Enemy in the Dark - Kurt Mahr

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DARKER THAN THEY THINK
A ROBOT dies and his death–because he was a governor in the Realm of Arkon–is the
catalyst for an interstellar police action.
Enter the
Finmark
, a spacer of the State Class, and its commander, Maj. Thomea Untcher.
Together they and the crew set out for the water world, Opgham.
But en route to this alien planet, Untcher and his men are unexpectedly, dangerously,
confronted by the—
ENEMY IN THE DARK
1/ DESTINATION: 1358
PTHAL’S EYES pensively followed the strange twists of the tubular plant to the ceiling of the room
where it disappeared in a hole, closing it so tightly with its stem as to prevent inundation by the water.
Pthal was one of those creations who, ordinarily, were not given to embarrassing monologues. Yet at
this moment he murmured to himself: "Weird specimens, these tubular plants!"
That was the moment when the door was flung open and a man barged in whom Pthal had never seen
before. But there could be no misunderstanding his intentions. He held a short-barreled weapon in his
hand and opened fire at once.
Pthal was hit. The explosion of the thermo-gun paralysed his complicated nervous system. Fully
conscious—but without feeling pain—his knees buckled and he crashed to the floor.
The man at the door kept firing continuously but Pthal’s sudden fall caused his next shot to miss him. The
plastic wall behind Pthal was instantly melted to a glowing liquid which ran in searing rivulets over the
floor.
Pthal made a concentrated effort to study the stranger. He knew he could not survive his injuries. They
were lethal and he had little time left to perform his duty. He scrutinized the features of the stranger with
his large eyes and filed the image in his indelible memory.
Meanwhile the intruder had corrected his aim. It took him longer than Pthal to perceive his opponent.
Pthal’s greatest asset was his ability of reacting with enormous speed, superhuman speed, to all
situations.
 Pthal concluded, even before the stranger could fire a third shot that he deserved the ultimate punishment
for his sneak attack. He triggered his most powerful weapon and killed the unknown enemy in the
blinding flash of an explosion.
Pthal rolled over on his side. The movement exhausted his strength. He was aware that he would expire
in a few more seconds. He retrieved from his memory bank the image of the stranger he had just killed
and silently tried to transmit the information to his point of origin where it would be received with great
interest and followed by measures to discover the source of unrest on Opghan with the goal of subduing
its spread.
If Pthal had been capable of feeling regret he would have lamented the fact that he could no longer carry
out his mission. His injury was much worse than he had assumed. He was unable to assess accurately the
damage because the apparatus which performed these functions had already lost it effectiveness.
His energy faded after sending the first sign. But even at this moment he still endeavoured to do his duty.
With the last flicker of life he emitted the code signal which called attention to the precarious conditions
on Opghan.
Then Pthal lay motionless—a robot who had been destroyed in the faithful performance of his
assignment.
* * * *
Pthal’s last code signal, as well as the preceding unintelligible impulse shreds, were received on Arkon 3.
They were interpreted as an effort by Pthal to give a warning and that he was prevented from making a
report. The reason was obvious since the robots issued such emergency calls only when they were about
to be annihilated.
The sudden death of Pthal caused great concern. He was the highest government officer of the Imperium
on Opghan the second planet of the Ep-Hog system. Opghan was a world located on the fringes of the
Arkonide influence sphere. It was not unlikely that the enemy, who lurked in the dark, believed that those
old times had returned after the assumption of power by His Eminence Gonozal VIII when the Imperator
was far away and his officials weak so that it was opportune again to upset the Imperium by launching the
upheaval on a remote planet such as Opghan.
A strict police action had become necessary. Pthal’s death had to be investigated and his assassin had to
be tracked down.
His Eminence Atlan, who ruled the Arkonide Imperium as the Imperator known as Gonozal VIII,
requested the support of Terra and received assurance that his wishes would be carried out.
* * * *
 Sgt. Loodey was a man whose massive figure in combination with a deadly serious face and obstinate
expression imposed respect on everybody. The fact that the rather short and thin man who approached
Ran Loodey at this moment didn’t show the slightest trace of his accustomed respect, irritated the
sergeant and caused him to step forward before he would have done normally. He planted himself in the
middle of the entrance to the bridge leading almost horizontally from the 8th floor of the administration
building to the brightly illuminated cargo hatch in the lower third of a spherical spaceship moored on the
landing field.
The wispy looking man didn’t seem to notice Ran Loodey at all. He appeared to be engaged in a
monologue, slicing the air with nervous gestures and a vague stare. He wore civilian clothes and the
civilians were denied admittance to the upper floors of the administration building.
Ran Loodey’s bafflement turned into wrath when he saw that the slender man was trying to walk around
him without casting a glance at him, ignoring all formalities.
"Stop!" Ran roared, retreating a step on the bridge. "Where do you think you’re going?"
The man looked up at Loodey as if taken aback. Then he pointed uncertainly in the direction of the
landing field. "Over there!" he said, annoyed. "What’s it called? The ship, I mean."
Ran Loodey nodded ponderously. "Oh, the ship," he repeated. "Which one?"
"Heavens above! What fools we’re afflicted with," the thin man muttered, shaking his head. "That one, of
course! Or do you see another one anywhere around here?"
Loodey kept his cool. "And what do you want with the ship, my friend?"
The man blinked his eyes. "First of all, I’m not your friend. Not as long as you treat me like this. And
secondly, your question is wrong. I don’t want anything with the ship. I want something
in
the ship. I want
to sleep in the ship because I’m tired.".
This took Loodey’s breath away. When he finally found words again, he shouted at the little man: "Do
you think the ships of the Solar Spacefleet are a refuge for the homeless? Start running, man, before I…"
The subject of his ire waved his hand in protest. It was strange to see that the almost helpless gesture
cooled Loodey’s righteous fury and made him pause in the middle of his sentence. The slender man
possessed something that shook Loodey’s confidence: authority!
"Stop yelling!" he pleaded in a plaintive voice. "It bothers me. I’m not hard of hearing."
"OK," Loodey growled. "Then I’ll tell it to you once more as softly as I can.
Get the hell out of here!
"
"Why should I?"
"Because you have no business being here," Loodey snarled.
"How do you know that? My name is Thomea Untcher."
Despite his rage Ran Loodey began to grin. "It’s as beautiful a name as I’ve ever heard. But even with
such a gorgeous name, my dear friend."
 Loodey’s face suddenly froze. It showed the strain of searching his memory. Suddenly he, blurted:
"What was that name again, sir?"
Now the slender man smiled. "Thomea Untcher, sergeant."
Ran Loodey’s face turned purple. "I beg your pardon, sir…" he stammered in embarrassment. "Of
course… I have to see your pass… You understand…"
Untcher nodded gravely. He put his hand in the pocket of his overcoat, then in the inside pocket. Then
he unbuttoned his overcoat and began to search his jacket. It took awhile before he pulled out a small,
grey plastic card. Loodey took it gingerly and placed it in the slot of the control box but he knew before
the sign of approval lit up that he had lost the game.
The identification card popped out of the slot again. Loodey handed it back and saluted. "I must
apologize, sir," he added.
Untcher answered with a slight wave of his hand. "That’s alright. No harm done."
Then he stepped on the bridge. The walk-belt carried him through the warm air-curtain which protected
the inside of the building from the cool night to the bright airlock of the
Finmark
.
When Ran Loodey thought that Untcher could no longer see him, he turned around and caught a glimpse
of the slight figure in a waving overcoat as he disappeared in the hatch. He shook his head, muttering to
himself. He had met many weird people in his life but a commander like Thomea Untcher? Never!
* * * *
The moment Nathael saw the green blip of the alien spaceship light up on the large screen of the sensor
console he knew that the plan could not be carried out as first conceived. The arrival of the alien ship was
the best proof that Pthal’s death had caused a sensation.
Nathael rubbed his forehead with a tired expression. He took a last look at the screen and switched it
over to the automatic recorder. He was not particularly interested in watching the course of the ship.
What had to be done now to save the situation was possible only after the ship had landed.
He got up and left the room where the instruments hummed in continual operation. Outside, in the large
hall, he was dazzled by the light of the yellow sun streaming through the big windows. He hesitated a
moment before he turned to three men sitting in comfortable chairs near the door, waiting for him. One of
them looked as if he didn’t belong there.
"They’re coming," Nathael said in the language they all understood.
The men looked up. "Who’s coming?" one of them asked.
Nathael stuck out his hand with the palm up to indicate that he didn’t know who it was. "It really doesn’t
make that much difference," he said. "Whoever they are, they are coming to snoop around here and we
can’t tolerate that."
 One of the three, a young man with a flowing beard, made a contemptuous gesture. "What can happen
to us?" he sneered. "As soon as they touch down, we’ll…"
Nathael stamped his foot angrily. "Shut up!" he shouted. "It seems to me that our success has gone to
your heads. You forget to take the most elementary precautions!"
The young man with the beard didn’t seem to be unduly impressed. "I’ve had my doubts for some time,
Nathael," he retorted, "if your nerves aren’t beginning to crack under the strain of the past few weeks.
You’re a little too timid."
"Is that so?" Nathael growled. "Then let me tell you something. You’re a conceited braggart who has not
the slightest idea of the power and resourcefulness of our enemies’ secret service. One careless word…
and Opghan will blow up like a sun." He laughed grimly. "Your phony beard will burn beautifully"
The young man remained silent. He didn’t like to be reminded that his magnificent beard was not
genuine. His mother was a native of this world and he had inherited her hairless skin. The mane of hair on
his head was also artificial but Nathael knew that he resented it even more when somebody made fun of
his beard.
The second man joined the conversation. "We’ll have to finish our preparations," he said. "How long will
it take them to get here?"
Nathael wanted to raise up the palm of his hand again but instead said: "I guess three or four tenthday."
"That will be sufficient. We’ll be ready as soon as they have found a place to land. They don’t have
much of a choice anyway. Then we’ll have a few more hours till…" He turned to his neighbour, who
hadn’t uttered a word up to now. "You are all set, Chchaath, aren’t you?"
Chchaath twisted his thin mouth into a smile. "Quite," he replied, sounding as if his mouth were full of
water. "We can tackle a whole fleet of them."
"Then be on your way!" Nathael ordered.
Chchaath got up, still smiling. He walked past the window and glanced at the endless surface of water
which touched the wall of the building. The smooth scales of his skin shone in the reflex of the water.
* * * *
Ran Loodey stared at the observation screen, flabbergasted. "Glord!" he grunted. "Water, nothing but
water!"
Maj. Untcher’s voice rebuked him from the background. "Well, what did you expect? Vodka or orange
juice?"
Loodey spun around. "No sir," he retorted. "I seldom consider my private pleasures. All I meant is that
we’ll have trouble finding a landing place."
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