“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 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, 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—”
“The papers are all drawn up; our legal department will vouch for their correctness. Just sign here . . .” Leatherwell spread out the paper, 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 rose, crossed to the door. He paused, directed a sharp look at Retief, turned a bland expression on 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 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 carried on shouted conversations.
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 unshaved faces turned to study Retief’s six foot three, his closecut black hair, his non-committal grey coverall, the scars on his knuckles. A red-head 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 outright,” the red-head said cheerfully. “But it makes for plenty of drinkin’.”