  The Thmasson shock specter seemed to cast its shadow over Terrania from then on. The man presumed to be Rhodan was seen far less frequently in the company of scientists, engineers or technicians. Ever since his return from Okul he had not manifested a single electrifying idea that might serve to rescue some stagnating project and drive it forward.

  All the time it was something like: "The Chief doesn’t have the old flash touch for technical problems—but it’s because of the Thmasson shock therapy." Cardif had quickly learned to capitalize on that one perfect excuse.

  With cool premeditation he had gone to his physicians and pointed out what had happened in his discussion with Prof. Kalup, even emphasizing his lapse of competence. "Is it possible," he asked them in mock concern, "that the Thmasson shock treatments have robbed me of some of my former thinking capacity?"

  The doctors could not give yea or nay to the question. With a great inner sense of satisfaction he had left them with that to contemplate. So all dangers of this nature were always avoidable henceforth by his pretense of still being under the effects of the therapy.

  In the public eye, however, he had not changed. Cardif was too much like his father, not only in outward appearance but also in many intellectual respects. In addition the knowledge he had taken over from him came in handy and with his own talents combined he had been able to make such a clever use of these assets that often he would appear to be Perry Rhodan to his father’s closest friends.

  But when he was alone—and from week to week he shut himself off more and more—then a real specter would arise to haunt him. He was overcome by the increasing awareness of being a puppet in the hands of the Antis. They held the real Rhodan as their trump card and if he, Cardif, failed to dance to their tune they might put the thumbscrews to him.

  Even at night he hardly slept any more.

  In desperation he sought for a way to become independent of the Baalol cult. The longer he played Rhodan’s role the more he was gripped by a sense of power and this new intoxication was serving to push his former hatred of his father more and more into the background. But he had also seen even this danger. Like one addicted he fought against the narcotic of power. He must not let it control him because one thing he’d been certain of from the very first minute: he could only operate as Cardif but never as Perry Rhodan.

  The transference on Okul had only been a partial success. He attributed it to the limited time at his disposal, never suspecting that the cause of it lay within himself. The egoic ‘I’ in Thomas Cardif was simply not capable of being subordinated in this pressing situation.

  He heard someone knocking. "Yes?" he called out, startled. He was brought back to reality from the depths of brooding. By the time he looked toward the door he had collected himself. "Oh it’s you, Mercant," he said as he saw his visitor enter. "I don’t seem to recall putting you on the calendar for any discussion just now."

  Formerly Perry Rhodan had spoken sharply like this once in awhile but only when justified. Since his return from Okul this tone was almost habitual with him.

  The Solar Marshal did not allow himself to be intimidated or frightened away. He simply walked right in and took his customary seat to the left of Rhodan’s desk. He spread out the experts’ report and began. "Sir, I found this proposal study in Mr. Bell’s office. May I bring to your attention the fact that the manpower strength of Solar Intelligence will have to be increased many times if 300 additional trade settlements are to be opened in the colonial territory of the Solar Imperium, on top of the many commercial bases the Galactic Traders already have there?"

  Cardif-Rhodan’s grey eyes held unwaveringly on Mercant’s face. His sharply chiseled features revealed nothing of his train of thought. Thomas Cardif was thinking at this moment of the Antis and was cursing them mentally. It was due to pressure from them that he had approved the proposal of the Galactic Traders. He was a victim of their first attempt at extortion! Four days ago they had given him unmistakable signals by way of a Trader delegation that they would be able to judge his comportment accordingly if a negative decision was reached with regard to the trading post proposal.

  The Springer patriarch who had brought him this message had not suspected exactly what he was transmitting to the First Administrator. But Cardif-Rhodan had perceived what was behind the hearty greetings. The name Fut-Gii told him enough. Fut-Gii had sent him greetings! But Fut-Gii had been done away with four years ago while working for the Antis because as a Galactic Trader he had not been willing to wear the yoke of service to the Baalol priests.

  And now here was Mercant who was trying to convince him to revoke his authorization of the proposal.

  "Anything else, Mercant?" he asked coldly.

  The Solar Marshal was clearly amazed. He stared at the man who to him was his Chief. "Sir," he stammered—and for him confusion was rare—"this can be a matter of life and death to use, expanding the already large number of alien settlements by another 300. We are simply not in a position to keep an eye on all these Springer counting houses in the Solar Imperium—not to the extent that our security demands. We’re opening our gates for a Trojan Horse!"

  "You let me worry about that, Mercant! I have approved the proposal. Isn’t that enough?"

  Inwardly, Thomas Cardif was highly agitated. He could well understand the Chief of Solar Intelligence. He also recognized what lay hidden behind the Springer proposal: a surreptitious takeover of the Solar Imperium by the Galactic Traders, with the priests of Baalol looming right behind them.

  Mercant’s face became a mask. His lips pressed together. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he gathered the report together and placed it in his portfolio. He nodded wordlessly to the Chief and got up and left.

  Cardif’s eyes followed him to the door. When it closed behind Mercant, he took a long deep breath. He clenched his fists in a helpless rage. "You Antis!" he muttered between his teeth. Then he was slightly startled when the videophone screen flickered to life.

  Reginald Bell was calling him. He couldn’t know yet that Mercant’s visit had been unsuccessful. "Perry," he said, "Reception just informed me that you’re ready to receive an Arkonide by the name of Banavol. Would you mind telling me what this man wants from us?"

  Cardif was repeatedly irritated that Bell’s curiosity kept mixing into his private affairs. He had often attempted to cut him out of such matters but every barb of innuendo had shattered against Bell’s thick insensitivity. He wouldn’t let go of the reins, it seemed, and against Cardif-Rhodan’s most strenuous objections he managed to put up his own brand of argument: "Perry, as long as you’re not 100% fit yet, I’ll keep an eye on you. I owe you that and someday you’ll thank me for it. I’ll be damned if this Thmasson shock business hasn’t turned you into a stranger to all of us! But do you get my point?"

  Thomas Cardif had gotten the point, which he remembered now while Bell was questioning him. However, he was not at a loss for a plausible answer. "My thick friend, it happens that Benavol’s visit has to do with Thomas Cardif. Does that satisfy you?"

  No. Reggie Bell was not at all satisfied. He was too well acquainted with the Arkonide mentality. In his opinion they were the biggest donks in the galaxy. Nor was he loathe to express that opinion now. "So when Solar Intelligence is beating its head against a blank wall, you think an Arkonide, of all people, can help us? OK, that’s fine if you’re not hurting for time. So you’re really going to see him, Perry?"

  Although Cardif was inwardly resentful of Bell’s stubbornness he attempted a touch of levity. "Yes, Fatso, I’d like to. It’s nice that you’ve given your blessing. Anything else?"

  Bell seemed to swell visib
ly with sudden impatience. "Yes, Perry, one thing more. Will you kick that habit of saying ‘anything else?’ You know it was bad enough before when you used that brush-off about 10 times a month but now it’s a broken record—about 10 times a day! So try to knock it off, will you, old sock?"

  "Yes, nurse," replied Cardif, attempting a sarcastic smile. "Thanks for the tip!"

  • • •

  Bell chuckled slightly as he cut off the connection. Maybe Perry’s recovery was making some progress after all, he thought. Once in awhile he cracked a smile at least.

  When Mercant came in, Bell didn’t need to ask any questions. The answer was written clearly on the Solar Marshal’s rigid face as he tossed his portfolio onto Bell’s desk. "The invasion is on!" he reported.

  "You’re kidding!"

  "Am I?" retorted Mercant wearily.

  "What reason did he come up with this time, Mercant?"

  "Nowadays who gets any reasons from him?" Mercant replied. So what happens now, Bell?"

  "Allan, how much preparation time do you need for beefing up the personnel in your outfit?"

  Mercant waved his arms in a gesture of futility. "What do you mean, beef it up?" he protested. "I don’t know of a hundred extra good men I could scare up, let alone 2,000 of them! Mr. Bell, you know even the Intelligence service is something that has to be learned. I’ll tell you this now so that there’ll be no misunderstanding between the two of us: if another 300 Springer trading posts are set up in addition to what we’re faced with already, that will overtax the capacity of Solar Intelligence to handle its job. And before that happens I’ll apply for my pension!"

  For once Bell controlled himself. "Mercant, I’m going to take a long chance. What I have in mind I’m telling you strictly in confidence. I’m going to make a slight amendment to that proposal—to the effect that only 100 new Springer camps will be allowed inside the Solar Imperium in any one year. That way you won’t be faced with an invasion. It’ll take those con artists three years to make full use of the agreement. So on that basis are you still going to apply for your pension?"