Horn: Green

  PROLOG

  IN THE COURSE of the years the Earth has become a giant cargo-handling and shipping center for interstellar trade goods and the Solar Imperium has emerged as a major commercial power.

  However, for First Administrator Perry Rhodan and his colleagues the expansion of Terra's commercial relations has brought up new problems. There is strong competition from the Galactic Traders who are still fighting for their old monopolies, by fair means or foul.

  The Springers conceive of a means of discrediting the Earth in galactic trade relationships, or of possibly eliminating Terra entirely as a competitor. Their plan involves the dissemination of Earthly alkaloids through the galaxy—that is, the spread of narcotics such as opium, which has a devastating effect on extraterrestrial organisms.

  In spite of intensive efforts on the part of Solar Intelligence, so far it has not been possible to eliminate the interstellar narcotics ring in which unscrupulous Terrans are also active. For Rhodan's extraterrestrial politics this illegal operation is a very serious matter because after all, this poisonous commodity does have an Earthly origin!

  The situation doesn't look very promising for humanity. An attack by the Akons has just been repulsed and it is feared that the inhabitants of the Blue System will undertake new action against the Earth.

  At this time of high tensions an accidental caprice of fortune comes to Perry Rhodan's aid. The 'accidental' factor appears in the ungainly form of greenhorn John Edgar Pincer...

  Perry Rhodan

  Posbis #96

  —————————————————

  Horn: Green

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  1/ A SUPER TENDERFOOT IN ERROR

  WITH A SIGH, Mark Denniston sank into the thickly upholstered chair in front of Pincer's desk. Denniston was a powerful, energetic man in his mid-40s whose hands were like bear paws. However, at the moment not much of his usual vigour was in evidence.

  He groaned aloud. "Chief, you can't ask me to do that! You know that I'd bring you a crate of coals from Hell, but that—no!"

  Pincer regarded the slumped figure of the spaceman with a trace of appreciation. Even though his bushy brows knit together more severely, he gave Denniston a wink.

  "Do you know what I like about you, Mark?" he asked. Inasmuch as Denniston didn't seem to care about pleasing anyone and maintained a stubborn silence, he continued. "You have such a nice way of criticizing my orders—and then finally accepting them."

  Denniston pressed his giant hands together as though he wanted to crush something with them. "Listen, Chief," he said, making a new attempt to appeal his case, "I'm one of your freighter captains—I deliver fruit and produce to the Vega System for you or wherever else you want me to haul them. I've worked faithfully for the Intercosmic Fruit Company for a number of years, so what's my reward? You ask me to become a babysitter!"

  Pincer's expression changed as though he'd just bitten into a sour pickle. "You're speaking of my son, Mark—John Edgar Pincer. That particular 'baby' happens to be the vice-president of the company."

  Denniston made no comment but it could be seen from his face that he did not think much of vice-presidents, and particularly this one. He stared glumly at Pincer.

  "The good lad has gotten himself married, Mark," continued Pincer, contributing further to Denniston's disturbed condition. "I've made a present of one of our smallest spaceships to him and his wife and he wants to use it for a honeymoon trip. Since our family has the habit of combining business with pleasure he's going to carry a cargo of Super Tenderleaf, which is to be delivered to the Vega planet of Ferrol."

  For the first time the space veteran revealed a spark of interest. "Super Tenderleaf?" he asked. "What's that?"

  Archibald Pincer, chairman of the board for IFC, gave him a disapproving look as though to say that he didn't think much of anybody who couldn't imagine what "Super Tenderleaf might be. In an appropriate tone of dignity he explained: "That happens to be our newest development of spinach seeds."

  Denniston reddened. "Spinach...?" he asked incredulously. "You are expecting me to fly to Vega with a cargo of spinach and a couple of newlyweds?"

  "Restrain yourself now, Mark," cautioned the elder Pincer severely. "It is not customary for members of the Firm to belittle our own products."

  Denniston appeared to be somewhat helpless. "Alright, A.P.," he grumbled, "I'll eat sour apples for you. Tell your son we'll be taking off in a few days."

  But Pincer had every appearance of still holding something back as a surprise for the captain. In fact it turned out to be a further shock. "As you know, Mark, my son was not accepted into the Solar Fleet. Presumably he's supposed to have some deficiency in his skeletal structure and he's colorblind. These insignificant factors were enough, however, to cause the examiners to reject him on a number of occasions. So I gave John Edgar the chance to apply for a second class space pilot's license through a private space academy. Therefore he's cleared to fly the disc-ship that I've given him for a wedding present."

  A flicker of something like hope appeared in Denniston's eyes. "Then by all means your son would be able to get along without me!"

  The IFC president shook his head. "No, Mark. John Edgar doesn't have any space experience. Besides, his mother raised him a bit on the soft side while she was alive. He needs a firm hand. So I want you to go along with him and just make sure that I get to see him again all in one piece."

  "What you're saying is, he's a great advertisement for Super Tenderleaf—a greenhorn!" retorted the spaceman.

  Pincer raised a hand in defense. "Don't try to browbeat him or crack a whip over him, Mark. Just let him take charge of things. He doesn't know you're an old spacehound. In fact he thinks you're to go along... well, as a sort of butler..."

  "Butler!" groaned Denniston. "It goes as far as that?"

  "Don't throw the book at him or try to set down any rules. I want the boy to become self-sufficient. Promise me, Mark, that you'll only butt in when it's absolutely necessary."

  Denniston answered somewhat stiffly. "Why not? A butler has to know his place!"

  "In the meantime the global quarantine has been lifted," said Pincer. "The entire population of the Earth has been inoculated against a recurrence of the plasma plague. Ships are only restricted from takeoff in Terrania itself. I think Rhodan's order in this respect is very wise. He doesn't want to take any risks. Well, if there are no more cases of the sickness in the next week or two then everything will be clear even in Terrania. At any rate we can take off—meaning Cora, John Edgar and you, Mark."

  "Not to mention Super Spinach!" added Denniston peevishly.

  • • •

  The private spaceport of the Intercosmic Fruit Company was situated 100 miles from Denver, capital city of the U.S. federated state of Colorado. It was an ideal location for the centralization and further distribution of all incoming commodities which consisted chiefly of vegetable produce and fruit. Great storage houses and refrigerated reefer buildings bordered the extensive area.

  Mark Denniston gazed briefly out the window of the control tower office at the runway area. A large freighter was in the process of being unloaded. Grape-picker cranes were pulling crates from the cargo locks and stacking them up on the ground. It was a familiar scene for Denniston.

  Then he saw something else that wasn't as familiar but which appeared to him to be extremely amusing. A luggage-burdened man was coming straight across the landing field from the far entrance gates. Denniston grinned. The strange figure seemed to be juggling its load something like a Koala bear trying to carry her young. The man was tall and thin and his clothing flapped loosely about him. He moved with the woebegone gravity of a flamingo that was trying to hop along with on
e foot in the air.

  Denniston laughed aloud. "Look out there," he called to one of the office men. "Who is that funny bird?"

  "That's John Edgar Pincer," the official informed him with a smile from behind his dictaphone. "The son of the president"

  Denniston's merriment vanished faster than a drop of water in a jet stream. The human beast of burden had come close enough now so that the captain could see his face. With that face alone Denniston would have been ready to start a mortuary business. Two large blue eyes looked into the world with an overwhelming expression of melancholy and sadness.

  Capt. Mark Denniston swallowed valiantly and left the office. At the entrance he collided with Pincer Jr., whose view was partially obstructed by his packages.

  "Excuse me!" he called out to Denniston in a shrill voice.

  So the spaceman's first task was to help John Edgar gather the contents of several bursted packages together. Pincer was down on his knees and if Denniston hadn't seen it with his own eyes he would have believed the other's bodily contortions to be impossible joining him on the floor, the captain moved closer to him and put some of the articles into his hands.

  "Good morning, sir," he said. "I'm Mark Denniston."

  Then they stood up but when Pincer tried to shake hands with him his load began to sway precariously again. Denniston relieved him of half of it.

  "Why? Don't you have somebody carry this stuff?" he asked wonderingly. "It's much too heavy for you alone."

  Pincer blushed. "I don't want to trouble anybody," he said quickly. "And please don't call me 'sir'. My name is Johnny."

  "Alright Johnny," said Denniston with pretended cheerfulness. "What are your plans now?"

  Pincer looked at him uncertainly. He did not seem to be used to being given the initiative. Apparently he would have preferred to crawl into a mouse hole if there had been one large enough. "Let's go to the Error," he suggested.

  Startled, Denniston asked what the strange-sounding name was supposed to mean. Pincer smiled in some embarrassment but quickly explained.

  "Error means 'mistake'," he said, "and that's what I've called the space-jet that papa has given me for a present. It refers to the mistake that the Solar Fleet medical examiners made when they rejected me twice."

  To Denniston it all sounded like the basis for a new philosophy of some kind. Resignedly he grasped his packages and followed the long-legged Pincer whose lanky figure moved across the field with an inimitable birdlike grace.

  A few minutes later they reached the space-jet. The small spaceship was equipped with every possible type of technological gadget, which Denniston noted at the first glance. It was very much in keeping with the famous disc-class ships of the Solar Fleet and probably wasn't very much behind them in capability. In the matter of comfort, of course, there was nothing left to be desired.

  "The Super Tenderleaf seeds have already been loaded on board," explained Pincer. "Papa is here, too. He's up there in his office and wants to watch my takeoff."

  Every time Pincer said "papa", Denniston shrank a few more centimeters into himself. He had a horrifying presentiment of the forthcoming demonstration this youngster would give with his takeoff. However, before he could brood over the subject too much a girl was seen approaching the space-jet. In every sense of the word she was what Denniston considered to be a good-looking woman—maybe

  even a bit more so.

  "Who is that?" The question escaped him involuntarily.

  Pincer gave him a pained look. "That is my wife," he informed him with a trace of agitation.

  The spaceman thought to himself that it was always the dumbest clodhoppers who came up with the prize pumpkins. "Your wife?" he said aloud. "How did you ever manage that?"

  Pincer blushed again. His hands fluttered nervously over his jacket and his tongue licked dry lips. "I... I married her," he replied, as though to explain the phenomenon.

  It was then that Denniston caught sight of the dog. He had been so busy looking at the young woman that he hadn't noticed it sooner. She was leading it behind her on a bright yellow leash. It was just about the ugliest object Denniston had ever seen in his life, other than the vase his crew had given him in celebration of his 40th birthday. The mutt was an ochre yellow with a body of a dachshund and the head of a sheep dog. Its tail was curled in such a fashion as to leave no question of its origin. Denniston could only stare as the unlikely pair approached.

  Pincer made introductions. "Cora, this is Mark Denniston. Mark, this is my wife."

  Cora Pincer had dark, warm eyes. Denniston took her proffered hand and was about to shake it when the mustard-colored mongrel let out a menacing growl

  and snapped at his leg. He sprang back and the mutt watched him intently.

  "My wife has included Prince with her dowry," Pincer reported proudly.

  Prince was about the most repulsive dowry that Denniston had ever heard of. "The dog will have to stay here," he decided. "It would be absolutely senseless to take him along. We'd only have trouble with him."

  Pincer looked disappointed and his wife gave Denniston a look of displeasure. She bent down and began to stroke the animal's fur.

  "Then take him to my father," Pincer told him. "Cora and I will stow our luggage in the meantime."

  Denniston was happy to get away from Pincer even if only for a few minutes. He cautiously took the leash and pulled Prince away. The dog bristled up and threatened to bite the spaceman but he remained sufficiently on his guard to avoid injury. When he entered the president's private office the elder Pincer was standing at the window looking out at the landing field. Denniston cleared his throat to attract his attention.

  "Now what do you want?" asked Pincer without turning around. "I saw you coming this way with that... er... creature."

  "Prince is staying here," declared Denniston. "Your son is entrusting him to your care, Chief."

  He tied the leash to a chair while Prince made little growling sounds. Suddenly the room began to vibrate and the windowpanes rattled as a rumbling sound was heard.

  "What's that?" asked Denniston, going to the window.

  "It's the Error," said Pincer with a peculiar calmness.

  Denniston's eyes opened wide as he stared out at the space-jet and saw it rise up from the ground.

  "He out-foxed you, Mark," observed Pincer. "Me too, of course. He wanted to go to Vega alone with his wife and he managed it. The thing about the dog was a trick. He knew you wouldn't take it with you on board. No man in his right mind

  would take along such a mutt."

  "But..." said Mark, helplessly perplexed.

  The Error had already disappeared from view. In spite of it the president

  remained at the window.

  "How was his takeoff, Mark?" he asked softly.

  "Well... so... so..." replied Denniston.

  Unexpectedly the president came to life again. He tamed away from his

  observation post and looked at Mark. "I have another assignment for you," he announced.

  "So?" Denniston muttered, with a note of suspicion. "And what would that be?"

  Instead of saying anything, the elder Pincer lowered his gaze to the mustard-hued dog whose eyes still gleamed with rage as they glared fixedly at Denniston. When Pincer smiled wickedly, Denniston paled.

  "No!" he gasped. "Chief, you can't—!"

  "But I can!" retorted Pincer. "And that's it!"

  Mark Denniston knew then that until John Edgar Pincer returned from his honeymoon voyage he would be stuck with dog-walking this hideous creature that seemed to be the personal incarnation of Cerberus.

  2/ THE ERROR IS MISTAKEN

  The radio loudspeaker crackled to life. John Edgar Pincer had followed all instructions necessary for taking off in a ship that did not belong to a unit of the Space Fleet—yet he was being hailed.

  "Patrol ship Neptune to discus spacecraft," came the voice of the control officer from the speaker. "We are requesting your IFF and code-of-the-day."

&
nbsp; In trying to get to the transmitter panel, Pincer stumbled over his own gangly legs and thus arrived at his destination sooner than he expected. He fiddled nervously with the telecom switches. "Private spaceship Error," he answered into the mike. "Takeoff from spaceport of IFC in Denver. Flight permission per regulation 3-slash-B-41, yellow permit." He smiled at his wife and added: "This is the pilot speaking—John Edgar Pincer."

  Either the Fleet officer on board patrol ship Neptune had never heard of Pincer or he was in a bad mood. "Are you carrying a registered cargo with you?" he inquired in glacial tones.

  Pincer nodded eagerly. "Oh yes, sir! 300 kilos of Super Tenderleaf."

  Judging by the startling noises the Pincer couple were hearing, a bomb seemed to have exploded in the Com Room of the Neptune. Pincer stared as though paralyzed at the loudspeaker.

  "Would you mind repeating that?" asked the communications man from the other ship.

  Pincer readily complied. "It's a special brand of spinach seeds developed in our own laboratories. Our chief biologist told me that it's a mutation of trapajera plants from the Vega System and..."

  "That's enough," the patrol officer broke in hastily. "All I need now is the purpose of this trip."

  "It's my honeymoon," murmured Pincer.

  Apparently the communications man had an instinctive aversion for honeymooners because he was heard to mutter something not too complimentary. But he finally signed off with coordinate instructions. These were for the space sector in which the vice-president of IFC was to make his transition.

  "It's just beyond the orbit of Pluto," Pincer explained to his wife after the telecom had become silent. "In the meantime I can show you the ship and the cargo."

  He stalked about in the cabin and explained everything to her—the tracking and communications consoles, engine and flight controls, life-support systems, star charts and all the necessary appurtenances of space travel.

  "You see," he told her in a whining tone, "they rejected me illegally from the Space Fleet Academy. I know as much as anybody else in the Fleet. Color blindness—pah! That's ridiculous! As for skeletal defects—so it's a broken fibula from soccer ball in school. What's a patch of cartilage in the wrong place got to do with it? That can't hinder anybody with talent." He became red as a turkey all of a sudden. "Of course I don't mean to say I'm a genius or anything like that!"