Planet Mechanica

by Perry Rhodan

  The machine sped like a shot across the smooth pavement of the landing field. Under indirect lighting the vast outlines of the Springer installations began to become more discernible. A hall-sized airlock received the car. The driver opened the door for him and greeted him again as he got out. The young chauffeur advised him that he could open his plastic space helmet.

  The man in the uniform of the highest official on Earth thanked him for his courtesy and then turned toward the Galactic Trader who was hurrying toward him: Catepan, chief patriarch of the Springer post on Pluto.

  Later in Catepan’s office the patriarch offered a seat to the Administrator. Only here in the private suite of the Springer did Cardif-Rhodan decide to remove his helmet, which he did with a special purpose. Thereby he broke off his radio connection with the Ironduke.

  "Catepan," he said immediately, "you are probably familiar with the proposal of the Galactic Traders who want to establish new commercial centers within the sphere of interest of the Solar Imperium. I shall approve that proposal if I don’t find any reasons here for rejecting it.

  The old Trader regarded him in amazement. "But—Administrator, are you saying that this is why you have come here personally?"

  "That’s right." Although Cardif-Rhodan spoke casually he concealed his real satisfaction. Catepan had plainly indicated that he took him for Administrator Rhodan. Cardif needed to know no more. When he got up again and Catepan rose up also as if to accompany him, he waved him off. "Thank you, Catepan, I’ll go alone. Don’t worry, I won’t go astray in your rooms and offices. You may expect me back here in half an hour."

  When he went out he left an old-time veteran Springer standing there in utter confusion. Catepan couldn’t get it into his head that the mightiest man in the Solar Imperium was concerning himself with such an inconsequential item as a mere trading post; and even less could he understand why Perry Rhodan himself had come personally and alone. But the most inexplicable part of it all was what the Pluto trading post itself had to do with the major proposal of the combined Springer clans.

  Meanwhile Cardif-Rhodan had left the section designated for offices and living quarters and had traversed a bright passage which brought him into the first of the storage areas. His glances to right and left were only cursory because he was hardly concerned with the trade goods that were stacked here. The chief point of interest now was the Springer who stood in front of a door at the end of the warehouse. He appeared to be waiting for him—yet as Cardif approached the man, the latter turned his back to him and disappeared into the passage behind him.

  Cardif recalled what the Arkonide Banavol had told him. It was only here in this Springer base that he would be able to make his protest against the Antis’ demand for 20 cell activators from Wanderer. Was this man he had just seen the agent of the priests of Baalol? Cardif had to know. Before going through the doorway he turned to look back. The storage hall he had traversed was more than 50 meters wide and 100 meters long. He wanted to make sure no one had followed him.

  Having confirmed this he nodded with satisfaction and still paused there to savor a growing realization. Even here, he thought, in this extra-territorial location, the wish of the First Administrator was law! A sense of power swept over Cardif like an overwhelming euphoria. The indescribable awareness of only having to give an order to fulfill all of his wishes was becoming an obsession that was hard to control. He did not know in this moment that his eyes gleamed with the light of megalomania. He only knew what pleasure it gave him to yield to this delicious state of power consciousness.

  Then like a destroying bolt of lightning came the memory of an ultimatum—the demand of Rhobal, high priest of Baalol: 20 cell activators, automatically adjustable to individual wave patterns! The ecstasy of a moment before imploded suddenly into naked reality: disguised as his father, he was inescapably Thomas Cardif—a puppet!

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  Thus the one moment was gone in which fate offered Thomas Cardif another chance to turn his life into brighter paths. He put it out of his mind. He was ready now for the test of power between him and the anti-mutants. Here in this trading settlement of the Galactic Traders on Pluto he would launch his plan which would eventually destroy the servants of Baalol.

  Thomas Cardif turned and went into the connecting passageway. It led away from the storeroom at a right angle. The first part of the next section had been constructed as a heavy-walled blast shelter in case of catastrophe and was equipped with double airlocks. After the last lock door closed behind him he found himself in a new office section. As he soon discovered, this part was built along the left side of the building compound and faced the Traders’ spaceport.

  He walked calmly along the hallway which was provided with soundproofed floor covering. Finally he came to a door which was standing open, permitting a view of the room inside. A man turned from the window in the office and stared straight at him. With a nod of his head he signaled Cardif to enter.

  Cardif-Rhodan walked in and gave the door a slight shove so that it closed behind him. The other man looked like a Springer with the typical beard and ‘star gypsy’ clothing.

  The stranger bowed and spoke to him in good Intercosmo "In the name of Fut-Gii I am authorized to give greetings to the First Administrator of the Syrola Daquarta—the Solar Imperium."

  "Thank you," Cardif replied in a clipped tone. He sounded self-controlled and his gaze was highly indifferent. "May I sit down?" Without waiting for permission he took a seat.

  Looking beyond the man, he could see the inhospitable surface of Pluto outside. Part of the Traders’ spaceport was visible from here and a most unmistakable object across the field was the mighty sphere of the Ironduke, clearly discernible in the glare of its own lights. Cardif looked bored as he turned his gaze back to the Baalol agent—for such the stranger was. Mention of the name of Fut-Gii had been identification enough.

  "Well?" Cardif demanded caustically.

  The Baalol agent remained silent. With arms folded across his chest and leaning back against the window sill, he stared back at the man whom others claimed was Perry Rhodan. Cardif felt a surge of anger. The arrogant attitude of this representative of the priest cult was beginning to get to him.

  "I cannot and I will not famish you your 20 little miracles!" he said abruptly.

  "But that you will do," replied the other. His face remained inscrutable. "You’re going to have to, Cardif, or the days of your power are numbered, not to mention your life!" Then he turned his back on him and looked out toward the looming spaceship from Terra. "What a magnificent dungeon cell for you! The Ironduke will surely take you back to Terrania for your final judgment."

  "Your mouth is bigger than your brain," sneered Cardif. "You talk far too much. What do you expect to accomplish with threats? What’s it going to buy you?"

  "Nothing" answered the other as he tamed back to face him again, "other than 20 cell activators."

  "Extortion?"

  "The servants of Baalol are above such a filthy accusation!" retorted the agent.

  "You know, for about 60 years now the Springers have also tried to get me to dance on a string but they have never succeeded. Who in the devil are you?"

  "I am A-Thol, personal representative of the high priest, Rhobal. Any other questions, Cardif?"

  "Rhobal’s request is not feasible," Cardif answered sharply.

  "You have no choice in the matter. On Lepso you swore eternal allegiance and gratitude to the cult of Baalol. Today, Baalol takes you at your word; otherwise in a few days the whole galaxy will have the head of its Public Enemy #1 on a silver platter. One word from us, skilfully planted in the right places, would be enough to rip the mask from your face. Make your choice here, Cardif. Before you leave this room you will have to make your decision."

  Cardif was still master of the situation as he asked in frigid tones: "What does the high priest offer in case I deliver?"

  For the first time the Anti’s fea
tures revealed his thoughts. He grinned derisively. "Great Baalol will then shield you with his mighty hand forever!"

  "Oh, he will, will he?" Cardif chanced to look past the anti-mutant. He looked outside into the twilight zone and discovered something that instantly upset a part of his plan.

  Without visible reaction, he adjusted himself to a new situation. He managed not to draw attention to what he had observed.

  • • •

  It had become quiet in Bells cabin. Except for a casual glance, Allan D. Mercant had not been involved in the conversation between Bell and Marshall. Now the three men were waiting for a call from Rhodan over the minicom. They had noted with agitation that he had cut off his helmet radio shortly after being greeted by the Springer patriarch Catepan.

  After that had come the silence and waiting.

  But instead of hearing from Rhodan they received a sudden call from the mutant tele-tracer, Fellmer Lloyd. His face appeared on the screen of the intercom.

  "Sir, I’ve picked up the brainwave patterns of an Anti!"

  That last word was all that was needed.

  "Robot detail 1, emergency standby for action" roared Bell. His stocky frame moved quickly to the other mike but now he quickly re-channeled Lloyd’s line so that what the mutant was saying could be heard by everyone on board.

  "Anti wave patterns!" Lloyd continued, his voice now coming over all speakers. "At the Springer base! Pattern indications are hate, derision, thoughts of assassination. I’m sorry I didn’t get it all. The Anti must have put a mental block into his screen. Attention! Anti brainwave pattern..."

  "OK, thanks!" Bell interrupted. "Put all telepaths to work Lloyd... Jefe Claudrin, did you hear all that?"

  There was something like a confirmation but it was such a thunderous roar that it overdrove the speakers. Yes, the Epsalian commander of the Ironduke had heard.

  "Alright, Claudrin, but if these planet swindlers manage to get so much as a lifeboat into space..."

  Now it was Bell’s turn to be interrupted.

  "So it’ll be my neck—yes sir!"

  Bell was halfway out the cabin when he caught Mercant’s grin. In spite of the seriousness of the situation he couldn’t help chuckling, himself, over Claudrin’s dry repartee.

  The three men ran for the nearest antigrav shaft while Bell gave instructions over his minicom transceiver. "Robot detail 1! Wait until we get to the airlock! This is a combat alert!"

  This time the normally swift shaft seemed to carry them all too slowly toward their goal. En route, Ben contacted Fellmer Lloyd again. There were no further developments. The anti-mutant in the Springer station was apparently still under his mentally-fortified personal screen. There was no further trace of his thought impulses.

  There was one more stop before reaching the outer airlock. Bell, Mercant and Marshall had to put on their spacesuits. Although time was of the essence they refused to overlook anything now.

  "Weapon check!" Bell ordered, having been the first into his suit.

  Mercant and Marshall reported all clear in the weapons department so they all hastened to the outer lock. Shoulder to shoulder they ran down the ramp. At the bottom was the hovercraft with a crew of 20 combat robots and one robot pilot. The robots were the equivalent of 100 well-trained men of the Solar Fleet when it came to battle action.

  The personnel carrier rose from the ground on its antigravs. Its sudden acceleration was almost uncanny. Bell sat beside the big mechanical pilot. He had pulled the panel mike to him but did not make use of it for the moment. He could see their rushing approach toward the Trader base as they glided swiftly along at a 10-meter altitude. He glanced at an instrument on the flight console which measured the distance from the Springer’s energy defense screen.

  Still two kilometers...

  Bell held his silence.

  One kilometers!

  Now came his challenge: "Springer Catepan, this is Reginald Bell, Rhodan’s second-in-command! Open your screen immediately! At once or the Ironduke will open fire!"

  Three seconds later the instrument needle fell to zero. The energy screen surrounding the Springer base had ceased to exist for the moment.

  The hovercraft with its robot and human cargo came down close to the entrance lock of the station. The combat robots swarmed out, perfectly programmed to deploy themselves strategically. Three of them rose on their antigravs to a height of 50 meters where they could cover almost the entire complex of storage warehouses and buildings. The others raced with the men toward the airlock. It opened without any challenge from Bell. When they entered it closed automatically behind them and the inner door also opened. In the hall ahead they could see the Springer patriarch hurrying toward them, showing obvious signs of alarm. He was not wearing a spacesuit. It meant that Bell and his two companions could open their helmets, which they did.

  "Where is the administrator!" roared Bell as the Springer chief came up to him.

  Catepan’s alarm changed to astonishment. "Perry Rhodan? He’s back in one of the offices but..."

  "Which offices," Bell interrupted. "Where?"

  Completely bewildered, Catepan pointed toward the end of the long warehouse.

  "Then behind that to the left?" asked Bell cautiously.

  The patriarch simply nodded.

  Bell sprinted away. His heavy suit did not seem to retard him. But he had hardly advised the robots of his destination before 17 of them raced past him, arriving at the farther door before he had covered half the distance.

  In spite of his concern for Rhodan, the rugged First Deputy did not forget to inform the men on the Ironduke. He called through to them, using the spacesuit’s transceiver. "Claudrin, we’re inside the base on our way to the Chief. Robots already gone on ahead. Over and out!"

  John Marshall kept pace beside him with Mercant about 10 meters in the rear. They reached the door beyond which the 17 robots had already disappeared. They had hardly entered the passageway when Bell suddenly grasped Marshall’s arm impulsively and stopped him. "Marshall, what was that?" he yelled. "Was it a shot?"

  John Marshall could only nod his confirmation.

  • • •

  The Anti had no idea of what was racing toward the base from the Ironduke at very low altitude but Cardif-Rhodan had been able to observe its approach.

  For a long moment Cardif was gripped by a fear that bordered on panic. He remembered that Bell, Mercant and Marshall had come along on the flight without being authorized or asked to do so. And now he realized that with these men there was probably a group of mutants also on board the Ironduke.

  Bell and his precautions!

  His main cause for alarm was his apprehension that the telepaths might have been able to identify the basic brainwave patterns of the true Thomas Cardif. But then the absolute certainty that his own patterns were blocked from emerging to the surface served to calm him down somewhat. Nevertheless he had to make the most strenuous effort to hold his thoughts in the channels of his father.

  That which he planned he dared not even touch with a conscious thought.

  This was for him a moment of gravest danger. He had never been so close to being unmasked before. In order to eliminate any possible suspicion on the part of the telepaths he forced himself to build up a mental web of lies in complete detail while weaving it into his father’s transferred thought-patterns. In his thoughts he gave form to the realization that he had just discovered the man across from him to be an Anti!

  Thomas Cardif did not realize that in so doing he accomplished something unique enough to be worthy of a better deed.

  He proceeded to speak to the Anti; he pointed out the risk that he, the Anti, was taking to show up here in the heart of the Solar Imperium. Nothing more was said about the cell activators nor was Rhodan’s name mentioned. The Anti overlooked the fact that Thomas Cardif was suddenly leading the discussion and he also failed to notice that he was keeping it in neutral channels.

  But what he knew least of all was that a comb
at group from the linear-drive ship Ironduke had already come into the station. Nevertheless he began to note something sinister in Cardif’s attitude. As the latter began to approach him slowly, he was instinctively alerted. "Don’t get too close to me, Cardif!" he warned. "I turned on my screen shortly after you came in. Stay where you are—not another step!"

  It was then that the first ponderous, metallic steps of the fighter robots rang out in the corridor.

  "What’s that?" it was the Anti’s last question because he made the mistake of going past Cardif to have a look out the door.

  A-Thol did not see what his visitor quickly whipped out of a pocket of his spacesuit. But as the indirect lighting was reflected from the barrel of an ancient-looking Terran weapon it was already too late to do anything. The nonmagnetic plastic bullet crashed through his super-powerful defense screen and struck home where Thomas Cardif intended it to.

  The man in the mask of Perry Rhodan overlooked nothing now. He changed his grip on the .44 revolver, grasping it by the barrel, and struck the butt-end against the right side of his chin. It tore the skin and drew blood.

  Cardif’s next move was a swift dash to the desk. Among the papers was a heavy paperweight. Picking it up, he passed it over his bloodied chin, then let it fall to the floor. But in the midst of all this to think unwaveringly of the Antis yet not imagine the cavern location on Okul was an incredible effort of highest mental concentration.

  Behind him the door flew open.

  Two robots rushed into the room. Through their ocular systems they registered the presence of the body lying directly in front of the Administrator. Then Cardif was surrounded by a swarm of ponderous combat machines that were followed shortly by Bell and Marshall and finally by Allan D. Mercant.

  Perry! Bell blurted out as he saw the dead man. "You shot him?" There was a note of puzzled alarm in his voice.

  "Any objections, Bell?" Cardif-Rhodan’s voice was harsh and imperious. "Was I supposed to let an Anti get the best of me?" As though not intended, he let Bell see the wounded side of his chin.