The Giant's Partner

  Perry Rhodan

  The Third Power #33

  The Giant's Partner

  The Arkonide Empire – overstretched and undermanned, but still capable of reducing the entire solar system to a radioactive cloud. This, the Positronicon will do – if the Zarlt of Zalit reveals the Earth's coordinates. But the Mooffs control the mind of the Zarlt – so who controls the Mooffs? Perry Rhodan must find out. But first he must become...

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  THE GIANT'S PARTNER

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  1/ PLOT PERILOUS

  A ROBOT RULER!

  Regal didn't like the idea of being ruled by a machine—but it was an absolute certainty that a positronic brain was preferable to the dictatorship of a Zarlt who called himself Demesor.

  And that was why the Zarlt of Zalit had to die.

  Rogal stood absolutely still in the darkness and listened. Complete silence. Nothing moved. He must have been mistaken about the imaginary sound.

  The stone walls exuded a cold dampness that hung heavy in his chest. The air was foul and stifling. Somewhere could be heard the monotonous dripping of water into a puddle.

  Many passages led into the palace of the Zarlt, the tyrant of Zalit, 4th planet of the giant red sun Voga, less than three light-years from Arkon. This subterranean tunnel was one of the entrance ways but known only to a few of the confidants of Zalit's rightful ruler—who had been murdered many weeks before.

  Rogal checked his belt to reassure himself that his raygun still rested firmly there, then felt his way further along the passageway. He didn't dare make a light now, even though the palace guard probably was not aware of the secret egress. If the former bodyguard of the dead Zarlt Elton had not lied, this corridor led directly into the sleeping chamber of Zarlt Demesor, who had risen from spacefleet officer to absolute ruler of Zalit.

  Rogal instinctively clenched his fists as he thought of the dictator. The despot's name was the embodiment of double treason: first he had ordered the previous Zarlt's assassination and second he had conceived a plan to revolt against the Arkonide Empire, over which he was Vice-Imperator. Granted, his Vice-Imperatorship was in name only, but the robotic rulership of the giant Brain could only be a temporary state of affairs, certainly not justification for betrayal of the Empire.

  Following his reflective pause, Rogal crept on further. Yes, he thought, what he had in mind was not a crime but an act of justice, a bold stroke which would free his world from the dictatorship of a power-mad tyrant.

  Suddenly... muffled footsteps above. Receding... hesitating a moment... returning. Halting directly overhead. Rogal had the uncanny feeling that someone was looking down at him straight through the stone ceiling.

  A cold shudder ran down his back; terror clutched his heart in a painful grip. Then—grateful relief: what tricks the imagination can play! Naturally the other person could not see him... it was purest chance that a guard happened to be on patrol above the passage.

  Rogal moved forward again and sighed as his groping hands found a smooth obstruction. —The door?

  The obstruction was made of wood, just as the bodyguard had described. Rogal's fingers searched till they found the small knob, then hesitated. What lay behind the door? Someone waiting there to apprehend him, warned by that mysterious instinct which often prolongs the lives of many tyrants? Or did the secret passage only continue to the spiral stairs between the walls, leading upward?

  He pressed an anxious ear against the wooden surface and listened intently, eyes tight shut. —No sound.

  Slowly he turned the knob. The door opened. It remained dark. He stepped through and left the door ajar. He knew that from this side there was no possibility of opening the door. Under no circumstance could he close it if he didn't want to rob himself of the only escape route. Cautiously he groped farther until his feet encountered the first step of the stairs. He breathed a sigh of relief. So the bodyguard had told the truth. Now there were exactly 368 steps to the sleeping chamber of Demesor.

  He paused at step 200 to take a breather. This was of course not a true spiral stairway but rather more like a rising zig-zag passageway with stairs. Like all buildings on Zalit, the Zarlt's palace had been erected in the form of a funnel. The stem of the funnel comprised a circular area having a diameter of about 150 feet. From there the arena-like terraces rose outward and upward at a 45° angle, reaching a height of some 500 feet. At the upper extremity the diameter was about 750 feet. The individual circular levels on the funnel's interior had floor-to-ceiling windows. The Zalite architecture came from Arkon in keeping with the fact that the Zalites themselves were descendants of the Arkonides.

  For the first time Rogal dared to turn on his flashlight for a moment to get his bearings. His reddish-brown skin resembled that of an American Indian on Earth. His thick mane of hair reflected coppery tones. In his right hand was the strangely formed weapon which was to end the life of the Zarlt. The stairs led farther upwards. He heard again the sound somewhere of evenly paced footsteps, which would recede, come closer, then grow fainter again. The palace must be swarming with guards. Like all dictators, Demesor was suspicious.

  Rogal smiled grimly and turned off his light. The darkness seemed to double its intensity. His hand searched for the wall and then he continued on his way. It was clear to him that he was placing his life on the line: the Zarlt would not spare him if he caught him. He also knew that before he died they would try to get everything out of him they could. They would become aware that he possessed friends, friends who could become dangerous to the State. Especially they might be interested in learning the identity of the chief of the underground resistance movement. Rogal was determined that he would take his own life before they would have the opportunity to question him completely.

  He came to the last step. It ended at a cold, smooth wall of stone. Once more Rogal took the risk of lighting his pocket lamp. The depression he had been told to look for was so small that he would never have been able to discover it through blind searching. The first pressure would open a narrow view-slit. The second pressure would open the secret door that would give him access to the tyrant's bedroom.

  The lamp went out. Rogal had seen enough. He waited until his eyes had again accustomed themselves to the darkness. Then he pressed a finger into the small depression. A barely audible humming was heard. A weak ray of light struck his eyes. Cautiously he pressed his right eye to the view-slot.

  He looked into a large room that was dimly illuminated by indirect lighting in the ceiling. Directly opposite him was a wide bed, in which lay a man. He lay under warm covers which revealed only his head. The contours of his body were clearly recognizable.

  The Zarlt, Demesor.

  Rogal had seen his face often enough in the holo-films. Only too well did he know the hard, yet again so friendly features of the tyrant. There, then, lay the man who would be traitor to Zalit and the Empire, asleep and unsuspecting. In this moment Rogal was assailed by a sense of being a traitor himself but he overcame this moralizing.

  Was it actually murder, to free an entire world of a man who threatened to bring it only misfortune and war? Wasn't one dead man better than many millions? One could not use the recourses of Law to get at the dictator, so did anything remain other than to resort to violent means to procure again a respect for justice?

  Rogal gripped his weapon and pressed again.

  The secret door slid silently into the hollow wall, giving free entrance. Rogal knew that a certain built-in timing device would close the door again in two minutes. It was a precautionary measure to prevent unauthorized persons from discovering the secret door through which one could leave the palace unobserve
d or enter it.

  Demesor lay defenseless before him, not 15 feet away. Rogal still hesitated. He took three, four steps, lifted the weapon and aimed at the sleeper. The dim light of the lamps was sufficient for making a good identification of the Zarlt's features. How restfully this man slept, who had on his conscience the death of the rightful Ruler. One could almost imagine that he did not even breathe.

  Already a minute had passed.

  The index finger touched the trigger and drew it back.

  A narrow, greenish ray of energy shot with the speed of light to the sleeper's face and covered it with a fiery corona of lightning flashes. To Rogal's horror, he saw that the face began to melt. It flowed completely apart and ran in glowing rivulets into the pillows, sizzled and crackled through the covers and dropped heavily onto the floor.

  The Zarlt was melting ...!

  Rogal stared at the incomprehensible sight before him. His hand began to tremble. The beam of energy wandered aimlessly about the room, set the window curtains on fire and finally flickered out.

  On one side of the room, a door burst open. Three or four men stormed into the bedroom, charged the assassin and tore his weapon from him. Rogal did not defend himself. Still uncomprehendingly, he stared at the Zarlt, whom he had killed. What happened to him now seemed meaningless, if he had only set Zalit free.

  But the Zarlt had certainly died strangely...

  Rough hands forced his arms behind him. With one last look toward the wall, Rogal saw the secret door close soundlessly. At least the guards did not know how he had gotten into this room. They could beat their brains out trying to find out.

  He allowed himself to be led out of the sleeping chamber without resistance. He wondered briefly that no one looked at the dead man. Were the guards so indifferent to the death of their tyrant? They shoved him through an adjacent room and then into the broad, circular corridor.

  Somewhere an alarm system buzzed. Doors were pulled open and curious faces stared seconds long at the group hurrying past. Then the doors closed again. It was never good for a person to see too much. The buzzing died out.

  Rogal's four captors stopped at a certain door. One of them knocked. A voice answered sullenly and then the door opened. A man stepped into the corridor and regarded the strange group and their prisoner with sleep-swollen eyes.

  Rogal felt as if an iron hand had gripped his heart.

  He stared into a pair of eyes that turned suddenly cold and pitiless—the eyes of Zarlt Demesor...

  • • •

  "He should have been back before now, if everything went well." The voice sounded at once worried and yet tinged with a feeble ray of hope. It belonged to an elderly man who sat in a comfortable chair in front of an electropyro and warmed his feet. Five other Zalites were present, all of whom gave evidence of having spent a sleepless night.

  "He could be behind schedule, Zernif," said one of them consolingly. "Maybe he has to wait before he can operate. There are so many possibilities that we're not able to reckon with..."

  "And if the worst of them happens? If the attempt goes awry and Rogal is captured? What then? If he doesn't have a chance to kill himself—if he betrays us?"

  The other shook his head. "Rogal is one of our best men. He is always cautious and works according to plan. He would never place himself in unnecessary danger."

  • • •

  Old Zernif, former commanding officer of the Zalite spacefleet and Admiral to the dead Zarlt, waved his hand uncertainly. "The time is up. It's long past midnight. Rogal didn't make it back. The precautionary measures we discussed must now be faced. If we are discovered in our rendezvous here, Zalit is lost. Then even the Strangers will not be able to help us."

  The Strangers—!

  For a brief moment the rebels recalled to mind the Strangers who had stolen an Arkonide battleship and come to their world. They had placed themselves in contact with Zarlt and appeared to be mixed up in his plans. The truth was, however—and Rogal especially had claimed this—they did not approve of the Zarlt's traitorous intentions.

  "One way or another, we should get out of here, whether or not Rogal has succeeded. If Demesor escapes the assassination attempt, it'll be bad for us. He has no mercy and will kill us all."

  "If he can find us!" said Zernif with a meaningful nod. He stroked his copper-colored beard, which gave him a venerable appearance. "But if they force Rogal to confess, that could easily happen."

  "Rogal would die first!"

  "And if he doesn't have time to die?"

  Silence.

  Admiral Zernif sighed. "We will wait another half hour, then we will disappear. If Rogal still makes it, he will know where to find us."

  The prescribed half-hour ran out without any sign of Rogal.

  The leaders of the resistance movement prepared to disband. They knew that the secret passage into the palace now had little value for them. They would have to disappear if they did not want to be taken here by surprise by the henchmen of the Zarlt. They took their weapons, both light and heavy caliber ray-beamers of Arkonide design, and set the time fuse on the high-explosive bomb which would blast away the old and deserted building—and along with it the exit of the secret passage.

  Suddenly a noise was heard coming from somewhere in the wall. Someone groped uncertainly through rubble and tapped at certain places against the walls. Zernif listened. At first his startled eyes reflected joy and hope but now they narrowed in suspicion.

  "That's Rogal!" said someone happily. "He'd better hurry. The bomb goes off in 30 minutes."

  " Perhaps it is Rogal," murmured Admiral Zernif, while concealing the shakiness of his voice. "Why doesn't he give the pre-arranged signal?"

  No one answered him.

  If the person creeping toward them were indeed Rogal, then he would give the recognition signal—three consecutive knocks on the wall before opening the secret door. If the door opened without this signal, then it could not be Rogal who approached their hiding place.

  The men glanced silently at each other. Their hands reached automatically for their weapons and drew them. Swift fingers released the safety locks. Six gun muzzles were aimed at the spot in the wall where the door was concealed.

  No sound eluded their suddenly attentive ears now. A number of men had to be gathered behind the stone wall: the foot shuffling revealed this. Now it was certain that Rogal's attempt had met with disaster. Worse yet, the Zarlt's executioners had discovered the secret passage. Whether this was Rogal's fault or not remained to be seen.

  Zernif whispered, "Conceal yourselves so that they don't see us. First we have to know how many they are. We will open fire only when they have all come out of the passage. Do you understand?"

  The five men nodded. They darted behind empty boxes and moldy pieces of furniture. The electropyro had already cooled off but a trace of its pleasant warmth still lingered in the room. Nevertheless, the conspirators began to shiver.

  The time-fuse ticked away in the background: 20 minutes to go, then this whole place would be blasted to fragments. In the wall before them there was a clicking sound and then it began to open. One part of the wall slid to the right, the other to the left. A figure became visible.

  Rogal!

  He gazed with strangely empty and expressionless eyes into the room and appeared to see nothing. Behind him, men in colorful uniforms appeared with cocked rayguns in their hands. They shoved Rogal into the room and when nothing happened they followed him. All together there were 12 palace guards, inclusive of two members of the Zarlt's feared secret police.

  Adm. Zernif recognized them at once and many of the others as well. He aimed his weapon at the two secret police officers and shouted, "For freedom and the Empire!"

  He fired.

  His five companions had only waited for his command. Without voicing a challenge, they sprang from cover and opened fire on the 12 soldiers of the Zarlt. One of them hurried forward a few steps in spite of the danger and pulled Rogal out of the line of f
ire. Without a glance behind him, he shoved Rogal to the ground, and only then did he turn to again face the enemy.

  60 seconds later it was all over. The 12 palace guards were dead, with two of the rebels fallen. Zernif had picked up a glancing shot in the arm, which did not prevent him from appearing quite satisfied. But there was yet no reason for satisfaction.

  Rogal still lay where he had fallen. He looked around him uncomprehendingly. One look into his strangely staring and expressionless eyes convinced Zernif that he had not consciously betrayed them. Something had happened to him. If his hunch was confirmed, then Rogal was as good as dead—or in another sense: He'd be better off dead!

  Now there was no time to waste.

  In 15 minutes the bomb would detonate, leaving not a trace of the old building.

  "Take care of Rogal, we have to take him with us. Perhaps we can learn something from him. We have to hurry."

  Outside the night was dark. In the distance gleamed the lights of Tagnor, the capital city of Zalit, comprising 30 million inhabitants. Only a few steps behind the bushes in the park and then they clambered into their hidden vehicle. The engine started humming. A few curves ahead and they would reach the arterial road. The tempo increased.

  Suddenly a giant jet of flame shot into the dark sky, a blast of concussion swept over the parkland and the deafening report of the explosion followed.

  The secret passage to the palace of the Zarlt was no more.

  2/ RHODAN AND THE REGENT

  The spaceport of Tagnor was more than 12 miles wide. This seemed large but was actually small when one considered the unimaginable load of traffic that dominated ,the area. Almost every minute, freighters, passenger liners and fighting ships and cruisers of the Zalite fleet were taking off or landing. It all gave the impression of an overloaded beehive.

  At least that was the opinion of Reginald Bell. His bulky figure lounged in a fragile-looking seat before the control console of the panoramic indicator screens, by means of which he could scan all the goings-on of the spaceport. Now and then a satisfied grin spread over his broad features, and more than anything else his smoothed down stubbly hair was an indicator that this was no occasion for alarm.