by Perry Rhodan
"How can we be certain that all this isn’t just a trick to lure Atlan out of here?" interjected Rhodan with an icy tone of voice.
"You can confirm it with the Regent directly," suggested Sansaro. With that he cut the connection and his picture faded.
At the moment there wasn’t a man in the Command Central who did not have his eyes on Atlan, expectantly waiting for an explanation. Even Pucky perked up from his rather negligent attitude as he inadvertently bared his incisor tooth. The Arkonide walked silently back and forth. After a few minutes, Rhodan’s voice broke the silence: "What is this mental duel all about?" Atlan looked at him briefly and smiled. The Arkonide was as tall and slender as Rhodan but there was some princely quality of extra polish and refinement which distinguished him. "In former times when my people were still mentally and physically more active, naturally there were disputes among noble families over the issue of who had the greatest right to the throne," he explained. "The Regent decided such differences between rivals by means of a mental duel."
"How does it work?" asked Rhodan.
Atlan shook his head. "I’ll be alone with Carba," he said. "It’s useless to say much about the strange processes of such a conflict."
"Is there a chance for you to win this battle?"
"My prospects are no more nor less than those of Carba," replied the Imperator with apparent indifference.
"It all depends on which of the pseudo worlds we are transferred to." Suddenly he turned toward the mouse-beaver. "It’s unfair of you to spy into my thoughts, little one."
"Excuse me," Pucky stammered, somewhat caught off his guard. "That was just—uh—pure routine." Rhodan continued. "Can you tell us more about these pseudo worlds the contenders are transferred into? There might be some way we can help you."
"In such a contest there is no possibility of intervention by other persons, " Atlan assured him. Rhodan realized that the Arkonide didn’t want to go into details so he respected his decision. He had been in similar situations often enough. The remaining time flowed sluggishly while Maj. Krefenbac maintained a routine surveillance of the indicators and controls.
At the expiration of the prescribed hour, Carba left the Akon ship. On the Ironduke ’s viewscreens he could be seen as a tiny figure moving slowly out of the shadow of the other vessel.
"Well, this is it," said Rhodan.
Atlan was strangely adamant. "This is my fight. It’s a conflict involving deeper issues which are personal to me."
Rhodan understood what his friend was trying to say. "Not one of us will lift a finger until it’s over with," he promised.
"It could last for some time," said Atlan as he left the Control Central. A few minutes later they could also see him walking across the vast landingfield. The 2 Arkonides met each other approximately halfway between the ships, 2 tall men who were contending for the greatest stellar empire in the galaxy.
A remote controlled robo-car appeared. It came to a stop before the challengers and waited until they climbed in. Then it rolled swiftly away.
When the vehicle disappeared from the field of vision, Pucky’s high-pitched voice was heard in the Control Central. "He’s thinking that he may not have a chance—none at all." Rhodan kept staring at the deserted looking field outside. Sooner or later one of the 2 Arkonides would reappear out there—Carba or Atlan. The fate of Earth and all of humanity might hinge on who it would be.
• • •
The young Arkonide with the finely-chiselled features sat up straight in his seat and said: "I’m extremely pleased to finally be with an Arkonide like yourself, Your Eminence. I regret deeply, however, that circumstances force us to stand against each other instead of with each other."
"No one is stopping you. from coming over to our side," answered Atlan. Carba’s face reddened as he fidgeted with the broad cape he was wearing. "Our political views could never run in the same direction, Imperator," said Carba. "No loyal-minded Arkonide could do what you have caused to happen in recent years; you’ve bartered the Imperium to the Terrans." Atlan’s lips compressed into a bloodless thin line for a moment. "Only our commitment prevents me from giving you a sound thrashing, you young fool," he said almost in an undertone. Carba withdrew into the farthest corner of the seat. He realized that he had stepped too far. Atlan was not a man one insulted twice. "We will soon know which of us is right," he commented. Atlan laughed derisively. "Is that so? I marvel at your self-assurance, Carba. Your Akon friends must have really set something up in section A-1 to make you so sure of victory at this stage."
"Are you insinuating that I’m a coward, that I would only fight when things are stacked in my favor?" shouted the rebel indignantly.
Atlan looked at him pityingly. "They’ve boosted your intelligence way above L-50 but apparently they failed to match it with reason."
"I’m sorry we broke our silence," retorted Carba.
The robo-car glided down a subterranean shaft that was only dimly lit. It was apparently one of the countless means of secret ingress into the interior of the Regent. Undoubtedly the robot Brain had to cut off its security screen for a moment so that the vehicle could pass through. While secretly observing the young Arkonide, Atlan concluded that Carba was a man who had been under the constant influence of the Akons and had consequently been led down the wrong path. But the immortal admiral had to also recognize the fact that there was nothing that could dissuade Carba from his intentions. There was a fanatic gleam in his opponent’s eyes. It was an over-brilliance that already seemed to mirror the shadows of approaching insanity.
Carba would have to pay a high price for his short period of super-charged intelligence. But Atlan suppressed his sympathies. The rebel was his enemy, in fact a very formidable one. On top of that was the fact that the Regent seemed to be more inclined to the persuasions of Carba and his accomplices than to Atlan’s policies.
The robo-car came to a stop and the side doors opened. The 2 Arkonides got out and were met by a silent chapek which proceeded to guide them farther on foot. Atlan was thinking of the men of the Ironduke who were forced to stand by in a helpless rage. Yet their presence here on Arkon 3 was Atlan’s only moral support.
The corridor they were traversing ended in a large room which contained a bewildering maze of control panels and switchboards. The wheeled robot rolled onward with a sure precision. They passed mighty generators, power stations and cable shafts which presented a familiar picture to Atlan because everywhere in the Regent’s interior the environment presented more or less the same aspect. Carba’s uneasiness was becoming apparent. "Have you ever been in a mento duel before?" he asked hesitantly as they turned into another passage.
"This will be my first," replied Atlan calmly. "And my last."
"I have heard that even the victors have often lost their minds in the process," remarked Carba. "I hope that neither of us suffers the same fate. The Regent has to make a clear decision as to which of us will be the better Imperator for the Empire."
Although Atlan saw the futility of it he made one, last attempt to convert, the young aristocrat from the House of Minterol. "Carba, if you’ll think thing’s over again quite calmly, you’ll see that we mustn’t let that happen."
"Renounce your Terran friends and an agreement will be reached," demanded Carba. Atlan fell silent. The two of them stiffened in their attitudes and neither would yield his opinion in favor of the other. They reached a smaller room and the robot came to a stop. From somewhere out of the wall came a metallic voice.
"Please take places in the wall niches."
2 recesses were to be seen at one side of the room. Carba gave Atlan the first choice and he decided to take the niche on the left although it obviously made no difference. He discovered a maze of sensor-monitor equipment and saw a web of electrical conduits leading from a comfortable-looking chair into the wall. On a small podium in front of the chair was something that looked like a helmet. No doubt Carba was discovering an identical setup in his own niche.
&
nbsp; "Sit down," came the Regent’s command.
He lowered himself into the seat and sat back. Strangely he did not feel overly disturbed.
"Place the helmet on your head. The V-symbol must be centered on your forehead." Atlan thrust the helmet onto his head almost mechanically. He could envision Carba in the adjacent niche doing the same but probably his hands were trembling.
Once more the voice of the Regent was heard: "In a few minutes the equipment will be turned on. You will then be in an illusionary world but you will have forgotten your true environment. Everything you will experience will not be real in any sense; it will be only a projection generated in your brains with the help of the mento-helmet. But during the duel neither one of you will know that you are in a pseudo existence. For you everything will be actual and you will react accordingly. At the end of the duel you will both be asked several qualifying questions so that the security circuit will have a basis for making a final decision." Atlan began to perspire under the heavy helmet and he was aware of his breath striking its inner surface. He strove to compose himself and to prepare for what was to come. At the same time he told himself that it was fairly senseless to prepare oneself for something unknown. That would he like a man outfitting himself for a rainstorm only to land unexpectedly in the middle of the desert.
"Are there any questions?" asked the robot Brain.
"No," replied Atlan and Carba in unison.
Atlan relaxed and leaned back in the chair. What lay before him would be like a dream and he knew that if he had a chance later to think of it again he would remember it as such. But while he was experiencing it the whole illusion would be real to him. His gaze wandered over the complex maze of coils and wire’s leading from his helmet into the control panels. Thousands of years ago, mighty Arkonides had sat here and submitted to the judgment of security circuit A-1.
Atlan thought resignedly that none of them had gone into the fight in such a weary and hopeless state. He was certain that his duel with Carba was more or less a farce.
In that moment he heard a faint humming sound and he felt as if someone were in the process of sticking a needle into the back of his neck. He was about to say something but his tongue failed him. A leaden weight fell on his limbs and his eyes rolled upward. The control panels blurred in his vision and he felt as if he were lying in a thick ball of cotton. Somewhere on a subconscious level his thoughts still struggled feebly but they had to give way to the vision which continued to press in upon the surface of his brain. His head lolled to one side and his body went limp. Then all that was left was the soft hum of the machinery echoing away into the endless subterranean corridors and losing itself like a whisper in the cavernous chambers. The mento duel had begun...
4/ NULL-POINT IN LIMBO
The hot winds from the steppes seemed to have blown him into the town along with the dried-out elder-bushes. He was a tall, almost haggard-looking man whose eyes burned like coals in his sunken face. He came with wide swinging strides down the slope behind Dolanty’s house and looked over the town as if evaluating the place and its inhabitants in a single glance. Dolanty’s older boy had just finished repairing the windbreak for the turnip bed and was the first to see him. He looked up in surprise because his father had told him that no one lived anymore in the direction the stranger was coming from.
The big man came as far as the windbreak and looked silently over it at Sowan Dolanty. The youth straightened up fully and felt the sand trickling down on him—the sand which the town was battling eternally while continuing to retreat before it.
"Hello," said the stranger. His voice had a strange ring to it as though it came from the depths of his emaciated body.
"Where do you come from?" Sowan called out to him, unable to contain his curiosity. Behind him he heard his father come into the garden and he became aware of his suspicious attitude when be heard his angry voice above the wind.
"Who are you?" demanded the elder Dolanty.
"My name is Carba," said the stranger. He turned to look back toward the hills and there was a vague expression of sadness in his features. "This is the first town I have found on my journey," he added.
"And it’s the last one in existence," declared Sowan’s father. "You won’t find another town no matter how far you go."
"The others have all given up and turned back," said Carba.
"We will never give up," said Sowan’s father. He stood there sturdily in his faded leather jacket, giving an impression of invincible determination.
Carba placed a hand on the windbreak and rattled it. "The sand is stronger than all of us. The last of, the colonists are here in this town. They’ll be turning back soon," he said.
"Is that what you’ve come here to tell us?" shouted the elder Dolanty as if provoked. But the stranger didn’t seem to be impressed. Sowan had the definite feeling that this man represented the beginning of irresistible changes in the colony, which nobody would be able to oppose.
"Who is the leader of this town?" asked Carba. For a moment Dolanty wavered between an impulse to chase this stranger off of his place or to tell him what he wanted to know. "Atlan," he said finally. Sowan wasn’t sure but he thought he detected a gleam of satisfaction in Carba’s eyes.
"The young man will take me to him," the stranger demanded. Sowan couldn’t understand how a man could come through the desert beyond the colony and still have enough energy to proceed at once with his plans. Carba seemed to him to be more and more of a mystery. If there were no other towns or cities left on this planet, where could he have come from? How had he kept himself alive?
"Sowan, take this man to Atlan," he heard his father tell him. Carba smiled at him across the windbreak but Sowan timidly looked away because the stranger seemed to be sinister and his friendliness was only an outward mask.
"Follow me," he said reluctantly.
They left the garden together while Dolanty the elder remained standing at the entrance of the farm. His stocky figure stood effortlessly before the wind whereas Sowan and the stranger had to bend forward as they walked. The sunlight came only dimly through the pall of dust that lay over the town.
"I’d have put the windbreak at a right angle," said Carba when they reached the street. He made the comment without criticism, in fact with a calm objectivity and a slight inclination to be helpful. Nevertheless there was something in the suggestion that irritated Sowan. "You don’t know much about windbreaks," he retorted angrily.
"Let’s hope the wind doesn’t, either," returned Carba sarcastically.
"We grow the best turnips in the colony," replied Sowan defiantly, although he knew very well this wasn’t true. Fennler, Omassage and Porante produced better crop yields. Carba looked critically at the road. "Why hasn’t this street been surfaced?" he inquired.
"Because it would be choked with drifting sand in a matter of hours," Sowan explained. The big man shook his head. "Not if suction pumps were placed along the way at regular intervals," he said.
"Listen!" retorted Sowan. "Nobody asked you to come here! If you don’t like it then just go somewhere else!"
"I’ll go when my task here has been completed," said Carba. Sowan stopped and took hold of the other’s ample cape sleeve. "What task are you talking about?" he asked.
"I am going to close down the colony," Carba told him matter-of-factly. Sowan felt as if somebody had hit him over the head with a plank. He moved onward with this uncanny person and their footsteps stirred up little clouds of sand. Sowan had a vision of his father standing in front of the house with his legs braced apart and armed only with a club, ready to strike down any attacker. The stranger had spoken of the end of the town as if he were here to merely close a door—nothing more.
"You’ll never be able to do that!" Sowan shouted hatefully.
"Oh yes," confirmed Carba. "Every colonist knows that it’s over with for this town. It was only necessary for someone to come here and have everybody face the truth. My company’s spaceship has landed a few miles
from here. It’s your last opportunity to leave this world." So the strange origin of the man was explained. He had come in a ship of space. "Atlan will stop you from doing that," Sowan assured him.
Carba’s laughter rose above the roar of the wind and the crackling of sand against the walls of the surrounding houses. It became an ugly sound that was like a pain in the ears of the younger Dolanty.
"That house on the other side of the street—the one with the brown support posts—that’s Atlan’s government building," said Sowan. "You can get there on your own."
"Government building," repeated Carba sarcastically. "A pretty imposing name for just an old shack." But Sowan Dolanty was no longer at his side.
• • •
Lasan Porante looked again at the crude sketch he had prepared a few minutes before. He pointed with his drawing instrument at a darker spot he had shaded in.
"The main water vein flows right under this plot. If I begin the boring operation I’ll lose a large part of my harvest," he said. "That would mean I’d have to be supported by my neighbors for some time to come."
"Without water you’ll lose it all, Lasan," Atlan reminded him. He new Porante was a stubborn man who was hard to influence. "If you give up that one plot you’ll have one of the best water sources in the colony."
Porante’s eyes lighted up but before he could answer they both heard somebody mount the front steps and immediately there was a knock at the door. Porante looked at the leader of the colony questioningly but Atlan was equally surprised. He was not accustomed to having people knock at his door.
