The Dead Live

by Perry Rhodan

  At least for those who survived it.

  Administrator Mansrin knew nothing of the events in preparation on the planet he ruled. As he did every day, he arose none too early from his bed, took a lukewarm shower and ate breakfast.

  He heard the usual requests from a group of supplicating natives and—as usual—turned them down. What did he care about those primitive, half-intelligent creatures. They should be grateful that they were left alone and not disturbed.

  Then he listened to reports from the communications room. That interested him much more. All sorts of things were going on throughout the Imperium...

  In the Berilla System, a revolt of snake-like creatures had been put down. Some 20,000 light-years farther, towards the center of the galaxy, a robot fleet had fallen victim to a cosmic electro-storm. Only one ship had escaped the catastrophe and the captain gave his account of the experience. Mansrin listened with a comfortable shudder. This was much more entertaining than watching the color patterns on diversion vidscreens, as so many of his race were wont. There had also been a war among the planets of a giant star system and more than 50 worlds had been involved. But the Robot Regent had quickly acted and...

  Suddenly, Mansrin realized what did not seem right about the reports. Something had been bothering him all along and he had been unable to figure out what it was. Now he knew. A gap broke the continuous sequence of the received reports. A rather considerable gap, at that. The com-station had apparently been unoccupied for a space of three hours—or else the operator had been asleep.

  Mansrin looked up the operator's name as well as that of the man who had relieved him.

  Though an Arkonide, Mansrin was not one of the degenerated zombies of his race who depended entirely on the technology their ancestors had created. Mansrin could still think and act.

  And he did.

  "Send in Operator Bredag!" he ordered once he had contacted the head of Personnel. "He is to report to me immediately and bring his electronic service control card with him."

  The Administrator leaned back in his seat and waited. He tolerated no carelessness—certainly not in his own palace. If the operator could not show that no messages had come in during those three hours, he had been asleep. Or had not been in the com-station at all.

  The door opened but it was not Bredag who came in, it was a younger Arkonide instead. His face looked troubled and bore signs of a guilty conscience. "My apologies, Administrator," he said. "I took over Bredag's post in the com-station after his shift was over. He was not there when I came into the room last night. I assumed he had left before I arrived but when the commanding officer asked him, I looked around and found Bredag's control card in its place. That means Bredag can't have left the com-center yet."

  Mansrin's eyes narrowed. "Come, come, it's too early in the morning for riddles. Explain this phenomenon to me."

  "The phenomenon can’t be explained, sir. The control card was mounted in the electric eye next to the center’s only door. It unmistakably registered Bredag coming in to begin duty but it did not register him leaving. Bredag therefore must still be in the com-center. But he isn't."

  "Impossible!" Mansrin exclaimed, sitting up straight. "Don't give me any fairy tales—where is Bredag? I want to know!"

  "We've searched the whole room but there's not a sign of him. We did not want to disturb you so we weren't going to report this until we had an explanation. Unfortunately, we still don't have one."

  "But a man can't fool the electronic control system!" Mansrin cried. "He’s got to be in there, then!"

  "But he isn't," said the operator, standing firm. "There is only one logical explanation: he dissolved into thin air and disappeared."

  "You call that logical?" Mansrin demanded angrily. "I've never heard such nonsense. Hmm, maybe something's wrong in the control system. But Bredag has to be somewhere."

  "Maybe so, sir, but he isn't in the com-station anymore. Or in his quarters, for that matter."

  Mansrin thought. "Those three hours of messages that just aren't there... they're starting to worry me. You should have said something when you went to relieve Bredag and found he wasn't there."

  "It often happens, sir, that someone will leave the com-station a few minutes before his relief comes. Incoming messages are received automatically and recorded. That wasn't the case last night, however. The equipment was shut down."

  "Shut down?"

  "Yes, sir. It had been shut down for three hours."

  The Administrator leaned back once more into his seat. His gaze rested thoughtfully on the young Arkonide. With instinctive certainty he realized that the man spoke the truth. But that did not solve the mystery. Quite the opposite.

  Disquiet began to make itself felt in Mansrin's mind. Logical as it was and governed by technology, there was no place in his mind for inexplicable phenomena. Everything had explanations, even apparent mysteries.

  "Keep looking for Bredag and if you find him, I want to talk to him. And keep. me posted on your progress in the search. You may go now."

  When he was alone once more, Mansrin shut his eyes for a long moment.

  He had the unmistakable feeling that this matter was not the only unpleasant surprise the day would bring.

  A feeling that would prove justified.

  • • •

  About two hours later, several persons entered the giant building near the spaceport. They came from different directions and seemed to have nothing to do with one another.

  Appearances are, of course, deceiving.

  Fellmer Lloyd crossed the first floor corridor and entered the well-furnished reading room. He nodded to some Volatians sitting in the comfortable chairs and poring over some of the journals lying on the tables. Then he sat down himself and selected a hook describing the organization of the Arkonidean spacefleet.

  Not 50 yards away, Rhodan and Noir stopped in front of a door. A sign labeled it as the entrance to Room 18.

  Pucky, where are you? thought Rhodan intensively and mentally listened for a reply.

  The answer came surprisingly fast. In the basement! This room is empty but it's been fitted out for holding prisoners. Give me a tip as to where I should look, Chief!

  I'll give you a tip as soon as I find one,Rhodan thought back. Meanwhile, keep on looking.

  Then he nodded to Noir and knocked forcefully on the door.

  Some time elapsed before a light humming sounded but now the door could be opened. Rhodan was surprised that it could be so simple. He had expected to run into difficulty but Tropnow evidently felt extremely confident.

  He entered the room along with Noir and closed the door behind him.

  The traitor sat behind a desk and watched them come in. His mind seemed to refuse to believe that the man he thought 43,000 light-years away suddenly stood in front of him. Almost 10 seconds went by before his complexion began to change. Then it went white; not a drop of blood remained in his cheeks. Tropnow came a little out of his seat, only to sink back down again immediately. His mouth opened to emit a stammer but no rational sound crossed his lips.

  "Good day," said Rhodan. His voice was friendly on the surface but carried a steel undertone that boded nothing very friendly for the traitor. "I'm happy to see you looking so well. I just hope for your sake that my wife is equally healthy."

  "Rho... dan!" Tropnow finally; gasped. "You..."

  There's a weapons arsenal in the next room down here, Pucky telepathed at that point. What should I do?

  Take an impulse-beamer and weld the door shut from the inside, Rhodan directed, not moving a muscle. Then he turned his attention back to the trembling Tropnow. "Where is Thora? Tell me or Noir will scour your brain to find out. You know what a man looks like afterwards."

  The betrayer was a hypno himself. No one had to tell him what effect such a massive assault on the consciousness had on one's ability to think afterwards. He stretched his hands defensively to the two men.

  "I'll tell you everything," he promised. "Just as
k me."

  "Didn't I just ask you a question?"

  Droplets of sweat appeared on Tropnow's forehead, shining like pearls. "Thora is... well, she's safe. Promise me my freedom and I'll tell you where she is, alright?"

  As a hypno, Tropnow could shield his thoughts and Rhodan had not been able to learn where Thora had been hidden. With considerable effort he kept his self-control and did not show his anger but his voice was ice-cold and dangerous as he spoke: "I'm warning you, Tropnow! You have no conditions to make! Isn't it enough that I've found you, even though there were thousands of light-years between us? At this moment an Arkonidean battlefleet is landing on Volat to re-establish order. You have no more possibility of getting your revenge on me. Give up, Tropnow!"

  "Does Thora mean so little to you?" asked Tropnow.

  Noir balled his fist but a warning glance from Rhodan restrained him from anything rash, "Tropnow!" said the Peacelord with a rising voice. "I've never in my life strangled a man but I may do it yet today—right now, in this room! I'm warning you! You have 10 seconds!"

  Tropnow could guess how serious Rhodan was. He tried to calculate his chances as he attempted to reach the alarm button with his hand. Just a few more inches...

  "...3...4...5..."

  Tropnow glanced quickly at the two men as his hand reached the button and pressed it. In that instant alarms would sound in the ready-rooms, calling to their weapons the men training there. No matter what happened from this second on, he was no longer alone. The thought gave Tropnow his self-assurance back.

  "...10!" said Rhodan just then. He did not show that he had noticed the betrayer's hand movement. Tropnow's alarm coincided exactly with his own plans. The time was just before noon: the Arkonidean fleet must have already landed. "Alright, where's Thora?"

  Tropnow smiled scornfully. "You wanted to kill me, eh, Rhodan? Try it and you'll never know where your lovely wife is stashed away!"

  Again came a silent message from Pucky: I've found Thora. She's alright. Now what?

  Wait there,Rhodan replied and looked directly at Tropnow. Aloud, he said: "I ought to take you up on that. As for Thora, set your mind at ease: we know where she is. Or don't you believe me?"

  Tropnow grinned twistedly. "Of course I don't believe you." He had to stall for time; his men could be coming in at any moment.

  "Too bad for you, Tropnow, Rhodan answered. "Thora is downstairs in the basement and Pucky's with her."

  "Pucky? That mouse-beaver?"

  "Oh, you know him?"

  Footsteps could be heard from the corridor outside, then somebody pounded on the door. Tropnow started to move but a warning look from Rhodan stopped him dead.

  "Wait!" snapped the Peacelord. "You don't seem to be very fond of living."

  "You don't have any weapons," Tropnow pointed out.

  "That's true," Rhodan admitted, "but don't get excited. We'll have some in a minute." He thought intensively: Hey, Pucky! Leave Thora where she is and bring some hand-beamers up from the arsenal to us in Room 18. And hurry! "Even though you quit the Mutant Corps," Rhodan added aloud to Tropnow, "we still have some capable members left. You'll see in a moment."

  Tropnow, whose face had regained a little of its color, went pale again.

  There was another pounding at the door, this time stronger and more urgent. After a short pause the intercom device on Tropnow's desk crackled and a voice asked: "What's going on in there, Gregor? This is Nomo—why haven't you called? What's the alarm for?"

  Noir leaped to Tropnow's side before he could reply to his fellow betrayer. Rhodan placed his index finger warningly to his mouth, switched on the intercom-mike and said: "Nomo, come quick to Room 18—and hurry!" Then, with no further explanation, Rhodan turned it off.

  Something hissed suspiciously at the door and a glowing white seam appeared in its surface. So, they were trying to heat-ray their way in. The situation was becoming critical.

  Then, in the middle of the room, the air shimmered and Pucky materialized. With him came five hand-beamers, clattering to the floor. The beamers were of the type whose slightest intensity could paralyze a man for hours. Pucky was about to disappear again but then he remembered the outrage he had endured the day before. He quickly strode over to the desk by Rhodan and Tropnow—and gave the traitor a ringing box on the ear.

  Extremely pleased, he twittered: "That one's from all the trained monkeys in the galaxy!" he boxed Tropnow's ear a second time and added: "And that one's from Thora!"

  Suddenly, Pucky was gone and only Tropnow's burning cheeks and the five hand-beamers indicated that the mouse-beaver had been at work.

  Rhodan stooped and picked up the beamers. two he shoved into his belt, two he gave to Noir and the fifth he held in his hand.

  "Okay," he said, "We shouldn't keep the boys outside waiting any longer. Tropnow, open the door before they burn the building down. Come on, man, hurry it up!"

  As though moved by a ghostly hand, the glowing door suddenly opened. Rhodan now turned his full attention to developments out in the corridor, knowing that Fellmer and his band of natives would show up at any time. The rebel band would find itself caught in a pincer movement.

  Three men stormed through the doorway and stopped dead the instant they saw the beamers aimed at them. They held up their hands, seeing that the faces behind the beamers looked deadly earnest.

  Behind his desk, Tropnow made a lightning movement. Out in the corridor yells could be heard, then the hissing of impulse-beamers. Hope lit up in the eyes of the three men who had come in.

  Before Rhodan could turn around, he saw out the corner of his eye that Tropnow had pulled a weapon out of his desk drawer.

  It was aimed precisely at Rhodan's back.

  • • •

  Hypercom operator Bredag had been vainly hammering away at the thick walls of his prison for hours. He did not have the slightest idea where he was. He had even less idea of how be had gotten there. One second he had been sitting at the hypercom control panel and the next he found himself in this dark room. The air was stale and choking, as though the air conditioner had not functioned in months.

  He had already paced off the dimensions of his unknown prison, estimating it to be about 15 feet long and just over 10 feet wide. It was completely empty and sealed off from the outer world by an iron door.

  Once he had heard steps outside and had beaten desperately against the door but no one had heard him. The footsteps grew fainter and finally died away in the distance. Then all was utterly still.

  Bredag did not know how long he had been there.

  Hours, probably. Or even a whole day? It might even night outside by now.

  He sat down in a corner and thought. If only he knew how he had come here! There were no such things as ghosts. A stranger had forced his way into the com-station, he remembered, and had demanded a connection with Arkon. Did this have anything to do with what happened after that?

  A connection with Arkon? Right. And then it happened.

  Suddenly he gave a start. Weren't those footsteps again outside the metal door? He stood up and pressed his ear against the cold metal. His first impression was of his ear freezing, then...

  Yes, those were footfalls. He began to pound on the door with every ounce of his strength. But maybe that would not be loud enough. He bent over swiftly and pulled his shoes off, then banged them against the door.

  The footsteps stopped. Then they quickly approached.

  Bredag heard a return knocking. He pounded back.

  The electronic lock hummed and the door rose, allowing light to flood into the dungeon. Someone called out Bredag's name in surprise as the unfortunate operator staggered out into the hall. He fell directly into the arms of his astonished liberators.

  They took him straight to Mansrin the Administrator, who listened to his story in disbelief. Yet, Mansrin did not levy any punishment. Instead, the Administrator let him go and stared pensively for some minutes at the door Bredag had closed behind him.

&n
bsp; Who had been the stranger requesting contact with Arkon? He, Mansrin, had not authorized it. And who had removed Bredag from the com-station without the operator's brainwave pattern being registered by the electronic control system?

  Questions on top of questions—and not a single answer. The communicator on his desk hummed. He flicked it on absentmindedly but his sleepy demeanor vanished in a flash when a cool voice reported:

  "Peculiar events in progress at the Galactic Traders' trading center, Administrator. A shootout is currently underway. Two opposing groups appear to be fighting each other. One of our men accidentally stumbled into it and only narrowly escaped."

  "A shootout?"

  "Yes, sir. A veritable war is being fought on the lower floors."

  Mansrin shook his head. "How is it possible? Have the police been called in?"

  "No, sir. What should we do?"

  "Alert the police. They are to occupy the trade center and arrest those participating in the violence. No parleys. We won't stand for any disorder here on Volat. We're going to act at once. I'll be right out there at the scene myself."

  As it happened, Mansrin did not arrive quite as soon as he had expected.

  Hardly had he shut off the communicator when a large vidscreen on the wall glowed into life. It was the direct connection to the hypercom in the com-station.

  Now what?

  The figure of a man appeared on the screen. "Administrator! Fleet Commander Arona wishes to speak to you!"

  "Arona?" queried Mansrin. "I don't know him." Before the com-operator could answer, his image was swept away by another A slight flickering indicated it was coming over a great sound quality was loud and clear and without interference.

  "You are Mansrin, Administrator of Volat?" asked the new image. Mansrin nodded mechanically. He knew that the other man could see him. "Yes, I am. Who are you and what do you want?"

  "I am Commander Arona, seventh Strike Force, Arkon. We were informed that a revolt has broken out on your planet. Give me the details so that I can order the appropriate action. Our distance from your planet is five light-hours. Following a short transition, we will arrive in half an hour. You are advised to issue orders preventing any vessels from leaving Volat for the duration."