Spybot!

by Perry Rhodan

  Pucky grinned and showed his incisor tooth. At the same time he thought intensively: Hello, Muzzel! My name is Pucky and I'm your friend. Do you want to play hide and seek?

  There was no reaction Pucky could detect that would indicate his telepathic message had been received and understood. On the contrary, the golden eyes seemed to be filled with incomprehensible wonder over the fact that there was a mouse-beaver named Pucky. At first Pucky thought he detected a trace of fright but of course it might have been an illusion.

  But there were thought impulses nonetheless...

  They were still weak and not very definite but without doubt they were present. Actually then, this Muzzel could think, even though he wasn't a telepath who could receive thoughts. So telepathy might prove to be a one-sided conversation.

  Perhaps he could understand English, thought Pucky. Certainly Kulman must have talked to him.

  So he said, slowly and clearly: "My-name-is-Pucky-and-I'm-your-friend. Do you want to pay hide and seek?"

  It seemed to him that Muzzel was listening. The dachshund cocked his head and peered at the mouse-beaver. A happy twinkle came into his eyes. Then, quite suddenly, Pucky received the faint answer in his brain: You are Pucky. We play hide and seek. What is that?

  The mouse-beaver was so overcome with joy that he felt like hugging Muzzel. Communication was established. He had found a new playmate!

  "It's quite simple, Muzzel! One of us gets a minute to go hide somewhere in the ship and then the other one has to search for him. When the searcher hasn't found the one who is hiding within ten minutes, he loses. Haven't you ever played hide and seek in your life?"

  No, never.

  "Then it's about time!" Pucky assured him. "It's a lot of fun. Or are you too tired?"

  Muzzel yawned, since he was reminded about it. He stretched himself and got up. He pattered over to Pucky and sniffed him. You smell pretty good.

  The mouse-beaver was so dumbfounded that he couldn't think of an appropriate answer. So he smelled good, did he? Up until now no one had ever told him that, even though they had also never mentioned that he stank, either.

  Where is Kulman?

  Pucky pulled himself together. "He should be here any time now, Muzzel. Unfortunately his report was interrupted, because... because..." He considered whether or not he should tell the dachshund what had happened. Actually it didn't concern him. "He was hungry and so he's eating now," he continued, thankful that Muzzel couldn't read thoughts. "Don't you want something to eat?"

  It seemed as if the question startled Muzzel, although of course Pucky could have been mistaken. Why should Muzzel be startled when he merely inquired about his appetite?

  I guess I am hungry after all, Pucky.

  "Then come with me and I'll get you something. Do you like carrots?"

  Carrots?

  It seemed too involved for the mouse-beaver to explain to the stranger the excellent features of a fresh carrot. Just let him try one and then he would see. Maybe then the chief cook of the Drusus would have to dish out a double ration. And then perhaps if Muzzel weren't quite so pleased with them, they could still be... well...

  Pucky became lost in pleasurable speculation, and almost forgot Muzzel. However, he pulled himself together in time to remember his duties as a host. He got up and opened the door into the corridor with his front paw. Muzzel could not have done this because he was too small. Once outside, Pucky pushed the door closed again and wondered what Muzzel might say if he were to demonstrate to him the art of teleportation. But he must take one thing at a time so that all the surprises would not be used up all a once.

  An officer came around the corner and approached them. In Muzzel's dachshund perspective he could only make out the legs at first and he moved involuntarily to one side to make way for the man. He had suffered some bad experiences already with the legs of the larger 2-legged species on Swoofon. The Springers weren't very considerate.

  Pucky marched along straight ahead and if Lt. Hicks had not looked up at this moment he would certainly have stumbled over the mouse-beaver and sprawled at full length on the plastic carpeting.

  Instead, however, Lt. Hicks came to a halt and rubbed his eyes incredulously.

  Pucky was taking a walk with an actual dachshund! Where had the dog come from? He didn't know that a dog was on board the Drusus, much less a dachshund, which was a species that wasn't much accustomed to discipline. This had been a well-known fact, for centuries. But to have one on board the Drusus-!

  "Don't strain your brain, Homo Sapiens," twittered Pucky and he drew himself to his full height in order to give weight to his words. "And now we'd be grateful if you would move out of the way so that we may pass please."

  Lt. Hicks jumped to one side so swiftly that he almost fell through the door into the room inside. His eyes fairly popped as Pucky said to the dog: "Let's go!" and walked away with him.

  He watched the unlikely pair depart and muttered to himself: "Is this a battleship of the Solar Empire or are we in some kind of flying circus?"

  Pucky waited until Hicks was out of sight and then stopped. "Are you a good runner?" he asked the dachshund.

  Muzzel had sat down on his hindquarters. Why do you ask? I only have short legs and I'm tired. Also I'm hungry. Why doesn't Kulman feed me?

  "Right away, Muzzel. The kitchen is a long way below. We'll make a jump."

  The golden eyes beamed with trustfulness but they also expressed the unspoken question: jump?

  Pucky grinned with glee as he went over to Muzzel, grasped him by the scruff of the neck, then concentrated on a certain well-known destination.

  When Muzzel opened his eyes again he saw that his location had changed without his knowing it. He couldn't know that he had just been transferred through more than half a mile in the thousandth part of a second, much less that he had been dematerialized and reconstituted in the process, but he recognized nevertheless that he was now in a different place than he had been before. His new friend Pucky had said something about making a 'jump'... Hm-m-m...

  "So here we are," said the mouse-beaver happily and caused the door to swing open before him. Beyond was heard the clatter of dishes, the mutterings and scoldings of hurrying chefs, the hum and sizzle of the giant cooking installations and all the mysterious sounds of a modem electronic kitchen. "Hey, fatty!"

  Somewhere in the mist and vapors of cooking food a massive figure started as though struck by a lightning bolt. Then the white-clothed, very fat man stomped through his miracle kitchen and was soon standing before his two visitors.

  "It isn't lunch time yet!" rumbled the deep voice reproachfully, albeit with hidden overtones of fright. 'Fatty' had never forgotten that Pucky had once teleported him and locked him inside the giant reefer where he had left him for several hours. "Is there something special on your mind?" Only now did he see Muzzel. There was a cautious nuance of rejection in his expression. "Well now, what's the little bowwow doing here?"

  "That's a dumb question!" retorted Pucky. "I brought him here."

  Fatty drew himself up. "Dogs are not allowed in the kitchen; that's strictly against the rules!"

  "Muzzel isn't a dog, he's a possonkal." Pucky informed him. "And besides, nobody said we wanted to come into your dumpy old stink place."

  But it smells pretty good here, thought Muzzel with awakened interest.

  "Stink place!" exclaimed Fatty, insulted. "If you say that just once more I'll..."

  "You'll what?" queried Pucky, tensing.

  Fatty elected to climb down a bit. Once again he was coming out on the short end with this uncanny creature. Only recently his second cook had suddenly become weightless and had flown about through the kitchen for so long that they had finally had to bring him down with a lasso and lash him to the main floor braces of the master grill installation. Even Pucky hadn't been able to move him then.

  "Do you wish something?" asked Fatty in mock friendliness. "How can I help you?"

  "By giving us about ten pound
s of fresh carrots, one pound of raw meat and a bottle of water," advised Pucky. "And hurry it up!"

  Fatty turned about and trudged away. Only a half minute later he returned with the requested order on a tray.

  "I'll do anything you say, Pucky, but-orders are orders. Dogs are not allowed..."

  "You already said that," the mouse-beaver interrupted him and turned to Muzzel. "Let's go before he gets melancholy or something. It's a bit more pleasant in my cabin."

  Fatty waited until his two strange visitors had dematerialized. Then he slammed the door shut with a loud curse and went back into the kitchen. For a few hours afterwards his help didn't have it very easy.

  Pucky and Muzzel, meanwhile, tackled their booty with gusto. Then they lay down on the couch and went to sleep.

  In the meantime Kulman had returned to his cabin and missed his companion. A short investigation revealed that the dachshund had been brought to the cabin after his disinfection treatment and that he must still be there. But he was not in his cabin, Kulman retorted. He attached great worth to the dog and was sure that everyone would gradually come to regard him as a highly worthwhile creature.

  Kulman jumped suddenly when a figure materialized nearby and Pucky presented himself. The mouse-beaver's sleepy eyes reflected annoyance.

  "Man, you'll wake up every telepath in the place, the way you carry on about Muzzel! Relax. Muzzel is with me. We've had something to eat and want to take a rest. Later we'll play games together."

  "Play!" gasped Kulman. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You should have hung onto some of your childhood sentiments," advised Pucky and disappeared without giving any further particulars.

  Kulman remained somewhat at a loss.

  3/ ROBOTS DON'T BLEED

  While Perry Rhodan occupied his post in the Command Central, Atlan had soon retired in order to ponder the latest situation. From his own observations he knew that calm, concentrated reflection often produced astonishing results and with these one approached the solution to a problem much more effectively than those who tried to get at the answers by fretful activity and grasping at straws.

  Nevertheless, after an hour or so the Arkonide came to realize that in this case the principle of meditation didn't especially apply. His points of reference were too meager. Actually all he had was that the Com Central had picked tip signals resembling tracking or search signals and this was obviously too little to support any really promising mental cogitation.

  Atlan asked himself whether or not the ship's master positronicon might be able to do something with that one piece of information and so he asked for machine time on the giant computer. Inasmuch as the Drusus hovered motionless in an engine cutoff state, with the planned transition data already in the registers, his request was granted immediately and he was given the use of the machine for an hour and a half.

  Setting up the program of questioning was no simple task for the Arkonide. Questions, which an organic intelligence such as a Terranian, for example, might have answered without hesitation by merely placing a finger on the forehead, were difficult to formulate for a positronicon so that it would not only reject them but even respond in a form of counter-inquiry in order to enhance the further development of the program.

  Using a number of facts in the case, Atlan first set them up in a 'computer language' format and fed them into the machine. In this way the positronicon learned that at the moment the Drusus was located in the vicinity of the sun Swaft, that on the planet Swoofon lived the Lilliputian race of the Swoon and that these people were the best micro-mechanical technologists in the galaxy. Also Kulman's assignment as an agent was mentioned and, finally, the incident concerning the reception of the search signals. After Atlan had duly inserted this information he prepared a punched card which requested the machine to formulate an analysis of the present situation.

  The massive calculating equipment began to go to work. To the normal sounds of the computer operations room were added an increased level of relay noises, a clicking of automatic dials and the rustling of inner mechanical workings as the machine fed the punched card into its data-reading section.

  Atlan leaned back comfortably in his seat. The question he had asked was difficult to answer. Even as tremendous a machine as the positronicon of the Drusus would require at least a quarter of an hour to digest the data and then bring forth an answer from the remotest branches of its long chain of logic circuits.

  The Arkonide leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. While the positronicon continued to labor, he relaxed, concentrating on the welding lines of the ceiling panels and the blue-white light of the fluorescent lamps, which were semi-prismatic in their effect due to the narrow slits his eyes had become.

  There was no one other than himself in the large room. The subtle whisperings of the computer had penetrated his consciousness with a sleep-inducing effect. Atlan sank deeply into his musings.

  He did not notice that he was being observed. He did not see the unblinking eyes that watched him from between two card cases.

  He heard a noise but as he straightened up with a start and looked about him, the lights went out. The console and computer parity lamps still blinked and flashed on the panels but after the brightness of illumination which had just filled the room their light was not sufficient now to even reveal his hand in front of his face.

  The Arkonide sensed the presence of danger. He stood up and drew back against the wide console's control panel. He heard the sound of someone or something slinking across the floor and straight through the room toward him but before he could make rhyme or reason out of it he saw a blinding flash that seemed to explode inside his head. An unbearable pain spread through his body and in less than a second he was unconscious.

  • • •

  Precisely at the appointed time the Drusus began its journey. At a distance of several astronomical units it passed Swaft and somewhere beyond it the ship sprang into hyperspace.

  The phantom tracker was not heard from again. In the Command Central there was new hope that a purely natural interference effect had put a burr under their saddles for nothing and that actually there was no bearing transmitter on board the Drusus.

  As the pain of distortion in coming out of hyperspace subsided and the new star regions took form on the viewscreens, the men sat at their stations straining to hide their excitement, determined not to miss a single order that might come from the Commander.

  Minutes passed-silently.

  Finally Bell, who sat in the First Officer's seat, couldn't control his impatience any longer. "Okay, okay! So we've made it! All our nail chewing was for nothing. The whole thing was nothing but blind-"

  It seemed as if the intercom had only been waiting for this first sign of erroneous optimism. Its loud buzzing interrupted Bell in mid-sentence. The face of a communications officer appeared on the small screen above Rhodan's position. There was so much excitement in the wide-staring eyes, such a seeming readiness to explode, that Bell knew at first glance he had been mistaken.

  "We have triangulated his position, sir!" cried the officer, dispensing with the usual formalities. "E-deck, Section 2, at the level of the main corridor."

  Rhodan seemed to move mechanically. His motions were like those of a machine and equally as swift and precise. The face of the communications man faded from the screen, to be replaced by that of Capt. Farrington.

  "E-deck, Section 2, main passage level," said Rhodan with amazing calmness. "That's very close, Farrington. He can't get away from you."

  Farrington merely gave a brief nod. The viewscreen faded immediately.

  Rhodan stood up. "Reginald Bell has the command till further notice," he announced curtly. "I want to witness this personally, on the spot."

  The Control Central itself was on E-deck, the central deck of the Drusus. Across to the second section was a distance of 300 yards. The conveyor belt served to cover the distance in less than two minutes.

  Farrington and his men had
long since arrived at the scene of action. But one had only to look at their faces to know that they hadn't found anything yet nor did they seem to know even where to look for it.

  Farrington gave a concise report. "We've blocked off the passage at both ends, sir," he explained in the process. "Not even a mouse could get in or out-or through the adjoining rooms, either. But we haven't been able to find anybody. If somebody was here-"

  Rhodan smiled in spite of the seriousness of the situation. "Who's telling you that it might be a somebody?" he asked. "It could just as well be a something."

  Farrington was not to be confounded. "Well, we didn't find a somebody or a something, sir," he replied with a ready wit. "We've gone through the passage and all adjoining rooms. Everything is in order. In the meantime I checked with Communications as to how exact their fix is. They claim it's down to plus or minus ten yards, more or less. He couldn't have escaped us, sir."

  Rhodan raised his brows. "So-since you haven't found him or it on the other end of the passage, would you draw the conclusion that no one or thing has been here, either?"

  Farrington's expression was an unhappy one. "It sounds unbelievable," he admitted, "but that's exactly my conclusion, sir."

  Rhodan waved a hand. "None of us knows in this case what's believable or not. But before we give up hope, send one of your men down to technical supplies and have him get a hefty suction bellows. Or better yet a good vacuum cleaner."

  Farrington's eyes widened. "A... vacuum cleaner, sir?"

  "Correct," Rhodan confirmed with a nod. "And when you have it, see to it that every square inch of the deck, walls, ceiling and adjacent rooms is thoroughly cleaned. Communications sets the focal point within plus or minus ten yards. So cover 15 yards all around the midpoint so that we won't be missing anything. Oh yes, and one thing more: the dust you collect goes to the analysts. I want them to examine it carefully. Make sure that your men don't miss the smallest fiber in their cleaning work. Do you understand?"

  Farrington saluted. "I understand, sir."