The Emperor and the Monster

by Perry Rhodan

  Atlan smiled gravely. "We have them on a leash. They're sharp enough to see their position. It won't be long now before they'll be trying to have a palaver."

  For the General this whole situation brought with it a prickling sense of new awakening. He had spent most of his life on Saratan, a small fruitful planet with gently rolling hills and gentler beasts with furry pelts and large, wondering eyes. Looking back in his thoughts he found it incredible that he could have been satisfied with his existence there. He suddenly saw Saratan as the pastureland for old men who wished to fade away in blissful dreaming.

  In astonishment he reflected that he had not realized this sooner. But for the present incident he might have spent his last days lying in a lotus bed. At last Toseff knew the meaning of his frequent spells of restlessness. It had been nothing more than the outward expression of an unconscious compulsion, his search for another field of activity.

  As the General gazed at the quarter crescent of this alien world before him, he thought he must be dreaming. "Farewell, Saratan," he said softly.

  If the Imperator heard him he made no comment. Old Toseff took a deep breath. Was it an evil compulsion that awakened in him the battle urge? Or was it just a natural reaction? Something had been dammed up within him that pressed now insistently for release.

  He stood silently beside Atlan and watched the developments on the screens. The Terran ships were still changing their positions but now it was clearly evident that the attack configuration was breaking up. Instead, the spherical vessels of the Solar Fleet were regrouping into a typical defensive pattern. Three heavy ships formed an advance guard for each of the groups while eight other units kept in motion around them, more or less forming a cone in terms of spatial geometry. The flanks of each cone were made up of smaller and faster cruisers.

  Toseff could visualize the effectiveness of such formations. In case of enemy attack the three advance ships could thrust forward with lightning swiftness and attempt to 'wedge' through the attacking phalanx. Of course in most cases the daring ones in front would have to face the worst losses but the incoming opponent would be so busy with the flying wedges that he would not be able to concentrate sufficiently on the rest of the group. And here would be the decisive part of the battle since the flanking escorts, in spite of their smaller size, were noted for their considerable striking power.

  The Terran commanders were gradually forming countless defense cones around Saos.

  "They've been forced into defensive tactics," Atlan observed with grim satisfaction. "That should make them more ready to talk business."

  Secretly he was not overly convinced of this, however. He had merely expressed what he fervently wished. Terrans had always been notoriously hardheaded and unapproachable when anybody pushed them for a capitulation. But that was precisely the purpose of these advancing 10,000 warships of Arkon.

  Saos itself was a worthless planet. It would represent no economic loss to the Greater Imperium. It was military prestige alone that was at stake here. Atlan could not permit alien fleet units to enter his stellar domain and start attacking planets. For the sake of survival he had to maintain face among his countless internal allies and all the colonial worlds.

  With a heavy heart Atlan made contact with the former robot Regent, which was being of incalculable service to him now. "Hold all ships in attack position," he ordered calmly. "All weapons batteries in combat readiness. I will issue further instructions directly to all robot units."

  The mammoth positronicon confirmed the message, after which Atlan turned to Gen. Toseff. In the bright illumination of the command consoles he could see the sensitive little lines that were etched in the features of the Saratan officer.

  "We'll give them 30 minutes to make contact with us," he said.

  In Toseff's eyes was an unspoken but obvious question.

  "Then we attack!"

  For Atlan these words were no longer part of his troubled dreams. In this bitter hour they had emerged into hard reality.

  • • •

  Thomas Cardif sensed the continuous deterioration of his mind. He could follow the process as clearly as if it were being projected on a screen before him. More and more his primitive instincts were overriding logic and reason. His long, bellowing outburst when the Arkonide ships emerged from hyperspace, his reckless order for an immediate attack which Bell had to struggle hard to talk him out of-all this pointed to the fact that he was losing his powers of judgment.

  He fought against the encroaching mental disability, forcing himself where he could to act with discernment and to express himself more objectively. Yet every time the fragile veneer of reason was shattered by his more brutal instincts, by the uprooting of his psyche and these despotic fits of temperament. More and more Cardif was becoming the prisoner of a split personality.

  On the other hand the silent concern of his officers and the serious looks that were being exchanged in the tense atmosphere on board the Ironduke were not conducive to calming his nerves. He was more sensitive than a wounded bull. The most diplomatic criticism was enough to make him lose his head.

  With burning eyes he watched the viewscreens where it became clearly evident that the Arkonide ships were lining up for an attack. Against the blackness of the outer void they were like so many pearls being carefully threaded onto imaginary strings.

  "That force must contain at least 10,000 ships," Bell remarked. It was merely a technical observation but Cardif thought his stocky deputy was trying to give him a warning.

  "So what!" he fumed. "They can't stop me!" He looked down at himself and pulled at his sweater to adjust it. "I want the robots to get me a new uniform jacket immediately," he growled, "and this time I want one that fits! If this self-inflated star king wants to deal with me, I'm going to face him with full dress and rank!"

  Bell's skeptical glance informed him that no one was going to expect Atlan to make the first move in a radio contact. The officers thought it much more likely that the Arkonide admiral was waiting for Rhodan to do the calling.

  Maj. Krefenbac passed on the order for a new uniform jacket. So far Cardif had not made any further attempt to replace the First Officer with another man.

  Bell took another look at the tracking indicators and seemed to be momentarily relieved. "It doesn't look as if they're planning to jump us right away," he said. "They're holding their present positions."

  "A lousy swarm of gnats!" shouted Cardif, burning with hate.

  He paced rapidly back and forth in front of the hypersensor panels like a caged animal. He had a hunted look. He was now taller than any man on board. A horrible change was becoming apparent in his features. The recognizable outlines of his face were fading in a mass of shapeless flesh. His skin was becoming visibly porous-an effect which became more prominent as he broke out into a sweat. Only his eyes gave a semblance of character to his dissolving countenance but they were the yellow-gleaming eyes of a carnivorous cat. They dominated the bloated mass like two smoldering orbs in a desolate wasteland. The man whom everyone took for Perry Rhodan was turning into a monstrosity whose very appearance was upsetting to those around him.

  "They're a little nastier than gnats," insinuated Col. Claudrin. "If Atlan gives the order to attack we won't be able to hold out very long against a mass assault by those robotships."

  By now it had become impossible for the Epsalian commander to read the Administrator's reactions in that swollen face. It was very disconcerting to him. He was accustomed to detecting the secret thoughts of anyone he was talking to by their facial reactions. Not that Rhodan's face was expressionless by any means but its present contortions could hardly be interpreted. For Claudrin that jerking of puffed-up flesh and the barely detectable tensing of the now flabby skin transmitted little or nothing to him.

  As for the colonel's own physiology, he was not typically human. The heavier gravity of Epsal had developed him into a man who was more like a walking grizzly. Claudrin was almost as wide as he was tall, which was
not much over five feet. Nevertheless his appearance was not repugnant. His physical structure had adapted itself to the natural conditions of his native planet. From an Epsalian's viewpoint the Terrans themselves were somewhat 'deformed', like many other humanoid intelligences. After all, toads might seem repugnant to humans but perhaps for lack of speech the latter creatures could not express how ugly their beholders seemed to them. The question of beauty-or its opposite, ugliness-was thus a relative matter which could only be judged within each species or type, and only there.

  To a Terran maiden, Jefe Claudrin might have seemed to be a clumsy-looking oaf, whereas an Epsalian girl-being almost as broad as the colonel-might have been carried away by his splendid appearance.

  But Rhodan's repulsiveness was not in any category but its own. Members of his own species had to consider him now as a physical abnormality. Certain types of birds on Earth were known to kill their deformed young and cast them out of the nest without mercy. Every species including the human race had an instinctive prejudice against deformities within their own phylum. By the laws of Nature, of course, such an attitude was all a part of the built-in compulsion toward survival through natural selection. However, the human mind alone, by virtue of its unique ability to think independently, had fortunately improved upon Nature with laws of its own-such as tolerance and equality.

  Yet in human emotions the instinctive uneasiness remained. Goodwill and compassion failed to camouflage the fact that the Frankenstein complex was inextinguishable in human nature. A person scarred by burns might awaken pity yet only the victim realized how obviously he was shunned. Although humans did not kill the deformed of their kind, perhaps they committed unconsciously something that was much more horrible: psychologically they ostracized such objects of pity by avoiding contact with them.

  The officers of the Ironduke were also human, governed by feelings and emotions. Gradually Rhodan was becoming one of the psychologically ostracized-an alien thing. The worse his deformity became, the greater was their pity, accompanied by the wish to be separated from this creature.

  Himself a model of human tolerance, Jefe Claudrin was aware of the wall that was growing between him and Rhodan. Rhodan was going through a metamorphosis that made him appear to be inhuman-or at least he was no longer human in the traditional sense. To put it another way, what was happening to him was not a human change.

  Cardif interrupted his deck pacing in front of the consoles. "Atlan's trying to intimidate us," he said suddenly. "He's putting the pressure on, hoping he can make us come crawling! He's in for an unpleasant surprise-isn't that right, Bell?" He practically bellowed the last few words.

  Bell's deadly earnest expression remained unchanged. His voice was strangely husky when he spoke. "Atlan has more than twice our own firing power. Under the circumstances I say it's suicide to try landing on Saos, because that's all the Arkonides will let it come to-a try!"

  Cardif only laughed. "I'm going back to my cabin," he announced. "When the robots are ready with my new uniform, then I'll be ready to talk to Atlan." He hastily left the Control Central.

  Col. Claudrin cleared his throat for attention. "Excuse me, sir," he said, turning to Bell. "I see our present situation as purely untenable. Strategically we're at the bottom of the hill. If the Arkonides start blasting-they'll simply burn us out."

  Bell nodded glumly. At the moment they were in a high-stake gamble with a low-card hand. There was no chance of bluffing here because a shave-tail space cadet could look at their hemmed-in formations and see through every play.

  "We can only hope that..." Bell was interrupted by an excited shout from Maj. Krefenbac.

  "Sir-the radio! Somebody's hailing us on ordinary vidcom!"

  Rhodan's First Deputy dashed to the console and flipped on voice-video reception while everyone looked at the videoscreen tensely. They were all hoping to see the distinctive features of Atlan.

  But it was not the immortal Admiral who was hailing the Ironduke. The man who appeared was bald-headed except for a sparse ring of hair around the sides. His intelligent face was shadowed by deep concern.

  "Mercant!" exclaimed Bell in amazement. "How the devil did you get here!"

  "Maybe with these 10,000 ships milling around over your heads you missed our little warp-shock on the sensors," explained the Chief of Solar Intelligence. "I've just been granted safe conduct through Atlan's lines. At present I am on board the fast cruiser Acapulco, commanded by Maj. Burggraf."

  Somehow Mercant's presence here was a relief to Bell. The little man was one of Rhodan's closest confidants. Perhaps his influence might still serve to save the situation. "Allan," he said warmly, "I'm sure glad you're here!"

  Mercant grinned. "I don't think this cruiser's going to shift the balance of power in this sector of space."

  "So you've already noted that Arkon's robotships are not here to support us?"

  "That's been rather drastically impressed upon me," said Mercant. With his typical self-composure he sounded as though he were discussing a Sunday picnic. "We scraped through under the impulse batteries of the giant flagship and a certain Gen. Toseff was looking down our throats, under orders from Atlan. I presume the Imperator is also on board with him." Mercant smiled. "Apparently we were permitted to join your camp because we weren't considered to be very dangerous."

  Col. Claudrin had been watching the approach of the Acapulco on his screens. "We'll shuttle you over, sir," he offered.

  "Very well," said Mercant. "Maj. Burggraf feels that the Arkonides granted us safe passage because they're sure we'll never make it back-if this powder keg explodes."

  "The major may have a point there," said Bell. "Perry won't be budged from his plan to attack the Antis on Saos. "He's..." He hesitated. "But it's best for you to see for yourself."

  "You mean his physical alteration is continuing," Mercant guessed. A shadow of tragedy touched his already worried features.

  "Not only physical, Mercant."

  "I understand." For a moment or two the man who held in his hand's the galaxy's most gigantic Intelligence machine was seen to close his eyes. Finally he said: "You don't have to shuttle me over. Major Burggraf has just informed me a space-jet is ready. I'll come across to the Ironduke. Then we'll confer to see what can be done to stop this thing."

  "Alright, Mercant," Bell agreed.

  The Security Chief's face faded from the screen. But there was a new glimmer of hope now that they might still find a way out of a very blind alley.

  • • •

  When Allan D. Mercant entered the Control Central of the Ironduke he looked questioningly at the assembled officers. "Where is he?" he asked.

  "In his cabin," Bell told him. "He's waiting for the robots to finish his new uniform because his old one got too tight for him. When he faces Atlan he wants to be in the full brass of a First Administrator."

  "Strange," commented the bald-headed chief of Intelligence. "I can't remember when Rhodan ever thought the uniform made the man."

  "He's changed his thinking in a lot of ways," said Bell without any particular rancour. "Sometimes it seems that the Chief has turned into a completely different person."

  Bell had never come so close to the truth. He still did not harbor the slightest suspicion of Cardif-Rhodan yet he was definitely aware of this change in his friend's inner nature. There was hardly anyone who knew Rhodan better than Bell.

  "One day he will get over all this," said Mercant hopefully. "But in the meantime we have to run interference for humanity if we're going to block an irretrievable calamity."

  Dr. Riebsam was the logical type who couldn't avoid the obvious. He pointed to the viewscreens and other indicators. "And what would you call that, sir?"

  "We'll have to talk to Atlan," said Mercant decisively. "What do you think, Bell?"

  Bell tightened his lips perplexed and ran a hand through his short red hair while Mercant watched him expectantly.

  "You mean-go ahead on our own, without telling Perry?"


  The Security Chief spread out his arms. For a man his hands were carefully manicured. As always he wore his simple uniform. "What else can we do? The Imperator has to be told about the Chief's condition. That might hold off his attack."

  "I agree with you, sir!" rumbled Jefe Claudrin. His leathery hide seemed to flush with excitement. Here was the chance everybody had been waiting for.

  In the final analysis, however, it all depended upon Bell's decision. He and Mercant would have to carry the responsibility for such an action.

  Bell was troubled. "When the First Administrator is on board a ship he's automatically the commander. In fact he's Commander-in-Chief of this whole fleet. All orders have to come from him. If he finds out that we've gone behind his back..." He left the statement dangling.

  "I understand your apprehension." Mercant raised his voice slightly. "Nevertheless we should risk it. After all, Rhodan hasn't given any order that prevents us from speaking to the Admiral."

  "Perry figures that Atlan must open the palaver," Bell reminded everyone. He turned to Maj. Krefenbac. "Major, find out when the robots will be finished with that uniform."

  Krefenbac switched on the intercom and connected himself with the appropriate department. After a few seconds he reported: "It will still take awhile, sir."

  "I don't like a decision like this," said Bell in a low tone. "It seems to have a flavor of conspiracy."

  "Is it treason if the lives of thousands of men are spared?" asked Mercant. "If we want to help the Chief, we can do it by avoiding any conflict that could develop into a cosmic war. Don't we need every minute possible to be able to combat Rhodan's terrible illness? On Saos we'll never find out anything about this mysterious planet Trakarat if we shoot down the Antis. Besides, Atlan wouldn't permit that."

  "You win," said Bell, finally yielding. "Colonel, try to make contact with the Arkonide flagship."