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  So now they sat there watching the sky gradually brighten. Rhodan's crewmen would soon be starting their search. They would come searching here where the rocks formed multiple hiding places and they would keep at it if it took them three days to find him and Roane.

  So this was it. The trail ended on a dry dusty planet that didn't even have a name.

  Lauer's anger welled up anew within him. Those damnable fools, the Arkonides! Why had they not come sooner? Then he and Roane would be sitting now in a comfortable cabin and enjoying deferential treatment while presenting to some Arkonide commander the secret that they had stolen from Rhodan. Instead, here they were sitting between two yellowish brown boulders waiting for the sun to come up so that Rhodan's men would be able to find them.

  Unless—He suddenly had an idea. Right in front of him was the case containing the microfilm. There would be no further opportunity for handing it over to the Arkonides. But he could do what Suttney had intended to do: over the micro-com he could tell the enemy that Earth's solar system was so far away from this point and that they should look for it in such and such a direction. Of course it wouldn't be a complete set of directions but it would be sufficient for the Arkonides to be able to find the Earth in at least a couple of years.

  Not that he actually intended to let the Arkonides get hold of such information just yet. But he could threaten Rhodan with it!

  • • •

  For an hour now, no one had responded. Perry Rhodan began to wonder. He had been certain that Suttney and his henchmen must have gotten out of the Gazelle before it was exploded by the disintegrator shot. But now this silence on the wavebands seemed to contradict his assumption. If Walter Suttney were still alive he couldn't possibly be stupid enough to think he had a chance.

  Rhodan did not know that Ronson Lauer was even then in the process of formulating his answer.

  It wasn't until an hour after sunrise, at 20 hours ship time, that Rhodan's receiver came to life and a nervous voice spoke swiftly to him:

  "You're talking to Ronson Lauer, Rhodan. Suttney is dead. I've taken over in his place and I want to make a deal with you..."

  • • •

  By sunrise, Chellish had crossed about half of the plateau area. During the past several hours it had been terribly cold but once the sun lifted a hand's breadth over the horizon the heat swung to the other extreme and he was already fondly wishing for the cool of the night.

  In spite of his efforts it seemed that he approached the crags and rocky outcroppings of the eastern rim with an unbearable slowness. He kept stopping repeatedly to wipe the sweat from his brow. He had an impression that he was walking on a treadmill in one spot without actually making any headway at all.

  The footprints left by Lauer and Roane led straight as an arrow across the yellow sand. Chellish could even see where the tracks ended on the rim of the high plain but it was still more than a mile away—a hot and dusty stretch which was much too far for a man who couldn't stand for even a second on his right leg and who had not had anything to drink for at least an eternity.

  There was no sign now of all the Gazelles whose engines had filled the night with their hummings and roarings for more than half an hour. Apparently they had not considered the sandy plain to be a good place to land.

  Chellish dragged his way along but he had begun to doubt that he would ever reach the eastern rim. He was governed by fear now and it took every last shred of his strength of reason to keep him from simply lying down in the sand and giving up.

  • • •

  "There are only two methods you can use, Rhodan," said Lauer hurriedly. "You can communicate with your men either by Telecom or by Normal radio and I can receive both. I assure you that the instant you start using your transmitters for any purpose other than talking to me I'll start passing my information on to the Arkonides. You keep that in mind while you're thinking over my proposition."

  Rhodan knew that Lauer meant what he said. He would begin reporting the galactic position of the Earth to the Arkonides as soon as anyone attempted to take a bearing on his own position or utilize it for directing the Gazelles to where they should drop their bombs.

  Rhodan and Lauer found themselves in a situation where each was confronted with but one alternative. Each only had one move to make. Any other choice, for either of them, would lead to ruin—end of the game!

  Lauer had declared that he would keep his strategic information to himself in return for having a Gazelle placed at his disposal, in which he would be allowed to take off after the departure of the Fleet. Naturally such a proposition was unacceptable because Lauer would then simply fly to Arkon and make his treason complete.

  The traitor had given a three-hour time limit. If by the end of that period his proposition had not been accepted, he would begin to broadcast his data. And Perry Rhodan's hands were tied. He could not move in any direction without paying the ultimate price—the Earth.

  The yellow sun raised its blazing face higher into the bluish white glare of the sky. On board the Gazelles anyone would have given his kingdom for just a good idea.

  • • •

  ...left foot... right foot... left foot... now drag the right!

  Don't look at the sun. Don't think of water. Here is the trail.

  In Gunther Chellish's eyes the sand was glaring white and the foot prints in front of him seemed to be black holes. A colorless world of black and white and merciless heat.

  He no longer knew how far he had to go before he would reach the shade of the rocks. He didn't trust himself to raise his head because then he would have to look at the sun. He didn't want to look at that swollen orb of Hellish Heat.

  Nor did he look up when he heard a howling sound behind him. It made no difference to him what it might be. It grew louder and swept nearer to him but he did not stop and he refused to turn for fear that he would never get started again once he came to a standstill.

  He noted that the tracks before him were suddenly erased. They blurred before his vision and then were there no more. He blinked his burning eyes to get rid of the hallucination but the footprints were gone. In front of him was nothing but trackless sand, which some inexplicable force drove to the north in long, rippling streamers.

  He finally came to a stop and looked about him when a darkness came over the area. But there was nothing more that he could see. He was enveloped in a murky brown cloud. Sand flew into his eyes and into his nose and mouth. The howling he had heard was that of a sand storm.

  He raised his arms in front of his face and pushed onward. He thought he knew in what direction the footprints had led before they disappeared. With an automatic sort of logic he realized that if he wasn't careful he'd be making a curve to his left because of favoring his wounded right leg all the time. So he compensated by keeping to his right, and he let the wind drive him along.

  He couldn't even see two steps ahead at a time. Whenever he clenched his teeth, he felt and heard the grittiness of the sand. But it was all the same to him whether he chewed sand or cooked in the heat. One thing was as bad as the other. He stumbled along without any sense of time. His brain sent automatic commands to his legs... left... drag the right... left... drag the right. Chellish wasn't even aware of the process anymore. He was like a machine that kept on going for the simple reason that somebody had forgotten to turn him off.

  Suddenly he stumbled over something. It could have been his own feet that tripped him. In which case he would have fallen into soft sand but this was no soft landing. His head struck something hard and it brought him to his senses. He looked up and saw before him a rock that was about as tall as a man. At first he could not believe his eyes but when he ran his hands over the rough surface he tore his fingers and drew blood. It was the blood that convinced him. He had made it. He had reached the rim of the plain. When the storm died down and the sun came out again, he would find protective shade behind this boulder.

  He crawled around it and pressed himself against the stone in the le
e of the wind. He noted that the ground sank rapidly away within several steps of his present position. His tired brain signaled the possibility that there might be a valley somewhere below.

  He pressed his hand to his mouth and drew in air between his torn fingers. He needed air—even if it was as hot and dusty as this.

  He felt the storm shake the very rock behind him.

  • • •

  Ronson Lauer saw the brownish cloud of the sandstorm shoot out above him from the edge of the cliff and he heard the mournful howling of the wind. He felt uneasy. The storm offered Rhodan an excellent opportunity in which to sneak up on him unobserved.

  They had to change their hiding place!

  "Roane!" he shouted above the shriek of the wind. "Move it! Come on—over there!"

  Roane didn't understand why but he obeyed. They crept along the steep slope between the rocks. Lauer kept the micro-transceiver open but Perry Rhodan maintained a waiting silence.

  One and a half hours had passed of the three hours allowed.

  • • •

  The brown cloud began to fade as the howling of the wind subsided. Chellish looked into the sky, searching for the sun. It shone through the dust pall like a dim and dreary ball of light. From its present appearance it was difficult to believe that it could burn a man alive.

  His field of vision broadened. He was now able to observe the steep declivity before him for a distance of several yards. But nothing presented itself there other than a greyish surface and a mottled covering of rocks. Nothing else worth looking at.

  Then the storm ended suddenly, as swiftly as it had come. A ragged dust cloud moved away sluggishly to the east.

  Suddenly Chellish heard sounds below him. He dropped to his side and pushed himself to the edge of the declivity. The storm had rattled him into a state of wakefulness.

  And now he saw Ronson Lauer and Oliver Roane scrabbling along the steep slope between the boulders! They were about 30 yards to his left and were moving toward a spot beneath this present position.

  Chellish drew back. He was afraid. He didn't want Lauer to discover him. The man would shoot him on sight. He crept to the other side of the rock, which was necessary anyway because the shade was there.

  In pressing hard against the boulder he suddenly felt it move slightly. Not being firmly anchored in the ground, it had leaned away from him. Chellish suddenly recalled how the wind had caused it to tremble.

  A fascinating idea gripped his mind. Here was a wobbly boulder—and there was a very steep slope across which Lauer and Roane were struggling.

  He shoved himself up the rock into a standing position and placed both hands against it, attempting to move it. A quick glance beyond its rim revealed that Lauer and Roane had come another 10 yards closer. He leaned his left shoulder against the stone. Using his right leg as a brace he strained against the weight of the boulder and the raging pain in his hip gave him additional strength.

  He noticed that the rock began to lean farther toward the drop-off. He heard Lauer and Roane crawling across the face of the drop. The clank of metal against stone told him that they were exactly beneath his position. The fear of being too late gave him the last spurt of energy he needed in order to topple the stone. The man-sized chunk of rock plunged forward, slid to the edge and beyond it, kicked up its lower end and pounded down the slope.

  Chellish crashed to the ground. He heard a wild cry of terror and used his elbows to pull himself forward to the edge.

  Far below him he saw the boulder bounding toward the valley in a trail of dust. About halfway down the incline he made out two dark blue dots against the grey background of the mountain. Lauer and Roane. The falling rock had caught them both and had carried them a few hundred yards along its hurtling course.

  But in Lauer's first instant of terrorized shouting he had dropped the micro-com, which now lay only a few yards beneath the rim.

  Chellish crawled toward it, oblivious now of the sun that was glaring down on him unrelentingly. It seemed to be hours before he reached the tiny instrument. It was still in operation and out of it came the confident tones of a human voice:

  "Lauer, what we can suggest to you is the following: Amnesty plus your freedom but you will not be allowed to ever leave Earth again. I'm waiting for your answer, Lauer. This is my last offer."

  As Chellish broke into a smile, tears ran unheeded down his face. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath-filling his lungs with the burning hot air of Tantalus—and then spoke into the microphone:

  "This is... first Lt. Chellish, sir... I think... the danger is... it's—it's taken care of. I'd appreciate it... if you could... pick me up now."

  Then he fell forward and shut off the micro-com as he did so.

  • • •

  The Arkonide robot fleet finally withdrew and the Robot Regent perceived his double defeat: the Latin-Oor deception plus the fact that Perry Rhodan had beaten him to Tantalus. A day and a half later the following conversation took place on board the Drusus between Atlan and Rhodan:

  "From now on we're going to have to expect similar incidents at any moment," said Rhodan reflectively. "You know how it is, Admiral: Bad examples set the pattern... regardless of the outcome."

  Atlan agreed. "I'm surprised you've held onto your secret even this long," he said. "Any time somebody takes a notion to feather his nest, all he has to do is take a nice ride in a Gazelle and flit over to Arkon. I feel quite certain that my austere Lord and Imperator..." a mocking smile was on his face... "will demonstrate his gratitude with a generous clink of coins. He's programmed humanly enough to do it. But by the way: how is it that Suttney didn't go straight to Arkon or at least fly to Latin-Oor? That would have offered him greater security, don't you think?"

  Rhodan shook his head negatively. "No way! To get to Arkon he'd have to cover a stretch of some 30,000 light-years and a Gazelle can't make such a hop in a single jump. Apparently Suttney was afraid of taking such a risk. Because with one jump, that’s one chance; but five jumps makes five times the gamble. Suttney knew very well that he couldn't trust Chellish. Every second of additional time gained by Chellish would be an increase of the risk he was taking.

  "And Latin-Oor was out of the question. What was there was simply a robot fleet. If a Terranian Gazelle had shown up there unexpectedly, the first reaction of the robots would have been to fry their hides. Suttney wouldn't have even had a chance to deliver his little speech.

  "No, his best route was to get off somewhere into an unknown system and then put out a call to the Arkonides. This way his proposition would have a chance to percolate with them so that they be more likely to make a deal than to merely cook his goose. Another thing Suttney was counting on was that when he sent out his contact message over the hypercom none of our ships would be within 100 light-years of him. On the other hand he knew the Arkonide fleet was only 16 light-years away, which made a big difference in the accuracy of tracking down his position, once he gave his bearings. His Achilles heel lay in not knowing what had happened to the resonance-frequency absorber. On his main hyperjump after that, we were able to spot him."

  Atlan had been looking at the viewscreen. "Well," he said quietly, "the bottom line of it is that you are to be congratulated because of that first lieutenant of yours. Without him..."

  "What first lieutenant?" Rhodan interrupted, appearing puzzled.

  "I mean Chellish. What other first lieutenant was involved?"

  "Oh, Chellish!" replied Rhodan. "He's a captain now even though he doesn't know it yet."

  • • •

  Walter Suttney and Ronson Lauer were dead. Fate had spared Oliver Roane. When they found him, he was merely unconscious. The boulder had completely crushed his right leg and it had to be amputated. But Oliver Roane would live, to be tried and convicted back on Earth.

  Gunther Chellish had been on the brink of death. The medicos on board the Drusus declared that they had never seen such a severe case of total exhaustion in their lives.

&nb
sp; Three days went by before Chellish regained consciousness. By this time the Drusus had long since returned to Grautier. When he opened his eyes and turned his head to look around, he saw a very familiar face on the pillow of a cot adjacent to him.

  "Mullon!" he murmured weakly. "What are you doing here? Were you in the Tantalus operation?"

  Mullon laughed. "No. I guess I was a little too tired to get into the action. But they tell me you did all right on Tantalus—getting yourself the order of the Blue Comet and all. May I offer my highest respects, captain! "

  • • •

  On the 15th of October, 2042, the Terrania Daily News added the following editorial comment to an

  exhaustive report on events in the Tantalus Sector:

  Once again it has been demonstrated that there are different kinds and qualities of reporting. Any information obtained by a responsible journalist is not simply dumped upon the unsuspecting public without a proper predigestion. Such data are usually sorted out according to their importance and their possible public impact. Above all, the true journalist will not seek to invent stories which serve no other purpose than to confuse the issue, and certainly the professional newsman will not stoop to lending false credence to his reporting by alluding to his 'informed source?' without first naming those sources. These 'informed sources' are generally located in the back room behind the editor's desk where they suck up 'news items' through their pencils and ballpoint pens.

  Precisely the situation we have just reported on is a case in point, which clearly shows how the machinations of that 'other' kind of journalism can be foisted upon the public, either for personal gain or for the purpose of a larger circulation. It is our opinion, both now and in the past, that painstaking and responsible reporting is always to be preferred over that other practice which has deservedly earned the opprobrium of yellow journalism.