28
THE COSMIC DECOY
by K.H.Scheer
1/ A Shadow Without Substance

THE MOON was his doom and he was racing toward it at an angle of 45° and a
speed of 6000 miles a second.
He was cadet Julian Tifflor of the Space Academy.
They called such wild, seemingly insane manoeuvres “tactical training.” They
were so reckless that they made even the experienced pilots of the Space Force
Commandos sweat.
They demanded all or nothing. They were, in a way, merciless, but when it was
all over they became wonderful friends with a ready smile on their lips.
They were the training instructors of the Space Academy—the men who already
many times before had left the Solar system in the service of the New Power to
protect mankind far out in cosmic space.
They never indulged in sentimental feelings when it came to making men in
their own image out of raw recruits. The New Power’s astronauts had to be the
best.
Cadet Julian Tifflor had matteroffactly
been given the order to take command
of a fast spaceship destroyer as part of his final exam.
For the purposes of his test he was instructed to consider the towering peak of a
rugged Lunar mountain as a “hostile unit of a battlecruiser” which he was unable
to evade due to his own excessive momentum.
In the course of the order’s execution it was left solely up to him whether to
miss the rocky cliffs by a hair on his flight or to deceive himself with the wishful
thought that the massive obstacle would somehow miraculously turn into a soft
cloud.
Julian Tifflor, 20 years old, with a gentle and pleasant disposition and ire not
easily aroused, indeed gave the impression that he innocently believed this rugged
10,000-foothigh peak would actually disintegrate into a harmless cloud.  His own disintegration seemed a 
much more logical and imminent outcome.
Sergeant Rous, the battletested
pilot who had faced death a thousand times
under terrifying conditions in the Vega sector, screamed in horror for the 
first time
in his life as cadet Julian Tifflor roared with a velocity of 6000 miles per 
second
toward the looming mountains.
This was the moment when Sergeant Rous was reminded of his “witty” 
remark
that a “smart guy” would simply fly through the mountaintop. It was also the
moment when Sergeant Rous swore by all he held sacred that he hadn’t meant it
literally, particularly not at such a lethal speed.
Even if the destroyer had had dual controls it would have been utterly useless
for him to intervene. But for the final test no training ships with dc’s were used.
The flight instructor no longer had any means of supracontrol.  The Lunar peak leapt 6000 miles closer 
with every passing second. Cadet Tifflor was racing to his doom on the surface of the moon.
“You’re mad—!” It was all Sergeant Rous was able to cry out for at that
moment the impulse cannon mounted in Tifflor’s ship erupted and drowned him
out.
Rous felt the violent shaking of his sleek threeseater
craft. It was the violent
vibration from the discharge of the tremendous power in the form of a violet
thermobeam
—hot as the core of the sun—flashing from the cannon’s muzzle
through the protective shield.
Julian Tifflor—Tiff for short—fired from a distance of 18,000 feet with the 
aid
of the automatic microsensor.
This was within the normal range for battles in
space. The thermo-shot was almost as fast as light and it gave Tiff about three
seconds to decide on his next action.
These few seconds became eternities for Sergeant Rous. The heavy impulse
cannon kept roared without interruption and the destroyer didn’t slow down a bit.
Rous yelled once more but the worst was already over. The vaporized matter
flamed up in the mechanogravitational
shock absorption field of the destroyer.
Before they could hear the screeching noise of the displaced particles, the 
machine
already soared in a terrific deflecting curve out into the void, leaving behind 
a
whitehot
bubbling crater where the craggy peak had stood before.
The lowpitched
roaring of the Arkonide energy weapon ceased. Only the
powerful thundering of the impulsedrive
engines could still be heard.
Julian Tifflor’s forehead was bathed in little beads of sweat. His voice 
sounded
somewhat scratchy as he reported: “Order carried out, Sergeant.” The 
“enemy
unit” had to be destroyed as evasive action was no longer possible.
Rous wiped his cheeks with a fleeting gesture. With narrowed eyes he studied
the lean but soft face of the cadet who was just beginning to relax his tension. It
took a little while till Tiffs brown eyes showed their usual dreamy look. Moments
ago they had been dark and cold and unfathomable.  “Do you always take your orders so literally?” Rous 
inquired with menacing mildness.
Tiff swallowed hard. Now he wasn’t so sure of himself. “Yes, Sergeant,” he
replied with a swift glance to the back where Cadet Eberhardt was sitting in the
place of the navigator.
Eberhardt’s broad face resembled a washed out splotch of paint.
“Boy, oh boy!” he gasped. “I could see myself already as a cloud of gas. I…”
“Your opinions are irrelevant, Cadet Eberhardt,” Rous barked. “O.K. Now you
take over the machine. Change places!”
Tiff had a wan smile on his lips. He very seldom broke out in a hearty laugh
like the other cadets of the Space Academy did in their frequent exuberant moods.
Awkwardly he wiggled out of the pilot seat and pushed himself back. Klaus Eberhardt suddenly began to 
perspire again. Now it was his turn!
Tifflor squinted at Rous’ fingers as he reached with his usual nervewracking
fuss for his little “black book.” It was only a regular pocket calendar but whatever
was recorded there meant success or failure for the candidates of the Space Academy.
Sergeant Rous remained still. Neither Tifflor nor Eberhardt could sense that the
Sergeant was torn inside by conflicting feelings.
“What a nightmare,” Rous kept thinking; “What a nightmare from hell!” At this point Tifflor was overcome 
by a wave of respect and boundless admiration.
Sergeant Rous, the skilled and deathdefying
space pilot, became stiff as a pillar
of salt and Eberhardt uttered a shrill squeal.
The telecom clicked and the lean rugged face of a man appeared on the 
picture
screen of the ultrafast
transceiver.
“Rous, is that you?” the voice reverberated loudly in the narrow cabin.
Rous found his tongue again. It was the Chief himself. What could have caused
Perry Rhodan to call the little destroyer?
Rous reported his presence and the man they recognized on the observation
screen nodded quickly. “Thank you, I know. Come back at once and report to me.
Is Cadet Julian Tifflor with you?”
This time Rous started to bite his lips. The cadet caught his look full of dark threats. Rous affirmed the 
question.
“Cadet Tifflor will have to report to me at 11 o’clock standard time. You’ll come a few minutes earlier, 
Sergeant. Is that clear?”
This was typical of Rhodan, the man who had transformed the planet Earth into
a galactic power of the first rank in the course of only 11 years.
“Yes, sir!” Rous stuttered in a turmoil. His eyes were bulging slightly.  “I beg your pardon, sir! You said, I 
shall send Cadet Tifflor to you? To the palace?”
There was a hardly noticeable twinkle in Perry Rhodan’s eyes. He seemed to be
a little amused. “Yes, in the palace or, as you can also call it, my government
office. By the way, was your test manoeuvre very risky? Who piloted the craft?”
“That same Tifflor, sir,” Rous murmured with dry lips.
“Oh, is that so? Very good. That will be all.”
The picture screen was dim again. Only a hum in the loudspeaker remained.
Sergeant Rous turned very slowly around in his seat. His dark eyes looked cold
as ice. He had lost his sense of humour.
“Tifflor! What sort of mischief have you been up to? Out with it! You better
start talking fast! What reason could the Chief. possibly have to summon a lowly
cadet like you to the government office? What’s going on here?”
Tiff felt his eyes get moist and the palms of his hands became dry.
“I don’t have the slightest idea, sergeant. Honest!”
“We’ll see, fella. Heaven help you if you’ve ruined my test group with some
stupidity. There’ll be a miserable end for you at the Space Academy. Eberhardt,
head for the Gobi airport and make it quick!”
A glistening flash plunged with undiminished speed toward the clearly visible
crescent of the planet Earth. For the destroyer with the speed of light the trip to the
moon was only a short hop. It was a fleeting moment, nothing more.
Cadet Julian Tifflor had a lump in his throat. All he could think of was why in
the world the Chief wanted to see him personally. What would the students of the
Space Academy have to say about it?
He shuddered when he thought about their derisive remarks or their pity.
Obviously, something must have gone awry. A fledgling astronaut wasn’t called
to the inner sanctum unless there was a serious reason. Tifflor saw sombre clouds
moving on the horizon of his imagination.
* * * *
The tall man switched off the telecom. Pensively, Perry Rhodan, the Head of the New Power, gazed at the 
darkened screen.  “That boy will be close to a nervous breakdown,” growled a sonorous voice.
“You didn’t have to clobber him with the news here and now. You should have
picked a better occasion.”
Rhodan lifted his head. Reginald Bell, his trusty friend, companion in countless
adventures and Defence Minister of the New Power, looked puny and
insignificant in the huge room. His mouth looked grim. He stared with dismay at
his chief. Bell was one of those men who appeared implacable in the presence of
the cadets. Yet when he talked about them he revealed the proverbial heart of
gold.
Rhodan smiled faintly. It was apparent that he had looked once more right through the stocky, broad-
shouldered man.
“Tifflor is a man without nerves,” Rhodan said quietly. “We know him from
the action against the Mutant Master. He operated like a smart tactician. I have to
put him to work again although it’ll be hard on him.”
Reggy Bell took a deep, loud breath. Sharp lines stood out on his broad face.
“I agree, but only if you let him know what is involved.”
Rhodan frowned and got up slowly from behind the tremendous table that more
resembled a complicated switch console than a writing desk. The eyes of the two
men met as they confronted each other.
“Let’s riot kid ourselves,” Rhodan stressed. “The only time he’s allowed to know all about his mission is 
when its over.”
“You’re pulling him out in the middle of his final exam.”
“If he accomplishes his assigned task I’ll be happy to sign his diploma.” Bell let his shoulders drop. He 
glanced with a vacant look at the numerous monitoring screens in the workroom. Here was the nerve centre 
of the New Power. He said haltingly: “Naturally you aren’t very happy about the disappearance of three 
units from our space fleet.” Rhodan showed his famous and notorious smile. It was too mild to be 
convincing.
“You guessed it! Somebody we don’t know is beginning to take an interest in
us. The very thing I’ve tried to prevent for years has happened—the discovery of
Terra and the Solar system by unknown intelligent beings. No arguments, please!
It’s already been proven that we’re not dealing with the Mindsnatchers.” Bell was thinking about those 
peculiar individuals that had to be repulsed shortly after the establishment of the New Power. This time it 
looked more serious.
The big auxiliary ship K1
of the Good Hope class was reported missing, as
well as two brand new spaceship destroyers of the zero series. These facts alone
were sufficient reasons for Rhodan to spring into action.  Strangers had very suddenly appeared and quickly 
vanished again. It was beyond doubt that they must have been well informed about Terra and its 
inhabitants, too.
Rhodan’s radio monitoring service had intercepted some mysterious short
signals transmitted in the supralight range. The efforts at decoding had not made
them comprehensible. Apparently the mixed groups of symbols were put together
for different concepts in an arbitrary manner.
Rhodan had come to the firm conclusion that alien agents were operating on
Earth. Despite deployment of the very efficient mutants from the special corps, it
had not been feasible to track down a single one of these spies by telepathic
methods. It seemed like a jinxed situation. A shadow without substance had
spread out over the Earth, a shadow that could neither be seen nor touched and its
existence only suspected.
Rhodan walked slowly over to the nearest videophone. He dialed and Dr.  Haggard appeared on the screen. 
Haggard was in charge of the worldfamous Gobi Clinic where Arkonide medical science was applied as a 
general rule.  “Our man will be here in two hours,” Rhodan said tersely. “Did Professor Karner already 
leave on his flight?”
“About three hours ago. I’ll follow in 10 minutes. We’ll get it done.”
Rhodan without another word waved to the camera and cut off the connection.
“Have you decided to take the risk?” Bell inquired anxiously. “It’s going to be
tough, I think. You ought to ask him first whether he agrees with it.”
“If the slightest inkling of the facts are imbedded in his memory, he’ll be more
endangered, not less. We’re playing with cosmic stakes, old friend.”
Bell flipped his cap on and stalked noisily toward the armoured hatch of the
control centre. “I guess you don’t care to consider my opinion,” he grumbled.
“O.K., go and play the game your way. I still think it’s a crazy idea. Attack is
always the best defence.”
“Whom do you want to attack and where?” Rhodan inquired with a calm voice.
Bell bit his lips before he left the room, swearing under his breath.  This was the root of the problem. What 
was there to attack, if there was no tangible adversary?
On this day Rhodan moved the lever—after careful consideration of all
available data—to set in motion an action of vital significance in the far reaches of
the cosmos. Its ultimate effect couldn’t be predicted by anyone except Rhodan
himself. The hour was destined to be designated as one of the most important in
the history of mankind, even though, at this time, there was no way of knowing
that the chronicle would be written. The Earthlings were still weak and their
science and technical knowledge inferior. But they possessed other qualities of
which only very few other intelligent beings could boast: a, tremendous urge for
action, undaunted courage and a burning thirst for knowledge.
Rhodan reckoned with all of this and his hopes were not unjustified.
2/ Danger In Cosmic Space
Cadet Julian Tifflor looked at his watch. It took a second until he properly
attributed the quivering of its hands to his own unsteady eyes. He gulped
convulsively as he stepped before the mirror to take a last look at his uniform.
Of course he wanted to appear before his Chief in an impeccable state with
radiohelmet
and handgun in high polish.
“A little jittery, aren’t you?” somebody asked. Tifflor winced. His brown 
eyes
seemed to be on fire.
Humphry Hifield, a towheaded
type without inhibitions or overt hangups,
lolled on his foam rubber couch. He knew exactly where his strength lay
compared to Tifflor. Whereas Tiff was a recognized mathematical genius, Hifield
was proud of having emerged as boxing champion in the recent fights. To his
mind cosmic math and fisticuffs ranked about the same. It was Tiff’s misfortune
that he had to share the same room with Hifield of all people.
“Take it easy, boys,” Cadet Eberhardt warned sharply. He was the third
occupant of the room. He went over to Tifflor, who was panting and pulling on his
tight belt. Tiffs momentary anger had already ebbed away. Now he looked
helplessly at his classmate. “I’m sure I’ll faint when I face the Chief,” he groaned.
Hifield gave himself a shove and got up from the couch. With a rolling gait he
approached Tifflor, his hands, deep in the pockets of his trousers. He was as tall as
Tifflor and twice as broad.
With a smirk he appraised his perspiring classmate. “I always say that daydreamers are unfit to go into 
outer space. Before you leave, I need the shielding field equation on the relation between cosmic 
micromatter and a superimposed gravitational field. How about it?” Hifield grinned hopefully and let his 
hands dangle at his sides.
“The bell with it! Why don’t you look up the equation yourself?” Tifflor shot
back exasperated.
“Don’t tell me it’s too much work for you,” Hifield said menacingly. “You’ve
got a full hour. My class starts in 30 minutes.”
“Wouldn’t you love to push in the face of this poor mathematician?” Eberhardt
broke in, swinging his stout body around. Hifield’s eyes looked grim.
“You keep out of it, fatso!” Hifield threatened. “When I talk, you just listen! Is
that clear?”
“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 favour, 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 offcentre
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 honourable 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
rayshielded
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 Efield.
Close to the palace was the armoured 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
laboured 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 paralysed.
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 20yearold
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 builtin
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 favour. 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 oneseat
space fightership. The machine is now being made ready
for you. Do you think you can fly this ultraspeed
pursuitship 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 handlong
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 spiralling 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
threeman
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 defence 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 lightyears
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 onetenth
of a second’s
duration. Deciphering was wellnigh
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 thoughtscreens?
Is there such a thing?”
Rhodan began to whistle softly. Perhaps he had the right idea!
Life went on as usual on the service base of the New Power. Only a few people
knew that a new danger loomed out there in cosmic space. Even fewer were aware
of the decisive steps Rhodan had taken when he responded to the ordinary telegram of a New York 
attorney.
In the annals of mankind the telegraphic request for a furlough of Cadet Julian
Tifflor was classified as a ‘document of utmost importance.’
3/ The Astounding Operation
The wedding ceremony was a protracted torture for Julian Tifflor. As soon as
the rites ended he virtually fled for it was contrary to his conscience and ingrained
habits to take lethal weapons into church. He found the atomic impulsebeamer
and his special belt untouched behind the thick hedge of roses. He breathed easier
again and strapped his weapon on according to the service rules. He touched his
pocket with the concealed metal container and got back in time for the reception.
James Frederick Tifflor, a distinguishedlooking
man in his 50s, threw an
abhorrent look at his son. Tiffs sister, who had just now become a bride, 
uttered a
shrill frightened cry and the eyes of several old ladies suddenly looked 
glazed.
There was no denying that an Arkonide thermobeamer
not only had a
devastating effect but also looked extremely menacing, particularly because 
the
gun was carried in an open bolster.
“Is this really necessary?” his father asked icily. Julian experienced for the 
first
time how difficult it could be to reconcile good manners with military 
orders.
“Regulations, dad,” he answered with a throaty voice and stiff attitude.
He suffered even worse embarrassment on the way back, as he had to ride in a
car with an elderly aunt.
Some unflattering remarks were bandied around on this occasion about the famed and notorious Perry 
Rhodan.
They drove to Tifflor’s spacious country home on Long Island. A man like Tifflor could well afford such 
luxury.
Four hours after the wedding, shortly before dusk, Tiff still sat in his room.
Nobody was able to induce him to put down his dangerous gun.
“I’d prefer if you’d come some day to work in my office,” his father said
tersely. “I don’t think much of this so called reaching for the stars. May I inquire
why you’re putting on this act?”
Julian was in no position to give his father any explanations. By the time the
sun went down he felt like an outcast. He had disposed with a few harsh words of
the silly questions of his former friends and evaded the lively curiosity of the
young girls. Tiff was not one of those Space Academy cadets who enjoyed
circulating and bragging with their superior knowledge. So it turned out to be a
social disaster.
Julian was exasperated and stepped out onto the tiny balcony of his room. The
first stars appeared in the evening sky. They seemed to, call and enthral him with
their mysterious and breathtaking splendour.
Thus he remained till about 23 o’clock. Then the moment he had waited for arrived, but not as he had 
imagined it.
The mental attack struck a sudden blow. An unseen force reached for his conscious mind.
Tiff reeled back and groaned. He was familiar with the effect. Instantaneously
he reacted like the Space Academy cadet who had been specially trained for such
occurrences.
He made an effort to defend himself and to block the extraneous thought
impulses. It took awhile till he realized that the purpose of the encroachment was
the transmission of a message.
Tiff forgot where he was. Suddenly everything had changed completely. His
familiar surroundings etherealized. Now the vexing phenomenon began to gain
the upperhand. He listened acutely.
“Very good, now it’s getting easier for me,” the message came through. “Your
code word is Heavenly Gate. Take an air taxi at once and go to the General
Cosmic Company building. Be careful, you’re being watched by some unknown
persons. I’ll be sticking around. Don’t say goodbye just write a note and leave
through the garden. Keep your eyes open.”
The mental pressure subsided. His mind was free again. Breathing easier, he scribbled a few lines on a 
piece of paper.
He walked across the extensive grounds of the garden. There wasn’t a corner in
the garden he hadn’t visited many times. Near the wroughtiron
side door he
received the next message.
“Marshall speaking. I’m hovering in a gravoglider
above the property. Go out
in the street and call an air taxi.”
“Danger?” Tiffs thought expressed concern.
The answer came hesitantly. “I’m not sure. I’m getting confused 
impressions.
There are too many people in the house. Try it!”
Tiff cocked his gun. The little red light started to glow on the hand guard. The
door was only seldom used. As he was about to pull the bolt out of the latch, he
received a strong warning impulse from the invisible telepath. Tifflor wheeled
around.
Behind the old oaks in the garden appeared the shadowy outlines of two figures.
The faces were unrecognizable but he noticed the running legs.
He heard himself shout. Contrary to his explicit orders he couldn’t get himself
to open fire without first giving a warning.
“Shoot!” the command reverberated in his mind. Marshall seemed to be gripped
by panic.
Tifflor jumped with his drawn gun behind the solid stone pillar of the gate. As
he hit the ground painfully on his right knee, he heard a high whistle followed by
a thump.
In a fraction of a second he recognized the vapours rising from the cracked
plastic container. The bluish fluorescent light illuminated the darkness under the
old trees of the garden. A deep voice shouted something.  At this point he distinguished two masked faces 
in the eerie light. Tiffs next breath brought him close to fainting.
As everything began to wobble before his eyes, he pulled the trigger with his last ounce of strength.
A whitehot
stream of fire roared from the barrel of his weapon. Fanning his
gun he caught the two figures in the blast and in the process set the wooded area
on fire.
It was a burst of only short duration. Tiff still heard the deep roar of the impulseweapon and the crashing of 
a huge tree which seemed to blaze up as it toppled over.
He was too groggy to escape before his next breath of the fluorescing cloud of
gas. Moaning, he fell back. A million steel crystals seemed to sear his throat. He
no longer saw the gravoglider
coming down from the redlit
sky of the night.
The dry wood was burning along the line of his fire. It was a small inferno created by a young man with a 
flick of his finger.
* * * *
The room was neither very large nor very high. However it displayed such
uncommon furnishings that only a man like Homer G. Adams could have been
comfortable with them.
A large picture screen on the wall showed the clear-cut—although a little
weary—face of a man in uniform. It was Perry Rhodan, Chief of the New Power.
“What did you find out?” the low voices came from the concealed loudspeaker.
Homer G. Adams, the stout president of GCC with a reputation as the greatest
financial genius of the century, stroked his large head with his remarkably fine
hand. Blinking his eyes—lately he’d become a little nearsighted—he studied the
image of the man who had provided, him with the opportunity of establishing a
gigantic consortium on an interstellar scale.
The General Cosmic Company already extended to the stars. The first trade
monopoly with the humanoid Ferrons earned profits which almost equalled the
entire tax yield of all the big states on planet Earth combined. There was no doubt
that Homer G. Adams controlled the greatest economic power of all times.
“This is a question I can’t answer so easily, sir,” Adams replied cautiously. “If
you allow me, I’d like to pay you a short visit. I can use my mattertransmitter.”
Adams looked at the peculiar apparatus in the secret room. Many times before
he’d entered unseen and unnoticed the governmental palace of the New Power.
“I’m sorry, but I’m in the middle of preparations for leaving,” his plea was denied. “How did the assailants 
react? Who are they?”
“The men shot by Tifflor could no longer be identified, unfortunately. However
we managed to save a tiny trace of the strange gas. The analysis should provide
some clues. John Marshall carried Tifflor out of the vapours at the last moment
and almost passed out himself doing so. It’s diabolical stuff.”
“Is it of Terrestrial origin?”
Adams raised his shoulders. “We aren’t sure yet, sir. It’s all very mysterious.
I’ve contacted our Secret Service. The newspapers haven’t been informed about
the true facts of the case since Mercant’s agents succeeded in apprehending other
suspects. They turned out to be wellknown
New York gangsters who stated that
they had a contract from an anonymous party to lay Julian Tifflor low with a 
gas
grenade. We’ve been unable to learn more. It is certain that these arrested
hoodlums are not the real suspects we seek. Our hypnotic interrogation produced
no clues. Nobody knows who put out the contract for murder.”
“How’s Tifflor?”
“Satisfactory. Because of his unconscious state, we were relieved of our worry
how to put him under narcosis land avoid attention. Professor Karner has
postponed the operation for five hours in order to wait for the probable side
effects of the gas inhaled by Tifflor. However he exhibited no organic or psychic
disturbances. We’ve anaesthetized him before he woke up. The operation is now
under way.”
Perry Rhodan’s face looked serious. Now they’d reached a crucial stage.
“Adams, I fully depend on you. If the microdevice
functions in accordance
with the assurance I’ve been given, Tifflor will become a signal transmitter 
of
unprecedented potency. Telepaths like Marshall will be able to utilize it as a
foolproof method of locating him anywhere up to a distance of two lightyears
without any delay at all, as if they were standing next to him. Please conduct these
experiments after the conclusion of the operation.”
Homer G. Adams was breathing loudly. His highdomed forehead was covered
with beads of sweat. “Sir, that gadget is a diabolical contraption. Although I’m
certainly no telepath I found it difficult to stay in its proximity. It’s sending out
supradimensional frequencies of the highest intensity. Where did you get it from?”
Rhodan saw the face of his conversation partner growing larger. Adams was moving closer to the 
videophone.
“Please keep quiet about these confidential matters. A few days ago I returned
from Wanderer, the world of eternal life. The incredibly intelligent beings living
there are no gods but they know the last secrets of nature. It’s the source where I
obtained this device. They’ve created it in the shortest time according to my
specifications as if it were a simple toy. The microcell activator will change the
frequency of each single cell in Tifflor. The cadet will virtually be converted into
a galactic transmitter. Now I hope that he’ll be captured by the unknown
infiltrators. The ambush indicates that they already suspect him to be the secret
courier. Please continue to keep up this pretense, Adams! Especially with regard
to Tifflor. His memory must not contain anything that could lead to an involuntary
betrayal in hypnotic interrogations he might be subjected to. He is and must remain unburdened with 
vulnerable information. Is that clear?” Adams nodded silently. His face looked fatigued.
“Please, connect me with the surgery room,” Rhodan requested firmly.
Adams’ fingers pushed a few buttons. The GCC clinic which was also housed
in the same huge office building appeared on another videoscreen.
Professor Karner, the gifted surgeon, was in charge of the operation. Dr.
Haggard and Dr. Eric Manoli assisted him. Other physicians who had undergone
the Arkonide hypno-training in medicine were also present.
The applied method of surgery would have baffled any other doctor. Even the
anaesthetic apparatus was a marvel of micropositronic refinement.
Tifflor’s pelvic cavity had already been opened. The Arkonide antibody
serum
assured the completely safe assimilation of foreign substances. As Adams
switched on the picture, Professor Karner was about to implant a thimble-sized
object surrounded by a multitude of sensory filaments.
The heavy breathing of the Arkontrained
surgeon was audible in the
loudspeaker as the half organic and half mechanical device began to join its
sensors with the nerve tissue close to the lower spinal column. The connection
with the circulatory system of the patient’s blood was also accomplished without
the aid of the physicians. The entire process took less than five minutes. From
there on the imbedded artifice was an integral part of Tiff’s body.
“Done,” somebody said haltingly. “Do we begin?”
Homer G. Adams switched the picture off. He looked pale as he turned back to
the other screen. “An uncanny object, sir,” he whispered. “It dizzies the mind. It
seems to have a brain of its own.”
Rhodan laughed half-heartedly. His expression seemed reserved. “Don’t ask
me. Apparently everything is possible on Wanderer. How long will it take for the
wound to heal?”
“A maximum of 12 hours. At least that’s what Haggard claims. The Arkonide
tissue plasma will leave no visible scars and the job might even be finished sooner.”
“O.K. It’s better if you wait 12 hours. When he wakes up, tell him that the
mysterious gas was the cause of his prolonged coma. Adams, don’t lose your
head! Lieutenant Everson has departed some time ago. He is now in the vicinity of
the Pluto orbit and is preparing his transition to the Vega system. So far he has
neither been detected nor attacked. It looks to me like they’ve taken Tifflor’s bait.
Send him on his way to the Lunar base as soon as he’s fit again. Major Deringhouse is waiting for him 
there with the K-7. Is everything clear now?” Adams confirmed the question. With somewhat mysterious 
remarks the conversation was concluded.
Cadet Julian Tifflor, Space Academy student in his last semester, which was equal to 20 regular semesters 
due to the utilization of hypnotic training, thus began to play an extremely important role in the history of 
mankind.
He was as yet unaware of it. Nobody knew exactly what Rhodan’s intentions
were with regard to Tifflor’s mission. All Adams could learn was that the Chief
had done only enough to arouse the merest suspicion about Tifflor’s activities.
Anything more than this slight hint would doubtlessly have brought about a quick
failure.
Adams, ingenious and decisive in all financial matters, felt badly shaken. He thought about the message the 
cadet was supposed to deliver in space. The positronic superbrain on the Venus base had required three 
weeks of Terrestrial time to compute the convincing data contained on the microtape.
Considering the
calculating capacity of the machine, three weeks was an enormous length of 
time.
Rhodan’s face had disappeared. It became very quiet in the unique room 
where
no other man except Rhodan was allowed to enter. The small control centre 
in the
administrative offices of the GCC actually was one of a string of minor 
support
bases.
Adams got up from his swivel chair. He took another look at the surgery 
room.
The operation was not quite finished. Karner and Haggard were busy 
treating the
wound with the Arkonide bioplasma that prevented the formation of scars. 
The
healing process took place with incredible speed. It virtually started the 
moment
the plasma was sprayed on.
Adams was startled when he heard moaning coming from the loudspeaker. 
He
quickly zoomed to the wide angle field. John Marshall, the telepath who had
quietly observed the implant, was hastily carried out of the operating room by two
physicians. He was uttering the pained noises. His face was contorted under the
surgical mouth cover.
By this token Adams knew that the cellactivator had commenced to function.
Julian Tifflor had turned into a transmitter. However, the impulses emanating
from his body could only be perceived by skilled telepaths and exclusively by
those who were attuned to Tifflor’s frequency.
It was all part of a grandiose multifaceted plan by Perry Rhodan to venture into
the world of the stars. He had become an invisible power in the background to be
reckoned with.
Adams stepped into the fivedimensional
identification field of the secret room.
Recognized as having authority for admittance, the concrete wall in the 
basement
of the highrise became materially unstable and opened in front of him.
He stepped through the dematerialised field out into the open. Behind him the
wall changed its form into solid matter again. As Adams went up to the 108th
floor in the rapid elevator the still unconscious cadet Julian Tifflor was wheeled
out of the operating room. The most astounding operation in human history had
been achieved.
4/ Destination: Transplutonia
The office looked quite ordinary and innocuous. Except for the numerous
employees servicing the highly technical communications equipment, the room
could have been in any other office building.
This impression changed radically as Julian Tifflor was escorted to the
normallooking
sliding door.
It opened very silently but the sound of sliding Arkonide steel was not
eliminated. There were two robots stationed to the left and right of the entrance.
The movable weapon arms of the machines looked less innocuous.
Tiff entered calmly. He was used to such security measures. Homer G. Adams
was seated in an imposing chair behind an immense work table which didn’t deserve to be called a desk.
It was the first time that Tifflor met the man who was known as the Minister of
Economy of the New Power. The odd thing about him was that this high official
performed his functions in New York.
“Please sit down,” asked the friendly voice.
Adams smiled. Tiff knew that the man with the twisted spine before him was a
so called semimutant.
This was about the extent of his information. He was
unaware of Adams’ photographic memory and his capability of predetermining
economic trends.
“I’m sorry to have you exposed to such hazards,” Adams began, maintaining
his reserve. “Of course I could have let Marshall call you back as soon as you had
attended to your social obligations. However, I considered it preferable to remain
in your parents’ home until the suspected attackers showed up. You may regard it
as a certain test I’ve conducted.”
Tifflor gulped audibly. The opening remarks were rather surprising. “Of course,
sir,” he replied lamely.
“At any rate you’ve survived the incident quite well according to the opinions
of the physicians. How do you feel?”
Tiff was drawn to the big burning eyes of the hunchback. He made an effort to
tear himself away and express his troubled mind. “Sir, I’ve probably killed two
men.”
Adams looked down at his slim hands. He felt sympathy for the young man
who reproached himself. “Don’t let it worry you. You’ve acted in selfdefence
beyond any doubt. There will be no legal trial. Furthermore, the case has been
taken over by the Terrestrial Defence Federation. I have instructions to send you
at once to the moon where the training ship K7
is waiting for your arrival. Your
final tests are not to be further interrupted.”
Julian Tifflor was overcome by a feeling of abysmal disappointment. He had
seemed to be on the threshold of a mysterious and exciting adventure—and now
he was relegated back to his exam. “Yes, sir,” was all he could say.
Adams tried to force a smile. He wasn’t quite successful. Slowly he added:
“Well, there’s one more thing I’d like you to take care of for me, Mr. Tifflor. I’ve
been required to point out to you that you may refuse my request any time.
Nobody, least of all Perry Rhodan, will force you to carry out this task.” Tiff was all ears. Suddenly all 
thought of the dreaded final exam in tactical training vanished. “Please,” he said with a throaty voice.
Adams held a small metal cylinder in his hand. It hardly differed from the one
Rhodan had given him a few hours earlier.
“We consider it essential to forward these secret data about the economic
planning of the New Power in this somewhat unusual manner to the Vega system
27 light-years away. This capsule contains a microtape
that must not be allowed
under any circumstances to come into the possession of unauthorized 
persons. I’m
sure you understand that a long range economic plan is vital for all mankind. 
The
data arrived at cannot be changed from one day to the next, since there are
numerous projects, such as the building of new ships and so on, which must be coordinated
within the general framework of the plan. You have orders to hand over
this roll personally to the Governor of the New Power on Ferrol in the Vega
system. That’s all you are required to do. Are you willing to take on this secret
mission?”
Tiff was disappointed again. His commonsense told him that the training ship
K7
was bound for the Vega system. He asked about this.
“Of course your flight is charted to land in the Vega system,” Adams confirmed
expressionlessly. “Major Deringhouse has received instructions to this effect. We
are very anxious to deliver this message safely to Ferrol. You’re forbidden to mention it to anybody.”
Tiff gave his assurance. The little metal capsule changed hands. Before Adams
sat down behind his monstrous work and switch control centre, he admonished
him: “In case you should get into trouble, a touch of the selfdestruct button is enough to dissolve the 
container with the message. Please check this safety feature.”
Tiff examined the position of the switch very carefully. At that moment it began
to dawn on him that he was not embarking on a harmless trip as a courier. There
was more involved in this affair than met the eye. He probably was not being told
the whole story.
Adams noticed with satisfaction the growing suspicion of the cadet. The
transformation took place exactly as Rhodan had intended. He wanted Tiff to be
suspicious but not to such a degree that his conjectures would become identical
with certain knowledge.
Tiff stowed the cartridge away. Motionlessly he stood before the elderly man
with the sparse pale blond hair.
“Do you accept this assignment?” Adams wanted to make sure that he agreed.
Tiff almost had the impression that his eyes pleaded: “Don’t do it!”
He shook off the fleeting thought. “Of course, sir. With pleasure.” “Then come with me,” Adams said, 
coughing slightly behind his hand. “No, we’ll take my private elevator. Are you familiar with the principle 
of a mattertransmitter?”
Tiff was thrilled with the greatest excitement. A matter-transmitter! One of
those fabulous machines Perry Rhodan had found in a strange world and learned
to master. With a dry throat he stammered, “Yes, in principle. But I’ve no practical experience.”
“So you’ll get some now. Please, follow me.”
The small elevator sped down. Tiff swallowed hard as Adams operated the
fivedimensional
transformer by means of his individually programmed
vibrations. The thick basement wall became at one place a glimmering spiral.
“A supradimensional
dematerialisation field,” Adams explained
matteroffactly.
“Matter turns into penetrable energy. No, these are no gases, if
that’s what you mean. The passage is not as short as you might be inclined to
believe. The control room is located more than half a mile away inside the rocks
of Manhattan. Follow me. I’ve identified you at the mechanical guidance.”
Tifflor stepped reluctantly into the mysterious field. He felt nothing except a
small pull in the back of his neck. It was far less strenuous than a transition in
cosmic space.
He found it hard to believe that the distance was no greater than Adams had
stated. At any rate, Tiff couldn’t remember having covered the distance of half a
mile with one step. Neither could he conceive the fact that, for an instant, he was
no longer a bodily reality. It was a physical impossibility to traverse a fivedimensional dematerialisation 
field in a normal stable form.
His mathematicallyoriented
mind became active. A few moments later he had
found the probable solution of the applicable equations. His schooled mind was
accustomed to deal in a methodical manner with the true facts and to realize their
existence despite their unlikely appearances. This was a superior attainment that
was specifically taught at the Space Academy of the New Power.
He looked with fascination at the cagelike
apparatus and the enclosed circular
platform that appeared to be the transmitter. Adams was already 
manipulating the
adjustment control panel.
Somewhere heavy machines began to hum.
“A separate, selfcontained
energy source,” Adams explained in conformance
with Rhodan’s directions emphasizing the necessity to make Tifflor familiar with
such technical installations. “Naturally I cannot depend on the questionable supply
of current from the city’s power stations. You’ll be rematerialised with the
velocity of thought in the synchronized transmitter on Luna. Be prepared to go
through some minor pains. You may compare it with a spaceship transition.”
Tifflor approached the uncanny machine with glazed eyes and unstable steps. A
violet light had begun to shine inside the circle of bars.
“No danger,” Adams assured him calmly. “The machine is attuned to you. But I
wouldn’t advise any unauthorized person to risk the transportation of his body.
Have you got your message capsule?”
Tiff nodded. Then he stepped on the platform and gripped the poles in his
hands. Before he could ask another question he suffered the jabbing pain of the
dematerialisation. Adams saw a swirling eddy form between the two field pole
rods that vanished again in seconds. Immediately thereafter the transmitter shut
down with a fading low buzz. Julian Tifflor, the future astronaut, was gone.
* * * *
When Tifflor returned to his real state again, he thought for a fraction of a
second that he had dreamed. There was no recollection of the ultralight
fast
transport through the higher dimension in which the laws of the normal 
universe
were invalid.
The view before his eyes became clear. He stood in an identical transmitter 
but
he was no longer in the little room deep in the rocks of Manhattan.
“Hello,” Major Deringhouse greeted him dryly. “How do you feel? Don’t
bother with that nonsense! A man who has just rematerialised doesn’t have to
salute. First get out of that cage.”
Tiff stepped across the red danger line. Then he looked around, still
disconcerted. The transmitter was located in a bare room with stone walls, one of
which was decorated with a large switch panel. Somewhere in the background a
machine was winding down with a low whir. He guessed that it was the atomic
energy power station supplying the local current. Obviously, it wasn’t very big.
The makers of these uncanny transporting sets had regarded it as desirable to limit
the size of the power generators. He was told that there were transmitters with
energy generators built into the thick platform.
Tiff tipped the cap of his dressuniform
anyway. Deringhouse inspected him
thoroughly before he inquired: “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, sir. It was a breathtaking experience.”
“I didn’t ask you that but I believe you. O.K. Come with me.”
Tiff had expected more questions. Deringhouse avoided any reference that
could somehow be connected with Tiffs assignment. Nevertheless the major
seemed to be more or less informed about the nature of his task. His searching
look at Tiff’s breast pocket was a clear indication.
Before the rough stone wall a dematerializer rose up high. Here, too, they were
sluiced through a Dfield
out into the open.
“You’re now far below the support base near the south pole of Luna,”
Deringhouse explained. “When we arrive above, don’t waste any unnecessary
words. We’ll depart at once to go on a training flight where you take your regular
seat as candidate. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Tiff whispered disconsolately. The affair grew more baffling all the
time.
Deringhouse’s slim face showed a hint of a laugh. The young officer was known to have a sense of 
humour.
“You’re certain to be asked questions by the other cadets that will have to be
ignored by you. I’m the only man on board who is informed about your mission as
courier. In case you run into any difficulties, come to me for help. That’s about all
there is to say with regard to this matter except for one other piece of information
I’m to give you. I want to let you know that your doppleganger will be flying back
to Gobi in one hour. The makeup men seem to have done an excellent job. Your substitute is probably busy 
staging a heartbreaking goodbye in your parents’ home. We thought it necessary to arrange a little show for 
the spies who are probably watching it.”
Tiff could feel his throat getting even tighter. He had trouble swallowing the lump. “A double?” he 
stammered.
Deringhouse grinned widely. “Exactly,” he confirmed. “But we’ve told the fellow that he’s not permitted to 
kiss your sister.”
Tiff suddenly realized very clearly with how much foresight the Chief had
layed his plans. The training ship K7
had obviously started without him from the
Gobi airport. If his double returned there soon, only the devil himself would 
be up
to seeing through the hoax.
At least this was Tiff’s opinion. But he didn’t do justice to the cool logic of 
the
man who was not prone to underestimate the intellect of others who might 
not be
so easily fooled by the manoeuvre. In this case, his role as messenger had to 
look
genuine.
“A little commotion ahead, sir,” Tiff remarked respectfully.
“A little commotion!” Deringhouse mocked. “It’ll be more like jumping into
the vortex of a whirlwind. O.K. Get in—and not another word about your task.”
The commander of the K7 followed the cadet into the transportation field.
When they arrived at the top they entered a room with bright lights. It was the
office of the security chief. The officer hardly glanced at them as they walked by
his desk.
A spherical auxiliary ship of the Good Hope class, measuring 200 feet in diameter, was stationed under the 
huge energy dome of the Lunar base.  Superbattleships like the Stardust II carried 12 of these units on 
board.  Silently they walked over to the ship which was ready for the takeoff.
The
lower pole elevator was still extended to the ground between the stable 
landing
legs. They floated up in the antigrav shaft and went at once to the command centre.
“Attention!” somebody bellowed at the top of his voice.  Tiff shuddered as he recognized Hifield’s voice. 
He looked rather pale as he eyed the cadets lined up in a file. They stood straight as ramrods before the 
entering commander.
Sergeant Rous was also present. He served as Second Astronaut on board the
FTL Guppy, a fasterthanlight
ship.
Tiff counted 11 cadets. There were in addition two girls of whom he 
recognized
Mildred Orsons at once. He was also acquainted with the slender, 
finefeatured
Felicita Kergonen. Felicita was only 18 years old. She had two more 
semesters in
galactobotany
to attend. What was she doing on the final test ship?
Tiff felt his pulse beat faster as he met Milly’s eyes. Evidently, Deringhouse
had chosen not to reprimand her little digression in visiting the cadets’ quarters.
“Cadet Tifflor has returned from his special furlough. We’ll take off at once.
Take your seats,” Deringhouse stated rather curtly. This was only a feeble clue to
the bewildering reappearance of Tiff that failed to satisfy the young men with taut
nerves who were on the verge of becoming full-fledged astronauts.
Klaus Eberhardt seemed about ready to burst. Hifield didn’t blink an eyelash.
He never did when an officer was around.
As Deringhouse went through the transparent security gate to the radio room to
perform some operations personally, Rous growled in his charming manner: “Get
moving! We don’t need frozen dummies on board. How long do I have to wait till
you sit down? The ladies are requested to retire to their cabin. Come on!” Rous’ bark was worse than his 
bite. As Milly Orsons walked past him with a devastating look, he stifled some strong albeit wellmeaning 
language.
Blond Felicita Kergonen demurely walked behind her one-yearolder
friend and
costudent.
The hatch closed again. Rous’ breath sounded like the hissing of a boiler letting off steam. “Damn it,” he 
clenched his teeth with an irate look.
“What’s there to snicker at? These aren’t girls, they’re students at the Space
Academy, remember that! I insist that they be treated like any other man on board.
The girls will have to show what they’ve learned about cosmobacteriology
and
galactobotany.
Cadet Tifflor!”
Tiff winced. Rous, his old tormenter, acted like a real fireeater again. “You 
take
over the weapon control in the first interval. You’re such a hotshot, aren’t 
you?
Don’t fancy the idea that you can slam through the next planet with the K7.
Eberhardt and Hifield, you supervise the technosection.
The other men to their
regular stations. Start in five minutes!”
That was First Sergeant Rous! One had to grin and bear it.
“Hey, you’re still dressed to go to a ball,” the darkhaired man sneered. “Man,
get your service uniform and be back in 12 seconds flat!” Tifflor dashed away without seeing Rous’ wide 
grin. Eberhardt and Hifield went to their swivel chairs next to the two pilot seats.
“Big wheel,” Eberhardt muttered. “How did our little boy get here? Did you see
a ship land? He’s still carrying that hot blaster in his belt.”
“We’re going to get them, too, after the start. Be quiet now!”
Inside the huge body of the K7
its machines began to run. The automatic
controls responded to Rous’ guidance much more accurately and with 
greater
dependability than any human could have done. This was a spaceship that 
had not
been built on Earth. The Arkonide supertechnology
manifested itself in every
little detail. The energy curve of the impulseconverter
rose steeply. Eberhardt
reported that the energy for the thrust neutralizers was at the required level. 
The
hitherto quiet ship was now bursting with activity.
Rous was in contact with the base commander via v’phone. Behind the
protective energy curtain lay the void of space. It was crucial for the start of the
K7
to open the energy dome for a fraction of a second at the launching pad.
“Ready for blastoff. Request column field,” Rous asked on the video.
Outside the Guppy the fieldprojectors
of the Lunar spaceport began to work. A
shining column of energy shot upwards joining the curvature of the large 
dome
and enveloping the ship at the same time.
It formed an ample and perfect passage chamber that still amazed the 
scientists
on Terra. On distant Arkon, spaceships had started and landed in this manner 
for
more than 10,000 years. The method was primarily applicable for spaceports
situated on celestial bodies that were either airless or had a poisonous atmosphere.
Rous looked through the transparent bulletproof
wall to the radio centre. The
commander was still sitting before the telecom screen. The person shown on 
the
screen could not be recognized from the command centre.
* * * *
“All clear on board,” Deringhouse murmured softly into the tiny microphone of
the ultralight
telecom set.
Rhodan nodded. The major was unable to see the person at whom Rhodan threw a side glance. Evidently 
Rhodan was highly satisfied.  Deringhouse had no inkling that he’d taken aboard with Tifflor a 
supradimensional organically living transmitter. Deringhouse hadn’t been told everything either.
Rhodan had acknowledged the affirmative nodding of the telepaths from the
Mutant Corps who were present. It was proof enough for him that Tifflor had
arrived at the Lunar base in good shape.
“Thank you. You’re free to start. Please comply fully with your instructions.
Any questions?”
Deringhouse hesitated till he hastily asked:
“Did Everson get through?”
“Yes, he went through the transition without hindrance. Anything else?” Deringhouse said no, although he 
would have liked to ask whether Tifflor’s double had come back. This probably was the case, anyway.  
“Good luck!” Rhodan concluded. “Take good care of the cadets and the final tests. They’ll be the 
starfighters of tomorrow.”
Deringhouse understood only too well the odd smile of the Chief. At this
moment a veritable tumult must have been reigning at the spaceport of the New
Power.
Perry Rhodan’s three mighty ship units had been standing ready for an
emergency start for some time. Deringhouse’s thoughts lingered longingly on the
heavy cruiser Terra which he normally commanded. Now Captain McClears was
in charge of the gigantic vessel, built on Earth and measuring more than 600 feet
in diameter.
Thinking about his cruiser Deringhouse got the vague feeling that its powerful
raycannons
could come in very handy before long. Big as the K7
was, compared
to Terra it was an impotent dwarf.
Rhodan’s picture faded. Deringhouse rose slowly before he walked over to 
the
command centre. Rous rattled his report. The two men knew and respected 
each
other.
The commander looked meaningfully at the sergeant.
“All clear, Rous? No hijackers on board?”
“Nope,” the burly sergeant drawled, his tongue briefly licking his dry lips.
“O.K. Let’s blast off! Are you done with your operations, Tifflor?”
Tiff, who had just reentered the command centre after hastily changing
uniforms, tensely gave his confirmation. If none of the others had the faintest
notion that they were on the brink of a deadly serious contest—he was sensing it.
* * * *
Exactly 30 minutes earlier the little K7
was shot into free space through the
field of the funnel in the energy dome. The monitoring station on Mars 
reported
that Deringhouse accelerated at 300 miles per second according to plan 
bringing
him in 10 minutes time close to the velocity of light.
When the first report of the automatic sensor station on Jupiter’s moon Callisto
came in, he had already reached that speed.
Rhodan had taken the seat of the First Astronaut. Far below him vibrated the
titanic machines of the superbattleship Stardust II of the Arkonide Imperium
class, the sphere of which measured half a mile. There were never bigger or more
powerful battleships built in the stellar empire of the planet Arkon. It was a story
in itself how Rhodan had succeeded in capturing the spaceship. “Start in 20 seconds,” he announced on the 
telecom.
On the large screen of the circular observation system gleamed the hulls of the
two heavy cruisers Terra and Solar System.
On the dot the three mightiest spaceships of the New Power lifted off the
ground. Despite the fact that Rhodan ordered minimal acceleration until they
reached the ionosphere, the city of Terrania not far from the spaceport was shaken
in its foundations as if its last hour had come. It had never happened before that
the three giants had blasted off together into the sky.
Beyond the Earth’s atmosphere the formation went full speed ahead. It followed
exactly the course taken by Deringhouse.
“Battle alert for all units!” This command was issued after they crossed the
orbit of Mars. The highly specialized men of the crew looked at each other. The
“old man” had spoken in such an impassive tone.
“If the fireworks don’t begin to pop in 15 hours latest, I’ll walk home on foot,”
one of the engineers in the machine control centre of the cruiser Solar System
swore.
One thousand feet above him Perry Rhodan turned to the mutant John Marshall.
“Did you make contact, John?” he inquired tersely.  Marshall twisted his face into a smile. “Terrible!” he 
groaned. “The kid is radiating like an atomic superbomb. I can hardly block out his vibrations.”
“Nevertheless you’ve got to keep tuned in on him. It’s essential that we can
locate Tifflor any time without any other technical means. I hope you’ll soon get
used to these paraimpulses.
It’s an absolute must.”
Reginald Bell occupied the seat of the Second Astronaut as usual. He made a
wry mouth. Before him on the immense observation screen Jupiter came into view
as a narrow crescent. They were to pass the planet at a close distance.
“I feel like a heel,” he reproached himself. “It would’ve been our duty to inform
him about the implant.”
Rhodan’s face looked earnest. Sombre thoughts furrowed his brow. Intercosmic
space began beyond the orbit of the transplutonian planet. If anything happened it
must take place soon.
“A knowledge of these matters would cost him his life. Perhaps I should say, could cost his life.”
“Are you expecting an attack from strangers?”
Rhodan nodded silently. When Pluto was clearly discernible, the Chief of the
New Power concluded:
“I’ve got a premonition that they’ll seize the K7
because they suspect Tifflor to
be there. Our hints were very slight but keen observers and clever brains will 
be
able to follow through. Everson hasn’t been molested. He’s already in the 
Vega
system.”
“A bold guess,” Bell laughed cheerlessly. “What if our unknown enemies 
don’t
have the logic you’re crediting them with? Then your little scheme will fall through and our cosmic decoy 
will lure them in vain.”
“Wait and see! We’ll face it after we pass Pluto. It’ll be our responsibility to
show up at the right time. Pass the word that we must be ready for our
manoeuvres after we reach the path of Uranus. If necessary we’ll perform a short
transition. I want to know who’s after us. Tifflor will give a good account of himself. I’m convinced that I 
haven’t chosen a weakling. That’ll be all.”
Bell closed his mouth, which he’d already opened. He knew the expression on
Rhodan’s face only too well.
Perry glanced at the lean tall figure of the man who was born fax from Terra.
Khrest, the incomparable scientist from the Arkonide empire, had brought
mankind not only superior technology but also true knowledge. His nearly white
hair shone in the light of the numerous picture screens. He nodded quietly and
solemnly. If anyone was in a position to find out who it was they were searching
for in deep space, it was Khrest, the descendant of an ageold ruling dynasty.
The Arkonides had already established their stellar empire at a time when the
Earthlings still dwelled in eaves. Now man had grown up. With his innate energy
and daring confidence he ventured into faraway domains that would have
remained forbidden to him for many hundreds of years without the superlative
knowledge of the Arkonides.
Rhodan waved quickly to the man who so much resembled a Terranian. In the
meantime the three ship units underwent preparations for a short but vehement
manoeuvre. “I’m going to nail them down, you can depend on that,” Rhodan
whispered. “I’ll never allow them to ruin what we’ve build up with so much hard
work. I won’t be afraid to take the greatest risks, for the sake of mankind.”
5/ The Ship From—Outside
The sun had become a pale spot. Pluto, the next to outermost planet of the solar
system, didn’t receive very much light from the lifegiving source.
The frozen world of the planet could not be seen on the observation screens of
the K7
racing by with nearly the speed of light. At this time Pluto’s position was
on the other side of the sun. Therefore, Conrad Deringhouse had to forego making
contact with the automatic station located there.  Fifteen minutes before the stereo compensators had run 
through the comparative measurements required for the transition.  The 12 cadets on board in addition to 
the regular crew had performed all the operations that were normally executed by experienced astronauts 
and technicians. The candidates were, of course, under close supervision and the strictest control was 
exercised. The final test required everything a graduate astronaut had to know and the instructors of the 
New Power never tolerated reckless behaviour.
This was especially true in the case of an FTL jump where the slightest miscalculation could lead to a 
catastrophe.
None of the men on board except two had an inkling that this particular
transition was not exactly critical. Naturally the commander desired to jump with
precision, if he had to jump at all. In this case it was only necessary that they actually reach the Vega 
system.
Deringhouse and Rous were the two people whose tension was growing by the
minute. They went through the entire range of emotions, which found expression
in their faces despite their selfcontrol.
Julian Tifflor was perhaps the only other man—beside the two who were in on
the secret—who suspected the anxious thoughts behind the raised brow of Deringhouse.
Cadets like Eberhardt and Hifield took it for granted that the growing
disquietude of the commander was caused by the transition to be executed by the
students. Indeed it was nerveracking for experienced space pilots to let such young men take the fate of 
valuable ships in their hands.
Although they had taken part in many supralightspeed
leaps, they never had
the responsibility of transacting it by themselves. This made a little 
difference;
even Hifield admitted that much. It was comparable to the first soloflight
of
bygone times. Such tests could fray their nerves no matter how perfectly 
they
mastered the subject.
Considering the relatively small distance to the Vegan sun a direct jump on 
the
basis of optical observations was feasible. The velocity of the star itself was negligible in relation to the 
short time of the transition.
Tifflor, undisputedly the best mathematician of the Space Academy, was
assigned to operate during the last hour the astronautical computer which had to
determine the final corrections for the departure data. The necessary input data
were obtained from the upper pole cupola where comparative measurements were
continually recorded automatically.
The large central computer brain on vessels like the Good Hope had the
function of transmitting the semi-automatic programming of corrections to the
drive engines that finally had to actuate the course corrections.  The K7 reverberated from the deep roar of 
the impulse-converter. The power generators were running at a much lower sound level.  “Ready for 
maximum thrust! Ready for injection of booster fuel mass!”
Deringhouse advised the technical control centre.
There skilled men were supervising the controls. Only after all figures had been
checked with utmost precision were the engineering candidates permitted to activate the crucial impulse.
“All clear in the Technical Centre!” the voice came back from the depths of the
hull. “Booster mass five seconds before transition manoeuvre.”
Tifflor listened to the various reports. He didn’t know exactly why Deringhouse
and Rous became more apprehensive all the time but he had noticed with surprise
that the highly efficient rangefinder
section of the K7
had received orders two
hours ago to double its guard.
There the telecom sensors and structural change instruments were attended 
by
some of the most outstanding radiotechnicians of the fleet. The aggregates functioned with speeds 
surpassing light which was indispensable due to the extremely rapid flight acceleration of the K7.
Any traditional method of locating objects was totally inadequate.
Tiff listened to the muffled thunder of the drive engines installed in the bulge
around the equatorial circumference. This was a typical method of construction on
Arkon that had considerable advantages over other arrangements. Primarily the
volume of the main module was more efficiently utilized. Furthermore, the
reversal of the jets in braking manoeuvres proved to be much less complicated
than in vehicles with engines at the rear.
These and many other thoughts flitted through Tiff’s mind. He performed his
calculations in a virtually somnambulant state.
When the red lamp began to light up he reported via telecom.
“Thirteen minutes to go to manoeuvre. Counter is running.”
Deringhouse turned his head and studied the illuminated diagram screen of the
cosmorobot.
The data were right on.
It was odd that Rous glanced at his plain wristwatch, which was pitifully inaccurate for the purpose. Tiff 
was seized by a vague creeping feeling.
Spellbound, he stared at the two pilots. Deringhouse had not yet unlocked the
red contact switch in the right armrest of his chair. As long as it was protected by
the transparent cover, there could be no thought of giving the decisive impulse for
the transition.
Of course it was unnecessary and it would’ve been careless to remove the safety
cover 13 minutes before the actual manoeuvre. Nevertheless Tiff couldn’t help an
inexplicable feeling that it would have been better in the interest of the K7
to
release the safety lock.
Mulling over his thoughts pro and con, the counter showed that the 13th 
minute
had elapsed. There were 12 minutes left to the transition. The millisecond
countdown was to begin at 60 seconds when every fraction of a second mattered.
A minuscule shift of the push impulse could have disastrous and uncontrollable
consequences. More than one Arkonide vessel had vanished without a trace in
hyperspace.
At exactly 6.53 seconds after the count of 12 minutes a report came through
that jarred Major Deringhouse’s body into tension. Rous’ head whirled around.
“Rangefinder
Section!” it burst from the loudspeaker. “Unidentified object in
green sector 45.3 degrees, vertical displacement green 18.6 degrees. Distance zero
point eight by bodysensors.
Velocity of foreign body close to light barrier.
Structure analysis inconclusive, probably metal alloy.”
Deringhouse didn’t say a word. This was quite unusual. His attitude was
extremely objective despite the wide grin on his lips. At such times the young
major showed a certain resemblance to Perry Rhodan. They were in that envied
class of men who were without nerves at the moment they faced danger.  Tiff held his breath. He thought 
that the metal capsule hidden in his breast pocket would crush his ribs.
Eberhardt’s mouth was agape as he wondered about the strange reaction of the
commander. Hifield had turned pale. His eyes wandered back and forth between
the two men in authority.
After the second report of the sensors was related with improved accuracy and
further details despite the great distance, Deringhouse slowly rose from his pilot
seat as if he were only getting a cup of coffee from the dispenser. Everybody watched him as he switched 
on the radio transceiver in his bulging helmet.
“Sergeant Rous, take over the ship!” he said crisply through the mike of the
radio helmet. “All men on board activate own transceivers! Technical Control!
Abandon manoeuvre stations. Cancel injection of booster mass. Make ship ready
for battle action!”
Rous knifed down the main switch of the automatic transition control. The
central computer brain whirred to standstill. The laborious calculations for the
impending manoeuvre had become superfluous with one stroke. The counter in
Tiffs cosmoautomatic
was arrested. It switched instantaneously over to the
positronic fire control. As soon as the battle alarm was sounded the ship became a
beehive of activity. The crew hurried to put on their spacesuits which were mandatory in such a case.
Tiff’s fingers worked with dreamlike perfection. He didn’t remember how often
they had practiced getting quickly into the protective suits that were always kept
within reach.
The magnetic locks snapped shut. Control lights signalled the activation of the
lifesupporting
systems. Suddenly Tifflor thought he knew why the commander
had ordered the replacement of their harmless training weapons with the real thing
back when they traversed the orbit of Mars. Something was in the wind and—to
all appearances—it had been expected all along.
Tiff dashed to his station. Automatically controlled gun-turrets rose through the
heretofore smooth and spotless outer hull of the K7.
Separate energy sources
started up in the unmanned armoured mounts. The energyfield
projectors began
to work with a muffled din. They consumed almost all the energy of the 
ship’s
power stations.
The spaceship that had just now been on the verge of a peaceful 
hypertransition
had turned into a fighting machine with sharp teeth and studded with guns.
The K7
could not be compared with the heavy cruiser of the fleet, let alone the
superbattleship
Stardust II Nevertheless, Perry Rhodan had attacked an entire
space armada with a 200foot
ship of this class and created appalling havoc
among his opponents. Deringhouse fleetingly remembered breaking through 
the
battle lines of the reptilian Topides. There the old Good Hope had proved its mettle, belying its relatively 
moderate size.
Deringhouse gave instructions to refrain from closing the spherical helmets at
this time. In case of pressure loss they would automatically shut tight anyway.
His helmet dangled on his backpack with the oxygen and power supply. The
robot fighter commando marched into the control centre. From the airlocks came
the allclear
for the special Arkonide taskforce
machines.
Deringhouse had firmly planted his feet behind the empty seat of the first 
pilot.
Sergeant Rous had taken over the controls.
Tifflor noticed the questioning look of Cadet Klaus Eberhardt whose pale 
face
protruded from the collaring of his protective suit.
Tiff shrugged his shoulders almost imperceptibly. A blunt curse coming from
Hifield was audible in radio helmets.
“Attention! This is not an exercise, I repeat—this is not an exercise!” the
commander announced. “The transition has been postponed. New calculations
will be required later for your test. I want to make clear that the sudden
appearance of a spaceship in the vicinity of the solar system is—because it doesn’t
belong to the New Power—sufficient reason to delay a hyperjump that can be
repeated any time. The K7
has twice its regular complement on board. The cadets
will have an opportunity to demonstrate their aptitude during the imminent action.
I’m interested in finding out what the foreign object is.”
“A meteor or a comet?” a high voice piped up.
“Such bodies usually don’t move with a speed approaching light,” Deringhouse
lectured without asking who had spoken.
Tiff was one of the few on board who failed to be amused. Something was going on here that Deringhouse 
couldn’t or wouldn’t mention.
The major threw up his left hand and gave a signal with his fingers for which
the man at the hyperradio
seemed to have waited. The co-ordinated bars of light
on the adjustment scale indicated clearly that the powerful directional antenna on
top of the upper pole cupola was pointing to Terra.
Tiff observed that the radio technician quickly transmitted an evidently
prearranged
signal. He noted that any verbal communication—though it would
have been feasible—was avoided. The short message was probably also strictly
coded.
There seemed to be no reply coming back but Tifflor assumed that the trained
specialists had impatiently waited for the signal. His throat began to feel dry again, a sure sign of the high 
degree of his excitement.
Deringhouse caught the desperate look of the young cadet. He stared at him till
one of his eyelids twitched. Tiff was finally able to swallow again. He had a
premonition of what was in the offing although he had not been informed of the
emergence of unknown intelligent beings. However he was acutely aware that a
serious game was about to enter a decisive phase.
Why didn’t Deringhouse call the Chief? Rhodan could have arrived in no time
with heavy battleships. The whole matter seemed baffling.
Deringhouse shooed away one of the other cadets of the final class from the
massive swivel chair of the fire control officer. The entire firepower of the K7
was here concentrated in a few buttons and levers.
Now even the men of the regular crew were astounded. What could impel the
commander to assume personally the duty of the gunner?
Deringhouse was ready for the crucial operation which never failed to cause
mild apprehension even in experienced spacefighters. The targeting mechanism
was coupled with the rangefinder.
Woe to the hostile ship that was caught in the
telecom sensors! There was no room left for mistakes in the superb 
automatic fire
control of the Arkonides. All experimental malfunctions of the construction 
had
been completely eliminated 10,000 years ago.
“Distance constant, velocity constant,” the rangefinder
section reported. “No
change of flight direction or velocity. Evaluation by positronicon determined 
that
the unidentified object consists of an elongated metallic body about 1000 
feet
long. Tolerance value plus or minus 5%.”
Deringhouse could be heard whistling through his teeth. If the unknown ship
was a thousand feet long and had the shape of a cylinder, it was definitely not
built on Earth.
“Nice little buggy,” Rous whispered into the radio.
“I’d feel better if the Solar System were around…”
A roar drowned out Rous’ words. The rangefinder
section visible behind the
transparent bulletproof wall was flooded with a bluish light. After a short 
moment
the roar subsided.
Immediately the voice of an excited rangefinder officer came through:
“Foreign object has transitioned. Object has disappeared from range of telecom.
Structure sensor magnitude at 23, very high. Structure disturbance at zero point
eight distance. Caution!”
Sergeant Rous punched the release of the safety belts. The flexible magnetic
straps sprang from the backrest of all seats. Tiff felt himself irresistibly lashed to
his seat.
Rous manipulated his controls with nimble fingers. As a pilot he was second to
none. Moreover, he seemed to know exactly what the situation required.
Tiff heard the deep rumbling of the large electric generators. Rous saturated the
hypergravo shock repulsion field to the overload mark at the very last moment.
Tifflor gripped the armrests of his chair as bluewhite flashes streaked through the navigation department. 
The two highgrade structure sensors for the measurement of major disturbances of the spacecontinuum 
conked out.
Burning debris hissed through the big room. The shrill tones pouring out of the
loudspeakers lasted only a few seconds. Then they too gave up their mechanical
ghosts.
Deringhouse bellowed something nobody could understand. Tiff was only able
to see that he snapped the contact of his spacehelmet.
He followed his example
just before the fearsome shaking began.
On the encompassing observation screen of the K7
a star seemed to explode in
close proximity. The glaring light effect couldn’t have originated more than
300,000 miles away—less than two seconds. The ghastly eddies of pure energy in
the vicinity of an emerging spaceship could only be felt but never seen. An
unprotected body, regardless of its size, was hopelessly lost at most times when it
was caught in the wake of a superspaceship
coming too close.
This certainly was a superspaceship.
Tiff observed on the videoscreen a
gigantic cylindrical body with semispherical bow and stem.  Taking into account the duration of an 
ordinary light-ray the unknown vessel must have rematerialised two minutes earlier.
The optical magnification brought the foreign object so close that its outside was clearly recognizable.
At the stem of the ship fiery outbursts appeared. They were violet, strangely fluorescing energy bundles 
that clearly proved that highpowered impulsedrive engines of the Arkonide type were at work over there.
All these impressions were instantaneously digested by Tifflor. Then he was
seized by the terrifying oscillations of the ship’s hull that reverberated like a bell
and reduced him to a pitiful substance of flesh and blood. Tiff screamed bloody
murder and so did all the other men on board as their heads throbbed with pains
that made seconds feel like eternities.
The roaring and jolting continued. Below the command centre the generators of
the power stations whined furiously. If they failed to meet the energy demands of
the allimportant protective field, the first to perish would be the weakest links on board—its people.
“Oh no, brother, not that!” Tiff shouted in torment.
6/ Unforeseen Events
Although the structure sensors in the rangefinder sections of the heavy units didn’t blow out, they were 
strained to the limit of their capacity.
Perry Rhodan didn’t wait for the report from the r.f. section. He knew from sad
experience gained on prior flight actions that this was more than a bad joke.
The emergence of the alien ship after its manoeuvre in space didn’t otherwise
affect Rhodan’s fleet of battleships. Only the structure sensors had been severely
strained.
The three vessels were aligned in a widely staggered formation near the orbit of
Uranus. The distance between the K7
launched earlier and Rhodan’s team was
approximately two billion miles. This distance was really too short for a 
transition
but too far for normal flight below the speed of light.
Rhodan, who had been loath to consider the possibility of a swift attack by the
unknown foe by means of such a co-ordinated transition, now had to face the fact
that this very thing had indeed happened.
He ignored the wild cursing of his First Officer. Reginald Bell was beside himself. The occurrence the 
structure sensors had so strongly registered was merely proof of what he had considered a foregone 
conclusion in contrast to Rhodan’s opinion.
The secret opponent didn’t risk pursuing the equally fast K7 in normal flight.
Such a manoeuvre would’ve been madness especially as it had been shown before
that spacebattles near the barrier of light were extremely difficult and almost impossible to conduct.
“What are we going to do now?” he shouted. “They jumped in close. If we do
the same, it’ll tear the K7 apart. She won’t take another shock like that. Even one of the cruisers would 
create too much disturbance.”
Rhodan had grasped the situation long before Bell finished his loud laments. He
made contact by telecom with the two heavy cruisers Terra and Solar System,
located on the same plane in red and green at a distance of three light-minutes.“Rhodan to McClears and 
Nyssen. Follow in normal flight after visual evaluation. Chart your course precisely for K7.
I’ll go first into transition with the
Stardust. Wait for my orders before you follow me in a short distance leap. 
Don’t
start simultaneously under any conditions. I’ll return from hyperspace two
lightminutes
away from the K7.
She should be able to withstand this without
damage. Watch all developments in the situation carefully!”
Bell was impressed. This was the instantaneous problem-solving for which
Rhodan was famous. In these lightning fast decisions, making the most of all
possibilities evolving from the circumstances, lay the secret of Rhodan’s success.
Indeed the K7 wouldn’t be jeopardized if the superbattleship emerged from a higher plane of space into the 
normal universe. Two lightminutes —this was approximately tantamount to 22 million miles.  Rhodan 
could have easily aimed for a distance of half a lightminute.  This was well within the safe tolerance of 
stress for the K7.
But here too Rhodan had promptly calculated and weighed the conditions. A
small margin for error had to be taken into account. There was no such infallible
brain in the universe nor such a perfect computer as one which could program the
highly complicated transition manoeuvre to the last mile. The unavoidable
tolerance variations of drive engines and fluctuations of structure fields precluded
such accuracy. Rhodan was forced to make an educated guess and his best choice
was two lightminutes.
He had to rule out travelling at the speed of light to reach the battleground since
such a delay could have proved fatal. An attack had definitely taken place there.
The crew of the halfamilewide
supergiant
went feverishly to work. The
preliminary rough figures were adjusted to the finest degree in accordance 
with
the available data. This was accomplished with uncanny speed thanks to the incomparable positronic brain 
on board the mighty battleship.  Nevertheless, it took about six minutes before the final results could be 
transmitted to the automatic guidance for the transition. Now Stardust II was ready for action.
“Commander to crew!” all loudspeakers blared. “Transition in 42 seconds. Try
to pull immediately out of the transition shook. No shooting unless ordered by me.
I’m taking over direct command. Technical Control to proceed at once with
booster mass injection. We’ll have to be faster than the other ships. Attention!
Go!”
The severe, moleculesplitting
jolt of the transition struck abruptly. Rhodan’s
last word faded into something the Arkonide hyperphysicists
called
‘destandardized structure form,’ a concept that could only be utilized for
calculations by people who excelled in Arkonide science—and the disciples of the
New Power had it at their fingertips.
The mighty Stardust II vanished like a shimmering spot of light from the normal spacetimecontinuum.
The heavy cruisers were careful not to register the
jumpoff
on its structure sensors. When a vessel with the Stardust’s gigantic
proportions was thrust into hyperspace, it created the upheaval of an entire space
sector.
* * * *
The Arkonide robots were said to have exceptionally sensitive mechanobrains.
This reputation seemed to be wrong since the robots were the first to overcome
the tremendous shock of the transition.
Men like Conrad Deringhouse and Sergeant Rous were still hanging half unconscious in their safety belts 
when the mechanical members of the crew started to operate again.
The enemy was close—much too close. A cursory check revealed that they had
already approached the alien ship within about one lightsecond.  This was still almost 200,000 miles but it 
was a ridiculously small distance for Rhodan’s astronauts.
The distance of 200,000 miles could be leaped by an impulseray
in 1.3
seconds. This could hardly be called keeping one’s distance; on the contrary, 
it
was more like an accosting attempt as it left practically no time for 
manoeuvres.
To make things worse, their opponent kept abreast at the same velocity.
Naturally he had also emerged from hyperspace near the speed of light.
Major Deringhouse was jarred from his painfully clouded state of mind by the
deep roar of fire spewing from a gun turret. When he was able to see clearly again, he observed on the 
control screen panel of turret Caesar that they had scored a smashing hit on the hostile target.
The K7
turned leeward from the fire by the recoiling cannon. The gyroscopes
compensated for the deviation at once but they found it necessary to correct the
minute shift of less than a thousandth of a degree by rotating the turrets.  Due to this tiny delay 
Deringhouse was unable to push the firing buttons instantly. The positronic brain had not yet given the 
green light.
He watched the effect of his hit with fascination. The strange ship, magnified to
the size of a hand on the picture screen, reacted with great vehemence.
Its protective screen flared up in a searing glow. Its stern was burled around by
the impact even though the thermo-beam evidently didn’t penetrate the defence
shield. Nevertheless it was a telling blow as Deringhouse noted with great interest
and satisfaction.
Then his eyes narrowed again. The fire control reported all clear.
The commander could have pressed all buttons with 10 fingers. Nobody had to
tell such an experienced veteran as Deringhouse that nothing would’ve remained
of the enemy ship.
Tifflor loudly expressed his bitter disappointment when the commander touched
only one of the firing buttons. This time he didn’t even shoot from the extra-heavy
impulse beamer mounted at the lower pole.
He fired a single paltry gun from the ring of batteries in the midbulge.  Notwithstanding its murderous 
noise, its sting was not enough to harm their hulking adversary.
A cannon like that was commonly used only as a polite warning signal to a stranger who was requested to 
identify himself.
Major Deringhouse grinned delightedly at the protesting cadet as if he were
blissfully unaware that they confronted a fighting ship of enormous dimensions.
The answer came promptly and unmistakably.  A blinding burst of energy lunged so rapidly toward the K7 
that it became visible only at the last moment.
The men pulled in their heads. A muffled groan spread out through the helmet
speakers.
Then pandemonium followed. The inside of the protective barrier was engulfed
by a scorching heatwave
with solar temperature. Energy storms frazzled the
structure fields and the impact of the hit strained the shock absorbers to the limit
of their capacity.
Once again the spherical hull turned into a swinging, resounding gong. It took
several long seconds before the vibrations died down and the fiery light grew dim
on the hypergravoscreen.
“They must have good intentions,” Rous groaned into the microphone. “Heaven
help us if they let go with a salvo. That’ll be the end of us.”
“Shoot! Why don’t you shoot?” somebody cried in anguish. Tiff looked back.
Hifield, who always acted so arrogantly and superior, was now hanging in his
safety belts, trembling and screaming hysterically.
All hell had broken loose on board the K7.
Tifflor was firmly convinced that all Deringhouse had to do to destroy the enemy was to loose a fullscale 
barrage.
Why in the world did he fiddle around with the toy cannon in the ring battery?
After all their opponent had made no secret that he meant business.
When the second shot slammed into the defence shield of the K7
Tiff became
even more desperate. They were deadly serious. There could be no doubt 
about it
after the radio officer reported that he had received no answer to his call to 
end the
hostilities.
Deringhouse blanched a little till the effect of the bombardment had worn 
off.
He merely nodded to Rous. That was all, but it clearly implied that the two 
men
had an understanding between them. Otherwise the crazy idea of 
manipulating the
fairly massive K7
like a tiny oneman
pursuitship would never have occurred to
the Sergeant. He switched over to manual steering, leaving only the thrust absorbers under automatic 
control. He even took the operation of the drive engines over himself and began what he called ‘evasion 
manoeuvres.’ If Tiff had known that Perry Rhodan was waiting not too far away with a powerful battle 
formation, he could have understood the purpose of Rous’ turbulent tactics. The Sergeant was out to gain 
time.
Since Deringhouse didn’t shoot to kill, Tiff came to the conclusion that
Deringhouse never attempted to demolish the ship in the encounter. One couldn’t
very well shoot people dead if one wanted to ask them questions. It was as simple
as that.
Deringhouse’s voice rose above the whine of the drive engines running with
stupendous acceleration: “Keep your belts fastened! A few G’s will be coming
through the absorbers. Sit tight!”
The stars visible on the observation screens turned into rotating streaks. Rous
flew a course not even the best computer could have devised. Such feats could be
performed only by thinking, organic beings.
Glistening thermostreams
shot past the dancing K7.
If she took any hit now it
would be a pure accident.
Tifflor watched Sergeant Rous’ taut face. He made a mental note to remind 
the
Sergeant occasionally that his own flight manoeuvre on the Moon was 
harmless
compared to this.
He became absorbed in these breakneck
capers to the point of being distracted
from their perilous situation till he was alarmed again by a high screeching 
noise.
The ship quavered ominously. The engines continued to roar but they were
subjected to such tremendous Gforces
that the older men were reminded of the
early days of primitive space trips.
The intensity escalated in quick spurts to three, six and eight G’s. At this 
point
the pilot’s manual steering was terminated by the automatic safety control.  All drive engines were shut 
down by the positronic brain and the energy thus gained flowed into the thrust-absorbers. The terrible 
pressure decreased immediately and soon disappeared completely.
Groaning softly, Deringhouse lifted himself up in his seat. Several cadets had
lost consciousness.
When Tiffs bloodfilled eyes became normal again, he could only moan. The alien ship was poised close to 
the helpless K7.
“A pullray,
damn it!” Deringhouse shouted. “They’ve caught us. Rous, turn the
engines on to full power. Give it all you’ve got to get out of this field or we’ll be
finished.”
Sergeant Rous’ desperate efforts to get the ship moving were in vain. The
automatic controls failed to react. Whoever was in that other ship was using his
brains. He seemed to know that the safety regulator was merely insuring the stability of the thrust 
neutralization field. Keeping his pullray just below its highest magnitude insured that the machines of the 
K7 were unable to start up.
Bursts of light flooded the picture screens with the brightness of the Sun as the
two defence fields collided. The safety devices on the K7
blew up, proving
beyond doubt that the other much larger vessel was equipped with more 
powerful
machines.
Deringhouse withdrew his fingers at the last moment from the firing buttons. 
If
he’d started shooting now, the Guppy would have been blown to 
smithereens too.
The alignment manoeuvre of the strangers was performed with admirable 
skill.
Over there were experienced pilots at the controls. The long hull soon 
blanketed
all observation screens on the starboard side. There was a lot of shouting 
going on
in the captured sphere.
Deringhouse ran to the radio room. The K7
was still locked on to the powerful
pullray
of the strangers. There was no way of escaping as long as the other side maintained their control.
“Enemy is speeding up,” somebody bellowed. “He’s dragging us along at a fast
clip. Caution!”
Tiff saw that Deringhouse hastily talked into the mike of the main telecom. The
lightmarks of the directional antenna coincided precisely. A violet signal indicated that it was aligned with 
Terra.
Now the pressure forces were on the increase again. The acceleration must have
reached more than 300 miles per second. It was simply impossible to start the
machines of the K7.
Rous worked like mad. The positronicon was impervious to
his attempts to interfere with the emergency measures. It was programmed to
prevent a catastrophe and safeguarding human life on board had the highest
priority. Therefore, the last available watt was fed into the shock-absorber field
and no energy was left for power consumed by the main drive engines and auxiliary aggregates.
Deringhouse had barely time enough to throw himself on a reclining seat before
the Gforces
became dangerous.
Tifflor gasped with great difficulty for breath. Rous’ face before him was
distorted into a painful grimace in the typical manner facial muscles changed their
shape under such stresses.
Tiff estimated that they were exposed to 10 G’s over the tolerable amount when
the structure sensors reacted violently. A tremendous ship must have emerged
from hyperspace.
The stillfunctioning telecom sensors showed the huge glistening sphere of an Imperium class battleship. 
Stardust II had arrived!
Tiff heard the rasping laugh of the Commander. Suddenly he realized that
Conrad Deringhouse had this up his sleeve all along. The Stardust was his trump.
But the question was whether Perry Rhodan had come in time.
The alien spaceship accelerated at a fantastic rate, which was made easier due to
the high velocity it had attained in the meantime.
The pressure reached 11 G’s. Then came the stupefying dematerialisation shock
for which Tifflor had subconsciously waited.
Evidently the large ship had performed this manoeuvre together with the locked
on K7
by injecting the booster mass.
Rous’ face became blurred. It had faded into a pale hazy spot without
recognizable contours. The soft rustling noise accompanying the transition was
also audible.
Unforeseen events had taken them by surprise.
7/ The Secret Weapon
Perry Rhodan, always distinguished by his ability to shift his attention spontaneously, grasped the situation 
intuitively.
As the Stardust returned to the normal universe, the alien ship was immediately
detected and projected on the observation screen.
It took Rhodan only a second to shake off the materialization shock and be alert
again.
The rangefinder registered the distance between the two ships as 1.9356 lightminutes.
The transition had been executed with high precision but they emerged about a minute too late from 
hyperspace.  The awesome roar of the gigantic drive engines broke into Rhodan’s deliberations. Chief 
Engineer Manuel Garand had quickly and accurately complied with the instructions given before the 
transition.
The superbattleship
surged forward. Within a few moments it reached the
absolute maximum for travel below the speed of light. This limit was at .6% of the
speed of light in accordance with the physical laws of normal space.
The crew also came back to life again. The observation officer reported:
“Unidentified ship accelerating at extreme rate. Transition appears likely.”
Rhodan heard the voluble curses of his First Officer. Reginald Bell realized that
they came a moment too late because of the timeconsuming calculations.
“They probably hold the K7
in an enormously strong retaining field,” the
observation officer reported again. “A bombardment is inadvisable.”
Rhodan knew this too. Quickly, without wasting words, he tried his last chance.
The rolled out gunturrets
of the gigantic ship remained silent. Instead the
power stations were abruptly switched over to howling transformers and through
wireless conductors. Almost simultaneously the upper tractor-ray was activated by
the combined energysources
of the Stardust. A lightningfast
gravitation beam
measuring 60 feet shot from the projector. Where this highly concentrated 
field
was applied, a small planet could be blasted out of its orbit. If the alien 
spaceship
was caught in its beam, there was not the slightest chance of escape for it, including the mass of the K7.
The heated discussions on board the battleship stopped. The pale shimmer of the tractorray swishing away 
was clearly visible. It was even faster than the Stardust’s own considerable speed.
Unfortunately its running time was still too long. Rhodan was the first to realize
that he was labouring under an illusion.
Before the desired goal could be reached, the structure sensors reacted vigorously. The strange vessel 
vanished in a flicker of light.
Rhodan punched the button of the power switch. The tractorray
projector went
out like a light.
“Quiet on board!” Rhodan’s voice resounded from all the loudspeakers in a
cool, steely tone that caused even Bell to remain silent. “As you can see, we’ve
come too late. The K7
was corralled by a substantially bigger ship. It’s amazing
that the aliens have been able to go into transition with our ship in tow outside.
Attention, rangefinder
section! Be on alert with structure sensors. Make sure you
locate where the unknown ship emerges from hyperspace. It’s unlikely they’ll leap
very far. I assume it’s merely an emergency transition without a special target
undertaken for the sole purpose of a quick escape. It’s essential that you determine
at once the approximate position after their reappearance.”
After the rangefinder
section confirmed the instructions, the commanders of
the two heavy cruisers Terra and Solar System were ordered to advance in half an
hour to the orbit of Pluto.
Major Nyssen and Captain McClears acknowledged the order.
“You aren’t ready yet to give up?” a sonorous voice asked.
Rhodan turned his head. Khrest, the Arkonide, stood tall and erect behind him.
“I wouldn’t think of it. If we succeed in spotting the ship on its return into
space, we’ll be able to calculate its approximate position. I’ve another question.
Were you able to tell from the shape of the unknown ship whom we’re dealing
with?”
Khrest shook his highdomed
head. “I’m sorry but I’ve been unable to come to
a conclusion. There are many space travellers who build their ships like that. I’d
have to see more details.”
Rhodan was disappointed and turned back to his controls. A few moments later
a weak rumble was heard in the r.f. section.
“Rematerialization has occurred, at a considerable distance,” the observation officer reported. “It’ll be very 
difficult, sir, to compute the exact position.” “Thank you, I’m aware of the margin of errors involved,” 
Rhodan interrupted.
“Give me the rough figures. I’ll have the mathematical group take care of the
precise results. Khrest, may I ask you to help me?” Twenty minutes later both heavy cruisers arrived 
simultaneously. They approached at high speed and skilfully lined up in formation.  Rhodan joined the 
circle of his mutants who were all present The telepaths among them concentrated on the intensive 
vibrations they had received so painfully a short time ago.
“How about it?” Rhodan inquired. His face looked slim and impassive.  Marshall was the spokesman for 
the special corps. He slowly raised his shoulders. “Chief, if it’s really possible to hear Tifflor two lightyears 
away, he must be farther than that at this time. We can receive nothing at all.”
“Does the presence of the ship’s crew interfere with your perception? If so, I
can take you a few lighthours
out into intercosmic space.”
“The emissions from the men don’t disturb us. We’re used to them. Cadet Tifflor is of no help to us now. 
We can’t make contact with him.”
Rhodan walked slowly toward the hatch. The three ships were in the process of
braking. Now it was crucial to compute the reentry position of the escaped ship precisely. Rhodan knew 
that this would be a formidable task.
The mutants eyed their commander silently. Up to now everything had worked
out according to his plans but the mysterious strangers had reacted expertly and
too fast to suit Rhodan under the circumstances. It had been clear from the
beginning that it wouldn’t be practical to show up earlier since it would’ve been
self-defeating to follow the decoy ship too closely.
Nevertheless, Rhodan was so far satisfied with the result. He had already
determined beyond doubt that a firstclass
spy organization existed in the territory
of the New Power. The allegedly highly important mission of Cadet Tifflor 
had
been discovered.
However, Rhodan was for the moment very little concerned with the
elimination of the agents. He considered it more urgent to find out who professed
such a burning interest in Terra. Only after this had been determined could
Rhodan come to more definite conclusions as to their proficiency and technical
equipment as well as to their intentions.
Rhodan brooded for a minute before the big antigrav elevator in the central axis
of the ship. A few men saluted. The lean man looked right through them as if they
didn’t even exist.
Rhodan’s thoughts dwelled on the best weapon he deployed in this contest,
namely Julian Tifflor. Tiffs implanted transmitter was working continuously. If
Rhodan succeeded in getting within a distance of two lightyears,
it would be an
easy matter to pinpoint his location.
It wouldn’t help his adversaries one whit to hide in the deepest burrows 
under
the mountains of unknown worlds, where they would have been safe from
detection by technical means but nonetheless exposed to probings via
allpervasive
telepathy.
Now it was necessary to bring the ‘secret weapon Tifflor’ back into play and 
to
do this they had to perform some intricate calculations.
Rhodan found some solace in the thought that he had allowed himself at least
two lightyears leeway. This was a considerable margin of tolerance.
Before riding up to the Command Centre he checked in at the Machine Control
room of the superbattleship.
The technical team under Manuel Garand had done exemplary work. The bewildering array of installations 
for the mechanical guidance held no more secrets for the team.
Garand’s cherubic face lit up when he recognized the Chief. “What can I do for
you? Any special wishes?” he inquired, sounding like a pleased child who had just
received some presents.
Rhodan was cheered up again by Garand who was one of those goodnatured
characters who talked in the most cordial manner when conditions were at their
worst. When Chief Engineer Garand began to beam it meant that stormy weather
was brewing.
“None,” Rhodan exclaimed. “Just keep everything shipshape. You understand
that we’ll soon be in the thick of things. It’d be ridiculous if we couldn’t corner
these kidnapers.”
“We’ll do our part,” the corpulent engineer promised happily. “By the way, sir,
I’ve given some thought to the retaining field we’ve observed. Would you like to
take a look at the data?”
Rhodan grinned with real pleasure. “Well,” he said broadly, “I knew I could get
something out of you.”
As Rhodan walked over to the computer, Stardust II was losing the last of its
speed. The ship came to a complete stop about 180 miles beyond the orbit of
Pluto. The familiar Sun was only a pale little disk that could hardly be suspected
of making a burning hell out of a planet like Mercury.
In the Command Centre Reginald Bell switched his controls over to standby
and grumbled as he got up from his seat. “I wonder what the devil we’re getting
into,” he mumbled. “I’d love to get these hijackers before a cannon. That would
simplify our questioning, don’t you think?”
The robot he addressed didn’t react and Bell saved himself some very abusive
and very useless words. Disgustedly he trotted over to the drink dispenser.
In spite of his state of gloom he had the feeling that Rhodan would persevere in
the end no matter what setbacks he encountered.
8/ Enter: The Springers
They were painfully familiar with the pangs of rematerialisation and knew that
the transition had ended.
The temporary derangement of the senses and the bloodred surge before the
eyes indicated that they had made a long leap. Such effects were produced only in
jumps of over 200 lightyears.
Deringhouse struggled to get out of his reclining seat. The other men in the
Command Centre were slowly coming to. The cadets—not being used to such
extreme stress—took a few more minutes to recover.
Tifflor saw the Commander stagger from the radio room. Deringhouse’s
breathing was heard as shrill, whistling noises in the closed helmets. Apparently
he had to gather all his strength to overcome his exhaustion.  Rous, too, was up again. Tiff’s first feeble 
effort was to touch the metal cylinder in his breastpocket.
As long as his spacesuit remained closed, he was
unable to trigger the built-in selfdestruct
device.
He was gripped by panic. Nobody had to tell him what the unknown skipper had done with the K7.
He didn’t have the haziest notion whether their pursuers
were merely intent on intercepting his secret message or capturing their
spacesphere, though in the final analysis it made very little difference to him.
He was fully convinced that the explicit orders he had received required him to
destroy at once the capsule containing the secret microtapes.
The observation screens had become unobstructed again. Tiff quickly glanced
at the front panel. Not far from the ship, still moving close to the speed of light, a
clearly recognizable doublestar
was shining.
The larger, orangecoloured
sun seemed to stand much closer than its blue
companion.
Tiff tried for a moment to search his memory for the names of such 
doublestars
but he quickly gave up since there were too many in the universe. It was 
much
more important that he follow his orders regarding the message.
After a few seconds he also got up on his feet. It was at the same moment that
the strangers began to open the large freight airlock above the circular bulge.
The warning lights flashed in the Command Centre. Sergeant Rous cursed
dreadfully. Farther back the roar of a firing impulsebeamer
sprang up. Tiff spun
around in horror. Who could be so stupid as to blast away in the narrow 
confines
of the K7
with an energyweapon
releasing bursts as hot as the sun?
“Disintegrators only!” the commander shouted into the microphone. “Cease thermo’s at once! Do you want 
to vaporize the ship?” The answer came in the form of shrill warning sirens from the climate control.
In some departments of the vessel the temperature must have reached intolerable
levels.
Tifflor stopped watching the events. It was obvious the little crew of the K7 didn’t stand a chance.
Deftly he caught the weapon Eberhardt threw to him. It was a heavy disintegrator, shooting rays that 
dissolved solid matter.
An infernal din broke out in the radiohelmets
that forced the men to tone them
down to nearly zero. Everybody was screaming and yelling in unison. The mingled cries of pain made 
Deringhouse fear the worst. The deeptoned explosions from unknown weapons was unmistakable.  “Run to 
the rangefinder section!” the Commander called out to the cadet.  “Hurry!”
Tiff took the risk of opening his helmet inside the hermetically sealed section
room. Now the din of the battle grew much louder. It was getting closer. Several
of the picture screens in the department had stopped functioning. Then the electric
current was shut off and the lights went out as all other screens also became dark.
“They’ve taken over the Machine Control room,” Rous said dispiritedly. “They
must be pretty tough. They broke in when we were still halfunconscious.
Otherwise this wouldn’t have happened, you can take my word for that.”
Rous could have been right but it was now already highly irrelevant. As the
noise outside the closed hatch rose to a fever pitch and a whitehot
spot appeared
on the armoured steel panel, Tifflor pulled the spacesuit from his body. He
became desperate when the magnetic lock on his collar jammed and stubbornly
refused to give way under his impatient tugging.  The room was empty of people. Whoever could hold a 
gun had taken cover behind heavy pieces of equipment.
The collar lock finally broke open when the hatch began to melt under the tremendous heat applied. A 
painful gust of hot air was blown against Tiff’s unprotected face and the hatch disintegrated.
There was a blinding light outside. As Tiff tore open his uniform, the Command
Centre was raked by flashing bursts. They shot into the room with unfamiliar shockweapons and 
Deringhouse suddenly realized why he’d heard those cries of pain before.
Cadet Eberhardt was the first to collapse. He was followed by Rous, Martin and
HifieId. Deringhouse managed to get off a shot into the hallway before he too was
felled by one of the lightning flashes. He crashed moaning to the floor, stiff as a
board.
Disregarding the battle, Julian Tifflor paid only attention to the task at hand. He
didn’t touch his weapon and wasted no time looking for cover.
When the giant figures stormed into the Command Centre and the lamps flared
up again, Tiff stood calmly in the middle of the room with the transparent armoured walls which had 
repulsed the rays from the enemy guns.
With fascination he watched the metal capsule go up in bright cold flames on
the radio set where he’d placed it for all to see.
Tifflor, the youth constantly plagued by selfdoubts
and insecurity, had in a
moment become a man without nerves.
With an ironical smile he faced the approaching intruders, who looked like
intelligent humanoid beings. When the first one reached him, Tifflor was still
smiling.
The six and a half foot tall, extremely robust stranger stopped in his tracks. He
wore a light spacesuit of the Arkonide pattern, yet he was no Arkonide.
Tiff first noticed the red shorttrimmed
beard, the big menacing eyes in a broad
face and the fiery red hair. He looked like a veritable giant as he planted 
himself
in front of the slim young man from the planet Terra.
More figures of the same huge size came in. Their raucous voices fell silent.  They stared threateningly at 
Tifflor, whose quiet smile was probably more effective than senseless resistance.
Tiff surpassed himself in a remarkable performance. In his most charming
manner, without a trace of trepidation, he began speaking in Intercosmo: “Pero!
Hello! May I welcome you on behalf of the indisposed Commander on board the
Terra spaceship K7?
Although your entry was a little stormy, I’m going to bring
out the champagne right away. I beg your pardon, if you’re not acquainted with
the customs of our civilization that has produced such a delicious drink. Would
you like to sit down?”
One of the redbearded men raised a hand that looked more like a paw. He snarled something as if he were 
in charge. His eyes flitted from Tiff to the scorched spot on the radio set, where not even a speck of ash 
remained.
Nevertheless, Tiff subsequently came close to fainting. The man with the red
beard folded his hands in front of his belly, bent over backwards and let go such a
bellowing laugh that Tiff thought his eardrums were going to burst.
Tiff couldn’t help being reminded of the old fire siren he had found as a boy in
a junkyard and fixed up again together with a friend. Now he understood why his
father was apoplectic with rage the first time they tested it. He, Tiff, was now in a
similar situation.
As nervous as he felt inside, this outbreak of laughter tended to put his mind at
ease. The other dangerous looking brutes joined in the howling laughter of their
chief. These people appeared to distinguish themselves by their capacity for boundless laughter.
On the other hand it might also be a sign of anger. Tiffs face grew a little paler.
The reactions of alien beings could be the exact reverse. At least that’s what they’d been taught in the 
Space Academy.
It took a few minutes before the man with the deeply lined face had calmed
down again. Now Tiff made his second mistake by saying politely: “Anyway, I’m
happy I’m not confronted by bugeyed
monsters with suction cups on the soles of
their feet.”
The ensuing laughter shook the K7.
Julian Tifflor resolved firmly not to
provoke humour in these apparently excitable people.
“He’s precious!” the redhaired
man groaned after a while. “We want to keep
him. Tell me, mikoa, how come that you speak the trade language of the 
great
archipelago?”
Tiff was relieved to bear himself addressed as a ‘mikoa’—friend. “You 
mean
the Galaxy?” He inquired hesitantly. Deeply worried, he kept glancing at his unconscious comrades.
“They’ll soon wake up again,” the stranger assured him jovially. “We’re
peaceful traders, not pirates. My name is Orlgans, Captain and owner of the
commercial ship Orla XI. We like and respect the intelligent races of the great
archipelago. We never interfere with their internal squabbles unless somebody
dares to meddle with our trade monopoly. I apologize for the somewhat rough
treatment I’ve meted out but nobody has come to grief. However I can’t fail to
mention that your Terranian Commander has tried to attack my ship and that I’ve
escaped at the last moment.”
Tiff stopped wondering and was no longer afraid. Although he was only 20
years old he’d become a man with a cool mind. This wasn’t really so surprising
since he was one of the few carefully selected students at the Academy using the
training methods of an ancient race to prepare them for a life of adventure.
Tiff was circumspect and merely bided his time. All his former inferiority
complexes were now completely suppressed. He sensed that the fate of Terra was
at stake in this game, the home of mankind and his ideals. The welfare of the
many people on Earth justified every sacrifice. Never before had Tiff felt so
clearly that everybody born on Earth was simply human, regardless of the colour
of his skin or belief.
This awareness turned the young man into an incisive tactician. Orlgans was
dangerous! His joviality was a mask and his raucous laughter was a characteristic
peculiarity of his race.
Tiff no longer smiled politely. Some of the bearded men were busy in the
Command Centre dragging away his unconscious companions like weightless
manikins.
“I thank you for the rather humane treatment,” Tiff said. “Be that as it may,
Captain Orlgans, you’ve come exactly 10 seconds too late, in which time I’ve
destroyed the container. You know about that, don’t you?”
Of course Orlgans was informed about it. For a moment a shadow crossed his
wide face.
“You’re a good negotiating partner,” he stated with a searching look. “Frank
when you know your strength but secretive if you suspect your own weakness.
Empires were built by clever men like that. Yes, I know about the message. Why
do you think I’ve ambushed your ship?”
It was on the tip of Tifflor’s tongue to tell him how easy it would have been for
them to blow the Orla XI to kingdom come with one salvo, but he refrained.
“What do you intend to do now?” he asked tersely. “Where are we?”
“Never mind that. By the way, I must compliment on your excellent knowledge
of the intergalactic language.”
“Our battleships are even more excellent,” Tiff replied bitingly.
Orlgans’ face became tense. Coldly he answered: “I’ve a Terranian on board
my ship by the name of JeanPierre
Mouselet. He has told us the whole story of
how your backward world accidentally came into possession of one single
battleship. Mind you, one lone battleship is all you’ve got. You are, or were, the
carrier of a message which specially concerns my sphere of interest. Long term
trading plans on a cosmic scale are no laughing matter for our people. We’re
peaceful, as I said before. However we reserve the right to defend our old
privileges. Long ago the Great Imperium gave us full authority to act in any
manner we see fit to maintain our monopoly. We’re going to settle this with you,
Julian Tifflor!”
“You know my name?”
“What do you take us for? Did you think you could deceive us?”
Once again they roared with laughter. Tiff felt a little humiliated. As he never
was initiated in Rhodan’s master plan, he was firmly convinced that he served as
bearer of very important news and he therefore accepted Orlgans’ explanations as
valid. Men like Deringhouse would have ridiculed it since the so called secret
message was nothing but a ruse.
Tiff was led away roughly but not unfriendly. Orlgans commented with a grin:
“We belong to related breeds of man, Tifflor. We ought to get along. I don’t see
why this shouldn’t be possible. You’ve probably never heard about my people.
We, the Springers, are mightier than the Great Imperium itself. I’m constantly
making agreements with radically different races. There’s no reason why I can’t
do the same with you. I want you to know that my ancestors were Arkonides just
like your tutor called Khrest.”
Tiff was shaken but didn’t show it. This stranger knew really much, indeed much too much. And who was 
Jean Pierre Mouselet? Probably a Frenchman.
Tifflor had never heard the name but he believed that Orlgans’ detailed
information could only be furnished by a man from Earth of great intellect who
was well versed in scientific practices. It was the only explanation for Orlgans’
knowledge.
Tiff noticed in passing that the unconscious men of the crew had been taken to
the mess hall of the auxiliary ship. All important stations were guarded by people
who looked like Orlgans.
When he reached the loading dock above the peripheral bulge he had to put on
his spacesuit again. About 60 feet away he saw the curved hull of the foreign ship.
The huge bodies of his captors floated across and Tiff noted that they were in
freefall. The double star was still too far away to necessitate a braking manoeuvre.
Tiff was hauled over with a rope. When he entered the airlock he felt that his last hour had come.
These Springers—as Orlgans called them—were extremely dangerous. It was
clear that they felt menaced by the New Power under Perry Rhodan. Apparently
they were afraid to lose their unrestricted trade monopoly. The only time they
were likely to become vicious was when their sacred right was challenged.
Perry Rhodan had probably done this unknowingly. Tiff could have bet his life
that his Chief had no inkling of the Springers’ existence.
Orlgans patted Tiff in a fatherly fashion on the back as they went through the
pressure equalizer.
“Our air is fit to breathe for you,” he said patronizingly. “How about telling us a
few more of your delightful jokes?”
“Jokes?” Tiff stammered. When did he make jokes? This was taken by the
traders as just another funny remark. They were bowled over with wild hilarity.
9/ “We Can Conquer The Earth!”
The slender darkhaired
man with the restless eyes and nervous fingers was
positively an Earthling. The other bearded individuals were about three times as
heavy as the man who was approximately 50 and had a twitching face. He appeared to be a nervous wreck 
on the way to a final breakdown.
“JeanPierre
Mouselet, former manager of a European industrial corporation,” the emaciated man introduced himself. 
Tifflor simply stared at him icily.  “Don’t you have any cigarettes?” Mouselet begged, edging closer.  “I 
don’t smoke,” Tiff replied tersely. “If I did, I’d gladly give you a whole pack.”
Mouselet acted surprised at this seemingly friendly gesture. But the gesture was
anything but. Tiff made that perfectly clear with his next words. “I’d gladly give
you a whole carton—it’s fine by me if a traitor to Terra wants to ride the Cancer
Express to his own funeral.”
Mouselet, a pathetic ruin of a man, couldn’t bring himself to swear nor even
manage a reproachful look. His flickering eyes mirrored such deep despair that
Tiff almost began to feel a vague pity for him.
“Please forgive me,” Mouselet said hastily. “I smoke excessively and my last
pack…”
“Get to the point,” the cadet interrupted impassively. “I presume that 
Orlgans
has sent you to loosen my tongue. Let me assure you that there’s nothing to 
pry
loose from me. I wasn’t informed about the contents of the message I’ve
destroyed. Or do you believe that I could carry such complex plans in my head?”
Mouselet’s eyes looked suddenly piercing. “Why not? Rhodan is familiar with
the method of implanting a tremendous amount of information in a person’s brain.
Perhaps you don’t know yourself that you’ve been given a posthypnotic block.
But such information can be retrieved easily. The microtapes could have been
used as a ruse for you. You better start talking, young man. The Springers know
very well how to make a helpless babbling lunatic out of a man. If this happens to
you, you’ll be insane for the rest of your life. It would be smarter to tell us why
you were sent to your base on Vega.”
“Did they promise you cigarettes if you make me talk?” Tiff sneered, although
he had turned pale. The situation was fraught with horrendous dangers.
Mouselet now cursed viciously. Then he got up abruptly and began to pace the
floor of the little cabin. Two Springers were posted outside the door.  “Before I say anything, I’d like to 
know how you got mixed up with these characters,” Tiff added quickly.
Mouselet shrugged his shoulders. It was a gesture of resignation. “Why not? I
was a member of the leading staff of the supermutants and I had at that time
occasion to investigate the New Power thoroughly. All secret documents were
made available to me. Don’t try to delude the traders. They know exactly how
Rhodan obtained his knowledge and his battleships. If it hadn’t run counter to
their ancient traditions, Orlgans would have subjugated the whole Earth.”
“Informer!” Tiff said contemptuously. Once more he suppressed the urge to tell
him how easily Deringhouse could have demolished their spaceship.
“Don’t let these people fool you,” Mouselet continued excitedly. “There was a
time when I also believed them to be amiable and harmless. When Rhodan was
pursuing the Supermutant, the latter sent an S.O.S. out into space. Orlgans
happened to be in the vicinity. He came to my rescue. Of course I had to pay the
price by telling him all I knew. A Springer does nothing for free. Are you sure that
you’ve got no cigarettes? Look again!”
“Take your hands off my pockets,” Tiff snorted angrily. “If I were you, I’d put
a bullet through my head. You’re a traitor to Terra! You’ve committed treason
against mankind. This is the worst of crimes.”
“Mankind has condemned and banished me,” Mouselet said feebly. “I no longer
owe allegiance to mankind.”
“You’ve probably committed heinous crimes and were justly sentenced under
the law. Don’t expect any sympathy from me. You’re as guilty as the Supermutant
who was stopped by us.”
Breathing heavily and wetting his lips with his tongue, Mouselet faced the cadet:
“You’ll be interrogated,” he declared tonelessly. “You don’t realize that you’re
dealing with one of the great powers in the universe. These interstellar traders are
ruling the Galaxy. They’re subdivided into castes and family clans. No Springer
takes orders from another Springer. Freedom of trade is a 10,000yearold
tradition. They suspect and spy on each other but woe to the stranger who
interferes with their monopoly! You’ll be amazed how quickly the numerous clans
and kinships rally together. They call themselves Springers because they spring
with their ships from planet to planet to buy and sell. Their commercial fleet is
estimated to consist of more than 300,000 big vessels including many of the
largest ships. In case of emergency every clan is headed by a patriarch who is
assisted by all free captains and shipowners. The powerful organization of the
traders maintains a huge battlefleet that is supported by contributions from the
profits of each captain. The Springers own many planets where they’ve
constructed gigantic docks and military bases. Their technology surpasses in some
respects even that of the Great Imperium under the Arkonides. They’re
descendants of the old Arkonides but have developed many racial variations due
to manifold environmental influences. However they’re all Springers,
independent, proud, strong and richer than the Great Imperium. If the need arises
they act as one. Do you understand what this means? As traders they never
intervene in wars or other quarrels. They supply all parties and everybody is on
the best terms with them. Concessions must be distributed by them alone to those
who wish to do business on a cosmic scale. Now comes your Perry Rhodan with
the ludicrous idea to set up trading bases in the Vega system. It’s preposterous. He
must be crazy!”
Mouselet laughed shrilly. He had trouble keeping his composure. Tiffs attitude
became more and more apprehensive. Slowly he began to understand the scope of
the campaign he had embarked upon. Orlgans was only a tiny cog in a colossal
ancient machine. Tiff considered it now his most urgent task to inform his Chief
as quickly as possible.
“You must realize that it’s senseless for you to remain silent. It’s only natural
for such mercenary people to claim each newly discovered planet as their private
domain. Nobody would dream of calling in his own clan, let alone other clans.
This is the reason why Orlgans came alone to the solar system. He has created a
net of spies in the proven manner and has thereby soon found out that you were
sent out as a secret courier. This was to be expected after Orlgans captured one of
your spaceships and two interceptors for the purpose of studying them.”
Tiff jumped up as if he’d been stung by a hornet. “What?”
“Oh, you don’t know about that,” Mouselet wondered. “It’s about time you find
out that Rhodan has misled you. With your K7 four of your spaceships have vanished. That should have 
made Rhodan suspicious, don’t you think?”
Tiff slowly leaned back in his strangely shaped seat. Gradually it became
clearer to him why the Chief had selected him under such mysterious
circumstances as a secret messenger. Tiff came fairly close to the full truth but he
was still unaware that he acted as a cosmic decoy with very special potentials. At
any rate Rhodan already seemed to know about the threat from outer space. Now
Tiff understood also why Deringhouse didn’t shoot to kill and why Stardust II had
so quickly appeared on the spot. He tried to suppress a triumphant smile.
A yellow light started to blink from the videophone on the wall. It was almost
identical with the sets on the K7.
Mouselet looked anxiously around.
“Your lord and master is calling you,” Tiff said scornfully. “Naturally they’re
eavesdropping on us. Well, Orlgans, listen to me! You might as well know that
I’m not impressed by your mercantile superpower. Racketeers and war profiteers
who do business with both parties and never take sides until they get paid are
notorious throughout history on Earth. You merchants of death are no better, only
more proficient in your dirty business. You make money from the decline of the
Great Imperium of the Arkonides and remain neutral until your interests are
contested. Then you turn into a pack of howling wolves who band together to tear
apart any undesirable outsiders who threaten your selfish interests. This traitor has
informed you about Terra. Beware, Orlgans, or we’ll show you the stuff we’re
made of!”
Somebody snorted into the v’phone and then Orlgans’ voice broke in: “You talk
big, Vikoa, but you’ve little power. We can conquer the Earth but first I want to
try single-handedly to exercise my prerogative of discovery. I want you to tell me
what the cosmic planning of the New Power entails. Furthermore, I want to know
what fortunes that little fellow Perry Rhodan has found in the legendary world of
immortal life. I know the reports are true that he was there contrary to all expectations.”
Tiff replied with acid sarcasm. His words revealed unusual maturity for a
20yearold
youth. “This ought to prove to you that you’re up against a superior
intellect and if you consider yourself intelligent you’d do well to respect him.
Your dictatorial demand is barbarian power politics.”
Mouselet looked horrified. After a silent pause a rob licking laughter came from
the loudspeaker. That Springer captain had a peculiar sense of humour! “Very
good, very good,” Orlgans repeated. “You couldn’t have given me any better
proof that Rhodan picked a very adroit man for this special mission. I’m going to
be busy for a while getting into orbit, my friend. I’ll wait here till the situation has
cleared up. If necessary I won’t hesitate to call in the battlefleet of our dynasty.
Has Mouselet told you already that the free captains are empowered to summon
an armada of battleships for our protection? One radio call is all it takes, Terkoa*,
to bring 500 first class battleships out of hyperspace. Think about it. You’ve got
time to make up your mind.”
A sharp click in the videophone indicated that Orlgans actually switched off the
set.
“Don’t ruin my life,” Mouselet implored Tiff with a trembling voice. “Start talking or we’ll both perish. 
Trust me, I’m a human being.”
“I doubt that you ever were one in the true sense of the word,” Tiff rejected his
plea. “I suppose you only looked like a human being ever since you started using
your evil brain.”
The cabin door slid open and two bearded giants appeared. Tiff had learned that
the numerous members of the crew all belonged to Orlgans’ clan. The honour of
captain and shipowner seemed to be hereditary.
Meanwhile it had become quite clear to Tiff that he had fallen into the hands of
the major power in the Galaxy. These people ruled not just a single solar system
but the entire Galaxy which they manipulated for their special purposes by the
methods of warring trading companies.
Such companies used to exist on Earth too but they never attained such farflung
powers.
Tiff began to suspect that the Springers presented the most blatant threat the New Power had had to face so 
far.
* Earthman
These were no mindusurpers
or reptilian Topides who had been defeated with
comparative ease by Perry Rhodan. Now a real superpower had appeared on the
scene.
However it eluded Tiff why Perry Rhodan had kept silent about all these
problems. If some ships of the fleet had vanished without a trace the government
must have been informed about it long ago.
“Come with us,” one of the bearded men said smilingly. “No, not you. We want
the little one.”
Tiff got up wordlessly. Mouselet remained behind—a quivering bundle of
misery. He had failed utterly. It was questionable whether the coldblooded
Orlgans would still consider him useful. If not, Mouselet’s life wasn’t worth a
plugged franc.
Tiff got the idea how hard and merciless these lustily laughing people could be.
Perry Rhodan had become a disturbance in their eyes.
They probably hadn’t yet realized that Rhodan wasn’t merely a nuisance but a
formidable antagonist because of Mouselet’s embellishing tales. In general they
seemed to underestimate the people of Earth. They didn’t reckon with their sharp
minds, their incredible ambition and their unrelenting stubbornness.
10/ The Egg That Laid An Egg
Tiff was brought back on board the K7
with the intention of enticing him to
engage in conversations with his friends that would divulge some 
information. Of
course the cadets had noticed long ago that the videophones were recording everything and that virtually no 
place on the ship was safe from surveillance.  “How stupid!” Mildred Orsons exclaimed with a vibrant look 
full of ridicule when Tifflor finally returned.
Orlgans had gone into the orbit he had announced earlier. Since one hour his
ship Orla XI had been freely circling around a big planet about whose position the
Earthlings knew practically nothing. They had merely been told by one of the
numerous guards that this double star system had four planets with highly eccentric trajectories.
A few of the observation screens were left in operation so that the celestial
bodies were plainly visible. But at the moment this was of secondary importance
to the crew of the K7.
Major Deringhouse, Sergeant Rous and the Space Academy students had used
the time during Tiff’s absence to plot their strategy.
When Tifflor entered the large mess hall he could feel the tenseness in the air.
The deliberately dull and meaningless conversation was so unusual that Tiffs curiosity was aroused.
He was asked to relate his story while they looked furtively at the dark
videoscreens. This was enough to tip Tifflor off. A special team of the traders was
listening in on every word.
Tiff gave his report in the same boring way until an incident occurred. Hifield
was just the man to provoke a brawl. It was unbelievable how he flew into a rage
and started to punch a husky man of the regular crew. It was no clean fight but it
served the purpose.
It took only seconds for the long barrels of the thermoguns
to appear in the
opened hatch and the bulky figures of the guards behind the weapons. As 
soon as
they had assured themselves that no revolt had been started they were 
satisfied.
Shouting with enthusiasm they egged the two fighters on with the result that
Hifield’s left eyebrow was laid open by a straight right from his brawny opponent.
Tiff was pulled behind another group of cheering onlookers. Deringhouse
nodded quickly with urging eyes so that Tiff cooperated at once as Mildred threw
herself into his arms amid tears and began to decry the folly of men. “Be careful,
they’re listening,” she whispered. “Felice and I aren’t closely watched. We’re
allowed to walk around in the ship. I was able to filch a microbomb from the
ammunition store room at Airlock 3 without anybody noticing it. Take it and hide
it before Hifield is knocked to the floor.”
Tiff turned pale. He didn’t know what to do first, help the distraught girl or conceal the microatom bomb. 
Finally he decided to take care of the atom bomb since it was positively incapable of slapping his face or 
punishing with devastating looks.
Deringhouse watched them unobtrusively and Rous stepped before the camera
to cover the two young people with his bulky body.  The small eggshaped bomb, no longer than the product 
of a chicken, found its way into the pocket of Tiffs pants.
At this point Sergeant Rous began to bark: “How dare you take such liberties
with this girl, Cadet Tifflor?” he raged, while winking an eye. “Miss Orsons, go at
once to your cabin. I’ll have to reprimand you for disorderly conduct while on
duty. Break it up!”
Breathing fire, Milly disengaged herself from Tiffs arms, much to his regret.
Never before had he been so close to her. At the same time Rous whispered
quickly into his ear: “Listen, Tiff. This is a thermobomb
with effective duration
of 15 minutes. It releases only heat with an average of 250,00° in the inner 
ball of
gas. Time fuse is set for exactly one hour. Deposit it somewhere during your 
next
interrogation over there and note precise time. Then come back. Make 
excuses.
Ask for time to think everything over in our surroundings. Is that clear? Any questions?”
This was on par for the audacious men of the space pursuit commando. Rous
and Deringhouse had cooked up a daring scheme. Naturally the cadets and the
girls, too, collaborated enthusiastically. The commander couldn’t have wished for
better teamwork.
Tiff went along spontaneously. Now he saw the reason Hifield had provoked
the altercation. He had to give him credit: he certainly had put on a splendid show.
This was right up his alley.
“O.K.” Tiff said with a taut voice. “I’ll have to go back soon. I’ll find a way.
What happens when the bomb explodes?”
“That’ll be the signal for us to get into the act. There are exactly 23 guards on
board. The girls have counted them. We’ll be able to handle those. First we’ll get
back the Command Centre, then everything else will fall in place. Watch the
longbarreled
thermoguns
these goons have. Those things work with needlethin
impulsebeams,
generating very little heat except on the spot they hit. Seem to be
shielded from thermal side effects. Great guns. We’re going to get ourselves some
of them. We’ve got it all worked out. That’s all. Hifield must stop it now.”
It had taken only a few seconds. They could be certain that it was impossible to
be overheard during their whispered exchange of information in the deafening
racket.
Hifield received a barely noticeable sign. At the next blow he finally was knocked out and stayed down.
The guards were jubilant. The spectacle seemed to cater to their taste. A few
minutes later calm had been restored in the mess hall. The crew was smilingly
admonished by the Springers to let them know in time about any imminent fights
so that they could get in on the fun.
With a sinister smile Deringhouse’s eyes followed the bearded giants. “Please
take care of Hifield,” he asked the girls. Milly and Felicita Kergonen helped the
moaning cadet get back on his feet. His opponent licked his lacerated lips.
“Since nobody got too badly hurt in this row, I’m willing to dispense with
punishment in view of our present predicament,” Deringhouse stated stiffly. A
certain tone in his voice made everybody understand that Tiff had the Arkonide
microbomb in his pocket. Nothing but a molten mass boiling away in a steaming cloud of gas would remain 
of the merchant ship as soon as it was set off.
Tiff could feel his forehead break out in sweat. Spasmodically he took, part in
the dragging conversation. After awhile the bell rang in the automatic kitchen.
The prisoners were not deprived of all luxuries, only of their freedom.
Deringhouse was firmly determined to remedy this situation very soon. He
hoped desperately that Perry Rhodan, who was still waiting in space in the
vicinity of Pluto’s orbit, would find a way to get them out of their unfortunate
dilemma.
Tiff began to relate in a monotonous voice what he had learned about the Springers while he was waiting 
for things to happen.
One hour after mealtime the hatch was opened again and Tiff was called for his
second crossexamination.
He left quietly and composed. The pale face of a girl was lingering in his memory.
A pressure equalization energy field had been introduced between the two
airlocks, enabling Tiff to float effortlessly across without his spacesuit. The
artificially produced gravitation on either spaceship couldn’t be felt between the
two.
Expecting the worst, he boarded the other ship. The K7
was still imprisoned in
the powerful gravobeam
of the huge ship. Droning machines were proof of their
unwillingness to let the swift K7
escape from their clutches.
Orlgans was without question a fine businessman, if such a term could be applied to a galactic trader.
He was also an excellent tactician and psychologist. Less intelligent and strongwilled men than Tiff would 
soon have succumbed to his many temptations.
Perhaps Tiff was aided by the fact that he really didn’t know anything about the
economic plans of the New Power. Gradually his suspicion had grown that Perry
Rhodan was using him as a decoy to seize the unknown conspirators.
Orlgans didn’t seem overly concerned with the illusory economic plan. He was
apparently smart enough to know that a man like Tiff could never carry it all in
his head. Maybe some rough values but not the all-important details.
Therefore Orlgans didn’t insist on questions pertaining to this matter. Instead he
kept probing with increasing obstinacy the subject of the ‘World of Immortal
Life’. In doing so, he put Tifflor on a grave spot, as he could not be convinced that
the cadet had no real knowledge of the facts relating thereto.
He took two hours to conduct a pleasant tour of his ship for Tifflor. However
Julian was not very impressed by the armament. The weapons couldn’t even stand
comparison with, those of the K7.
On the other hand Orla XI boasted very
powerful and modem drive engines. There were a number of special 
installations
that had been exclusively developed by the scientists of the Springers.
Orlgans pointed out in passing that this was only an armed merchant ship whose
weapons were completely adequate for most of the primitive worlds they visited.
For more recalcitrant cases they could always rely on the specialized armada of
the Springers for help.
Tiff was unceremoniously pushed into the last room. When the captain entered
the room he abruptly dropped every pretense of politeness and solicitous fatherly
behaviour. After being treated as one of the family for hours, Julian suddenly
looked into cold, ruthless eyes.
“We call this machine a psychodissolver,”
Orlgans explained menacingly.
“The brain of any living being is destroyed in the process but all facts are
extracted from its memory. We use this machine for insubordinate people
withholding essential information from us. I’ll give you three more hours by your
own clock. If you haven’t changed your mind by then, your head will be put into
the hood of the machine. Now we can leave again, my dear young mikoa.”
Suddenly Orlgans melted into profuse cordiality. He almost carried the
teetering, browbeaten
cadet out of the room. He escorted him back to the first
cabin, located near the forward end of the long ship close to the command centre.
Before Orlgans left, Tiff took his chance. He implored Orlgans and stammered:
“Sir, would you allow me to return to our ship to think this over? Please don’t
leave me in these strange surroundings. Here I don’t feel so…” “Of course, of course,” Orlgans interrupted 
exuberantly. “Just a minute, my young friend, I’ll call your escort.”
Tiff began to sweat blood as the bearded giant walked out to the long hallway to
shout for the guards posted outside.
Tiff took the microbomb
out of his pocket. He felt that there was no point in
concealing it somewhere else, since it would’ve been found anyway if he was
searched. He pulled out the safety pin, depressed the trigger for the timerelease
until it sharply clicked into position and let the diabolical egg roll under a couch.
It came to rest against the wall with a dull thud.
He had barely enough time to straighten up before the two guards came in.
“How pale you look,” Orlgans said with pseudo-sympathy. “I’ll see you again
in three hours, young Terkoa.”
This was a convenient reason for Tiff to look at his chronometer. It was exactly
17 hours and 58 minutes by the clock on board the K7.
The bomb was going to
blow up at 18:58 o’clock. Or, to be precise, five seconds before that, when 
he had
started the time release.
Following mechanically he was brought back by the two guards. When he
entered the mess ball he sank ashenfaced
into a chair. Deringhouse looked at him
expectantly.
Tiff nodded imperceptibly and added naturally: “They’ve detained me 
exactly
till 17:58 o’clock. Orlgans has given me three hours for reflection.”
Rous’face relaxed and the men exchanged glances. Deringhouse began to figure
out the next step. Five minutes before the critical time Hifield was to start another
fracas.
Deringhouse laid his plans carefully. It wouldn’t look suspicious to construe the
second round of fisticuffs as revenge. Then they’d have to induce all four guards
who were posted outside the mess hall to come into the room. The other Springers
were stationed in other parts of the ship. It had to work.
Deringhouse walked slowly around the big room and stopped before one of the
observation screens. “Isn’t the weather beautiful out there?” he said broadly. The
stars scintillated coldly. They gave no answer.
* * * *
It was exactly 18:53 o’clock when Hifield went on another rampage. His old
nemesis had pestered him with inflaming taunts. The scuffle commenced on the
second. The bomb was scheduled to be detonated in five minutes and the guards
would be overpowered simultaneously.
The sentries appeared in the hatch about half a minute after the tumultuous
noise had started. Again they watched the show with glee and didn’t notice that 12
strong men got behind their backs. The group was carefully selected. Even these
gigantic men were no match for them.
Deringhouse kept a wary eye on the thermoweapons of the Springers.
Meanwhile Hifield kept up the fight with well-aimed punches.  Tiff was also ready to jump into the fray. 
His eyes were glued to the chronometer.
Two more minutes to go. Rous came slowly closer. Hifield was swinging wildly and the Springers cheered 
loudly.
“Join my group,” Tiff heard the Sergeant whisper. “We’re going to take over the Command Centre.”
Rous drew back again. The men behind the Springers were in position to jump
them. It was co-ordinated with high precision. At the same instant as the four
guards were overwhelmed and their weapons changed hands, an atomic cloud
would mushroom inside Orla XI putting it out of action so that no help would be
forthcoming for the guards. The subsequent rapid vaporization of all conductors
would result without delay in the dissipation of the field they were fenced in.  Thirty seconds to zero. The 
roar of the crowd of spectators reached a fever pitch. It was their way of giving vent to their tension.
Fifteen seconds before zero the team of 12 men sprang into action, four to each
guard. Metallic objects from the adjacent robot kitchen crashed down on the skulls
of the bearded men. They collapsed instantly, almost without a sound.  Deringhouse rushed forward, Rous 
and Tiff followed him. They’d already grabbed the weapons at the opportune moment.
Everything was going as planned. The shouting continued but the squads raced
out through the open hatch.
They spotted one of the sentries. Deringhouse fired while running. The hissing
of the longbarreled weapon was followed by a cry. Then the giant keeled over.  “Spread out!” Deringhouse 
shouted. “Rous, up to the Command Centre!”
As they ran up the emergency stairs they heard a sharp wailing noise. It was not
like the sound Tiff had expected to hear. The hull of the K7
started to vibrate. It
was 18:59 o’clock.
“What’s the matter with your bomb?” Rous screamed, beside himself. His 
face
was suddenly distorted. “Damn it, why doesn’t the thing blow up?”
Tiff could’ve cried. Up front Deringhouse was hit by an energyshot
and
collapsed. Behind him appeared bearded figures firing wildly at everything 
that
moved.
“Get back!” Deringhouse groaned, “for God’s sake get back.”
They dragged him back to the mess hall. Something had gone awry. Seconds
later the ship began to sway more and more and the men began to feel the first
effects on their bodies. Before they realized that their adversaries had enveloped
the entire K7 in a turbulent vibration zone despite the presence of their own men on board, they began to 
moan in pains.
Each single cell seemed to be bent on performing a wild dance under the
everincreasing
amplitudes.
Hifield was the first to drop the weapon he had wrested from the Springers.
Tiff, Rous and Martin came next.
When the wailing became more than their ears could stand, the men writhed on
the floor in agony. The guards didn’t fare much better but the crew of the K7
had
at last ceased their shooting.
“What went wrong with that confounded bomb?” Rous gasped before he lost consciousness.
Tiff was frantic. His bead threatened to burst before he, too, sank into a coma. It
had all been so futile. Something had fouled up their elaborate plans.
* * * *
This time Orlgans was brandishing a weapon. He stood before Major
Deringhouse with his feet wide apart, staring coldly at him. The shot had gone
right through Deringhouse’s thigh but left nasty bums in and around the wound.
Deringhouse didn’t care to play the hero. Since everybody knew that he
suffered intolerable pains it would have been senseless not to moan if it gave him
only a second’s relief.
The other men of the crew stood against the wall of the mess hall. More than 30
lethal weapons were trained on them.
When the men had regained consciousness, Orlgans was already in the room.
“Who hatched out this harebrained
scheme?” the Captain demanded again.
“You?”
Deringhouse grinned through his pain, grunting harshly: “Of course. Who 
else
should but the Commander?”
Orlgans couldn’t control his wrath. He kicked Deringhouse’s cot. The 
injured
man winced in pain.
Milly Orsons cried out in angry protest at this callous action. Orlgans 
ignored
her and moved toward Tifflor. Julian could feel the hot breath of the giant.
Orlgans was boiling mad. Obviously he knew very well that he had escaped total
destruction by only a hair. But how?
The explanation turned out to be very simple and rather ridiculous.
“Your conniving hypocrite rolled a bomb under the couch. Well, you forgot that
we’re meticulously clean people. Each time after we use a cabin it’s janitored by
robots. Isn’t it too bad they found your little surprise and deactivated it?”
Tiff uttered a tormented groan when he saw the huge shadow closing in on him.
He collapsed under the terrible blow of Orlgans’ fist. He wasn’t conscious to witness the revolt that almost 
broke out.
* * * *
When he awoke, Tiff saw Deringhouse lying next to him in the sickbay. The
commander’s wound was neatly bandaged. The girls were busy with some chores.
Deringhouse was awake and regarding Tiff. “Take it easy, kid. It’s alright—we
got off lucky this time.”
“Sir, it wasn’t my fault,” Tiff stammered in dismay. “How was I to know
that…”
“That those robots could just as well have started cleaning five minutes 
later,”
Deringhouse joked. “Not another word out of you. It was a great idea but it backfired. So—accidents 
happen. Go back to sleep. you’ve suffered a brain concussion. Lord, if that lout doesn’t throw a mean 
punch!” Tiff’s tired eyes obediently started to close again but just before they did he mumbled, “What are 
we going to do now, sir?” Deringhouse replied softly, don’t worry, something will come up. Or do you 
think the Chief has gone into retirement with the Stardust? you’ve got to rest now—that’s an order, cadet 
Tifflor!”
Tiff saw red rings before his eyes and in one of them the vast outline of the superbattleship emerged. If it 
appeared on the scene for real, it would make the Springers stop laughing. In his heart, Tiff was sure of it.  
At any rate, his mission was fulfilled. And he knew something else in his heart:
Perry Rhodan would not fail.
THE SHIP OF THINGS TO COME
Cadet Julian Tifflor has had his baptism of fire.  Graduating from the Space Academy of the New Power, 
he has been signally honoured by being personally chosen by the Peacelord to play the role of unwitting 
cosmic decoy.  He fell into the trap as planned. And when Perry Rhodan rushes to his aid with the Stardust, 
dangerous trouble ensues during the encounter with the—
FLEET OF THE SPRINGERS
By
Kurt Mahr