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  "There isn't any revolt here!" Mansrin exclaimed in confusion. "I didn't give any alarm to Arkon!"

  "I am acting on orders from the Robot Regent," Arona said, cutting off further explanation. "My duty is to carry them out."

  The stranger, Mansrin thought. Who was this stranger who had forced his way into the palace and had used the hypercom transmitter to send an alarm to Arkon? "But Volat is a peaceful world...!"

  "That's enough for now!" Arona interrupted. "We will be landing in exactly 28 minutes. Make sure that there aren't any untoward incidents. Once on Volat I will release a robot army immediately find issue a battle order. Over & out!" The image dissolved and the screen went dark. Mansrin was suddenly alone. More alone than he had ever been in his whole life.

  • • •

  Noir acted quickly and without thinking.

  He had no time to adjust the intensity of his beamer and so Tropnow caught the full energy blast before he could shoot Rhodan.

  Tropnow was dead.

  Rhodan spoke coldly. "Drop your weapons, men! And watch it—I'm just as fast with a beamer as my friend... yes, that's fine. Now go to the wall and turn your backs to us. Stay that way and don't move."

  With his foot he shoved the three dropped beamers to the other side of the room. If the three rebels wanted to get to them, they would have to go past him. There was little chance of that now.

  Fellmer Lloyd looked through the open doorway for a moment. "They're fleeing downstairs," he announced. "We'll follow them and, if possible, look them up somewhere."

  "It'd be better if you didn't," Rhodan told him. "I'm counting on the Arkonidean fleet to arrive at any second. If my alarm is to have any credibility, they should find at least some rebels battling it out when they get here. So only hold the enemy back and let him have a chance to get his weapons back when we pull out. Take these three fellows with you, by the way."

  "Right, Chief," said Fellmer Lloyd and left, taking the prisoners with him.

  Rhodan breathed easier. Pucky! he thought. Bring Thora up here to us!

  Noir went to the door and stood guard so that no one came into the room. Rhodan went back to the desk and waited. He felt a sudden disquiet—he simply could not wait until he held Thora in his arms once more. She, the once so cool and distant Arkonide, had become his wife and life-time companion. He loved her, far more than he had loved any other woman. And his love had only grown over the six decades in which he had not aged.

  However, Thora grew older.

  It was still hardly noticeable, for the methods used of biological cell preservation were most effective, although they did not bestow relative immortality. The life-elixir of the Aras from the planet Tolimon had well demonstrated its powers. For the time being, the aging process in Thora's body had stopped.

  But for how long?

  Rhodan did not know. But there was new hope for Thora and Khrest, hope embodied in a single name:

  Atlan!

  The air in the room shimmered as though it had grown warm. And together with Pucky materialized the slim figure of a woman. She wore the loose uniform of the Terran spacefleet and the light green of the decorated jacket contrasted well with her Arkonide-white hair. Her gold-red eyes sought Rhodan—and found him.

  "Perry..."

  She hurried to him and he wrapped her in his protective arms.

  Pucky made a wry face and turned away. "Always this kissing stuff!" he twittered in comic exasperation. He wiped his mouth with the back of his paw. "I'd get sick if anyone licked me on the mouth like that."

  "Don't worry," said Noir from the door, "no one would ever think of it."

  Shrugging his shoulders, Pucky waddled across the room, past Rhodan and Thora, and stretched to look out the window.

  The commotion in the corridor had died away. Suddenly, without turning around, Rhodan said: "Pucky, why don't you go see about Yatuhin? I called him in here but I'm afraid he got held up. We can't let him disappear on us."

  "Let him disappear? I should say not!" growled Pucky, not moving. And then he was gone.

  The Oriental Nomo Yatuhin turned off the communicator on his desk. Why had Tropnow's voice sounded so strange? Was it the excitement? And why had the alarm been given? For him, the revolt against Rhodan had long lost its appeal but he knew there was no going back now. Eternal life—what was it really? Perhaps an illusion. Why wasn't he content with the biological treatment that every mutant in Rhodan's service received? Didn't he still look young and fresh in spite of his 89 years? And now? if things went wrong? The thought of the alarm occurred to him again. What did it mean? Those Volatians again? Or had Rhodan himself tracked the rebels down to their hide-out? He brightened at the thought of Rhodan. Tropnow was in danger or he would not have called for help.

  Nomo leaped up and rushed out to the corridor. Even at this distance he could hear the tumult. Shots hissed through the hall. Fingers of energy sliced into the walls and melted the surfaces in great molten drops. Men shouted and ran past Nomo. They were Springers, Arkonides and members of other, related races. Even some non-humanoid creatures were among them. All of them had forgotten the hopes and promises Tropnow had offered them for their service.

  Only Tropnow? The Oriental shrugged and hurried on. Then he stopped. He had no weapons. If he were attacked, how could he defend himself? He put on a defiant expression and went on. Two or three men ran by him. "They've got Tropnow!" they shouted.

  "Who?" yelled Nomo back but received no answer.

  Who?

  Sirens screamed outside. Nomo stepped to the window and looked out. At least 10 police vehicles were stopping and letting out armed soldiers attached to the Administration's peace-keeping force. They ran towards the building, their ray-weapons held fire-ready.

  Where did they fit into all this?

  Nomo was soon no longer able to understand anything. His plans had kept a possible attack by Rhodan's men always in mind but he had never even considered a raid by the Administration police.

  That could be disastrous and ruin all his plans. Under no circumstances could things be allowed to come to an all out battle between his men and the official might of Arkon. Then it would be the end of his plan for a peaceful buildup of a legion destined to fight one day against Terra.

  But then again.

  What if Arkon were to learn that the planet Terra had not been destroyed by the Springers but still existed? If the Robot Brain knew that Rhodan was alive—how would it react? Up to now, Tropnow had not wanted to depend on the decisions of a positronic brain. But if there were no other way out...?

  Nomo never had a chance to make that decision.

  As he was carefully trying to make his way to Tropnow, someone tapped him on the back. A small voice chirruped: "You were wondering what the Positronicon would have said to that, eh, Nomo? And you didn't notice me arriving, did you? You always were a lousy telepath. But I'm a good one."

  The Oriental whirled about but he already knew who was standing behind him. Unlike Tropnow, he knew Pucky well and had often been around him. He knew that he had no chance against the mouse-beaver and so attempted no ruses. He stood stiffly.

  "What will you do with me?" he asked. His only hope was that the police would come. Perhaps Pucky feared being discovered, since no one was to learn of the existence of the Earth. If only he could stall Pucky long enough.

  "You don't have any better ideas than that?" scoffed the mouse-beaver. "How long do you think it will take me to teleport us out of here? And don't try to break loose from me when I teleport—you know there isn't anything to eat in the fifth dimension. If I lose you there, you'll starve to death."

  He grabbed Nomo and sprang.

  For the Oriental, it was as if the world around him collapsed. Now he saw the corridor in front of him and heard the rumbling footsteps of the police running towards them—and a second later he stood with the cursed mouse-beaver in the middle of a jungle—surrounded meadow. The blue sky shone radiantly above them.

  "So
," Pucky twittered in satisfaction, "now what do you have to say?"

  "What are you going to do with me?" asked Nomo without showing any sign of fear. "If you want to kill me, do it now and get it over with."

  "I didn't say anything about killing you. Rhodan wants to find out some things from you."

  "The Earth is a long way away..."

  "But Rhodan isn't, my friend," said Pucky. "Tropnow had to die because he wanted to kill Rhodan, but if you talk, perhaps Rhodan will be more merciful to you."

  "Rhodan? Here on Volat?"

  Pucky reached for Nomo again. "We're talking too much. I'll take you to a safe place now."

  Pucky got the bearings for a very prominent rocky peak in the area of the main plateau and teleported again.

  Nomo opened his eyes as soon as he felt solid ground beneath his feet but Pucky had already vanished, leaving him alone. Didn't the mouse-beaver care that he might be able to escape?

  Then the Oriental saw that from here there was no escape.

  Pucky had left him on the tip of a rocky spire rearing out of the jungle. The stone formation was like a needle, more than 100 yards high and 20 yards broad at the base. The peak was no more than a small flat area a yard square.

  In all the universe there was no better prison.

  Nomo had with him only what was in his pockets—nothing of any use now. Even if his shirt and jacket could provide enough material to fashion a crude rope, to what could he tie it? In the less than 10 square feet on that rocky pinnacle, there were no trees nor even crevices in the rock. No, there was no hope of escape.

  Nomo sat down and tried to overcome the feeling of dizziness he had when he looked down into the looming depths. Some of the trees were rather high but they were too far away for him to reach. When he looked up into the sky, it was as if he were alone in the world. Around him was nothing but emptiness and the gentle wind from below.

  A square yard for life...

  Would they let him live? Tropnow was already dead. Rhodan showed traitors no mercy because not only did they endanger his own plans but also the existence of all mankind. And that, Nomo knew well, was the decisive factor. Rhodan valued the existence of humanity more highly than his own life.

  He would be punished, Nomo realized, and for treason there was only one punishment: Death!

  Nomo Yatuhin was Japanese. His ancestors had the blood of the Samurai in their veins. When they were captured by their enemies, they chose to die by their own hands. It was shameful to be killed by an enemy.

  Nomo looked around again. How was he to kill himself? He had no weapons or anything else.

  The depths?

  Leaping into the terrible void?

  He shuddered but then he realized that if he wanted to carry out his intention there was no alternative. It would be a matter of only a few seconds before he struck the ground at the foot of the rock pillar. Perhaps he might even land in the tree branches—and have a slight chance of coming away alive.

  But in the end it was not that small hope that impelled him to go through with it.

  He bowed to the East and pronounced a short prayer. Then he took a step. And another.

  Like a stone, he fell into the depths.

  5/ REGENT TO RHODAN

  5 light cruisers landed without mishap on the field at the Kuklon spaceport. Hardly had they touched the ground when large hatches on their sides opened up and broad ramps were extended—and down marched the warrior robots.

  Vaguely humanoid in appearance, the robots were more than six feet tall and had four arms. The two lower arms were heavy impulse-beamers.

  The robot army fell into formation with a thundering step and waited for orders. Specially-marked officers—also robots—took the lead of the weird battle company. Their com-antennae were ready to receive. They stood facing the flagship, where Commander Arona was sliding a tiny transmitter into its case. It was only a small, flat box but with it he could control the entire steel army.

  Arona was an Arkonide but in no way did he resemble certain degenerate examples of his race. His proud face radiated initiative, which was no longer typical in the Realm of the Thousand Suns. His tall figure, marked by the white hair on his head, demanded respect. Stiffly erect, he left his ship and a few minutes later stood out on the landing field. He carried the control transmitter for the robot army under his arm.

  Only a single officer, also an Arkonide, accompanied him.

  Arona issued his first order and the army of 500 robots began to march.

  The landing field was as if swept clean. The usual vehicles had vanished. Even the edge of the field, where otherwise a brisk traffic would be constantly in motion, seemed deserted. The police alarm had caused enough confusion but the landing of the five cruisers had been the ultimate. No one knew what was going on but everyone had decided to take shelter in the most secure building available. Only a few harmless Volatians did not concern themselves with events they did not understand and went about their usual business without allowing themselves to be disturbed.

  Even they disappeared from the street, however, when the Arkonide Arona marched to the city limits at the head of his metal battle-squad.

  A tail and expansive building blocked the view of the city itself. The main street ran past the complex.

  Arona turned to his officer. "Lt. Ro, why hasn't this Administrator Mansrin come out to meet us? What is with this revolt?"

  Ro pointed to the small communicator that kept him in touch with the ship. "We don't know, Commander. Mansrin denies that he made the call to the Regent He claims that there isn't any revolt against the Imperium on Arkon."

  "Very mysterious!" said Arona mockingly, looking at the tail building. He seemed to notice something. "No revolt, eh? Then why, I'd like to know, are they shooting over there?"

  "Where, sir?"

  Arona pointed ahead. "Not 500 yards from here. Don't you see the typical flashes of impulse-beamers? People are fighting over there—and rather bitterly, at that. Strange that Mansrin didn't want to tell us about it, isn't it?" He held up the case containing the communicator and spoke into the barely visible microphone. "New direction of march: 369! Weapons ready!"

  The robot army wheeled easily around and followed Arona and Ro.

  The robots had raised their lower arms to a horizontal level. The mouths of powerful energy-beamers, placed where hands should have been, were trained on the distant building.

  A vehicle emerged from a side-street, crossed the avenue and came to a jolting halt on the other side. An Arkonide sprang out and hurried up to Arona, his white hair flowing in the wind behind him.

  "Arona! I'm Administrator Mansrin and I must apologize for my failing to meet you in the customary fashion. Certain events have taken place that..."

  "The rebels, am I correct?" said Arona.

  "No, but—well, yes!" stammered Mansrin. "I mean to say that this is just what I can't understand. I didn't send any message to Arkon calling for the fleet because there wasn't any reason to. On Volat we have known only peace and order... until today. At the moment you announced your coming, a gun-battle broke out in the Springers' trade center and we don't know who is fighting whom. In any case, they're fighting it out in there. I've already sent my police in, however."

  Arona looked at Mansrin critically. "Then you don't believe it could be part of a large, planned revolution? Perhaps the Springers have..."

  "Never, Commander! I know these people here..."

  "You can never tell, Mansrin," Arona interrupted. "Whatever's going on, my robots will re-establish the peace. They we'll find out who had his little joke of alarming Arkon over a trifle. You weren't the one?"

  "It was a stranger, Commander," Mansrin said. "This much I know already: someone slipped into our com-station and made the operator put through a connection with the Robot Regent. You can't explain it with pure logic."

  Arona, who kept his arms folded, gestured. "Come with me, Mansrin. We'll solve the riddle of this false alarm together. You're r
ight—I don't see any logic in it myself. Who would willingly put himself in danger by calling for the most powerful strike-force in the galaxy?"

  He burst out with a laugh. "Only someone insane would do that!"

  Almost with a shudder, Lt. Ro added: "Or someone more powerful, sir."

  They looked at him with wide and astonished eyes but found nothing to say in reply.

  The robots marched.

  • • •

  It was on the steps leading down to the basement that Fellmer Lloyd and his group met the rebels, who fought doggedly on for goals they did not comprehend. Their two leaders were dead or captured but they were not aware of it. They simply followed their orders and opened fire on the Volatians following them.

  As a seer and a telepath, Fellmer recognized their plan before it could be carried out. He shouted his orders. The Volatians had been well-trained. They threw themselves to the side for cover, took out the grenades that had been supplied to them from Lloyd's Gazelle and tossed them down the stairway.

  Then Fellmer Lloyd calmly ordered a retreat.

  Hardly had the first energy beams hissed from below and melted the stair-railings when several detonations sounded. Yells and orders followed, then the rebels stormed up the stairs. The hideous stench of the enormous stink-bombs was more terrible than the fear of meeting a hall of bullets from the waiting Volatians.

  And that was just Lloyd's plan.

  The rebels were half-blind, trying to rub the penetrating smoke out of their eyes. They could no longer recognize Lloyd and his Volatians; they could only see man-like shadows in the light coming in through the windows.

  They opened fire on the shadows.

  Unfortunately for them, the shadows were no longer Volatians but the Administration police coming into the building. No wonder, then, that the police had to assume that they really were facing a group of rebels.

  They shot back and the battle was on. Fellmer had reached his goal: by the time the misunderstanding was cleared up—if it ever was—the Gazelle would have long since disappeared into the empty reaches of outer space.