by Perry Rhodan
"Mr. Bell, if you can do that..." Mercant’s eyes had lighted up for a moment but then the hope faded. "If the Chief gets wind of it he’ll quash the whole thing."
"I’ll worry about that if it happens, Mercant. By the way, do you know who’s with the Chief at the moment? He’s an Arkonide and he’s here on Thomas Cardif business!"
"Do you know his name?" asked Mercant, not overly surprised.
"Banavol."
"He’s known. Arkonide mother, Arkonide father; very alert, extremely intelligent; quite efficient and enterprising. For some years now we’ve worked with his office"
"Who? You mean Intelligence?"
"Yes, he built up a financial consulting firm; his was one of the few espionage channels in the Arkonide Imperium that we could do anything with. So now here’s Banavol with the Chief and the subject is Cardif. And there’s another point, incidentally, where the Chief has changed: he’s more persistent than ever before in his efforts to locate his son. The only thing is, I don’t know if it’s a desirable change or not. Anyway, right now we have other things to worry about."
Neither of them knew, however, the things this man had to worry about that they took to be Perry Rhodan.
• • •
The man sitting opposite Cardif-Rhodan appeared to be a typical Arkonide. Banavol was about 30 years old by Arkonide reckoning and openly flaunted his arrogance. To him the First Administrator of the Solar Imperium was a member of a lower and more primitive species. He had hardly seated himself before he opened the conversation.
"We both know that between us there is no need to discuss the subject of Thomas Cardif, Terran. Can I speak freely here? What I mean is: not overheard!"
This threw Cardif into a crisis of alarm. Banavol’s impudent words were an indication that he had a message of the greatest importance. There was a flash of response in Cardif’s eyes but it was the only visible sign of his excitement.
"Can I speak freely here?" Banavol repeated insistently. When his question still went unanswered, the Arkonide appeared to relax unconcernedly. "Very well. It’s no concern of mine. I have come here directly from the Crystal World. Fut-Gii is waiting for a reply to his greetings, Terran!"
The threatening innuendo failed to elicit a contradiction. Cardif smiled thinly.
The Arkonide continued. "Well, I am doing what I’m getting paid for. But they’re not paying me for making long speeches. Rhobal wants 20 cell activators! And with that I’ve earned my money, Terran. I wouldn’t know what else to say."
Something of menace lingered in Benavol’s voice and attitude; its threat seemed to lurk within his red Arkonide eyes. Yet he sat there in apparent unconcern.
Cardif-Rhodan’s reaction had deceived him, however.
Rhodan’s image, seated opposite him, had not twinged or uttered a whimper when the name of the high priest Rhobal was mentioned. He had shown even less reaction when Banavol voiced the Anti’s demand: 20 cell activators! 20 anti-mutants were desirous of acquiring an eternal life like that of the Imperator Gonozal VIII. The only person who could provide them with these egg-sized activators was Rhodan’s double, Thomas Cardif.
In their minds it would be easy for him to obtain the galactic coordinates of the synthetic world Wanderer. The Antis knew through Cardif that It was Rhodan’s friend. In the opinion of the Baalol priests it would be a minor task for Cardif to locate Wanderer, request 20 cell activators from It and return with the miracle devices.
"Banavol, inform Rhobal that his request is unfeasible," said Cardif.
The Arkonide shrugged. "I’m not authorized to negotiate with you, Terran. If Rhobal’s request doesn’t suit you, you can complain about it at the Springer base on Pluto. They are waiting there for you before you fly to Wanderer. It’s a good thing you reminded me of that or I’d have forgotten to mention it."
Since the beginning of the Solar Imperium no one had ever spoken in this tone before to the First Administrator. But apparently Banavol knew that the man across from him was not Perry Rhodan. The Antis must have entrusted their greatest secret to him.
Thomas Cardif had lived among the anti-mutants for almost 50 years. There was no Terran who knew the insidious priests better than himself. But for that very reason he knew that Banavol was not a threat, because whenever the Antis assigned tasks of this nature to anyone, such messengers were no longer free to act of their own volition. So Banavol must be in the same inextricable position as himself—trapped by some extortion of the Baalol priests.
"I’ll stay a little longer," said Banavol, "so that my visit will take up an appropriate amount of time. And now, Terran, I’d like to discuss the subject of Thomas Cardif. With your permission, at first I couldn’t believe it when Rhobal paid me a visit and related a certain secret to me. But some time later I saw the famous Perry Rhodan. Cardif, you look better than he does. There is nothing much left of your father’s former greatness. But isn’t it strange that the Antis are a thousand times more in awe of a powerless Perry Rhodan than they are of his son? Do you understand me, Terran?"
Thomas Cardif understood exactly what Banavol was saying and why he was saying it. He wanted to make it clear to him again that he was only a marionette for the Antis and that as soon as he ceased to be useful to them they would cast him aside like an empty shell. The permit for an additional 300 commercial bases inside the Sol System was the first step in a bloodless takeover of the Solar Imperium. And he was being used as a catspaw for their plans of conquest!
Some moments passed while each man stared at the other. Thomas Cardif’s face still showed no reaction.
"With all due respect, Terran," said Banavol finally, "you have very good self-control. On this point Rhobal did not inform me very well. But now I suppose I can go—or would it be better to stay awhile longer?" The arrogant smile never left his face.
"Why not stay awhile, Arkonide?" answered Cardif. It wasn’t said in a tone of friendliness but he returned the smile.
The two men facing each other were equal partners because they were both in the same kind of trap. But while Banavol continued to converse and Rhodan’s son sought to meet him in repartee a plan was taking form in his mind. Suddenly he was intrigued by the idea of conforming to Rhobal’s demands and also he began to be intrigued by this game of matching his strength with that of the Antis. But he still expressed his refusal to Banavol. He told this agent of the Antis to advise Rhobal that Cardif was not plaything in their hands.
"It that your last word, Terran?" inquired Banavol as he prepared to leave the office. "You refuse to fly to Wanderer?"
Cardif’s answer was almost imperious in its one. "I’m quite certain I’ve made myself clear to you, Arkonide!"
"As you wish, Terran. It is not my task to transmit your refusal to the priests. The only place you can do that is at the Springer post on Pluto. I have no further responsibility in the matter."
Cardif could believe him. He knew how the Antis worked. Well, he had nothing against a flight to Pluto, at least, and he had no qualms about meeting an Anti in the disguise of a Springer. For the first time since taking over Rhodan’s role he felt in good spirits. He smiled ironically as Banavol left the room. The smile was still there when he made a videophone call to Bell.
"Yes?" he heard him respond. Bell was only thinking of the Thomas Cardif situation. "Was that Arkonide able to say anything important about Cardif, Perry?"
Cardif-Rhodan made a lightning shift of his thoughts. When he replied he was calm and collected. "Banavol didn’t have much significant to say, Fatso—aside from maybe three clues that could possibly lead somewhere. But that’s not why I’ve called you. I don’t want to lose sight of what Mercant had on his mind. Do you follow me? I’m talking about the proposal of the Galactic Traders. I’d like to go along with him and see that approval changed—to the extent that the Springers will only be allowed to set up 100 new commercial bases a year in the Imperium..."
"Perry!" Bell interrupted with enthusiasm. "Are you putting out
some of those telepathic tendrils again? You just read my thoughts! That was exactly what I was intending to do but I wanted to have it all laid out first before I showed you the changes."
Cardif maintained his friendly expression although inwardly boiling over Bell’s arbitrary action. Very smoothly he replied: "I can’t quite rely on my telepathic ability yet—not that it was ever very much in the first place—but I’m glad we are both agreed on this."
This only served to remind Bell that we was not in agreement at all with allowing Springers into the Sol System in the first place. But he thought he had found a favorable moment for changing Rhodan’s mind entirely. "Hey, Perry," he suggested, "don’t you think we ought to tell these star gypsies to shove their whole ballawax? All those greedy sky-peddlers can give us is grief in the long run, so I say later with them!"
Now Cardif-Rhodan’s tone was noticeably cooler. "I have my own special plans for the Springers." He hoped that this would be enough to dampen Bell’s curiosity but it wasn’t.
"What plans are you talking about, Perry?"
"I’ll tell you more about them later. But don’t issue the revised approval of the Springer proposal yet. Before that I want to take another look at their trading post on Pluto." He watched Bell’s face carefully on the videoscreen.
But his heavyset listener only laughed. "Now you’ve really got me curious about your plan, Perry! Galloping galaxies—what’s Pluto got to do with those trouble merchants?"
"That you will know soon enough, my friend."
"That ‘soon enough’ bit is another one of your broken records, Perry," Bell commented pointedly. "But I’m cutting off so I can advise Mercant about the proposal. When are you taking off for Pluto?"
"Probably tomorrow, That’s all, Bell."
The videophone shut off. Cardif-Rhodan got up and walked to the window. How often his father had stood here and looked out over the rooftops of Terrania at the landscape beyond, which had all been a desert not too long ago. How often Rhodan had been here alone with his problems, big and small, struggling through the years for decisions!
It was now much the same for his son, except that his problems were in another category. Everything that he considered or planned was basically on the other side of legality—nothing more than one crime after another. And how had it all come about?
"Rhodan..." he heard himself say bitterly, and the hate for his father flamed up anew within him.
In taking over the role of Rhodan he had played the wrong number in this cosmic shell game. His neck was out. For better or worse he was totally dependent upon the Antis. Through Banavol they had put in an order for 20 cell activators. When Thomas Cardif thought of this he smiled grimly. It wasn’t difficult to imagine what the motivations were for such a request: 20 of the most influential Baalol priests were toying with the idea of reaching for relative immortality by means of the activators.
Cardif nodded in secret satisfaction.
His plan was shaping up more and more. It was to become a test of power between his and the Antis and he was convinced now that he would win that contest.
"Alright," he muttered aloud to himself. "So be it!"
In the mist of distance a gigantic shadow swept across the Earth. One of the Solar Fleet’s super battleships was coming in for a landing. The Wellington was returning from a mission.
• • •
Pucky the mouse-beaver had a visitor in his own house, which was a comfortable bungalow on the edge of the Goshun salt lake. Rhodan’s oldest and most intimate colleagues and friends lived here in this residential colony. Life was grand and peaceful here, far removed from the rush and bustle of Terrania. But in spite of this, Pucky’s visitor seemed to be unusually troubled. Even the mouse-beaver’s mood was not the best at the moment because his incisor tooth remained hidden and the rascally twinkle was absent from his shining mouse eyes.
Five minutes of silence had gone by before Pucky finally chirped a remark. "An icicle is nothing, John, compared to him!"
John Marshall, Chief of the Mutant Corps, was the best telepath other than Pucky within his group. He nodded in agreement since the bitter comment was all too appropriate. All he could do in his mind was underline the statement for emphasis. Ever since the Chief had returned from Okul he had continued to build up an invisible wall around himself. It was increasingly noticeable to his old friends that he was no longer the Perry Rhodan they had known but rather the Administrator alone—a lonely celebrity, unapproachable and frighteningly impersonal.
Pucky lay on his daybed and John Marshall had stretched himself out in a suspended hammock couch. Beside the mouse-beaver was an assortment of fresh carrots which Pucky had personally grown in his garden. Aware of his obligations as a host, he reached into the mountainous heap and picked out one of the finest specimens. "One for you, John?"
To his surprise the telepath didn’t turn down the offer as he usually did. "Yes, hand it over! Vitamins can’t hurt at a time like this. Carrots are good for the brain and mine’s beat! Pucky—just between the two of us, I have a question: can you still pick up the Chief’s thoughts?"
There was an old standing regulation that prohibited the telepaths from using their paranormal faculties in relation to Perry Rhodan or any of his top staff of coworkers. Their thought patterns were forbidden territory and John Marshall had always been among those mutants who had taken care to see that the order was obeyed. On the other hand, Pucky had always been one of the worst offenders in this regard and had not even drawn the line where it came to Rhodan’s thoughts. Today, however, even Marshall was ready to violate the rules.
"Yes, John, I can reach his thoughts. But whenever I tune in on his wavelength I get the shudders. What have those medicos done to him? John, have you noticed how little the Chief seems to care about whether or not this lousy Liquitiv curse is wiped out? Even the Swoons, the little cucumber people, feel they’ve been betrayed and sold out, because the Boss never sees them anymore. I’m telling you, if I knew that the medicos were to blame for Perry’s change I’d take that whole cloud-nosed crowd of hippocratic oafs and give them a douse of salts in the lake!"
"Take it easy, little buddy..."
But Pucky wasn’t to be deterred now in expressing himself. "So how come you’re here to see me if I can’t say what I think about our Chief? No matter how often I sneak into his thoughts I can’t tap the patterns that used to be there—the ones that were always concerned with Thomas Cardif! Doesn’t he ever think of his misguided son anymore?"
"You mean you’ve changed your opinion about Cardif, Pucky?"
"I had to, John. Now I’m even sorry for all the times I stood up for him.. But tell me now—in these past weeks haven’t you also done some snooping around in the Chief’s head? Go-ahead John, you can level with me. I wouldn’t snitch on you even if we have a few spats now and then. Haven’t you noticed something peculiar about him?"
In some surprise, John Marshall straightened up. "What do you mean, Pucky?"
"If I only knew! Since that crazy shock treatment the Chief has turned into somebody else. He can’t read thoughts anymore and as far as technical things go, I know more than he does now. He doesn’t know how to laugh anymore. But all that’s beside the point. There’s something in his brain pan that wasn’t there before—something strange and kind of blurry. Sometimes when I try to read his mind it’s like standing in front of a frosted glass screen and behind that screen I see shadows... phantom thought shapes in the background, as though they were hiding. Then it all clears away—the shadows and the screen along with them. Have you ever noticed that, John?"
The Mutant Corps chief stared long and thoughtfully at the mouse-beaver. It was an effort to face the truth. "Little one, you’ve just put your finger on something that’s been bothering me. Yes, I’ve seen those shadows! Ye cosmic gods!—do you think those phantoms are the key to what’s changed him?"
Even the best telegraphs in the Solar Imperium did not suspect that the shadows were actually the t
hought impulses of Thomas Cardif which had been buried under the hypnotically-implanted knowledge of Rhodan.
After awhile Marshall spoke again. "Pucky, from now on well have to keep a sharp watch over the Chief to prevent him from making any disastrous mistakes. It’s enough to drive one to despair when you think of all the damage Rhodan’s only son has caused."
"Galactic Enemy Number One! I’d have never dreamed I’d say such a thing about Thomas. But in spite of his genius he must be psychopathic."
"Insane with hate for his father; and on top of it a man of two different worlds—half Terran, half Arkonide."
Pucky nodded his agreement but added: "In spite of everything I can’t understand how a man could walk over dead bodies in order to destroy his own father."
"Don’t forget the Antis, little one. Cardif is in their power and once they have somebody in their clutches they never let him go. Cardif has to dance to their tune. He is no longer the master of his own will."
2/ THE EXTORTIONIST
"Now things are getting real cute!" exclaimed Bell in complete exasperation.
He glanced sharply at the intercom which had just brought him a message from Rhodan. Then he got up from his desk and went out. While going through the outer reception room he snapped: "I’ll be in Mercant’s office."
When the outer door had closed behind him, someone was heard to say: "Old Chubby’s mood gets worse as the Chief gets weirder!"
By this time Bell was already headed below in the antigrav shaft, en route to Solar Marshal Allan D. Mercant. Halfway down the shaft he met Prof. Manoli on his way up.
"Just the man I wanted to see!" shouted the red-haired Solar First Deputy. "Wait a sec, I’m changing floors!"
He moved into the upward force flow, sailed a few meters higher and came out at the next level with the Professor in tow.