He cut off a chunk of a few pounds’ weight and made a nugget—a tiny meteor—of it, then headed for the planet, a plainly visible disk some fifteen degrees from the sun. He had a fairly large-scale chart of the system, with notes. Borova IV was uninhabited, except by low forms of life, and by outposts. Cold. Atmosphere thin—good, that meant no clouds. No oceans.
No volcanic activity. Very good! He’d look it over, and the first striking landmark he saw, from one diameter out, would be his cache.
He circled the planet once at the equator, observing a formation of five mighty peaks arranged in a semi-circle, cupped toward the world’s north pole. He circled it again, seeing nothing as prominent, and nothing else resembling it at all closely. Scanning his plate narrowly, to be sure nothing was following him, he drove downward in a screaming dive toward the middle mountain.
It was an extinct volcano, he discovered, with a level-floored crater more than a hundred miles in diameter. Practically level, that is, except for a smaller cone which reared up in the center of that vast, desolate plain of craggy, tortured lava. Straight down into the cold vent of the inner cone the Lensman steered his ship; and in its exact center he dug a hole and buried his treasure. He then lifted his tug-boat fifty feet and held her there, poised on her raving under-jets, until the lava in the little crater again began sluggishly to flow, and thus to destroy all evidence of his visit. This detail attended to, he shot out into space and called Haynes, to whom he reported in full.
“I’ll bring the meteor in when I come—or do you want to send somebody out here after it? It belongs to the Patrol, of course.”
“No, it doesn’t, Kim—it belongs to you.”
“Huh? Isn’t there a law that any discoveries made by any employes of the Patrol belong to the Patrol?”
“Nothing as broad as that. Certain scientific discoveries, by scientists assigned to an exact research, yes. But you’re forgetting again that you’re an Unattached Lensman, and as such are accountable to no one in the Universe. Even the ten-per-cent treasure-trove law couldn’t touch you. Besides, your meteor is not in that category, as you are its first owner, as far as we know. If you insist I’ll mention it to the Council, but I know in advance what the answer will be.”
“QX, Chief—thanks,” and the connection was broken.
There, that was that. He had got rid of the white elephant, yet it wouldn’t be wasted. If the zwilniks got him, the Patrol would dig it up; if he lived long enough to retire to a desk job he wouldn’t have to take any more of the Patrol’s money as long as he lived. Financially, he was all set.
And physically, he was all set for his first real binge as a meteor-miner. His shoulder and arm were as good as new. He had a lot of metal; enough so that its proceeds would finance, not only his next venture into space, but also a really royal celebration in the spacemen’s resort he had already picked out.
For the Lensman had devoted a great deal of thought to that item. For his purpose, the bigger the resort—within limits—the better. The man he was after would not be a small operator, nor would he deal directly with such. Also, the big king-pins did not murder drugged miners for their ships and outfits, as the smaller ones sometimes did. The big ones realized that there was more long-pull profit in repeat business.
Therefore Kinnison set his course toward the great asteroid Euphrosyne and its festering hell-hole, Miners’ Rest. Miners’ Rest, to all highly moral citizens the disgrace not only of a solar system but of a sector; the very name of which was (and is) a by-word and a hissing to the blue- noses of twice a hundred inhabited and civilized worlds.
CHAPTER 12 – WILD BILL WILLIAMS, METEOR MINER
As has been implied, miners’ rest was the biggest, widest-open, least restrained joint in that entire sector of the galaxy. And through the underground activities of his fellows of the Patrol, Kinnison knew that of all the king-snipes of that lawless asteroid, the man called Strongheart was the Big Shot Therefore the Lensman landed his battered craft at Strong-heart’s Dock, loaded the equipment of the hi-jacker’s boat into a hand truck, and went into to talk to Strongheart himself.
“Supplies—Equipment—Metal—Bought and Sold” the sign read; but to any experienced eye it was evident that the sign was conservative indeed; that it did not cover Strong-heart’s business, by half. There were dance-halls, there were long and ornate bars, there were rooms in plenty devoted to various games of so-called chance, and most significant, there were scores of those unmistakable cubicles.
“Welcome, stranger! Glad to see you—have a good trip?” The dive-keeper always greeted new customers effusively. “Have a drink on the house!”
“Business before pleasure,” Kinnison replied, tersely. “Pretty good, yes. Here’s some stuff I don’t need any more that I aim to sell. What’ll you gimme for it?”
The dealer inspected the suits and instruments, then bored a keen stare into the miner’s eyes; a scrutiny under which Kinnison neither flushed nor wavered.
“Two hundred and fifty credits for the lot,” Strongheart decided.
“Best you can do?”
“Tops. Take it or leave it,”
“QX, they’re yours. Gimme it.”
“Why, this just starts our business, don’t it? Ain’t you got cores? Sure you have.”
“Yeah, but not for no”—doubly and unprintably qualified —“damn robber. I like a louse, but you suit me altogether too damn well. Them suits alone, just as they lay, are worth a thousand.”
“So what? For why go to insult me, a business man? Sure I can’t give what that stuff is worth—who could? You ought to know how I got to get rid of hot goods. You killed, ain’t it, the guys what owned it, so how could I treat it except like it’s hot? Now be your age—don’t burn out no jets,” as the Lensman turned with a blistering, sizzling deep-space oath. “I know they shot first, they always do, but how does that change things? But keep your shirt on yet, I don’t tell nobody nothing. For why should I? How could I make any money on hot stuff if I talk too much with my mouth, huh? But on cores, that’s something else again. Meteors is legitimate merchandise, and I pay you as much as anybody, maybe more.”
“QX,” and Kinnison tossed over his cores. He had sold the bandits’ space-suits and equipment deliberately, in order to minimize further killing.
This was his first visit to Miners’ Rest, but he intended to become an habitue of the place; and before he would be accepted as a “regular” he knew that he would have to prove his quality.
Buckos and bullies would be sure to try him out. This way was much better. The tale would spread; and any gunman who had drilled two hi-jackers, dead-center through the face-plates, was not one to be challenged lightly. He might have to kill one or two, but not many, nor frequently.
And the fellow was honest enough in his buying of the metal. His Spaldings cut honest cores—Kinnison put micrometers on them to be sure of that fact. He did not underread his torsiometer, and he weighed the meteors upon certified balances. He used Galactic Standard average-value-density tables, and offered exactly half of the calculated average value; which, Kinnison knew, was fair enough. By taking his metal to a mint or a rare-metals station of the Patrol, any miner could get the precise value of any meteor, as shown by detailed analysis.
However, instead of making the long trip and waiting—and paying—for the exact analyses, the miners usually preferred to take the “fifty-percent-of-average-density-value” which was the customary offer of the outside dealers.
Then, the meteors unloaded and hauled away, Kinnison dickered with Strongheart concerning the supplies he would need during his next trip; the hundred-and-one items which are necessary to make a tiny space-ship a self-contained, self-sufficient, warm and inhabitable worldlet in the immense and unfriendly vacuity of space. Here, too, the Lensman was overcharged shamelessly; but that, too, was routine. No one would, or could be expected to, do business in any such place as Miners’ Rest at any sane or ordinary percentage of profit.
When Strongheart counted out to him the net proceeds of the voyage, Kinnison scratched reflectively at his whiskery chin.
“That ain’t hardly enough, I don’t think, for the real, old-fashioned, stem-winding bender I was figuring on,” he ruminated. “I been out a long time and I was figuring on doing the thing up brown. Have to let go of my nugget, too, I guess. Kinda hate to—been packing it round quite a while—but here she is.” He reached into his kit-bag and tossed over the lump of really precious metal. “Let you have it for fifteen hundred credits.”