SALINE
SOLUTION
BY KEITH
LAUMER
From Worlds
of If Science Fiction, March 1963.
I
Consul-General Magnan gingerly
fingered the heavily rubber-banded sheaf of dog-eared documents. "I
haven't rushed into precipitate action on this claim, Retief," he said.
"The Consulate has grave responsibilities here in the Belt. One must weigh
all aspects of the situation, consider the ramifications. What consequences
would arise from a grant of minerals rights on the planetoid to this
claimant?"
"The claim looked all right
to me," Retief said. "Seventeen copies with attachments. Why not
process it? You've had it on your desk for a week."
Magnan's eyebrows went up.
"You've a personal interest in this claim, Retief?"
"Every day you wait is
costing them money. That hulk they use for an ore-carrier is in a parking orbit
piling up demurrage."
"I see you've become
emotionally involved in the affairs of a group of obscure miners. You haven't
yet learned the true diplomat's happy faculty of non-identification with
specifics—or should I say identification with non-specifics?"
"They're not a wealthy
outfit, you know. In fact, I understand this claim is their sole asset—unless
you want to count the ore-carrier."
"The Consulate is not
concerned with the internal financial problems of the Sam's Last Chance Number
Nine Mining Company."
"Careful," Retief said.
"You almost identified yourself with a specific that time."
"Hardly, my dear
Retief," Magnan said blandly. "The implication is mightier than the
affidavit. You should study the records of the giants of galactic diplomacy:
Crodfoller, Passwyn, Spradley, Nitworth, Sternwheeler, Rumpwhistle. The
roll-call of those names rings like the majestic tread of ... of...."
"Dinosaurs?" Retief
suggested.
"An apt simile," Magnan
nodded. "Those mighty figures, those armored hides—"
"Those tiny brains—"
Magnan smiled sadly. "I see
you're indulging your penchant for distorted facetiae. Perhaps one day you'll
learn their true worth."
"I already have my
suspicions."
The intercom chimed. Miss
Gumble's features appeared on the desk screen.
"Mr. Leatherwell to see you,
Mr. Magnan. He has no appointment—"
Magnan's eyebrows went up.
"Send Mr. Leatherwell right in." He looked at Retief. "I had no
idea Leatherwell was planning a call. I wonder what he's after?" Magnan
looked anxious. "He's an important figure in Belt minerals circles. It's
important to avoid arousing antagonism, while maintaining non-commitment. You
may as well stay. You might pick up some valuable pointers
technique-wise."
________________________________________
The door swung wide. Leatherwell
strode into the room, his massive paunch buckled into fashionable vests of
turquoise velvet and hung with the latest in fluorescent watch charms. He
extended a large palm and pumped Magnan's flaccid arm vigorously.
"Ah, there, Mr.
Consul-General. Good of you to receive me." He wiped his hand absently on
his thigh, eyeing Retief questioningly.
"Mr. Retief, my Vice-Consul
and Minerals Officer," Magnan said. "Do take a chair, Mr.
Leatherwell. In what capacity can I serve today?"
"I am here, gentlemen,"
Leatherwell said, putting an immense yellow briefcase on Magnan's desk and
settling himself in a power rocker, "on behalf of my company, General
Minerals. General Minerals has long been aware, gentlemen, of the austere conditions
obtaining here in the Belt, to which public servants like yourselves are
subjected." Leatherwell bobbed with the pitch of the rocker, smiling
complacently at Magnan. "General Minerals is more than a great industrial
combine. It is an organization with a heart." Leatherwell reached for his
breast pocket, missed, tried again. "How do you turn this damned thing
off?" he growled.
Magnan half-rose, peering over
Leatherwell's briefcase. "The switch just there—on the arm."
The executive fumbled. There was a
click, and the chair subsided with a sigh of compressed air.
"That's better."
Leatherwell drew out a long slip of blue paper.
"To alleviate the boredom
and brighten the lives of that hardy group of Terrestrials laboring here on
Ceres to bring free enterprise to the Belt, General Minerals is presenting to
the Consulate—on their behalf—one hundred thousand credits for the construction
of a Joy Center, to be equipped with the latest and finest in recreational
equipment, including a Gourmet Model C banquet synthesizer, a forty-foot
sublimation chamber, a five thousand tape library—with a number of choice items
unobtainable in Boston—a twenty-foot Tri-D tank and other amenities too
numerous to mention." Leatherwell leaned back, beaming expectantly.
"Why, Mr. Leatherwell. We're
overwhelmed, of course." Magnan smiled dazedly past the briefcase.
"But I wonder if it's quite proper...."
"The gift is to the people,
Mr. Consul. You merely accept on their behalf."
"I wonder if General
Minerals realizes that the hardy Terrestrials laboring on Ceres are limited to
the Consular staff?" Retief said. "And the staff consists of Mr.
Magnan, Miss Gumble and myself."
"Mr. Leatherwell is hardly
interested in these details, Retief," Magnan cut in. "A
public-spirited offer indeed, sir. As Terrestrial Consul—and on behalf of all
Terrestrials here in the Belt—I accept with a humble awareness of—"
"Now, there was one other
little matter." Leatherwell leaned forward to open the briefcase, glancing
over Magnan's littered desktop. He extracted a bundle of papers, dropped them
on the desk, then drew out a heavy document and passed it across to Magnan.
"Just a routine claim. I'd
like to see it rushed through, as we have in mind some loading operations in
the vicinity next week."
"Certainly Mr.
Leatherwell."
Magnan glanced at the papers,
paused to read. He looked up. "Ah—"
"Something the matter, Mr.
Consul?" Leatherwell demanded.
"It's just that—ah—I seem to
recall—as a matter of fact...." Magnan looked at Retief. Retief took the
papers, looked over the top sheet.
"95739-A. Sorry, Mr.
Leatherwell. General Minerals has been anticipated. We're processing a prior
claim."
"Prior claim?"
Leatherwell barked. "You've issued the grant?"
"Oh, no indeed, Mr.
Leatherwell," Magnan replied quickly. "The claim hasn't yet been
processed."
"Then there's no
difficulty," Leatherwell boomed. He glanced at his finger watch. "If
you don't mind, I'll wait and take the grant along with me. I assume it will
only take a minute or two to sign it and affix seals and so on?"
"The other claim was filed a
full week ago—" Retief started.
"Bah!" Leatherwell
waved a hand impatiently. "These details can be arranged." He fixed
an eye on Magnan. "I'm sure all of us here understand that it's in the
public interest that minerals properties go to responsible firms, with adequate
capital for proper development."
"Why, ah," Magnan said.
"The Sam's Last Chance
Number Nine Mining Company is a duly chartered firm. Their claim is
valid."
"I know that hole-in-corner
concern," Leatherwell snapped. "Mere irresponsible opportunists.
General Minerals has spent millions—millions, I say—of the stockholders' funds
in minerals explorations. Are they to be balked in realizing a fair return on
their investment because these ... these ... adventures have stumbled on a
deposit? Not that the property is of any real value, of course," he added.
"Quite an ordinary bit of rock. But General Minerals would find it
convenient to consolidate its holdings."
"There are plenty of other
rocks floating around in the Belt. Why not—"
"One moment, Retief,"
Magnan cut in. He looked across the desk at his junior with a severe
expression. "As Consul-General, I'm quite capable of determining the
relative merits of claims. As Mr. Leatherwell has pointed out, it's in the public
interest to consider the question in depth."
Leatherwell cleared his throat.
"I might state at this time that General Minerals is prepared to be
generous in dealing with these interlopers. I believe we would be prepared to
go so far as to offer them free title to certain GM holdings in exchange for
their release of any alleged rights to the property in question—merely to
simplify matters, of course."
"That seems more than fair
to me," Magnan glowed.
"The Sam's people have a
clear priority," Retief said. "I logged the claim in last
Friday."
"They have far from a clear
title." Leatherwell snapped. "And I can assure you GM will contest
their claim, if need be, to the Supreme Court!"
"Just what holdings did you
have in mind offering them, Mr. Leatherwell?" Magnan asked nervously.
Leatherwell reached into his
briefcase and drew out a paper.
"2645-P," he read.
"A quite massive body. Crustal material, I imagine. It should satisfy
these squatters' desire to own real estate in the Belt."
"I'll make a note of
that," Magnan said, reaching for a pad.
"That's a Bona Fide offer,
Mr. Leatherwell?" Retief asked.
"Certainly!"
"I'll record it as
such," Magnan said, scribbling.
"And who knows?"
Leatherwell said. "It may turn out to contain some surprisingly rich
finds."
"And if they won't accept
it?" Retief asked.
"Then I daresay General
Minerals will find a remedy in the courts, sir!"
"Oh, I hardly think that
will be necessary," Magnan said.
"Then there's another
routine matter," Leatherwell said. He passed a second document across to
Magnan. "GM is requesting an injunction to restrain these same parties
from aggravated trespass. I'd appreciate it if you'd push it through at once.
There's a matter of a load of illegally obtained ore involved, as well."
"Certainly Mr. Leatherwell.
I'll see to it myself."
"No need for that. The
papers are all drawn up. Our legal department will vouch for their correctness.
Just sign here." Leatherwell spread out the paper and handed Magnan a pen.
"Wouldn't it be a good idea
to read that over first?" Retief said.
________________________________________
Leatherwell frowned impatiently.
"You'll have adequate time to familiarize yourself with the details later,
Retief," Magnan snapped, taking the pen. "No need to waste Mr.
Leatherwell's valuable time." He scratched a signature on the paper.
Leatherwell rose, gathered up his
papers from Magnan's desk, dumped them into the briefcase. "Riff-raff, of
course. Their kind has no business in the Belt."
Retief rose, crossed to the desk,
and held out a hand. "I believe you gathered in an official document along
with your own, Mr. Leatherwell. By error, of course."
"What's that?"
Leatherwell bridled. Retief smiled, waiting. Magnan opened his mouth.
"It was under your papers,
Mr. Leatherwell," Retief said. "It's the thick one, with the rubber
bands."
Leatherwell dug in his briefcase,
produced the document. "Well, fancy finding this here," he growled.
He shoved the papers into Retief's hand.
"You're a very observant
young fellow." He closed the briefcase with a snap. "I trust you'll
have a bright future with the CDT."
"Really, Retief,"
Magnan said reprovingly. "There was no need to trouble Mr.
Leatherwell."
Leatherwell directed a sharp look
at Retief and a bland one at Magnan. "I trust you'll communicate the
proposal to the interested parties. Inasmuch as time is of the essence of the
GM position, our offer can only be held open until 0900 Greenwich, tomorrow.
I'll call again at that time to finalize matters. I trust there'll be no
impediment to a satisfactory settlement at that time. I should dislike to
embark on lengthy litigation."
Magnan hurried around his desk to
open the door. He turned back to fix Retief with an exasperated frown.
"A crass display of
boorishness, Retief," he snapped. "You've embarrassed a most
influential member of the business community—and for nothing more than a few
miserable forms."
"Those forms represent
somebody's stake in what might be a valuable property."
"They're mere paper until
they've been processed!"
"Still—"
"My responsibility is to the
Public interest—not to a fly-by-night group of prospectors."
"They found it first."
"Bah! A worthless rock.
After Mr. Leatherwell's munificent gesture—"
"Better rush his check
through before he thinks it over and changes his mind."
"Good heavens!" Magnan
clutched the check, buzzed for Miss Gumble. She swept in, took Magnan's
instructions and left. Retief waited while Magnan glanced over the injunction,
then nodded.
"Quite in order. A person
called Sam Mancziewicz appears to be the principal. The address given is the
Jolly Barge Hotel; that would be that converted derelict ship in orbit 6942, I
assume?"
Retief nodded. "That's what
they call it."
"As for the ore-carrier, I'd
best impound it, pending the settlement of the matter." Magnan drew a form
from a drawer, filled in blanks, shoved the paper across the desk. He turned
and consulted a wall chart. "The hotel is nearby at the moment, as it
happens. Take the Consulate dinghy. If you get out there right away, you'll
catch them before the evening binge has developed fully."
"I take it that's your
diplomatic way of telling me that I'm now a process server." Retief took
the papers and tucked them into an inside pocket.
"One of the many functions a
diplomat is called on to perform in a small consular post. Excellent
experience. I needn't warn you to be circumspect. These miners are an unruly
lot—especially when receiving bad news."
"Aren't we all." Retief
rose. "I don't suppose there's any prospect of your signing off that claim
so that I can take a little good news along, too?"
"None whatever," Magnan
snapped. "They've been made a most generous offer. If that fails to
satisfy them, they have recourse through the courts."
"Fighting a suit like that
costs money. The Sam's Last Chance Mining Company hasn't got any."
"Need I remind you—"
"I know. That's none of our
concern."
"On your way out,"
Magnan said as Retief turned to the door, "ask Miss Gumble to bring in the
Gourmet catalog from the Commercial Library. I want to check on the
specifications of the Model C Banquet synthesizer."
An hour later, nine hundred miles
from Ceres and fast approaching the Jolly Barge Hotel, Retief keyed the skiff's
transmitter.
"CDT 347-89 calling Navy FP-VO-6."
"Navy VO-6 here, CDT,"
a prompt voice came back. A flickering image appeared on the small screen.
"Oh, hi there, Mr. Retief. What brings you out in the cold night
air?"
"Hello, Henry. I'm
estimating the Jolly Barge in ten minutes. It looks like a busy night ahead. I
may be moving around a little. How about keeping an eye on me? I'll be carrying
a personnel beacon. Monitor it, and if I switch it into high, come in fast. I
can't afford to be held up. I've got a big meeting in the morning."
"Sure thing, Mr. Retief.
We'll keep an eye open."
________________________________________
Retief dropped a ten-credit note
on the bar, accepted a glass and a squat bottle of black Marsberry brandy and
turned to survey the low-ceilinged room, a former hydroponics deck now known as
the Jungle Bar. Under the low ceiling, unpruned Ipomoea batatas and Lathyrus
odoratus vines sprawled in a tangle that filtered the light of the S-spectrum
glare panels to a muted green. A six-foot trideo screen, salvaged from the
wreck of a Concordiat transport, blared taped music in the style of two
centuries past. At the tables, heavy-shouldered men in bright-dyed suit liners
played cards, clanked bottles and shouted.
Carrying the bottle and glass,
Retief moved across to an empty chair at one of the tables.
"You gentlemen mind if I
join you?"
Five unshaven faces turned to
study Retief's six foot three, his close cut black hair, his non-commital gray
coverall, the scars on his knuckles. A redhead with a broken nose nodded.
"Pull up a chair, stranger."
"You workin' a claim,
pardner?"
"Just looking around."
"Try a shot of this rock
juice."
"Don't do it, Mister. He
makes it himself."
"Best rock juice this side
of Luna."
"Say, feller—"
"The name's Retief."
"Retief, you ever play
Drift?"
"Can't say that I did."
"Don't gamble with Sam,
pardner. He's the local champ."
"How do you play it?"
The black-browed miner who had
suggested the game rolled back his sleeve to reveal a sinewy forearm, put his
elbow on the table.
"You hook forefingers, and
put a glass right up on top. The man that takes a swallow wins. If the drink
spills, it's drinks for the house."
"A man don't often win
out-right," the redhead said cheerfully. "But it makes for plenty of
drinkin'."
Retief put his elbow on the
table. "I'll give it a try."
The two men hooked forefingers.
The redhead poured a tumbler half full of rock juice, placed it atop the two
fists. "Okay, boys. Go!"
The man named Sam gritted his
teeth; his biceps tensed, knuckles grew white. The glass trembled. Then it
moved—toward Retief. Sam hunched his shoulders, straining.
"That's the stuff,
Mister!"
"What's the matter, Sam? You
tired?"
The glass moved steadily closer
to Retief's face.
"A hundred the new man makes
it!"
"Watch Sam! Any minute
now...."
The glass slowed, paused.
Retief's wrist twitched and the glass crashed to the table top. A shout went
up. Sam leaned back with a sigh, massaging his hand.
"That's some arm you got,
Mister," he said. "If you hadn't jumped just then...."
"I guess the drinks are on
me," Retief said.
________________________________________
Two hours later Retief's
Marsberry bottle stood empty on the table beside half a dozen others.
"We were lucky," Sam
Mancziewicz was saying. "You figure the original volume of the planet; say
245,000,000,000 cubic miles. The deBerry theory calls for a collapsed-crystal
core no more than a mile in diameter. There's your odds."
"And you believe you've
found a fragment of this core?"
"Damn right we have. Couple
of million tons if it's an ounce. And at three credits a ton delivered at Port
Syrtis, we're set for life. About time, too. Twenty years I've been in the
Belt. Got two kids I haven't seen for five years. Things are going to be different
now."
"Hey, Sam; tone it down. You
don't have to broadcast to every claim jumper in the Belt."
"Our claim's on file at the
Consulate," Sam said. "As soon as we get the grant—"
"When's that gonna be? We
been waitin' a week now."
"I've never seen any
collapsed-crystal metal," Retief said. "I'd like to take a look at
it."
"Sure. Come on, I'll run you
over. It's about an hour's run. We'll take our skiff. You want to go along,
Willy?"
"I got a bottle to go,"
Willy said. "See you in the morning."
The two men descended in the lift
to the boat bay, suited up and strapped into the cramped boat. A bored
attendant cycled the launch doors, levered the release that propelled the skiff
out and clear of the Jolly Barge Hotel. Retief caught a glimpse of a tower of lights
spinning majestically against the black of space as the drive hurled the tiny
boat away.
________________________________________
III
Retief's feet sank ankle deep
into the powdery surface that glinted like snow in the glare of the distant
sun.
"It's funny stuff,"
Sam's voice sounded in his ear. "Under a gee of gravity, you'd sink out of
sight. The stuff cuts diamond like butter—but temperature changes break it down
into a powder. A lot of it's used just like this, as an industrial abrasive.
Easy to load, too. Just drop a suction line, put on ambient pressure and start
pumping."
"And this whole rock is made
of the same material?"
"Sure is. We ran plenty of
test bores and a full schedule of soundings. I've got the reports back aboard
Gertie—that's our lighter."
"And you've already loaded a
cargo here?"
"Yep. We're running out of
capital fast. I need to get that cargo to port in a hurry—before the outfit
goes into involuntary bankruptcy. With this, that'd be a crime."
"What do you know about
General Minerals, Sam?"
"You thinking of hiring on
with them? Better read the fine print in your contract before you sign.
Sneakiest bunch this side of a burglar's convention."
"They own a chunk of rock
known as 2645-P. Do you suppose we could find it?"
"Oh, you're buying it, hey?
Sure, we can find it. You damn sure want to look it over good if General
Minerals is selling."
Back aboard the skiff,
Mancziewicz flipped the pages of the chart book, consulted a table. "Yep,
she's not too far off. Let's go see what GM's trying to unload."
________________________________________
The skiff hovered two miles from
the giant boulder known as 2645-P. Retief and Mancziewicz looked it over at
high magnification. "It don't look like much, Retief," Sam said.
"Let's go down and take a closer look."
The boat dropped rapidly toward
the scarred surface of the tiny world, a floating mountain, glaring black and
white in the spotlight of the sun. Sam frowned at his instrument panel.
"That's funny. My ion
counter is revving up. Looks like a drive trail, not more than an hour or two
old. Somebody's been here."
The boat grounded. Retief and Sam
got out. The stony surface was littered with rock fragments varying in size
from pebbles to great slabs twenty feet long, tumbled in a loose bed of dust and
sand. Retief pushed off gently, drifted up to a vantage point atop an upended
wedge of rock. Sam joined him.
"This is all igneous
stuff," he said. "Not likely we'll find much here that would pay the
freight to Syrtis—unless maybe you lucked onto some Bodean artifacts. They
bring plenty."
He flipped a binocular in place
as he talked, scanned the riven landscape. "Hey!" he said. "Over
there!"
Retief followed Sam's pointing
glove. He studied the dark patch against a smooth expanse of eroded rock.
"A friend of mine came
across a chunk of the old planetary surface two years ago," Sam said
thoughtfully. "Had a tunnel in it that'd been used as a storage depot by
the Bodeans. Took out over two ton of hardware. Course, nobody's discovered how
the stuff works yet, but it brings top prices."
"Looks like water
erosion," Retief said.
"Yep. This could be another
piece of surface, all right. Could be a cave over there. The Bodeans liked
caves, too. Must have been some war—but then, if it hadn't been, they wouldn't
have tucked so much stuff away underground where it could weather the planetary
breakup."
They descended, crossed the
jumbled rocks with light, thirty-foot leaps.
"It's a cave, all
right," Sam said, stooping to peer into the five-foot bore. Retief
followed him inside.
"Let's get some light in
here." Mancziewicz flipped on a beam. It glinted back from dull polished
surfaces of Bodean synthetic. Sam's low whistle sounded in Retief's headset.
"That's funny," Retief
said.
"Funny, hell! It's
hilarious. General Minerals trying to sell off a worthless rock to a
tenderfoot—and it's loaded with Bodean artifacts. No telling how much is here;
the tunnel seems to go quite a ways back."
"That's not what I mean. Do
you notice your suit warming up?"
"Huh? Yeah, now that you
mention it."
Retief rapped with a gauntleted
hand on the satiny black curve of the nearest Bodean artifact. It clunked dully
through the suit "That's not metal," he said. "It's
plastic."
"There's something fishy
here," Sam said. "This erosion; it looks more like a heat beam."
"Sam," Retief said,
turning, "it appears to me somebody has gone to a great deal of trouble to
give a false impression here."
________________________________________
Sam snorted. "I told you
they were a crafty bunch." He started out of the cave, then paused, went
to one knee to study the floor. "But maybe they outsmarted themselves.
Look here!"
________________________________________
Retief looked. Sam's beam
reflected from a fused surface of milky white, shot through with dirty yellow.
He snapped a pointed instrument in place on his gauntlet, dug at one of the
yellow streaks. It furrowed under the gouge, a particle adhering to the
instrument. With his left hand, Mancziewicz opened a pouch clipped to his belt,
carefully deposited the sample in a small orifice on the device in the pouch.
He flipped a key, squinted at a dial.
"Atomic weight 197.2,"
he said. Retief turned down the audio volume on his headset as Sam's laughter
rang in his helmet.
"Those clowns were out to
stick you, Retief," he gasped, still chuckling. "They salted the rock
with a cave full of Bodean artifacts—"
"Fake Bodean
artifacts," Retief put in.
"They planed off the rock so
it would look like an old beach, and then cut this cave with beamers. And they
were boring through practically solid gold!"
"As good as that?"
Mancziewicz flashed the light
around. "This stuff will assay out at a thousand credits a ton, easy. If
the vein doesn't run to five thousand tons, the beers are on me." He
snapped off the light. "Let's get moving, Retief. You want to sew this
deal up before they get around to taking another look at it."
Back in the boat, Retief and
Mancziewicz opened their helmets. "This calls for a drink," Sam said,
extracting a pressure flask from the map case. "This rock's worth as much
as mine, maybe more. You hit it lucky, Retief. Congratulations." He thrust
out a hand.
"I'm afraid you've jumped to
a couple of conclusions, Sam," Retief said. "I'm not out here to buy
mining properties."
"You're not—then why—but
man! Even if you didn't figure on buying...." He trailed off as Retief
shook his head, unzipped his suit to reach to an inside pocket, take out a
packet of folded papers.
"In my capacity as
Terrestrial Vice-Consul, I'm serving you with an injunction restraining you
from further exploitation of the body known as 95739-A." He handed a paper
across to Sam. "I also have here an Order impounding the vessel Gravel
Gertie II."
Sam took the papers silently, sat
looking at them. He looked up at Retief. "Funny. When you beat me at Drift
and then threw the game so you wouldn't show me up in front of the boys, I
figured you for a right guy. I've been spilling my heart out to you like you
were my old grandma. An old-timer in the game like me." He dropped a hand,
brought it up with a Browning 2mm pointed at Retief's chest.
"I could shoot you and dump
you here with a slab over you, toss these papers in the John and hightail it
with the load...."
"That wouldn't do you much
good in the long run, Sam. Besides you're not a criminal or an idiot."
________________________________________
Sam chewed his lip. "My
claim is on file in the Consulate, legal and proper. Maybe by now the grant's
gone through."
"Other people have their eye
on your rock, Sam. Ever meet a fellow called Leatherwell?"
"General Minerals, huh? They
haven't got a leg to stand on."
"The last time I saw your
claim, it was still lying in the pending file. Just a bundle of paper until
it's validated by the Consul. If Leatherwell contests it ... well, his lawyers
are on annual retainer. How long could you keep the suit going, Sam?"
Mancziewicz closed his helmet
with a decisive snap, motioned to Retief to do the same. He opened the hatch,
sat with the gun on Retief.
"Get out,
paper-pusher." His voice sounded thin in the headphones. "You'll get
lonesome, maybe, but your suit will keep you alive a few days. I'll tip
somebody off before you lose too much weight. I'm going back and see if I can't
stir up a little action at the Consulate."
Retief climbed out, walked off
fifty yards. He watched as the skiff kicked off in a quickly dispersed cloud of
dust, dwindled rapidly away to a bright speck that was lost against the stars.
Then he extracted the locator beacon from the pocket of his suit and thumbed
the control.
Twenty minutes later, aboard Navy
FP-VO-6, Retief pulled off his helmet. "Fast work, Henry. I've got a
couple of calls to make. Put me through to your HQ, will you? I want a word
with Commander Hayle."
The young naval officer raised
the HQ, handed the mike to Retief.
"Vice-Consul Retief here,
Commander. I'd like you to intercept a skiff, bound from my present position
toward Ceres. There's a Mr. Mancziewicz aboard. He's armed, but not dangerous.
Collect him and see that he's delivered to the Consulate at 0900 Greenwich
tomorrow.
"Next item: The Consulate
has impounded an ore-carrier, Gravel Gertie II. It's in a parking orbit ten
miles off Ceres. I want it taken in tow." Retief gave detailed
instruction. Then he asked for a connection through the Navy switchboard to the
Consulate. Magnan's voice answered.
"Retief speaking, Mr.
Consul. I have some news that I think will interest you—"
"Where are you, Retief?
What's wrong with the screen? Have you served the injunction?"
"I'm aboard the Navy patrol
vessel. I've been out looking over the situation, and I've made a surprising
discovery. I don't think we're going to have any trouble with the Sam's people;
they've looked over the body—2645-P—and it seems General Minerals has slipped
up. There appears to be a highly valuable deposit there."
"Oh? What sort of
deposit?"
"Mr. Mancziewicz mentioned
collapsed crystal metal," Retief said.
"Well, most
interesting." Magnan's voice sounded thoughtful.
"Just thought you'd like to
know. This should simplify the meeting in the morning.
"Yes," Magnan said.
"Yes, indeed. I think this makes everything very simple...."
________________________________________
At 0845 Greenwich, Retief stepped
into the outer office of the Consular suite.
"... fantastic
configuration," Leatherwell's bass voice rumbled, "covering literally
acres. My xenogeologists are somewhat confused by the formations. They had only
a few hours to examine the site; but it's clear from the extent of the surface
indications that we have a very rich find here. Very rich indeed. Beside it,
95739-A dwindles into insignificance. Very fast thinking on your part, Mr.
Consul, to bring the matter to my attention."
"Not at all, Mr.
Leatherwell. After all—"
"Our tentative theory is
that the basic crystal fragment encountered the core material at some time, and
gathered it in. Since we had been working on—that is, had landed to take
samples on the other side of the body, this anomalous deposit escaped our
attention completely."
Retief stepped into the room.
"Good morning, gentlemen.
Has Mr. Mancziewicz arrived?"
"Mr. Mancziewicz is under
restraint by the Navy. I've had a call that he'd be escorted here."
"Arrested, eh?"
Leatherwell nodded. "I told you these people were an irresponsible group.
In a way it seems a pity to waste a piece of property like 95739-A on them."
"I understood General
Minerals was claiming that rock," Retief said, looking surprised.
Leatherwell and Magnan exchanged
glances. "Ah, GM has decided to drop all claim to the body,"
Leatherwell said. "As always, we wish to encourage enterprise on the part
of the small operators. Let them keep the property. After all GM has other
deposits well worth exploiting." He smiled complacently.
"What about 2645-P? You've
offered it to the Sam's group."
"That offer is naturally
withdrawn!" Leatherwell snapped.
"I don't see how you can
withdraw the offer," Retief said. "It's been officially recorded.
It's a Bona Fide contract, binding on General Minerals, subject to—"
"Out of the goodness of our
corporate heart," Leatherwell roared, "we've offered to relinquish
our legitimate, rightful claim to asteroid 2645-P. And you have the infernal
gall to spout legal technicalities! I have half a mind to withdraw my offer to
withdraw!"
"Actually," Magnan put
in, eyeing a corner of the room, "I'm not at all sure I could turn up the
record of the offer of 2645-P. I noted it down on a bit of scratch paper—"
"That's all right,"
Retief said, "I had my pocket recorder going. I sealed the record and
deposited it in the Consular archives."
There was a clatter of feet
outside. Miss Gumble appeared on the desk screen. "There are a number of
persons here—" she began.
________________________________________
The door banged open. Sam
Mancziewicz stepped into the room, a sailor tugging at each arm. He shook them
loose, stared around the room. His eyes lighted on Retief. "How did you
get here...?"
"Look here, Monkeywits or
whatever your name is," Leatherwell began, popping out of his chair.
Mancziewicz whirled, seized the
stout executive by the shirt front and lifted him onto his tiptoes. "You
double-barrelled copper-bottomed oak-lined son-of-a—"
"Don't spoil him, Sam,"
Retief said casually. "He's here to sign off all rights—if any—to 95739-A.
It's all yours—if you want it."
Sam glared into Leatherwell's
eyes. "That right?" he grated. Leatherwell bobbed his head, his chins
compressed into bulging folds.
"However," Retief went
on, "I wasn't at all sure you'd still be agreeable, since he's made your
company a binding offer of 2645-P in return for clear title to 95739-A."
Mancziewicz looked across at
Retief with narrowed eyes. He released Leatherwell, who slumped into his chair.
Magnan darted around his desk to minister to the magnate. Behind them, Retief
closed one eye in a broad wink at Mancziewicz.
"... still, if Mr.
Leatherwell will agree, in addition to guaranteeing your title to 95739-A, to
purchase your output at four credits a ton, FOB his collection station—"
Mancziewicz looked at
Leatherwell. Leatherwell hesitated, then nodded. "Agreed," he
croaked.
"... and to open his
commissary and postal facilities to all prospectors operating in the
belt...."
Leatherwell swallowed, eyes
bulging, glanced at Mancziewicz's face. He nodded. "Agreed."
"... then I think I'd sign
an agreement releasing him from his offer."
Mancziewicz looked at Magnan.
"You're the Terrestrial
Consul-General," he said. "Is that the straight goods?"
Magnan nodded. "If Mr.
Leatherwell agrees—"
"He's already agreed,"
Retief said. "My pocket recorder, you know."
"Put it in writing,"
Mancziewicz said.
Magnan called in Miss Gumble. The
others waited silently while Magnan dictated. He signed the paper with a
flourish, passed it across to Mancziewicz. He read it, re-read it, then picked
up the pen and signed. Magnan impressed the Consular seal on the paper.
"Now the grant," Retief
said. Magnan signed the claim, added a seal. Mancziewicz tucked the papers away
in an inner pocket. He rose.
"Well, gents, I guess maybe
I had you figured wrong," he said. He looked at Retief. "Uh ... got
time for a drink?"
"I shouldn't drink during
office hours," Retief said. He rose. "So I'll take the rest of the
day off."
________________________________________
"I don't get it," Sam
said signalling for refills. "What was the routine with the injunction—and
impounding Gertie? You could have got hurt."
"I don't think so,"
Retief said. "If you'd meant business with that Browning, you'd have
flipped the safety off. As for the injunction—orders are orders."
"I've been thinking,"
Sam said. "That gold deposit. It was a plant, too, wasn't it?"
"I'm just a bureaucrat, Sam.
What would I know about gold?"
"A double-salting job,"
Sam said. "I was supposed to spot the phoney hardware—and then fall for
the gold plant. When Leatherwell put his proposition to me, I'd grab it. The
gold was worth plenty, I'd figure, and I couldn't afford a legal tangle with
General Minerals. The lousy skunk! And you must have spotted it and put it up
to him."
The bar-tender leaned across to
Retief. "Wanted on the phone."
In the booth, Magnan's agitated
face stared a Retief.
"Retief, Mr. Leatherwell's
in a towering rage! The deposit on 2645-P; it was merely a surface film, barely
a few inches thick! The entire deposit wouldn't fill an ore-boat." A
horrified expression dawned on Magnan's face. "Retief," he gasped,
"what did you do with the impounded ore-carrier?"
"Well, let me see,"
Retief said. "According to the Space Navigation Code, a body in orbit
within twenty miles of any inhabited airless body constitutes a navigational
hazard. Accordingly, I had it towed away."
"And the cargo?"
"Well, accelerating all that
mass was an expensive business, so to save the taxpayer's credits, I had it
dumped."
"Where?" Magnan
croaked.
"On some unimportant
asteroid—as specified by Regulations." He smiled blandly at Magnan. Magnan
looked back numbly.
"But you said—"
"All I said was that there
was what looked like a valuable deposit on 2645-P. It turned out to be a bogus
gold mine that somebody had rigged up in a hurry. Curious, eh?"
"But you told me—"
"And you told Mr.
Leatherwell. Indiscreet of you, Mr. Consul. That was a privileged
communication; classified information, official use only."
"You led me to believe there
was collapsed crystal!"
"I said Sam had mentioned
it. He told me his asteroid was made of the stuff."
Magnan swallowed hard, twice.
"By the way," he said dully. "You were right about the check.
Half an hour ago Mr. Leatherwell tried to stop payment. He was too late."
"All in all, it's been a big
day for Leatherwell," Retief said. "Anything else?"
"I hope not," Magnan
said. "I sincerely hope not." He leaned close to the screen.
"You'll consider the entire affair as ... confidential? There's no point
in unduly complicating relationships."
"Have no fear, Mr.
Consul," Retief said cheerfully. "You won't find me identifying with
anything as specific as triple-salting an asteroid."
Back at the table, Sam called for
another bottle of rock juice.
"That Drift's a pretty good
game," Retief said. "But let me show you one I learned out on
Yill...."