Enemy in the Dark Read online

  DARKER THAN THEY THINK

  A ROBOT dies and his death–because he was a governor in the Realm of Arkon–is the catalyst for an interstellar police action. Enter the Finmark, a spacer of the State Class, and its commander, Maj. Thomea Untcher. Together they and the crew set out for the water world, Opgham.

  But en route to this alien planet, Untcher and his men are unexpectedly, dangerously, confronted by the—

  Perry Rhodan

  Atlan And Arkon #85

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  Enemy in the Dark

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  1/ DESTINATION: 1358

  PTHAL'S EYES pensively followed the strange twists of the tubular plant to the ceiling of the room where it disappeared in a hole, closing it so tightly with its stem as to prevent inundation by the water.

  Pthal was one of those creations who, ordinarily, were not given to embarrassing monologues. Yet at this moment he murmured to himself: "Weird specimens, these tubular plants!"

  That was the moment when the door was flung open and a man barged in whom Pthal had never seen before. But there could be no misunderstanding his intentions. He held a short-barreled weapon in his hand and opened fire at once.

  Pthal was hit. The explosion of the thermo-gun paralyzed his complicated nervous system. Fully conscious—but without feeling pain—his knees buckled and he crashed to the floor.

  The man at the door kept firing continuously but Pthal's sudden fall caused his next shot to miss him. The plastic wall behind Pthal was instantly melted to a glowing liquid which ran in searing rivulets over the floor.

  Pthal made a concentrated effort to study the stranger. He knew he could not survive his injuries. They were lethal and he had little time left to perform his duty. He scrutinized the features of the stranger with his large eyes and filed the image in his indelible memory.

  Meanwhile the intruder had corrected his aim. It took him longer than Pthal to perceive his opponent. Pthal's greatest asset was his ability of reacting with enormous speed, superhuman speed, to all situations.

  Pthal concluded, even before the stranger could fire a third shot that he deserved the ultimate punishment for his sneak attack. He triggered his most powerful weapon and killed the unknown enemy in the blinding flash of an explosion.

  Pthal rolled over on his side. The movement exhausted his strength. He was aware that he would expire in a few more seconds. He retrieved from his memory bank the image of the stranger he had just killed and silently tried to transmit the information to his point of origin where it would be received with great interest and followed by measures to discover the source of unrest on Opghan with the goal of subduing its spread.

  If Pthal had been capable of feeling regret he would have lamented the fact that he could no longer carry out his mission. His injury was much worse than he had assumed. He was unable to assess accurately the damage because the apparatus which performed these functions had already lost it effectiveness.

  His energy faded after sending the first sign. But even at this moment he still endeavored to do his duty. With the last flicker of life he emitted the code signal which called attention to the precarious conditions on Opghan.

  Then Pthal lay motionless—a robot who had been destroyed in the faithful performance of his assignment.

  • • •

  Pthal's last code signal, as well as the preceding unintelligible impulse shreds, were received on Arkon 3. They were interpreted as an effort by Pthal to give a warning and that he was prevented from making a report. The reason was obvious since the robots issued such emergency calls only when they were about to be annihilated.

  The sudden death of Pthal caused great concern. He was the highest government officer of the Imperium on Opghan the second planet of the Ep-Hog system. Opghan was a world located on the fringes of the Arkonide influence sphere. It was not unlikely that the enemy, who lurked in the dark, believed that those old times had returned after the assumption of power by His Eminence Gonozal VIII when the Imperator was far away and his officials weak so that it was opportune again to upset the Imperium by launching the upheaval on a remote planet such as Opghan.

  A strict police action had become necessary. Pthal's death had to be investigated and his assassin had to be tracked down.

  His Eminence Atlan, who ruled the Arkonide Imperium as the Imperator known as Gonozal VIII, requested the support of Terra and received assurance that his wishes would be carried out.

  • • •

  Sgt. Loodey was a man whose massive figure in combination with a deadly serious face and obstinate expression imposed respect on everybody. The fact that the rather short and thin man who approached Ran Loodey at this moment didn't show the slightest trace of his accustomed respect, irritated the sergeant and caused him to step forward before he would have done normally. He planted himself in the middle of the entrance to the bridge leading almost horizontally from the 8th floor of the administration building to the brightly illuminated cargo hatch in the lower third of a spherical spaceship moored on the landing field.

  The wispy looking man didn't seem to notice Ran Loodey at all. He appeared to be engaged in a monologue, slicing the air with nervous gestures and a vague stare. He wore civilian clothes and the civilians were denied admittance to the upper floors of the administration building.

  Ran Loodey's bafflement turned into wrath when he saw that the slender man was trying to walk around him without casting a glance at him, ignoring all formalities.

  "Stop!" Ran roared, retreating a step on the bridge. "Where do you think you're going?"

  The man looked up at Loodey as if taken aback. Then he pointed uncertainly in the direction of the landing field. "Over there!" he said, annoyed. "What's it called? The ship, I mean."

  Ran Loodey nodded ponderously. "Oh, the ship," he repeated. "Which one?"

  "Heavens above! What fools we're afflicted with," the thin man muttered, shaking his head. "That one, of course! Or do you see another one anywhere around here?"

  Loodey kept his cool. "And what do you want with the ship, my friend?"

  The man blinked his eyes. "First of all, I'm not your friend. Not as long as you treat me like this. And secondly, your question is wrong. I don't want anything with the ship. I want something in the ship. I want to sleep in the ship because I'm tired.".

  This took Loodey's breath away. When he finally found words again, he shouted at the little man: "Do you think the ships of the Solar Spacefleet are a refuge for the homeless? Start running, man, before I..."

  The subject of his ire waved his hand in protest. It was strange to see that the almost helpless gesture cooled Loodey's righteous fury and made him pause in the middle of his sentence. The slender man possessed something that shook Loodey's confidence: authority!

  "Stop yelling!" he pleaded in a plaintive voice. "It bothers me. I'm not hard of hearing."

  "OK," Loodey growled. "Then I'll tell it to you once more as softly as I can. Get the hell out of here! "

  "Why should I?"

  "Because you have no business being here," Loodey snarled.

  "How do you know that? My name is Thomea Untcher."

  Despite his rage Ran Loodey began to grin. "It's as beautiful a name as I've ever heard. But even with such a gorgeous name, my dear friend."

  Loodey's face suddenly froze. It showed the strain of searching his memory. Suddenly he, blurted: "What was that name again, sir?"

  Now the slender man smiled. "Thomea Untcher, sergeant."

  Ran Loodey's face turned purple. "I beg your pardon, sir..." he stammered in embarrassment. "Of course... I have to see your pass... You understand..."

  Untcher nodded gravely. He pu
t his hand in the pocket of his overcoat, then in the inside pocket. Then he unbuttoned his overcoat and began to search his jacket. It took awhile before he pulled out a small, grey plastic card. Loodey took it gingerly and placed it in the slot of the control box but he knew before the sign of approval lit up that he had lost the game.

  The identification card popped out of the slot again. Loodey handed it back and saluted. "I must apologize, sir," he added.

  Untcher answered with a slight wave of his hand. "That's alright. No harm done."

  Then he stepped on the bridge. The walk-belt carried him through the warm air-curtain which protected the inside of the building from the cool night to the bright airlock of the Finmark.

  When Ran Loodey thought that Untcher could no longer see him, he turned around and caught a glimpse of the slight figure in a waving overcoat as he disappeared in the hatch. He shook his head, muttering to himself. He had met many weird people in his life but a commander like Thomea Untcher? Never!

  • • •

  The moment Nathael saw the green blip of the alien spaceship light up on the large screen of the sensor console he knew that the plan could not be carried out as first conceived. The arrival of the alien ship was the best proof that Pthal's death had caused a sensation.

  Nathael rubbed his forehead with a tired expression. He took a last look at the screen and switched it over to the automatic recorder. He was not particularly interested in watching the course of the ship. What had to be done now to save the situation was possible only after the ship had landed.

  He got up and left the room where the instruments hummed in continual operation. Outside, in the large hall, he was dazzled by the light of the yellow sun streaming through the big windows. He hesitated a moment before he turned to three men sitting in comfortable chairs near the door, waiting for him. One of them looked as if he didn't belong there.

  "They're coming," Nathael said in the language they all understood.

  The men looked up. "Who's coming?" one of them asked.

  Nathael stuck out his hand with the palm up to indicate that he didn't know who it was. "It really doesn't make that much difference," he said. "Whoever they are, they are coming to snoop around here and we can't tolerate that."

  One of the three, a young man with a flowing beard, made a contemptuous gesture. "What can happen to us?" he sneered. "As soon as they touch down, we'll..."

  Nathael stamped his foot angrily. "Shut up!" he shouted. "It seems to me that our success has gone to your heads. You forget to take the most elementary precautions!"

  The young man with the beard didn't seem to be unduly impressed. "I've had my doubts for some time, Nathael," he retorted, "if your nerves aren't beginning to crack under the strain of the past few weeks. You're a little too timid."

  "Is that so?" Nathael growled. "Then let me tell you something. You're a conceited braggart who has not the slightest idea of the power and resourcefulness of our enemies' secret service. One careless word... and Opghan will blow up like a sun." He laughed grimly. "Your phony beard will burn beautifully"

  The young man remained silent. He didn't like to be reminded that his magnificent beard was not genuine. His mother was a native of this world and he had inherited her hairless skin. The mane of hair on his head was also artificial but Nathael knew that he resented it even more when somebody made fun of his beard.

  The second man joined the conversation. "We'll have to finish our preparations," he said. "How long will it take them to get here?"

  Nathael wanted to raise up the palm of his hand again but instead said: "I guess three or four tenthday."

  "That will be sufficient. We'll be ready as soon as they have found a place to land. They don't have much of a choice anyway. Then we'll have a few more hours till..." He turned to his neighbor, who hadn't uttered a word up to now. "You are all set, Chchaath, aren't you?"

  Chchaath twisted his thin mouth into a smile. "Quite," he replied, sounding as if his mouth were full of water. "We can tackle a whole fleet of them."

  "Then be on your way!" Nathael ordered.

  Chchaath got up, still smiling. He walked past the window and glanced at the endless surface of water which touched the wall of the building. The smooth scales of his skin shone in the reflex of the water.

  • • •

  Ran Loodey stared at the observation screen, flabbergasted. "Glord!" he grunted. "Water, nothing but water!"

  Maj. Untcher's voice rebuked him from the background. "Well, what did you expect? Vodka or orange juice?"

  Loodey spun around. "No sir," he retorted. "I seldom consider my private pleasures. All I meant is that we'll have trouble finding a landing place."

  Untcher shook his head. "The surface of Opghan consists only of 99½% water," he claimed emphatically. "You shouldn't have trouble finding a landing place on the other half percent."

  Ran Loodey doubted it. He doubted there was any firm land at all because all he could see on the face of the planet was an expanse of water.

  It was an eerie sight. The Finmark had approached Opghan closely enough so that the round outline of the planet filled the observation screen. It faced the dayside and the yellow sun Ep-Hog was in back of the ship. The picture of the sun was mirrored on the infinite ocean and the refracted light surrounded Opghan with a luminous aura. Where the sun didn't reach the water it had the appearance of black ink but the atmosphere beyond the horizon glowed in a warm yellow hue.

  It was a spectacle that was new to the crew of the Finmark and everybody was deeply impressed with the exception of Thomea Untcher who barely glanced at the observation screen. He seemed to be occupied with a more interesting matter.

  The Finmark had completed the tricky flight approach manoeuvre and was ready to land, provided they could discover a suitable spot to touch down.

  Thomea Untcher had paid little attention to the flight operations during the preceding hours. The trip had taken three days and the crew of the Finmark was already used to the peculiarities of their commander and their astonishment had waned. The rangefinder officer welcomed the rest when Thomea Untcher took his place for some unexplained reason. Untcher remained silent and didn't mention whether he had observed anything unusual on the various instruments and panels of the intricate rangefinder system. He scribbled a few notes. Now and then he admonished the First Officer to stay on the ball.

  That was all. Nobody thought he had discovered anything out of the ordinary up to the moment when he got up—coinciding with the second when Ran Loodey saw a small island emerging from the desolate waters and declared in a casual tone which was in sharp contrast to the worried expression of his face: "We have been detected, gentlemen. Our instruments have registered a sequence of impulses. As the robot Pthal in his position as the highest government representative of the planet was also responsible for the positronic installations of Opghan—as well as an important component of it—we must assume that somebody else has gained control of the system after Pthal's death and operates the monitor expertly. What conclusions would you draw from this, Sgt. Loodey?" It was one of his quirks to ask people about matters that were already clear to him.

  "It means," Loodey answered quickly, "that... that..." His voice changed to a stutter.

  "You are so right," Thomea Untcher responded amiably. "Since the natives of Opghan are technologically backward and probably not capable of operating a rangefinder system adequately, it means that at least one foreign technical specialist is present at Opghan... and he might very well be the cause of why we have been summoned here."

  And before anybody had fully grasped the seriousness of his conclusions, Thomea Untcher added to the confusion by ordering: I herewith put the ship on alert stage R. All men will proceed to their assigned stations. Lenzer, double the crew at the gun positions! Get going! First Officer! Loodey has located an island. Set the ship down. What are you waiting for? Were not on a weekend trip."

  Suddenly the slender, hitherto nervous man, displayed such decisive e
nergy that his men were awed by his competence and it made them realize better than anything else that they faced a real danger.

  • • •

  With the extreme patience that was typical for his race Chchaath sat before the monitor and waited for the next and final data. When it came at last he had waited more than half a tenthday at his place without moving. The screen of his set showed a 4-digit figure in Arkonide script. After reading and memorizing the number he turned off the instrument and got up.

  At the opposite end of the large, almost empty room was some sort of a cabinet. Chchaath opened one of its doors and carefully took a small shiny metal cylinder from a shelf. He weighed it in his hand before he closed the cabinet and muttered a barely audible curse between his thin lips.

  1358. They couldn't have chosen a worse place. The sun would set over 1358 in less than half a tenthday and his men would have to complete the job before then. As if he suddenly realized he didn't have to lose a thousandth of a tenthday he slammed the cabinet door shut, took the shiny cylinder under his arm and got ready to leave the room.

  The exit was one of those innovations which had disturbed Chchaath a few tenthdays earlier when he saw that it moved without any visible external force. Several tenthdays was a long time and Chchaath had become accustomed to far more crucial changes than entering a room without having to open the door by using a doorknob, or leaving the room to go out in the street as he did now.

  For instance, he had already reconciled himself to the hostile glances that met him when he walked through the streets. The streets were far less populated than before when Chchaath was one of the crowd and stopped at every street corner to chat with his friends in the sibilant and smacking sounds of their race. The people stayed mostly in their houses now. Chchaath knew that this was quite unpleasant for them since the Ephogers were extremely gregarious beings. There was not a city on Opghan which was so big that its inhabitants didn't know each other and they loved nothing better than friendly gossip with witty barbs.