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  I knew that all personnel at the spaceport had long since taken cover. The shockwaves generated by the big interstellar type vessels were justly famed, although every commander exerted a reasonable caution to make his departure under the lowest possible flight power. However, with a ship the size of our Kublai Khan an extra order of magnitude could not be avoided. So it had become a standard operating procedure for the super battleships to take off from the remotest launching pads available.

  Thanks to the G-shock absorbers we were not aware of the resulting inertial pressures. Thus I was not subjected to that law of acceleration which had almost killed Perry Rhodan during his first flight to the moon. Rising lightly on gleaming pillars of impulse energy, the mighty steel sphere raced with a seeming effortlessness into its spatial element.

  Breathing a sigh of relief I leaned back comfortably in my flexible contour chair. Now the time had come at last! The ancient enemy who had destroyed my fighter squadron 10,000 years ago was about to learn a bitter lesson.

  No—I had not fought and suffered in vain! This fleeting train of thought caused my memory sector to turn on immediately. It was as though my auxiliary brain had only been waiting for such an impulse from my waking consciousness in order to start the painful pressures of recollection.

  I exerted every power within me to regain my self-control. At the moment it would have been pointless to narrate these things of long ago. The ancient Arkonide Empire no longer existed in its original form. Today my powers belonged to the inhabitants of Earth—an Earth which I had once known in its earlier geological configuration.

  The thundering of the 18 high-powered propulsion engines increased. After traveling the lunar orbit, the Kublai Khan was picking up speed. But still I sensed nothing of the heavy acceleration because of the excellent Terranian inertial absorbers.

  Marcus Everson smiled at me. He gave an impression of trustworthiness. He came close to reminding me of my old instructor and commander of the Tosoma, Capt. Tarth.

  2/ PROJECT GALACTIC POWER

  But Everson proved to be a bit impetuous. There was no need whatsoever to traverse the great distance in a single transition jump. All at once we found ourselves having leapt through the 6,562 light-year abyss to the Myrtha System in a flash—which in other words meant that the pains of rematerialization were correspondingly more agonizing. Although such a journey through the superior plane of hyperspace was mentally conceivable, the experience could never be explained in practical terms, since it dealt with the 5th dimension. The whole affair had a way of cracking up strong men or giving weak individuals a sense of exhilaration or a feeling of power. There was no way of predicting how one man or another might react to the process of dematerialization.

  As for myself, I felt as though completely bruised and beaten, both in body and mind.

  A nervous-looking engineer was busy checking the function of an advanced mechanism known as an R-E damper, or residual energy trap. This device had recently been developed as an improvement over the hyper-compensator and was used to absorb any last traces of ether shockwaves due to transition, so as to elude any possible enemy detection.

  I glanced over at the coordinate screen of the auto-pilot and noted that the green blips were clear-cut and right on the line. It was a sign that Everson had lucked in and come in right on his destination target.

  Everson's brow furrowed ruefully. "That was cutting it pretty close, wasn't it?" he remarked.

  The engineer retorted something that escaped me, although it did not seem to be particularly complimentary. Everson laughed, undisturbed by it, and so once more I perceived that the rapport between underlings and superiors was completely open and frank.

  With a groan, I straightened up in my contour chair. On the gallery screens fully five planets were visible. Far ahead was the gleaming ball of an alien sun which, by our computations, could be none other than the star Myrtha. I staggered over to the flight control consoles and sat down in the deputy commander's seat. Before I had really collected myself, the Kublai Khan was already going in for a landing.

  I was familiar with the Earth-like planet Grautier, as the result of an episode involving the pursuit of several treasonous deserters. At that time the robot Brain on Arkon almost obtained the galactic position of the Earth from the defectors and only the counteraction of a capable officer had prevented the probable destruction of the Solarian worlds.

  As we penetrated the thick atmosphere and the howling of the compressed air masses became audible, we received our first radio contact from a very powerful ground station. The transmission was in normal light-speed UHF, which meant they didn't want to take a chance with the more widely detectable hypercom.

  Rhodan's face appeared on the viewscreen. He waved a hand in greeting. His weary-seeming smile bothered me—merely a routine gesture, an absent turn of the lips without any conscious spirit behind it.

  His aquiline face had become leaner. I hadn't seen him for months since I'd gotten the assignment to install the high-precision teletrans on board our spanking new Kublai Khan.

  "Welcome," he said. It seemed to me that his thoughts were elsewhere. "Land on strip three; they'll guide you in. And please—go easy on the fireworks. Your size pulse jets can radiate enough waves for detection, under certain conditions, when using a 5-D energy tracer."

  This remark shook me into a new state of alertness. Since when had this kind of danger come into the picture? "But that's only if the receiving tracker is closer than 4 light-hours!" I countered, tensely.

  His vacant smile vanished as his lips suddenly tightened. "You're on the beam, Arkonide. It's possible that several alien ships may be scouting the outer limits of this star system just now. So land if possible only with the use of the antigrav shield. That's about it. See you soon. Over and out!"

  The viewscreen darkened. I heard a shrill, off-pitch whistle from Marcus Everson. The self-satisfied expression had vanished from his broad face. "Did you get that?" he inquired, almost rhetorically. With his right hand he cut in the ship's intercom, and while I was still formulating an answer the Power Control Central answered him. "Gate all power into the antigravs," he ordered in a level tone that seemed almost indifferent. "The Chief doesn't like hard-energy impulses. Confirm!"

  Then he repeated his question to me. I looked at the big screens which now revealed the familiar landscape of the former colonial planet. Rhodan had developed it into a remote base for the Solar Fleet. In the new currency of the small stellar empire, it represented an expenditure of some 70 billion Solars.

  As the surprisingly vast installations of the spaceport became visible far below and the Kublai Khan began to cushion itself on its antigravity fields, I finally got the point of Rhodan's instructions.

  Apprehensively I said: "Does it seem possible to you that the Robot Regent of Arkon has failed to notice any trace of the zonal interlock between the two dimensions? No... ? Alright, then, there's your answer. From what I know of that overgrown think-tank, its completely one-track logic circuits are incapable of intellectualizing over a situation like this—so what does it do? It falls back on its old timeworn tactic of sending out a giant fleet. Slug it out with the enemy as usual and attempt to force them into submission as new subjects of the Empire. The Brain can never understand that the situation is different this time. In a mechanical sense it simply doesn't have the faculty necessary to comprehend the significance of another time plane. So on the basis of that we have to face the possibility of at least a few scout cruisers putting in a sudden appearance around here. And naturally Rhodan would not be happy about his base on Grautier being discovered immediately after its completion. What that could mean you can well imagine!"

  Everson offered nothing more. He couldn’t imagine it!

  Minutes later the retro-engines in the great skirt ring of the Kublai Khan began to thunder. The point had been reached where a braking action could not be avoided, considering the incalculable weight of the descending giant. The sound was painful to
my ears. Everson grimaced his annoyance as the crew members in the Control Central watched us in consternation.

  "Set her down, dammit!" yelled Everson.

  But then it was over with. The landing pads on the extended hydraulic struts contacted the plate-hard pavement of the new launching strip. The thunderings subsided. We were still holding our breaths as we listened to the dying rumble.

  "Could be very interesting," said somebody, expressing a presentiment over my previous remarks. I turned to see a young officer who wore the insignia of the new Lunar Academy on his uniform.

  "That's the understatement of the year," I answered, unconsciously falling back on an Earthly colloquialism. I walked slowly toward the bulkhead door of the Control Central, knowing that Rhodan would be waiting.

  • • •

  The behavioral patterns of an electro—positronic robot brain equipped with semi-organic circuits is only predictable when one is fairly familiar with its basic programming. We didn't know precisely what my long dead ancestors had stored in the giant robot's logic registers some 15,000 years ago by Terra reckoning. But one thing was certain: the so-called Regent no longer knew what he was doing!

  Apparently limited by his purely mechanical short-comings, he was taking measures which might only be considered understandable if this were to be regarded as a normal colonial war between different intelligences of the Milky Way. But to me it seemed a fundamental error to apply the same principles to a life form that had not even originated within the Einstein universe.

  We were on board the new cruiser California at a distance of about 10 light-hours from Grautier. Since that planet was the seventh world of the Myrtha sun we had not even reached the outer perimeter of the tremendous system. Before us lay the orbits of the outer planets, icy, uninhabitable gaseous giants devoid of any perceptible sign of life. Altogether, Myrtha possessed 49 planets, but only two of them had been settled.

  We had glided through the 10 light-hour distance in powerless free fall—that is, after they had given me a brief demonstration, shortly after our takeoff. They had wanted to show me the stop and start capability of the new State class light cruisers.

  We had come to a breathtaking halt in the middle of interplanetary space, at a braking rate of over 600 mps2, and of course the acceleration rate proved equally spectacular; but in the domain of relativistic velocity more fuel was consumed than would have been used by a battleship in four full transitions.

  The California belonged to the class of advanced, lightning-fast scoutships whose armor and weapons had been greatly restricted in view of their oversized propulsion units and power plants. So the Terranians had also learned that special capabilities could be achieved through a form of compromise. Apparently the California demonstrated an axiom originated among old-time seafaring fleet designers: 'Faster than the more powerful ships but more powerful than the faster units.'

  I had taken a look around in the engine and machine rooms of this spacer. Practically considered, it was a flying bomb, or you might say a scantily clad giant power plant with which one could easily chase a mighty battle cruiser through the void.

  At any rate the California was something more than a straight compromise. Its sphere of duty was specialized and therefore limited but it could make an appearance anywhere with incredible swiftness, strike quickly and disappear in a flash. Whether or not it could inflict any serious damage was a matter for the future to decide. Nevertheless I was very satisfied with the 300-foot diameter sphere. It gave one a feeling of security, provided that its bridge were occupied by a commander who wasn't out to prove himself a reckless hero. In which case the very fragile defense screens of the special cruiser would very quickly come down on his head.

  We were in the fairly spacious Control Central, whose tracking instruments were showing us the cruiser's target destination. I had never before seen a better operation. The large panoramic viewscreens were an outsized luxury by cruiser standards but they were revealing something now which made me catch my breath: the glittering and scintillating might of the galaxy was there!

  My auxiliary brain pulsed hard and painfully to lure me into a mood of narration. What I saw before me reminded me too vividly of events that had occurred during the so-called Methane War of 10,000 Earth years past. It was only with a strenuous effort that I could shake off the spell that was pressing upon me. This time I didn't want to relate past adventures but to consciously experience the present one.

  Reginald Bell, Rhodan's Second-in-Command, was leaning with both arms on the back of the Commander's chair. He stared upward with narrowed eyes at the viewscreens, which worked on the principle of trans-light pulsing and echo-pattern evaluation. We could not actually see the ships as though they were directly before us because they were some 20 light-years away. Nevertheless we could deduce from the size and dimensions of the green light blips the massive presence of spaceships of every type and class out there. There was nobody on board who would not have been able to construct a clear mental picture from the 3D echo patterns.

  "I'd say there were at least a 1000 units of the Stardust class out there," said Bell tensely. "I don't get it! It looks like the Robot has mustered out every ship he's got in those underground hangars on. Arkon 3, wouldn't you say?"

  I smiled ironically at the stocky, wide-shouldered Deputy Administrator. Bell had a very false concept of the Greater Empire's power. "Not so!" I corrected him, although it was with no feeling of triumph whatsoever.

  Rhodan's lean face turned to me, a question in his eyes. "Not so... ?"

  I nodded regretfully. "One tends to underestimate the capacity of a stellar empire having more than 100,000 industrialized planets. There are spaceship construction yards everywhere, and everywhere building is constantly in progress. Certainly it's according to some sort of schedule and rate of expansion but it's a continuous process! So if you showed me 100,000 ships out there right now it wouldn't surprise me in the least."

  Rhodan studied me doubtfully.

  Bell laughed, somewhat restrainedly. "That's crazy!" he exclaimed.

  I knew better but remained silent. It was useless to attempt to depict the Empire's output capacity to these Terranians.

  The tracking center was heard from. John Marshall, Chief of the Mutant Corps, was on the intercom. "We estimate, sir," he announced, "about 30,000 units of various types and sizes. And they're not just fooling around with scattered engagements any more—it's turned into a full slugging match out there, no holds barred. The hyperscanners are about ready to jump out of the bulk-heads. I've never seen such a collection of shockwaves in my life."

  Rhodan's fingers played nervously over the firing keyboard. The relatively small California did not have a remote fire control center for its weapons systems. "30,000 units, is it?" he repeated tonelessly. "Your comments?"

  A few seconds passed before I realized that I had been addressed. I kept looking over at the hypersensors. On their coordinate screens was an uninterrupted flickering of impulses but they were not caused solely by the countless hypertransitions of spaceships. The constantly visible wave patterns approximated the appearance of space-warp shocks but in a sustained sequence which meant something more. These were not the mere impacts of shockwaves produced from surge spikes of excess energy—they represented rather the menacing spatial overlap of another and almost incomprehensible space-time continuum.

  The overall evaluation was staring us in the face. It was clear that this time we were no longer dealing with a passing relativity front but rather with a so-called discharge zone—in fact, one which had remained stabilized now for at least 36 hours of our standard time.

  "Your comments?" Rhodan repeated stubbornly.

  The men in the room were only recognizable now by their silhouettes since all illumination had been cut down for the clearest possible observation of the hyper-indicators.

  "My comments?" I echoed, tensely. "Alright, here they are. You know my experiences of the past. The last calculations we made show
ed a timelapse differential between our temporal rate and that of the Druufs—which yielded a ratio of 72,000 to one. So in a sense that conflicts with my choice of words when I say 'the past'. The ages which have rolled by since my ancient defensive battle against them only represent at the most maybe two months for those characters. So that's one point to help clarify the present situation."

  Not a muscle twitched in Rhodan's face. He had pulled on his mask again—a mask of absolute self-control. "So what's the rest of it?"

  "The time has passed for the hit-and-miss sort of relativity fronts. In my former experience with this I ran across a similar situation where we would see funnel-like structures of energy forming apparently in empty space. These turned out to be discharge zones, by means of which the different energy levels of the two universes were balanced out. The funnels acted as perfect conductors through which the force differentials found a common level and were equaled out. This was entirely a natural phenomenon, having nothing to do with any control or guidance by thinking intelligences. Yet in the present situation you seem to have a worse condition."

  I remained silent for a moment in order to study the almost linear curve of the sensor graphs more closely, as the shockwaves continued to build up. "Considering that 7200-to-1 time-ratio and the mass displacement of the Druuf-plane's center of gravity, it's evident that the factors emerging during my past experience were but the forerunners of what we are seeing now. Too bad we can't make an optical observation, since normal light hasn't yet bridged the distance of 20 light-years. If we could, you would see a series of red-gleaming funnel openings intermingling with each other, gradually assuming the form of a relatively narrow cleavage in the blackness of the Einstein continuum. That's the new, stabilized discharge zone, which according to our arbitrary time measurement had its beginnings about 10,000 years ago. That this chronology does not apply to the Druufs should have become clear to you in the meantime. It's my guess, Barbarian, that from here on you won't have to use all your complicated equipment to generate warp fields as a means of entry. Now you can fly through the zone completely unhindered—that is, if they let you fly through."