In the flower-crowded park among the stripped vines, Retief and Arapoulous made their way to a laden table under the lanterns. A tall girl dressed in a loose white garment, with long golden hair, came up to Arapoulous.
“Delinda, this is Retief—today’s winner. And he’s also the fellow that got those workers for us.”
Delinda smiled at Retief. “I’ve heard about you, Mr. Retief. We weren’t sure about the boys at first; two thousand Bogans, and all confused about their baggage that went astray. But they seemed to like the picking . . .” She smiled again.
“That’s not all; our gals liked the boys,” Hank said. “Even Bogans aren’t so bad, minus their irons. A lot of ’em will be staying on. But how come you didn’t tell me you were coming, Retief? I’d have laid on some kind of big welcome.”
“I liked the welcome I got. And I didn’t have much notice. Mr. Magnan was a little upset when he got back. It seems I exceeded my authority.”
Arapoulous laughed. “I had a feeling you were wheelin’ pretty free, Retief. I hope you didn’t get into any trouble over it.”
“No trouble,” Retief said. “A few people were a little unhappy with me. It seems I’m not ready for important assignments at Departmental level. I was shipped off here to the boondocks to get a little more field experience.”
“Delinda, look after Retief,” said Arapoulous. “I’ll see you later. I’ve got to see to the wine judging.” He disappeared in the crowd.
“Congratulations on winning the day,” said Delinda. “I noticed you at work. You were wonderful. I’m glad you’re going to have the prize.”
“Thanks. I noticed you too, flitting around in that white nightie of yours. But why weren’t you picking grapes with the rest of us?”
“I had a special assignment.”
“Too bad. You should have had a chance at the prize.”
Delinda took Retief’s hand. “I wouldn’t have anyway,” she said. “I’m the prize.”
SALINE SOLUTION
“Oft has the Corps, in its steadfast championing of minority rights, run foul of the massive influence of entrenched pressure groups. Consul General (later Secretary) Magnan stirringly reaffirmed hallowed Corps principles of fair play in his deft apportionment of minerals properties in the Belt . . .”
—Vol. III, Reel 21, 481 AE (AD 2942)
Consul-General Magnan gingerly fingered a 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, Wormwell, Spradley, Nitworth, Sternwheeler, Barnshingle; 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 the true worth of their contributions.”
“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, 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 as the chair pitched, 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,” he intoned, “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 said. He leaned forward to open the briefcase, glancing over Magnan’s littered desk-top. He extracted a bundle of papers, dropped them on the desk, then drew out a heavy document, 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—” Magnan 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,” Retief said. “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 . . . adventurers 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.”