The Cosmic Decoy Page 3

  "Oh, come off it," Tiff interjected nervously. "I've got other troubles, damn it!"

  "What do you know! The chicken is actually swearing. I can't believe it," Hifield exclaimed in astonishment.

  Tiff closed his eyes in disgust. Hifield's scornful laughter upset him deeply.

  "One of these days, somebody is going to shut your big mouth," Eberhardt said with unaccustomed coldness. "He'll do such a good job that you'll never open it again. Do me a favor, go look for your equation!"

  "You wanna make something of it?" Hifield whispered. His shoulders hunched forward. But he loosened up instantaneously when somebody knocked at the door. Suddenly Hifield broke out in a jovial smile.

  "Gutless wonder!" Eberhardt muttered, turning away. "Come in!"

  The three cadets stood straight. But it was no superior officer.

  "May I come in?" a high voice asked. "That's 'verboten.' For heaven's sake don't get us into trouble!" Tiff admonished hastily. "Girls aren't allowed in here."

  Mildred Orsons, cosmobacteriology student at the CB Institute of the Space Academy, tossed back her pitchblack hair with a typical gesture. She entered lithely. Without a word she critically examined Tiff's appearance. "Turn around!" she ordered. "Your belt is off-center again. I just came to let you know that Deringhouse will inspect you personally. There's a dark spot on the handle of your weapon. You look terrible, dear,

  terrible! You live like cavemen here." Tifflor went from one embarrassment to the next. Was it a good or bad omen that much admired Milly Orsons took a personal interest in his affairs?

  "I'll wipe it clean," he promised quickly. "But will you please leave now? If they catch you in the cadets

  quarters, you'll be very sorry." In a spontaneous outburst Milly's exalted sense of justice got the better of her. She was one of those dedicated persons who would tear the world apart for a skinny dog.

  Her dark eyes were aglow with fire. Tiff just stood there in motionless awe. "It's an outrageous shame to treat a fellow like this!" she flared up. "Klaus has told me how they summoned you. The Chief doesn't seem to know what he's doing to you. Somebody has to care about

  your mental balance. We've managed to convince Sergeant Rous that your uniform must be checked. Look at your boots! They're smeared with chocolate!" Tiff looked down and became furious, then turned abruptly to Hifield who grinned with delight. "I just polished them. I saw you hypocritical sneak eat chocolate a minute ago. You smeared the stuff on my boots. I'll..."

  "Quiet!" Milly cried before the enraged Tiff could lunge toward the waiting Hifield. "Have you all gone mad! Hifield, did you really do this dirty trick? You must be a mean bully!"

  "I can't stand that snitch," Hifield admitted with bate. "He's peddling it around that he'll see the Chief."

  "I've got orders to report to him," Tiff shouted. "I don't know why..." A click in the loudspeaker caused the cadet to break off. Hifield was the first to stand to attention. He

  looked rigidly at the screen of the videophone at the wall where Major Deringhouse's face had appeared. Deringhouse was Chief of the Space Training unit. The graduating class of the Space Academy was at this time almost exclusively under his supervision.

  Milly fled with a wild leap out of the range of the camera, hiding behind the open closet door.

  "Cadet Tifflor, are you ready?" the loudspeaker crackled. Tiff stepped forward.

  "Yes, sir," he acknowledged shakily. "O.K. Come to my office at once. I expect your uniform to look snappy or you'll catch hell. Wasn't

  there someone else in the room?" Tiff's eyeballs flipped around. "No... No, sir!" he fibbed. "As you say. If the lady believes that she must attend to the spit and polish, she ought to be gracious

  enough to let me look at her. We'll talk about it, later, Tifflor. That'll be all." Deringhouse disappeared and Milly trembled as she came out from behind the door. "Good grief," she groaned, "he saw me. Well, let's wait and see. Give me your boot. Klaus, I need a

  cleaning rag."

  "I prefer to get out of here," Hifield exclaimed. "What are you scared of?" Eberhardt asked contemptuously. "Are you afraid that an honorable student-like you will be caught as a delinquent in the last semester? Man, get out of my sight!"

  Hifield shrugged his shoulders and left the room. Milly clamped the spherical radiohelmet under Tiffs left arm and said: "Let's go now and don't forget to breathe."

  Tiff walked out to the antigrav elevator on wobbly legs. He fell in so awkwardly that he landed flat on his stomach down in the hall. Sergeant Rous nearly cried. "Man, get up and start running. I can't look at you any more without getting

  a fit," he groaned. Tiff got moving on his long legs. In a mad rush he scurried down the hall to Deringhouse's office. "Your gun!" Rous howled after him. "What the devil is he doing? He left his gun in the elevator!" Tiff turned into an acrobat. He whirled around in midair, raced back and snatched the impulsebeamer

  from the hand of the flight instructor while mumbling something completely unintelligible. Rous stared after the cadet in a state of shock. What sort of mischief would he be getting into next!

  • • •

  At the moment that the Arkonide robotfighter led him through the small ray-shielded entrance chamber in the field of the powerful energysphere, Julian Tifflor began to feel as if the world were coming to an end.

  The government palace of the New Power was situated in the middle of a complex covered by the protective E-field. Close to the palace was the armored dome housing the positronic brain, stationed in the Gobi Desert.

  Tiff was numb and he passed like a somnambulist through the strict control points. Now he stood in the huge room where the man who had landed the first atomic rocket on the moon many years ago conducted his operations.

  That historic feat alone made Tiff feel like a babe in the woods by comparison. And when he started to ponder the difficulties under which Perry Rhodan labored to apply usefully for all mankind the knowledge of the Arkonides discovered on the moon, he was struck by such awe that he was almost paralyzed.

  Now he stood before the man who had become a legendary idol, a man who—as it was claimed in whispers—had been granted eternal life by a mysterious power.

  On the other hand, Tiff was fully informed about the galactopolitical and military enterprises of his famous boss. This knowledge sufficed to make his forehead break out in sweat.

  His posture resembled more a bent corkscrew than a cadet at attention. His legs quavered peculiarly below his knees but a sensation of panic welled up in him that made him fear that the moment of his final collapse was near.

  Other cadets would certainly have made a better show. Hifield would probably have stood like a rock in front of the Chief without blinking an eyelash and without suffering from an inferiority complex.

  Perry Rhodan studied the 20 year-old Space Academy student very thoroughly for a long time. At one time he himself had stood just like that before the commander of the Space Force—trembling inside and with tense muscles. It was in the first years when the Space Force was formed under Colonel Pounder.

  Rhodan suppressed a smile and continued keeping a straight face, when John Marshall, the telepath who was also present, gave a silent warning. "He is about to bowl over, Chief. You're like a little god to him."

  Rhodan understood the telepathic message faultlessly. Therefore, he cleared his throat and said: "Mr. Tifflor, this is a private visit. Please take a seat."

  Tiff tottered to the chair. As he dropped into the seat, his radiohelmet became separated and promptly followed the pull of gravity. The impact droned like a thunderclap in Tiffs ears.

  "The beautiful hat!" Rhodan said dryly. "Don't you like it?"

  Tiff stammered fervent protestations that of course he had nothing against service helmets. On the contrary, he thought that the built-in audiovisual set provided excellent communications.

  Rhodan listened patiently to Tiffs nervous outburst.

  John Marshall retreated unobtrusively. His
short nod was all that Rhodan needed. He found no objections as far as Julian Tifflor was concerned. There was not a thing in his mind that he would have to hide from Rhodan.

  "Well," Rhodan finally interrupted, "we both agree on this. Thank you for your exhaustive explanations. I

  suppose you know why I've asked you to come here?"

  Tiff had calmed down a little. He denied the question. Rhodan gave no indication of his thought. His impassive face might have caused others to be apprehensive. Tifflor felt his pulse racing. Now the catastrophe was about to befall him!

  Rhodan extracted a folded piece of paper from a stack of documents. "Your father shows remarkable determination. It isn't every day that the President of the New Power receives a private telegram. You'll be furloughed as of now, Mr. Tifflor."

  Tiff's tenseness gave way to boundless amazement. "A telegram?" he stammered, perplexed.

  Rhodan nodded nonchalantly. However there was no convincing reason why the Chief was prepared to show the cadet a special favor. Tiff was quite aware of this. Rhodan registered the sudden alertness of the fledgeling astronaut out of the corner of his eye. The young man seemed to have changed. He was no longer plagued by uncertainties.

  "Your sister is getting married today. This is the reason for the rush."

  "Eileen, getting married?"

  "At 18 o'clock, Eastern Standard Time. You'll fly toward the sun in one hour. You'll take a one-seat space fightership. The machine is now being made ready for you. Do you think you can fly this ultraspeed pursuit-ship safely to New York?"

  Tifflor's face was beaming. Holy smoke! Flying a space-interceptor of the New Power to New York! This was stunning news. Tiff nodded silently as he failed to find words.

  Rhodan observed him carefully. He pushed the telegram across the table. It was indeed a very unusual message. "Ordinarily I wouldn't have been informed of its contents," Rhodan remarked. "But I've got a special mission for you in mind. Your sister's wedding comes very conveniently at this time. It presents a most inconspicuous way of sending a special courier to New York. You're to remain at your father's home until you receive a message under the code name 'Heavenly Gate.' Then you'll report to Homer G. Adams, the president of the General Cosmic Company. Does the name Adams mean anything to you?"

  Tiff whispered his "Yes, sir." Of course he was familiar with the name of the renowned personality.

  "Very well. You'll be issued a diplomatic pass of the New Power as well as an official letter with a special permit, authorizing you to make full use of your service weapon in case of danger. Notification of your flight will be given at the point of your arrival. You may disregard all else and simply cross the borders of the United States. You'll land at the new spaceflight base of New York City where our servicemen will take care of your machine. Go at once to see your family and attend the wedding ceremony. Any questions?"

  "None, sir," Tiff replied very calmly and composed. His slim face looked earnest.

  Rhodan narrowed his eyes. "Excellent, Cadet Tifflor. Take this little metal cylinder and keep it safe. Hand it over to Mr. Adams only, nobody else. If any other people get interested in it, remember that you've orders to shoot. You'll receive all further instructions from Homer G. Adams. You're under his command in Now York. Major Deringhouse will assign your spacefighter to you. He'll also furnish you combat weapons. That'll be all. Thank you very much."

  Julian Tifflor asked no more questions. He secured the hand-long metal cylinder in the inside pocket of his uniform, saluted smartly and walked to the noiselessly opening hatch door. Before he passed through it, Rhodan's last words reached him. "Tifflor, this is a special mission. Don't let anything surprise you. If you consider the task too risky, I'll give you an opportunity to refuse the assignment after your arrival in New York."

  Tiff walked as in a dream. Thirty feet before the first control station he was given a loaded impulsebeamer by an Arkonide robotfighter. His regular weapon changed hands.

  He picked up his special papers in an office and returned 15 minutes later to his quarters where he had another 15 minutes to pack his personal effects. Cadet Klaus Eberhardt was dying of curiosity. "What happened?" he asked excitedly. "Come on, why don't you tell me?"

  "Showoff!" Hifield scoffed in the background. "Mysterious silence makes it look more interesting, doesn't it? Hey, what are you hiding there in your pocket? Let me see!"

  Tiff closed the magnetic lock of his dress uniform. The capsule received from Rhodan was safely concealed.

  Hifield approached slowly. His wide face looked grim. "What have you got there? I want to see it. I'll make you..."

  Hifield scarcely noticed the swish of Tiffs hand but he saw distinctly the reddish glimmer in the spiraling muzzle of the Arkonide weapon.

  "One more step, Hifield," Tiff warned quietly, "and it'll be your last one!"

  "Are you crazy?" Eberhardt gulped, turning pale. "Where did you get that hot blaster, man?"

  "No comment. Don't ask superfluous questions. Out of my way, Hifield!"

  Hifield retreated hastily. He sensed that Tifflor was in dead earnest as never before. His nervous laughter sounded hollow behind Cadet Tifflor as he strode away.

  A few miles away Rhodan switched off the v'phone. The picture of the three-man room dissolved.

  "He reacts quickly and resolutely," Rhodan reflected. He turned to the officers of the New Power waiting in the room. "Bell, take care of the flight entrance permit. Allan D. Mercant will arrange it. Mr. Freyt, advise Adams that Tifflor is ready to take off. Marshall, see to it that it'll become known on the campus why Tifflor is flying to New York. Strictly for the wedding, make that clear. Tifflor's father is one of the best known criminal defense lawyers in the States. It won't look unusual that I've given a furlough to the son of such a distinguished man. Everything else remains to be seen. Is Dr. Haggard on the way?"

  Yes, the physician had departed long ago.

  "O.K. Captain McClears, you take over the command of the heavy space cruiser Terra immediately. Major Deringhouse will be assigned another duty. Inspect the crew at once and get the vessel ready to start as soon as possible. Major Nyssen, hold your ship Solar System ready for an emergency takeoff. I'll take over the superbattleship Stardust II personally. Reg, please go on board right away. I'll follow later. Captain Klein, you remain at your post in the radio monitoring service. I want to know if Tifflor's undisguised flight from a secret base will be reported to a station in outer space. If I'm not mistaken, it's the last thing those clever connivers will believe: that I'd allow the interruption of a cadet's final exam by a furlough for a rather unimportant wedding. The wheels have started to roll, gentlemen."

  Rhodan got up from his seat. The monitoring screen of the Spaceport Control displayed a tiny body. It shot almost vertically into the blue sky of the Gobi Desert. Minutes later the muffled thunder of the engines rolled in. Julian Tifflor had flown away according to plan.

  Rhodan's project had entered the first phase. The avalanche was loosed.

  "We should have given him all pertinent information," Reginald Bell grumbled. "It's possible that hell wind up in a nasty situation."

  "It's not only possible but he'll definitely become embroiled," Rhodan stated. "We've already thoroughly discussed this matter. Now let's wait and see. Lieutenant Everson, you'll start in exactly four hours for the Vega system in your auxiliary ship. The 27 light-years will be traversed in the normal routine. You'll carry the usual consignment of merchandise to the trading station on Ferrol. We'll take the necessary measures so that you'll be suspected of acting as the bearer of very important documents. If our plan works out, this ruse will be disregarded and Tifflor will be presumed to be the real messenger. That's what I'd like to find out. Your Guppy must be on battle alert at all times. I don't intend to lose another ultralightspeed spaceship in the same peculiar manner.

  Marcus Everson saluted silently. His task was clearly prescribed. If he was attacked in the void, they'd caught on to Rhodan's game, If he
got safely through the transition, the first obstacle had been hurdled.

  Rhodan's brow was wrinkled in thought. Tifflor was on his way. Now it all depended on how the unknown adversary reacted.

  Seconds later the first radio report from Cadet Tifflor came in. His start had been faultless. The interceptor raced toward the American west coast at an altitude of 180 miles and would reach it in five minutes.

  "It's crazy to send this kid in a spaceship on such a short trip," Bell muttered. His face looked angry. "If this goes well, I'll eat a box of rusty nails."

  You'll have trouble finding them here," Rhodan gently pointed out. "Rusty nails are definitely outmoded in the bailiwick of the New Power."

  John Marshall couldn't suppress a grin. Then he took up listening—together with the other mutants of the special corps—to the brainwaves of those people who were informed about the true nature of Tiff's mission.

  He failed to perceive any surreptitious thoughts. If there were any secret agents in the realm of the New Power, they were perfectly able to mask their identity. But the secret radio monitoring service intercepted 20 minutes later a brief signal on a hyperspace wave. It was a condensed message of one-tenth of a second's duration. Deciphering was well-nigh impossible. It had been attempted before but even the positronicon was unable to cope with it since it consisted of a completely dissimilar type of symbols which were highly coded to boot.

  Rhodan nodded grimly. It was precisely what he expected. "Look, Marshall! How come you and the other telepaths can't detect those agents? These people think and must radiate certain impulses that can be transmitted telepathically. Why don't you receive them?"

  John Marshall looked helplessly to Betty Toufry and shrugged his shoulders. "Sir, it's a puzzle to me. However, I can assure you that there are no traitors among the people you've trusted with the information."

  Colonel Freyt, Rhodan's deputy, cleared his throat. "That's pleasant! I wonder if they wear thought-screens? Is there such a thing?"