Perry Rhodan - Atlan In Danger Part 1

Perry Rhodan.

Atlan in Danger.

1/ THOMAS CARDIF'S REVELATION.

SOLAR SECRET SERVICE Section F-1 was engaged in observing the political scene on 21st century Terra.

All reports were handed in to Frank Lemmon.

Frank Lemmon had an att.i.tude towards work that was in keeping with his character and for the past two hours he had been proving it beyond doubt: he was loafing!

He had read the voluminous Terrania Post, even taking note of the political articles; he studied the financial section and regarded this activity as important work, although reading the newspaper was by no means part of his official duties.

Frank Lemmon was a North American by birth. His hometown was called Klondike. He had come to Terrania three years ago, pa.s.sed the final apt.i.tude test with honours and, six months later, was already head of Section F-1 in the Solar Secret Service.

He, though sometimes unable to master the weakness in his character, was still one of the few men in Terrania who chose not to utilize computers for preliminary evaluations. Frank Lemmon preferred to rely upon his instinct or, as was written in his records: A parasense? Uncla.s.sifiable characteristic. Above-average gift of deduction combined with prophetic sensitivity to the extreme importance of apparently insignificant reports.

Frank Lemmon had arrived one hour late for work. Upon awakening he had already been horrified at the prospect of another boring day. When he got out of bed with that feeling the whole day at work was useless, so he regularly approached this fact with laziness and did not even take care of a few important items.

But Solar Marshal Alan D. Mercant, Head of the Security Service, never reproached his Section Head, Frank Lemmon, on this account. Mercant was very good at weighing the merits of his co-workers against their shortcomings and in Lemmon's case his ability to instantly discern the significance of incoming reports far outweighed his laziness.

Lemmon was slurping his strong, hot coffee with great relish as the viewcom flashed on. The slender, 24-year-old section head hardly glanced at it. Dispatches from Washington, Peking and Lah.o.r.e.

"Great Milky Way," Lemmon moaned, still holding the cup to his lips, "that agent in Lah.o.r.e is writing a whole novel! So much effort for such rubbish!"

As the screen darkened he had already forgotten all the reports. He was about to reach for the Terrania Post to read the short story with the intriguing t.i.tle of 'Ghanu, Mirror Image of a Soul' when he jerked back in his seat and swung his feet off the desk. His bored face instantly changed expressions. "Rabintorge... isn't that the Indian who supplied material about the Druuf linear hyper-propulsion that was such an artful swindle it made a fool of the entire security force and..."

The speaking phase of the intercom connection, switched off during picture transmission, was now activated by Lemmon. "Manners, get me all the data on Rabintorge, that charlatan from Lah.o.r.e. At once, Manners, it's urgent!"

When Frank Lemmon used that phrase, things were really urgent. He did not have to wait long. Manners, a stocky 40-year-old, laid a stack of archive prints on the desk for him.

"Is that all?" Lemmon rea.s.sured himself.

"That's all. I compared our records with the main archive's and..."

Frank Lemmon waved him aside. He wanted to be alone. He could read the perforated cards with their coded symbols like others read a book.

He selected three reports. Sticking them in his pocket, he got up and informed the front office that he had a meeting with Solar Marshal Mercant.

The leadership of Solar Security was located 18 kilometres away in the enormous government skysc.r.a.per that had become Terrania's landmark. However, considering the tasks to be accomplished by the Solar Empire, their administration was not an overgrown octopus that provided thousands of bureaucrats with a comfortable life.

The sporadic hours of laziness Frank Lemmon indulged in were a rare exception; still, due to the phenomenal achievements he sometimes came up with, he replaced a skilled six-man team.

He had to wait half an hour in Mercant's reception room. "The boss is inside," he was told by the even-natured, pug-nosed executive secretary.

"Then the boss will just have to hear what I have to say," Lemmon thought, unaware of how highly he prized himself.

When the 30 minutes had elapsed and there was no sign that the conference behind those heavy doors was drawing to a conclusion, Frank Lemmon again approached the pug-nosed secretary. "Please inform the Solar Marshal immediately that my visit pertains to LH-propulsion!"

The abbreviation LH was his own invention. It had just shot through his head and neither Mercant nor Perry Rhodan knew it. And perhaps neither of them was even able to guess its meaning. However, Lemmon had observed the cardinal commandment of secrecy and in so doing he might influence Rhodan into remaining and hearing what he, Lemmon, had to tell the Marshal.

"Is it really that important, Lemmon?" The secretary was doubtful, accustomed to constant attempts to occupy Mercant's precious time by claiming urgent business.

Calmly Frank Lemmon replied: "I consider it very important. Emphasize LH-propulsion, OK?"

The echo from Allan D. Mercant followed immediately. "What? LH-propulsion? Who's waiting? Lemmon? Send him right in!"

Frank Lemmon slowly shut the heavy door. Seated facing each other at the coffee table were Perry Rhodan, the Administrator of the Solar Empire, and his defence chief, Allan D. Mercant. Both were watching him expectantly. Mercant indicated with a swift wave of the hand that his Section Head was to take a seat. Neither of them inquired about the meaning of the abbreviation LH.

Lemmon pulled the three coded strips out of his pocket and placed them on the table. As he raised his head, he looked into Rhodan's grey eyes, which were reflecting some slight tension.

"Sir, Marshal," Lemmon addressed both of them, failing to notice that in his salutation he had degraded the boss. He did not comprehend Rhodan's grin nor did he give it any thought. His concentration was directed at the report he now had to present. He spoke about the Indian student, Rabintorge, who had heard something about the mysterious Druuf linear hyperpropulsion through as yet unknown channels. He spoke about the excitement engendered at Solar Defence by the article, four pages long and loaded with formulas, which had appeared in the student newspaper, Ars Stellaris. "...and only two weeks later were our scientists able to say that we had fallen victim to a student gag."

"These here," he stated as he slid the three strips into the middle of the coffee table, thus enabling Rhodan and Mercant to decide who would take them first, "are the most important recent reports."

Lemmon paused briefly, waiting for one of them to pick up the strips. Instead Perry Rhodan said to him: "Go on, Lemmon."

"Well... an hour ago I received a report from our agent in Lah.o.r.e, a whole book-load of trivialities with the exception of one item worthy of notice: that student, Rabintorge, who put us on with his linear hyperpropulsion hoax, is supposed to be negotiating with the GHC Company for a position as research a.s.sistant. Do we really want that type of man to drift off to our compet.i.tion?"

Frank Lemmon had spoken to Perry Rhodan several times previously and he thought he knew the Administrator somewhat. But now he felt rather uncomfortable under the penetrating gaze of those grey eyes. Allan D. Mercant was staring at him sharply, too. Both men continued to remain silent, which increasingly grated on Lemmon's nerves.

Perry Rhodan then leaned back and crossed his arms on his chest. Mercant reached for the strips, staring at them but not reading them. In the spartanly furnished office of the Defence Chief silence reigned. Lemmon interrupted it by clearing his throat but he was unable to get out a word.

"Lemmon, how did you arrive at your suggestion?" Perry Rhodan asked.

His uncla.s.sifiable para-perception was awakened in Frank Lemmon, prompting his counter-question: "Sir, isn't my suggestion the result of a logical deduction?"

Rhodan ignored the remark. "What do you know about the Druuf linear hyper-propulsion, Lemmon?"

"Nothing, except for the fact that the Druufs allegedly possess propulsion units faster than light and that upon exceeding the speed of light, transition into hypers.p.a.ce is not advisable. But whether that version is correct..."

"It is correct, Lemmon!" Rhodan interrupted. "Where did you obtain your knowledge?"

Without hesitation Lemmon replied: "From research team 065-propulsion. We worked together for one week while investigating the Rabintorge case."

"Thanks!" Rhodan hastily said, turning his gaze to Mercant, who read in it a request for his opinion.

"Sir, we really shouldn't let any opportunity slip by, especially now..."

Mercant's position was not extremely clear; at least so it appeared to Lemmon. However, Rhodan must have understood it differently, for he nodded to his Solar Marshal and said in conclusion: "Make all the necessary arrangements."

"We know more about this Rabintorge than he does about us, sir." Mercant now presented his information about the peculiar case. "The student has never come in contact with beings of extra-solar intelligence. His skill in mathematics and physics that show traces of Arkonide hyper-mathematics, are inexplicable. Even more puzzling is the fact that he first learned to read and write at the age of 15."

"And this student is definitely not an Arkonide, Mercant, an Ara or Ekhonide?"

"No. Out of the question. Rabintorge is a Terranian and a first-cla.s.s physics and mathematical theoretician!"

Rhodan grinned at Mercant. "I'm not accustomed to hearing you use superlatives. But that's all right! Get me that man and put him to work under un.o.btrusive surveillance. You, Lemmon, I would like to thank right now for your work." Rhodan stood up and reached out to shake hands.

"Sir, it was no great achievement," Lemmon protested, never having expected praise of this sort.

"Naturally not Rhodan remarked and smiled. "Anyone who can sleep as well as you often does not even notice the effort because excessive energy simply compels him to action. Did you sleep well last night...?"

The heavy door was already clicking shut as Allan D. Mercant's booming laughter filled the office. Frank Lemmon thought it better to join in the laughter rather than to dwell on Perry Rhodan's remark.

The resolution to improve himself made that moment last for two days.

On the day on which the Indian Rabintorge arrived in Terrania to work on a special project for the Solar Empire, Frank Lemmon first entered his office at 11 o'clock. He had awakened with the feeling that that day would bring no important new developments.

And the reports he received were very commonplace. Perry Rhodan, however, was staggered by a hypercom message from Arkon.

His son, Thomas Cardif, deserter from the Solar Fleet and his most bitter enemy, had added a new deed to his desertion. Speaking from the planet of Archetz in the Rusuma System, 44 light-years from Arkon, he revealed to the intently listening Galaxy that the robot computer on Arkon 3 had been switched off by Admiral Atlan and would henceforth obey orders from Atlan only!

2/ THE LONELIEST PERSON IN THE.

SOLAR SYSTEM.

Chaos of galactic proportions was brewing!

The Arkonide Empire. 10,000 years earlier already a gigantic stellar empire with the globular star cl.u.s.ter M-13 at its core, was now in danger of disintegrating into several individual national ent.i.ties due to one clever move on the part of a deserted officer of the Solar Empire.

Atlan, in the solitude of the gigantic dome of the mammoth positronic computer on Arkon 3, was now weaker than Perry Rhodan. The threat from within the Arkonide Empire was one million-fold greater than the threat facing the Solar System.

Atlan spoke from Arkon to Perry Rhodan on Earth. "I need time, Perry! I now need your help, barbarian! I must operate with the charisma of your name! Who knows Atlan the Admiral who played a significant role 10,000 years ago? Who still knows my race? But why aren't you saying anything?"

"What shall I say to you, friend?" responded Rhodan, outwardly unruffled but inwardly tense. "Call me back in eight Earth hours. I have to digest the new facts first myself, although neither of us really antic.i.p.ated anything else. You mentioned the name of Thomas Cardif..."

Across a distance of 34,000 light-years Atlan interrupted him. "Whether I say Thomas Cardif or Galactic Traders is not significant. But the fact that Cardif and the Springers are attempting to split the Empire from the planet of Rusuma is! You asked me to return the call in eight Earth hours. Do you really know what could happen within that period?"

Perry listened intently. Was Atlan driven by panic, Atlan the timeless, the immortal?

Perry Rhodan stared at the face of the Arkonide on his screen. The features revealed no trace of panic; still some unavoidable danger must be preying on the Admiral's mind. But why wasn't he revealing the nature of that danger?

"Admiral, what are you concealing from us?" Rhodan asked across the reaches of s.p.a.ce and time.

He watched as Atlan tensed and then broke into weak laughter. "I'm not concealing anything, Perry, but right at this moment I have fully understood you for the first time! For the first time I am in the position you have been in for over 70 years! Don't get me wrong. I have to get used to the idea that the Great Empire no longer wants to follow my orders and I now have no more power than you do!

"How old am I? More than 10,000 years? Only the number is correct, because I am still younger than you, barbarian. You are way ahead of me in experience with situations like this!

"I have to reeducate myself, barbarian! I have to follow your example and..."

"Atlan!" Rhodan called loudly, concealing his dismay over the Arkonide's emotional outburst. "Atlan, please call me back in eight Earth hours!" He did not allow the Admiral to reply. The hypercom connection to Arkon 3 no longer existed. Perry Rhodan had switched off.

Pensively he leaned back in his chair, his gaze remaining fixed on the now grey screen. Slowly he raised both hands and began to ma.s.sage his temples with his fingertips.

Reginald Bell, who was silently observing him, was familiar with this gesture. It revealed the deep distress within his friend.

Towards the end of their conversation, Atlan had let his heart speak. It was one of those rare conversations in which two men recognize that their friendship binds them until death.

Rhodan turned to face Bell. With no trace of excitement he said: I need the newest data about the Rusuma System, particularly about Archetz, the fifth planet, at once," he stated casually. "Please arrange for me to have it at my disposal within a half hour. You see about team 065propulsion."

Bell had expected more, which was why he now looked inquisitively at Rhodan. But he supplied no further details.

"Listen," Bell cautiously began, "was it an error on our part not to send one single agent after the Springer Fleet when it took off in such haste?"

Perry Rhodan's grey eyes widened somewhat. "Why don't you just talk clearly and openly about Cardif, Reggie? What was our mistake? The moment the Patriarch c.o.kaze was informed by a man from our shot-down destroyer that the Great Empire was no longer ruled by the computer but by Atlan, the entire c.o.kaze clan knew it, which meant that we could no longer keep that fact secret. If we fail to adjust immediately and completely to the new situation-and the same applies to Atlan-then in a year at the latest the entire Galaxy will be on fire and we will be facing situations that have no comparison in history! But how we should approach the situation I don't know either right now. By gathering exact data about the Rusuma System and sending you to the 065-propulsion team, I'm just groping my way closer."

"Closer to what?"

Perry Rhodan was stumped. "I don't know, Reggie!" He sounded annoyed but his irritation was not directed at his inquiring friend. It stemmed from the feeling that he was facing chaos and was unable to discover a means or possibility to avoid this peril.

Stocky Reginald Bell stood up. "OK, then I'll stop doing one thing and do the other. If I understand you correctly, you expect team 065 to deliver substantial material soon."

"Very soon," Rhodan replied.

Bell's face contorted with a grimace. "They will love it!" he predicted. "Making Druuf linear hyper-propulsion technology, aided by Arkonide super mathematics, comprehensible to us poor Terranians... and very soon at that!"

Rhodan stared at him in astonishment. "We still don't have the propulsion, Reggie. Could you have possibly forgotten that?"

The red-haired man laughed dryly. "Not a bit. I was just momentarily unfaithful to myself and wanted to forget my right thumb tip. Isn't the date of today the 1st of July, 2044? Well, we survived the first half of this cursed year by the skin of our teeth; perhaps we shall survive the rest... with or without linear hyper-propulsion. But on the qt., I did hope that our team could get on its track."

"Reggie..." Rhodan shook his head, almost reproachfully. "Ever since you cut your thumb on that unbreakable gla.s.s last New Year's you have been pessimism personified. But now you expect a miracle when there is nothing to hope for?"

Bell regarded Rhodan with an innocent expression. "Perry, isn't that some kind of reverse pessimism?" he asked in turn, already grasping the doork.n.o.b and hastily leaving the room.

"Incorrigible..." Rhodan said aloud to himself and grinned. For it was Bell who, time and time again in his inimitable fashion, provided a better mood at moments of depression. That in reality Bell was also loaded with problems no one knew better than Rhodan.

Meanwhile Bell had seen to it that the data on the Rusuma System was brought to the boss. He took the glider to Research Tract 18.

In section 065-propulsion he encountered something he called a mixed double, although this double consisted of almost 30 specialists, partly theoreticians and partly technicians.

No one took notice of his arrival, a custom which had become habitual throughout Terrania. Bell scanned the team, divided into several groups. His interest was caught by a young Indian who was employing his arms and legs to aid his speech.

"Bradley who is that?" Bell asked the professor in charge of 065propulsion.