“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 high-tail it with the load . . .”
“That wouldn’t do you much good in the long run, Sam. Besides which 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 and I’ve got clear title—”
“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 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 xeno-geologists 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 significance. 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 to the effect 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 claim—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’s face 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 into his tiptoes. “You double-barreled 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.