The Columbus Affair - K. H. Scheer, ebook, CALIBRE SFF 1970s, Temp 2
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Perry Rhodan 088 The Columbus Affair by K.H.Scheer Prolog Perry Rhodan's
discovery of the Moon-stranded Arkonide spaceship had been the impetus for the
political unity of Mankind and had formed the cornerstone of the Solar
Imperium, the stellar empire of Terra. Minuscule by comparison with the many
other powers of the universe, the fact that this small empire exists at all or
hasn't dissolved in an inferno of atomic destruction or been degraded into a
colony of Arkon can be attributed to the shrewd moves of Terranians
surrounding Perry Rhodan in this cosmic chess game-and to the luck that
eventually comes to the most proficient... However, the very fantastic streak
of luck that has so far followed Rhodan in his efforts to conceal the galactic
position of the Sol System now seems to be nearing its end. Recently the
Solar Imperium of Mankind has had to take a goodly number of setbacks-even
aside from the emerging COLUMBUS AFFAIR... But now the time has come-and the
question arises as to whether or not this still-adolescent stellar empire of
humankind is strong enough to withstand a direct attack... 1/ THE MESSAGE OF
THE CENTURY THE INCREDIBLE had happened. In clear, uncoded text the
unmistakable signature appeared on the tape. Mute, cold, inanimate-yet
possibly signifying a turning point in human history... Sgt. Bidge had been
carefully checking his entries into the radio log for 11 May 2044. What had
caught his attention was a hyperspace message designated as 76-Hy-11-5-44. It
had been sent out under the pulse-burst coding used by the Fleet, duly
modified by the recognition coding for that particular security period.
Duration: 0.1 second. According to directional beam angle its point of origin
had been in space sector M-13 Hercules. Ordinarily Bidge's task would have
been taken care of at this point with regard to the message if it had not been
for the fact that the automatic rectifier had added that special signature to
the usual ID marks on the punched tape. Those final marks were in clear text.
For this part, Sgt. Bidge did not have to wait through the tedious process of
decipherment of the pulse-burst message, which contained a variable
probability factor ranging over a possible 4.6 million data bits. He caught
his breath sharply when the machine rang its small bell to designate the end
of the rectification cycle. On the plastic tape strip in his hands was a
completely meaningless maze of dots, lines and geometrical figures compressed
into a mosaic pattern. It would require a high capacity electronic brain a
half hour to perform a proper data retrieval on this. It was impossible for
Bidge to gather the import of the message itself by visual inspection-but he
could clearly read that end signature. He repeated it softly aloud:
"I-Rho-Ad-T" For a moment he ceased to be aware of the monotonous humming and
clicking of the operating equipment Sgt Bidge was the subordinate duty officer
in the crypto room of Solar Intelligence. One glance at the clock apprised
him of the fact that he had already lost valuable seconds. The code man next
to him was startled when Bidge reached out suddenly and decisively hit the
alarm button. "Huh? What the...!" The penetrating howl of the sirens left
him speechless. Bidge waited until the armourplate hatch slid upward
automatically and the chief duty officer appeared on the threshold. The crypto
room of Solar Intelligence was under Class 1 security control. Maj. Raynold
Abucot had the reputation of being a superior officer who was a stickler for
regulations. He came forward with carefully calculated steps, not too fast and
not too slow. His face was expressionless. "Who activated the alarm?" The
sergeant raised his hand. "I did, sir." Abucot looked at him sternly. "Who is
'I'?" he asked, unmoved. "First Sgt. Bidge, sir, 2nd duty officer,
Crypto." "That sounds more proper. What's happening?" With some irritation,
Bidge reflected that the question wasn't any too proper, either. Abucot was
apparently having one of his stiff-necked days again. Bidge stood up, came to
attention and reported in sharply accentuated words: "Sir, a pulse-coded
message from Sector M-13 Hercules has just been received and printed out by
the rectifier. It bears the personal signature symbol of the First
Administrator. And sir-it's in clear text!" It would not have been necessary
for Bidge to accentuate his last statement to get such a ludicrous jump of
 alarm out of the Major. Bidge watched him curiously but with a sudden sense of
being on his guard as the latter stared at the tape, his eyes futilely trying
to virtually bore through the plastic strip he held in his hands. "That's it,
alright!" muttered Abucot, flabbergasted. He looked about him almost
imploringly. "Sergeant-are you sure this isn't some kind of sick joke?" "I
wouldn't stick out my neck that far, sir." The senior duty officer swallowed
audibly. Finally the Major struggled to put his famed self-composure to the
test. Once more his lean, narrow face became expressionless. "Thank you very
much. You may terminate the alert." After briefly touching the wide peak of
his service cap in a hasty salute of dismissal, he strutted toward the
still-open security hatch. However, before he had fully disappeared beyond it
the men in the Crypto Centre noted that Abucot's feet suddenly picked up a
frantic acceleration. Bidge looked at the clock again. Smiling a bit
uncertainly, he remarked: "The Old Man came to life pretty much in a hurry,
didn't he? He was able to play the ice-berg until he got to the door but I'll
bet a month's pay that he's running through the corridors now at half the
speed of sound." "Make that about 20 km per hour," interjected another
Communications man. "That ought to be about right." "Fast enough, anyway,"
Bidge conceded. "Does anybody remember any other time that Perry Rhodan has
beamed such a message? I mean straight across, directly, without channelling
through camouflaged relay stations in deep space?" Sgt Bidge had to wait
several moments for an answer. The man sitting next to him wiped his forehead
and ventured to reply. "I only know that during our special training it was
always drilled into our noggins that the galactic position of the Earth was
such a high-level security item that nobody could even dare think of sending a
direct message to Terra." "There you are! That was due to the danger of being
traced, isn't that right? So how come the very man who put out this order has
violated his own restriction in this risky manner?" A silence fell in the
deciphering room of Solar Intelligence. The service men stared at each other
thoughtfully. They suddenly realized that something had happened out in the
Milky Way which they were far from fathoming as yet. From then on the Crypto
crew concentrated exclusively on the fully positronic operation of the
deciphering equipment, which had already swallowed up the pre-punched tape
strip for decoding. A minute later the Major called in over the intercom. He
ordered an immediate transmission of the decoded text. Bidge nodded. "In
about 20 minutes, sir. It's in progress now." "Please hurry," answered Abucot
nervously. He knew very well that the operation could not go any
faster. .... ...if you'll permit me to ask it, my dear fellow: are you
sober?" Solar Marshal Allan D. Mercant, Chief of Solar Intelligence, smiled
softly. With slow deliberation he replaced a wonderfully wrought letter opener
of Luurs metal on the blotter of his desk. A narrow beam of sunlight came
through the high, hermetically sealed window, producing a shimmer of
reflections in Mercant's straw-blond crown of hair. His smile widened as Maj.
Abucot strove to improve his already exemplary posture. "Sir, if you please!
I've come as quickly as possible to give you this message personally!" He
stepped forward in order to place the decoded text of the dispatch on the desk
and then he stepped back quickly. Mercant's smooth, unwrinkled face betrayed
none of the tension he secretly felt. With seeming indifference he picked up
the sheet of foil and began to read. Finally he looked up. If Abucot had
expected to be more clearly informed as to the meaning of the message, he was
immeasurably disappointed. Mercant spoke succinctly. "I see that you've had
the strength of the alien transmitter calculated, using your receiver sensors.
Are you sure your mathematicians haven't let some kind of error creep into
this?" "Out of the question, sir!" the Major asserted. "That station is
operating with a broadcast power of at least 50 million kilowatts on the
hypercom bands. I know of only one planet that could possess such a gigantic
installation." "Which is..." "Arkon 3, sir!" Mercant nodded thoughtfully.
His lean, sensitive fingers still held the foil sheet in front of him. "Thank
you very much, Major. You may go now." Disconcertedly, Abucot walked past the
two robot guards, entered the security lock and disappeared. Only when the
 red signal light indicated the closure of the outer gate did the Security
Chief venture to move. His right index finger flipped a switch labelled Fleet
High Command. On the big viewscreen of the secret closed circuit the plastic
face of a robot appeared, wearing a stereotyped smile. "Marshal Freyt,
quickly," said Mercant. His voice sounded loud and hurried. "Class 1
priority." "The Marshal will be notified, sir. Kindly wait a
moment." Mercant had to wait two minutes until Freyt's lean, expressive
countenance appeared on the screen. He was breathing heavily. Apparently he
had sprinted the last few yards. The Security Chief allowed the other a moment
to catch his breath. They had known each other too long by now to waste such
moments on polite amenities. Without preamble Mercant said: "Freyt, we have a
hypercom message from Perry Rhodan. Are you alone?" Freyt nodded without
saying a word. "OK, then prepare yourself for the biggest shocker of the past
50 years. Rhodan has broken all communications restrictions and made a direct
beam transmission from Arkon to Earth. The trace and measurement data are not
in error. There's only one transmitter with 50 million kilowatts of output and
that's on the war planet of the Greater Imperium." Marshal Freyt, the Deputy
Commander-in-Chief of the Solar Space Fleet, breathed even more heavily than
before. "You mean he radioed us directly without using an advance cruiser
station as a relay? If that message has been traced to us we'll be smack in
the pits of hell!" "There is such a possibility but he's made allowances for
that. Conditions have changed over night." Suddenly Mercant's voice took on a
note of celebration. "Freyt, the ruling robot Brain of Arkon has been
conquered! Our strenuously prepared commando mission has succeeded. As an
Arkonide who has survived the degeneration of his people, Atlan has been
recognized by the actual security circuits of the Brain-and by that I mean
he's been recognized as the direct descendant of a famous emperor of the House
of Gonozal. All of which gives rise to a very momentous situation. From today
forward there'll be some changes in our galactic policy." "Is that what the
Chief says?" Freyt broke in excitedly. "Yes, quite unequivocally. I'll send
the decoded text to your headquarters by courier. Rhodan is presently with his
commando troops on Arkon 3. Atlan has taken over the power but it's still made
to look from the outside as though the giant robot were still in the saddle.
That way he can conceal himself behind the machine, which was known to be
merciless, and he's able to make clever use of its authority. I go along with
that myself. If it got out that a living Arkonide has taken the Regent's place
there'd be some heavy unrest in the colonial areas of the Greater Imperium.
Rhodan informs us that the situation is under control. The only remaining
functions of the Brain that are independent are connected with questions of
administration and support Important decisions are handled by Admiral Atlan,
whom we have to consider from now on as the Arkon ruler and Imperator." After
intensive reflection, the Marshal said: it's a surprising situation, alright.
Are you aware of the fact that Atlan knows the Earth's location better than
you or I?" Allan D. Mercant again revealed his famous smile. "Only too well!
If he goes sour on us it will only take a single order from him to send a
giant fleet against the Earth. Perry is weighing such possibilities. In the
dispatch you are instructed to send the Fleet flagship Drusus to Arkon at
once. In the same message, Lt.-Col. Sikerman has been promoted to full
colonel. He is to command the Drusus. He has orders to fly to the planet
Zalit. There he will take on board the commando troops that were left
behind-scientists, technicians and mutants. Then he will go directly to Arkon
3. That about covers the contents of the message." "Pretty scanty contents,
I'd say, in view of such a revolutionizing state of affairs," the Fleet
Commander fretted gravely. "It's plenty for me. I see some pretty cloudy
times ahead, Freyt. The future of Mankind depends upon the goodwill of an
Arkonide by the name of Atlan. After he's taken over the robot Brain, all
doors will be open to him. Basically I don't doubt his friendship for us. But
since I'm no alien race psychologist I can't predict how this sudden
acquisition of super power will sit with him. Just prepare yourself for
anything and keep the Fleet on standby alert. Send Col. Sikerman to me before
 he takes off. I'd like to give him some detailed information about the Druufs'
unsuccessful invasion. It will be of interest to Rhodan that these insect
offsprings of an alien universe succeeded in setting up a transmitter base in
the U.S. state of Wyoming. Or better yet, wait! I'll come to your place. Keep
Sikerman on hand. See you!" Mercant cut off the connection. For a moment he
sat motionlessly behind his large desk. The light of the sinking sun was
reflected from the keys of the switchboard installation. When the Security
Chief got to his feet he had an unconscious awareness of how old he was. The
bio cell shower he had received on the planet Wanderer would soon have to be
renewed if the cellular deterioration of his synthetically reactivated body
was not to take him by surprise. Mercant walked slowly past the saluting
robot guards. In his hand he clutched the plastic sheet that contained the
overwhelming news. The robot Regent of Arkon had been partially shut down and
reprogrammed! Mercant knew that this meant the dawn of a new era. .... Col.
Baldur Sikerman took the highly classified secret documents and handed them
over to his personal robot bodyguard. The briefing in the Fleet headquarters
was at an end. There were no further questions. "I wish you safe journey,"
said Marshal Freyt. "Keep your eyes open and in spite of everything you should
continue to avoid any action that could lead to a discovery of the Earth. In
outer space there are plenty of intelligences who have good tracking devices.
Make your transitions under protection of your hyper-shock dampers and remain
extremely discreet and uncommunicative. Presumably you will be given a
friendly reception, especially on Zalit. Take our people on board there and
then fly the remaining a light-years to Arkon. If in that area you are
attacked in spite of our hopeful expectations, pull back at once. In the
latter case, Rhodan will have to find another way. Advise the Chief that
everything here is in order." "Including the matter of the Druuf station in
Wyoming," interjected Mercant "Yes, report that verbally to Rhodan. Then
he'll decide whether Atlan should be informed about it or not." Freyt looked
at his watch. "It's time. Take it easy with those hypertransitions. We are
quite interested in seeing you arrive all in one piece in star cluster M-13.
And..." Freyt smiled suddenly "... may those shoulder trimmings continue to
expand, Colonel Sikerman!" The superbattleship Drusus, the most modern of
heavy class warships in the Solar Fleet, took off on 12 May 2044 at hours
05:13. The spaceport of Terrania was flooded in the brilliant light of the
impulse-engines opened at full thrust. Before its deep-throated thunder could
startle people out of their sleep in the nearby capital of the Solar Empire,
the spherical giant, measuring almost a mile in diameter, had already reached
outer space, where Sikerman set course for transition under an acceleration of
500 km/sec per second. He had received clearance for making his first
hyperjump from within the Solar System itself. .... Col. Poskanov received
the first tracking report from Maj. Untcher, chief of the 4th Security Patrol
Wing. A massive figure of a man who was known as an outstanding space
tactician, Poskanov functioned as commanding officer of the 16th Space Pursuit
Force in the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter, Surveillance Zone
12-14A-3746. His flagship, the battle cruiser Osage, picked up Untcher's
pulse-coded message just as the announced flight of the Drusus was bringing
the latter vessel close to the speed of light. Being a logical thinker,
Poskanov issued a general command for his ships to switch all available power
into a hyper-phase operation of their defence screens and for the time being
to avoid any changes of course. In all units of cruiser formation 16, every
thrust engine went into an idling mode. Their gleaming spherical hulls were
inclosed by invisible screens of energy. Thus they were well-protected when
the gigantic Drusus went into its first transition close to the orbit of
Mars. Although all hypersensors had been secured, on board almost all vessels
there was a breakdown of their hyper-shock absorbers. Poskanov felt the Osage
shudder in every joint of its 500 meter hull. During such major transitions
the 'space quake' generated in the fixed 4-dimensional continuum was like a
shockwave of unimaginable magnitude. As the effects of this ebbed away the
commanders of smaller vessels reported damages to outer compartments as well
 as to internal installations. Four Gazelles, which were fast auxiliary craft
attached to light cruisers of the State class, requested permission to turn in
to repair docks for overhaul. Col. Poskanov issued the necessary
authorizations. Auxiliary unit G-275 announced that its thermal equalizer
screens were out of order. Poskanov decided to have the Gazelles picked up by
the fast cruiser Congo and taken to the overhaul ship yards at the Moon Base.
As he was transmitting the necessary instructions to the flagship's Com
Central, a high-priority pulse-coded dispatch came in from Solar Fleet High
Command. The deciphering process took 36 minutes. Meanwhile the Congo's
commander was sweating out a difficult course adjustment, getting ready to use
his magnetic tractor beams in an attempt to capture the damaged auxiliary
craft, which was racing through space in free fall. Two minutes before the
actual recovery, Col. Poskanov received the decoded text of the message. After
reading it, his first precautionary act was to contact the Congo. The
cruiser's skipper was disgruntled, after such intricate approach manoeuvres,
to receive orders to break off the rescue at once and return at top speed to
his regularly assigned interceptor sector. Lt. Nafroth, commander of the
damaged Gazelle, watched with increasing amazement as the echo blip rapidly
diminished in the 3-D screen of his matter detector, which operated faster
than light. The Congo disappeared so swiftly that it could hardly be traced by
the tracking beams. Ten seconds later the radio receiver came to life. The
formation chief was on the telecom. Nafroth was instructed to let his small
ship continue to drift, except that he was to avoid any collisions with cosmic
debris. Since the new Moon Base of the Fleet was closer at this time than
Mars, which was on the other side of the sun, it sent out a fast salvage and
recovery tender. The Gazelle's rate of drift was about 10% SPEOL so it took
the tender 7 hours to reach it and pull it into its vast cargo locks. Where
Lt. Nafroth was concerned, this took care of the situation. He could not
suspect that the dangerously close hypertransition of the Drusus presaged an
event in which his was only a very minor role. By the time the tender began
its return flight, Col. Poskanov had already assembled the 16th Space Pursuit
Force within Sector 12-14A. At a minimal velocity the ships drifted in free
fall through interplanetary space. Poskanov tied in a remote-controlled
briefing session over the formation's videophone network, which operated at
normal light-speed. Thus any danger of intercepting their voice-video traffic
was minimized, especially since the flagship's transmitter was only putting
out 250 watts of power. The individual commanders had all gone into their
respective Communications rooms for the occasion and Poskanov was visible to
all of them simultaneously on the viewscreens. "Gentlemen, effective
immediately we are in a war-time combat readiness mode of operation," he
announced in his typically clipped tones. "Events have occurred in star
cluster M-13 which appear to make possible an imminent discovery of the Earth.
You will receive further information when I have more details at my disposal.
Meanwhile I have received instructions to fully equip and provision this
surveillance and pursuit force accordingly, and to beef up all crews to
regulation strength, after which we are to move out and join the Pluto
Security Task Force under General Deringhouse. That means we will vacate all
previously assigned picket stations in this area. We will fly in closed
formation to the Ganymede base where we'll pick up water, provisions, spare
parts and equipment in accordance with Operation Columbus. Advise your crews
that their last spot for sending out mail must be at Ganymede. All currently
scheduled leaves are cancelled. Although censorship of outgoing mail will not
be imposed, you will advise your men that our further movements are not to be
imparted to anyone. Thank you, that is all for the time being. Cut off now and
switch to your data link tie-ins with the flagship. I will pilot us en
route." The viewscreens darkened. All commanders returned pensively to their
respective Control Centrals. Poskanov looked around in the circle of his
staff officers. The Osage was already picking up speed. The formation chief
listened for a moment to the mighty roar of the engines before he spoke again,
seemingly lost in thought: "There's an old Russian proverb that says a bear
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