Desert of Death's Domain Read online

  THE ANTIS!

  It's just as certain, though, that Perry Rhodan and his men–as well as Atlan–have not paid enough attention lately to the Antis because of the turbulent events of the recent past. Thus the Antis, the followers of the galaxy-wide Baalol cult, have been given an opportunity to start their 10-year-plan of horror without any outside interference. The terrifying potential that this plan is intended to have humanity and other intelligent life forms in the galaxy is perceived for the first time by the agents of Division 3 now stationed on the planet Lepso, as they are advancing into...

  Perry Rhodan

  Posbis #100

  —————————————————

  DESERT OF DEATH'S DOMAIN

  —————————————————

  1/ THE MYSTERIOUS LEPSO AFFAIR

  Gerard Lobson was just about to say something when he noticed suddenly that the man sitting across from him was undergoing a startling change.

  They had been sitting here for over an hour, separated by a narrow writing desk heaped with papers. Gerard had come to make a proposition to this man whose office was a long, narrow, airless room with a single window which fortunately was just clean enough to permit the daylight to reach the writing desk standing in the rear of the room.

  All this time Gerard Lobson sat on this uncomfortable chair unable to utter more than his initial greeting: "Hello, Dr. Zuglert, I'd like to propose something to you." Then Dr. Zuglert had taken over with an incredible burst of energy and speed. He literally took Gerard Lobson's breath away expounding on his visitor's not-yet-revealed proposal, discussing it from every possible angle, then proving that Gerard was wrong to assume that his plan could be carried out, particularly not in the manner he proposed to do it. Gerard's amazement grew with the doctor's every word, particularly since he had never even had a chance to say what his proposal was all about.

  Gerard Lobson simply squirmed uneasily in his hard seat, from time to time trying in vain to put in a word. And now when the doctor finally stopped his unending torrent of phrases a horrifying sequence unfolded in front of his eyes.

  When he first laid eyes on Dr. Zuglert he believed him to be a man in his early 40s. He impressed him as the type person who went in for sports, especially active sports, in his spare time. His face had a healthy glow and was free of wrinkles.

  But now?

  It looked as if something had pumped out everything from inside Dr. Zuglert's head. The skin of his face was all wrinkled, shrinking visibly to fill the sudden vacuum. His cheekbones jutted out sharply and from one moment to the next an ugly dead man's skull was grinning at Gerard. The shrunken skin continued to deteriorate. The doctor's healthy, tanned complexion turned a disgusting, flaccid shade of yellow. The lower jaw suddenly dropped, revealing two uneven rows of dirty, brown teeth. Gerard remembered in a flash how barely an hour ago he had admired Dr. Zuglert's flawless dental display.

  Gerard stood up quickly. Suddenly he felt afraid of this man who sat silent and motionless, fixing him with a glassy stare from across the narrow writing desk. Gerard withdrew from the table toward the front of the room. Horror stricken he observed that there was no way out to safety: just a window, and this window was on the 23rd floor of an old highrise building.

  Still, Gerard drew back farther and farther from the fearful sight at the desk. Maybe he could open the window and shout for help. Perhaps someone would hear him. Gerard turned around and tried to open the window. This is when Dr. Zuglert began to speak again:

  "You needn't be afraid of me, young man," he said with a weak voice, wheezing like an ancient smoker in the last stages of emphysema. He was seized by a violent coughing spell. As soon as he recovered from the attack he continued: "I need your help now, Mr. Lobson. Would you kindly assist me in getting out of my seat?"

  Gerard breathed a sign of relief. So the doctor was no longer able to stand up under his own power! And now he was plotting to get Gerard to help him rise, which would give him the chance to seize him by the throat and strangle his visitor!

  Gerard saw the door behind Zuglert's back. If only he could manage to reach it, then he would be out of danger!

  Zuglert started up again. Speaking seemed to require a tremendous effort for him. His words came haltingly, constantly interrupted by a wheezing cough. "Important for Terra, young man..." Gerard could barely make out. "Must warn everybody... my case proves..."

  Zuglert kept on talking but Gerard no longer listened. With a friendly smile he moved toward the writing desk as if to indicate to Zuglert he was coming over to help him.

  "... alcoholic solution, quite inconspicuous..." Gerard snatched up the phrase just as he reached the writing desk.

  With one swift leap he rounded the obstacle in his path and before Zuglert realized what Gerard planned to do, the latter grasped the doorknob, turned it and the door opened without force. Gerard shot out of the office while he grasped the side of the door with his right hand and slammed it shut behind him with a loud bang.

  Gerard was standing in the hallway of an old-fashioned office building. There were other doors to his right and left and on either side of the corridor. All doors were closed. Nobody had heard anything that had just taken place in Dr. Zuglert's small office. Gerard deliberated whether he should tell anyone of Zuglert's frightening metamorphosis. Suddenly he remembered that Zuglert had known m a most mysterious way what the proposition was Gerard planned to tell him about. Gerard quickly dismissed the notion of letting others know about Zuglert's condition. He risked that Zuglert might inform whoever came to his rescue about Gerard's plan and that was the last thing he needed now.

  Too bad, but he had to abandon Zuglert now to his own fate.

  Gerard walked down the hallway till he reached the antigrav shaft, stepped inside to let himself be gently wafted down. He felt greatly relieved in the knowledge that he had just escaped from a dangerous situation.

  He also realized that the memory of the yellow-greyish death's-head face would pursue him for a long time to come.

  • • •

  The Florida came from the center of the galaxy. Major Kindsom, commander of the patrol cruiser knew what was expected of him after having executed a certain number of transitions on their return to Terra: namely a short report via the directional telecom about the results of his activities in the center of the Milky Way. Dick Kindsom had prepared his report for Terra and it had been encoded on a special foil for the broadcast. He inserted the plastic foil into the proper slot in the sender and pushed the release key. He heard a soft clicking noise. Dick Kindsom knew that practically simultaneously the receiver sets on Terra—9000 light-years distant—would start working. His entire message, which had a total length of three-thousandth of one second, would be expanded, taken apart, examined, put together again; finally the transformer would spit out a piece of microfilm which in turn could then be projected through an instrument, thus permitting the properly authorized personnel to read in clearly legible print what Dick Kindsom had said in some thousand words. It was as simple as that.

  Dick's message reported that the gap torn by the united fleets of Terra and Arkon in the energy screen surrounding the mysterious Blue System of the Akons had closed again. This meant that the Akons had restored their fortress to a state of readiness against enemy attack—although they knew only too well that even a repaired "Blue Screen" would be ineffective to protect them against the linear-drive of Terra's spaceships.

  Now that Dick Kindsom had dutifully carried out what was expected from him he proceeded to ready the Florida for the next transition. He was just about to initiate the hyper-transition which would bring his ship a few more thousand light-years closer to Terra when the telec
om-receiver gave off a warning signal.

  He simply depressed one button which annulled all positronic commands he had fed into the automatic guidance system of the Florida. A red light appeared on the receiver's screen and a mechanical voice stated: "Fering 2 calling cruiser Florida. We have a TTT-call from Fering 2 for cruiser Florida. Come in, please."

  Dick acted swiftly. TTT meant top urgent. Though he couldn't imagine who on this godforsaken world of Fering 2 should want to contact him so urgently, he immediately instructed the communication robot to accept the call.

  "Maj. Kindsom speaking, commander of the Florida ," Dick announced.

  The red light signal on the receiver screen disappeared, giving way to a momentary flickering bright glare, and then a face became visible, a sight which caused Dick to recoil in horror. The head resembled that of an ancient Egyptian mummy, a dead man's skull whose bones had been covered as taut as a drum by yellowish-grey, wrinkled skin.

  The narrow mouth slit of the dead man's skull opened and the mummy began to speak. This seemed to be a major effort for the unfortunate creature for it barely managed to squeeze out a word at five second intervals. A wheezing rattling sound accompanied each painfully uttered word.

  "Whoever might hear my voice," said the mummy, "this is an urgent call for help! My life is threatened... utmost danger. My name is Dr. Armin Zuglert, residing in Zanithon on Lepso. Please help me! I implore you to come to my rescue!"

  Dick stepped closer to the screen again to reply. "How can we help you, Zuglert? This is the patrol cruiser Florida speaking. What danger threatens your life?"

  Dick's patience was sorely tried until Zuglert, obviously at the end of his tether, resumed: "Twelve years ago I..." Suddenly the connection was interrupted. The screen was once again gray and empty and the busy hum of the receiver died down completely.

  "Oh what a fool!" muttered Dick Kindsom under his breath. Zuglert must have been overcome by a sudden spell of weakness, right at the most critical moment when he was going to reveal the nature of the danger facing him; probably tried to steady himself and rested his hand on some vital push button and cut off the connection. Dick's thoughts turned almost resentfully against the poor mummy-head. Served him right, he should have been more careful; after all, it was his own life that was at stake!

  Dick signaled the communications robot. The red light came on again on the screen.

  "My TTT call with Fering 2 has been cut off," Dick complained. "Connect us again right away!"

  "What station were you talking to?" inquired the mechanical voice.

  "How should I know!" shouted Dick angrily. "My party's name was Armin Zuglert. Just look up in your register where this TTT call originated. It's not my business to keep track of such things!"

  "Of course, sir. It will take just a few seconds." Dick waited. A little while later the tinny voice came on again. "The call was placed from one of the stations of the Terranian Trade Mission on Fering 2, sir. Would you like to be reconnected?"

  "What a silly question," snapped Dick. "Of course!" A few moments later the serious face of a middle-aged man appeared on the vid-screen. He looked at Dick with a puzzled expression.

  "Inspector Neary of the Terranian Trade Mission on Fering 2," he announced in a curt voice. "What can I do for you?"

  Dick didn't bother to give his own name. "Where is Zuglert?" he asked angrily.

  The inspector eyed him suspiciously. "Where is who?"

  "Zuglert," repeated Dick, his irritation rising steadily. "Dr. Armin Zuglert. We were talking to each other from your station up to half a minute ago."

  It was obvious that Inspector Neary was none too pleased. "Now listen to me, young man," he began, "not only do you come on without announcing your name, nor do you state the nature of your business, but you also are talking utter nonsense, claiming you spoke with someone from my own telecom. I'm afraid if I'd inform your superiors of your strange behavior..."

  "Just cut that bit about my superiors," snarled Dick furiously. "This is Maj. Richard Kindsom, commander of the Florida. Just a short while ago I received a TTT call from Dr. Zuglert and I was informed by my communications robot that this call had originated from your station. Zuglert appealed for help; it was quite obvious that he was in serious trouble. Our connection was broken off. Please get Dr. Zuglert back so we can finish our talk!"

  Neary gave in. After all, it was not a smart thing for an inspector to go on expressing his displeasure to a major.

  But he insisted that Zuglert had not spoken from this telecom, and besides, that a man fitting the description given by the major had never been seen inside the Terranian Trade Mission.

  "And I've never heard that name before, Major," he concluded his argument. "It almost looks like you've fallen victim to some hoax."

  Dick realized that he couldn't get anywhere with this inspector. He called the communications robot for the second time but the metallic voice insisted again that the TTT call had been conducted from the Trade Mission. Dick knew it would be no use trying to contact Neary again. For awhile he considered the possibility that he might take it upon himself to follow up the case of the mysterious Dr. Zuglert. But then he decided that his foremost task at the moment was to return with the Florida to Terra to receive instructions for future missions. He contacted the nearest unit of the Terranian Fleet and gave a coded report of the incident. He asked the commander of that ship to do his utmost to see to it that someone came to Zuglert's rescue.

  Then he turned his attention once more to the activity which had been interrupted by the mysterious call for help from Fering 2. He prepared for the transition and programmed the necessary data into the automated guidance system. This was practically a routine job for him, thus allowing him to concentrate his thoughts on Zuglert with his death's-head face. Poor fellow, he had been so afraid for his life. He could not banish the image of the shrunken mummy's face from his thoughts.

  He worried that their talk had been cut off. There wouldn't be much he could tell them when he'd hand in his report back on Earth.

  At this point in time he did not realize that even the few meager details he could supply would be enough to set in motion a major enterprise of the Solar Empire.

  • • •

  It was a general assumption that the special agents of the Intercosmic Social Developmental Aid led an enviable life. These special agents were that institution's secret reserve. They were called in if some problem no longer could be solved by the usual means. In between missions the agents occupied their time whichever way they pleased, provided, of course, their financial situation would permit.

  Nobody unfamiliar with the purposes of the Intercosmic Social Developmental Aid, and especially their Division 3, which was in charge of the special agents, could appreciate that this generosity was fully justified, considering the feats accomplished by them during their tours of duty. Any normal human being, given the choice, would undoubtedly have given up their vacation time for the next 10 years rather than undertake the dangerous missions of a special agent in order to obtain a sometimes quite extended vacation.

  Maj. Ron Landry knew full well he would have his hands full for the next few days, weeks or even months when he received Col. Nike Quinto's summons to appear in the colonel's office.

  Ron had made it his habit to get done with unpleasant business as fast as possible. Half an hour after he had the summons he was standing in front of Nike Quinto's door. He was still trying to steel himself to face Quinto's eternal bellyaching about his miserable state of health and the deplorable ineptitude of his subalterns, when suddenly the door opened. Ron Landry saw a huge writing desk with the colonel's rosy, sweating face barely peeking over the top.

  Ron entered and took a seat near the desk. Nike Quinto began to move with a lot of moaning and groaning till finally part of his shoulders began to emerge from behind the tabletop.

  "You are aware of my miserable state of health," he began without further ado. "So sit quiet and listen, and above al
l don't contradict me. My blood pressure is sky high; any aggravation might result in a stroke."

  The greeting was typical for Nike Quinto, complaining about his ill health in an unpleasantly high squeaky voice. Ron Landry couldn't be fooled, though. He knew that Quinto actually enjoyed perfect health.

  "Yes sir," Ron replied obediently.

  "Don't yes sir me!" Quinto yelped. "I haven't asked you any questions." But as quickly as his ire had been aroused, he calmed down again and continued: "Tomorrow morning you're starting out for Lepso. We've received a very strange report from there."

  While part of Ron's thoughts mulled over the question where in the universe Lepso might be, he listened at the same time to Nike Quinto's tale of the peculiar TTT call Dick Kindsom had received on board the Florida. Ron also learned that Lepso was identical with Fering 2 and this realization excited his imagination. It was just that he couldn't understand..."

  "You are sure now what you have to do, Landry?" asked Quinto in his high voice.

  "Yes sir," Ron answered readily. "Zuglert must be found."

  Nike Quinto sighed loudly and sank lower into his armchair.

  "Oh, my poor heart, how can it stand all this strain," he whined. "I knew you wouldn't understand. Why do they insist on giving me such blonks! Don't they have any more capable officers! Do you really think I would send you off to Lepso just to End Zuglert? What a mess we would be in if we'd immediately dispatch one of our special agents to any weeping and wailing sick man in the universe. You missed the point, Landry!"

  So what is the point? Ron wondered silently.

  Nike Quinto, however, took his time to supply the answer. He wiped his sweaty brow and then inspected his wet hand. Finally he spoke. "Lately, it seems, quite a few of these emaciated figures have been popping up on Lepso. Armin Zuglert is not an isolated case. And apparently the same types are never seen twice. Our informants have the impression that these shrunken mummies are carted off somewhere as soon as they make their first appearance. These unfortunate people also seem to be replaced immediately by someone else. Too bad we can't figure out the reason behind all this. Part of your job is to find out this mystery. To be quite frank with you, I'm not too sure yet what we should think about this whole affair. It might have some harmless explanation; on the other hand, it might not. Somewhere high up there," and he pointed his finger toward the ceiling, "the Zuglert case seems to have made quite a stir. The order to send one of my... ahem... men to Lepso came right down to me without any detours, from the Administrator himself."