Mr. Maynard. Solid enough for full automation and enough of it to supply every possible
demand of all civilization from now on.”
“My . . . good . . . God.” Maynard almost collapsed back into his chair. “I knew it would
have to be something big … but automated uranium-okay. Go ahead. Somebody told you
I like fully-developed presentations?”
“That’s right. So here are the applications complete, and here are the final patents-not
only from Tellus, but also from Galmetia and Newmars as well. All this is proof of
ownership; with-according to DuPuy of WarnOil-no possibility whatever of successful
challenge.”
The tycoon, who had begun to examine the documents, replaced them in the envelope
and nodded approvingly. “If Pete DuPuy says it’s ironclad it really is. So I’m ready for
Stage Two.”
“Here’s a large-scale tri-di, in dilometers, of the largest ore-body. There are a lot of
others, but this whole plateau is one solid mass of jewelry ore. It isn’t pure pitchblende or
pure anything else; it’s been altered down by heat and pressure to an average specific
gravity of about ten point one. So it will run well over ten metric gigatons to the cubic
kilometer, and you can read the cubage for yourself. Do you wonder that we wouldn’t
talk to anyone except you in person about it?”
“That’s evident-quite.” For ten silent minutes Maynard scanned data with practised ease.
Then, “There are a few points that need clarification. I know that there are a lot of
crackpot planetary claims allowed every year; on planets so worthless that they lapse
into the public domain as soon as the crackpots lose interest, go broke, or die. Some of
the discoverers, crackpots of the purest ray, even get LitBay certification for their junk-
balls. But how in hell did you mousetrap LitBay into certifying for worthless manganese
ore a planet so reeking with radiation that any high-school girl with a handful of loose
wire would have been shrieking ‘URANIUM!’ half an hour before you landed? You know
and I know that any field man of theirs who didn’t read his scintillometer every time he
goes into a strange restaurant for lunch would get fired right then.”
“That did take a little doing,” Deston admitted, and Barbara laughed again. “Our
development work was done by the stupidest people we could find, and the man we
made foreman was the stupidest one of the whole lot. We didn’t appear at any Bureau of
Planets ourselves, of course. Our proxies were a couple of very good actors who had
studied being crackpots until they were letter-perfect. Then we waited until all LitBay’s
field men were out on jobs. Our proxies were in such a tearing rush to get Barbizon
nailed down that they opened negotiations by offering double fees-and you know what
LitBay’s usual fees are-for fast action. So since it was so obviously just another crackpot
location, who was ever to know or care that it was a couple of office-boys who went
out? And, some way or other, their scintillometers happened to get swapped temporarily
for a pair of slightly finagled ones we had on board.”
“I see.” Maynard shook his head admiringly. “So the thing never got upstairs in their
office . . . and I can’t twit Littleton about it because it never got anywhere near me,
either. Okay. Barbizon is of course lifeless-and the whole planet reeks-this ninety-hour
limit on the manganese location is the coolest spot on the planet, I suppose.”
“That’s right. We couldn’t put anybody in armor, so we didn’t let anybody work over ten
six-hour days.” “Refresh my memory.” Maynard flipped pages; came up with a single
sheet of paper. “Ah. All your men were over sixty five-and the LitBay kids were on the
ground only nine hours. So when this is over you’ll notify them that they’ve had ten
percent of a year’s permissible radiation, I suppose.”
Barbara smiled meaningly. “No, Mr. Maynard. It has just occurred to me that you might
like to tell Mr. Littleton about that yourself.”
“So he’ll think I mousetrapped him?” Maynard blushed to the top of his bald head. “And
I’m small-souled enough to take advantage of that face-saving offer. Thanks. But to get
on with it, there’s a glaring vacancy in these data-about that incredible tri-di. . . .”
“It’s there, Mr. Maynard,” Barbara put in. “It really is.”
“I know it is. With a planet whose radiation would trip a scanner at four or five
astronomical units out, and what it has cost you to nail it down, faking would be
completely pointless. No, the missing information is, how did you make that tri-di? We
know of one honest-to-God oil-witch . .” He paused and looked pointedly at Barbara, “but
I’ve never heard of anyone who ever witched enough virgin ore of any kind to load a shot-
gun shell. Do you, Deston, claim to be the first metal-witch? Excuse me-‘warlock’, I
suppose I should have said.”
“I most emphatically do not. Such crackpot stuff as that? No: `Improved instrumentation
and techniques’ is the full explanation. Secret, of course-obviously. And whatever made
you think Barbara is an oil-witch? They’re sinking as many dry holes as anybody.”
“Yeah.” As Maynard said it, the word was the essence of disbelief. “Lately. I’ve noticed.
You don’t want to get her shot. Smart boy-if I were you I wouldn’t either.” “But sir, I
assure . . .”
“Yeah,” Maynard said again. “I’m assured, and I don’t leak. So go ahead with Stage
Three.”
“Thank you. Stage Three is to sell you the planet Barbizon, lock, stock, and barrel, for
the sum of one dollar and other valuable considerations.”
Maynard’s whole body tensed, but his voice came calm and quiet as he asked, “Such
as?”
“Two million shares of today’s Class B GalMet common at today’s close; to be delivered
when the net profit of Project Barbizon amounts to two megabucks more than the cost of
the shares.”
“What?” Maynard was shaken, and this time he could not help showing it. “Less than two
hundred megabucks, paid after we clear it . . . You’re telling me there is a Santa Claus,
making us a free-gratis-for-nothing Christmas present of God-knows-how-many
mega-hell, no; not megabucks, it’ll be billions. With production equaling full demand and
the price set by the PESI formula it’ll be God-knows-how-many megbucks over the long
pull. So you’ll have to do some more explaining, Deston.”
“I was going to; but first, who else could possibly handle a project that big the way it
should be handled?” “Granted. We’re geared for it; no one else is. But you know and I
know that with Barbizon nailed down tight you can set and get any royalty you please.”
“I know.” Deston smiled suddenly. “We just did. We toyed with the idea of socking you,
but everything was against it and nothing for it. First; we, too, adhere to the Principle of
Enlightened Self-Interest.”
“I see.” Maynard relaxed and his mien lightened tremendously. “That shaft, son,
dead-centered the gold. Go ahead.”
“Second; since metal isn’t our dish, our take will be pure gravy, and the easier the bite
we put on you and the deeper you get into the planet Barbizon, the more convinced you
will become that we knew what we’re doing.”
“It’s beginning to make sense. All this will soften me up for the real whingo. So what will
Santa Claus, as represented by Deston and Deston Ink, do then?”
“Having established the fact beyond question that we have, by means of our highly
advanced instrumentation and techniques, found an immense amount of one highly
desirable natural resource, we will ask you what you want next. We will look for it and
we will probably find it.”
“And, having found it?”
“Are you sold, up to this point?”
“Definitely.” Maynard’s fingers drummed lightly upon the soft plastic covering of the arm
of his chair. “If the stuff were not there you wouldn’t be here: none of this would make
any sense at all.”
“We will then prove to you that we have found whatever it was that you wanted. The next
step will be to merge GalMet and WarnOil-Barbara thinks that ‘Metals And Energy’
would be a good name for the new corporation. Now, considering. . .”
“You’re leaving out one element, Carl,” Barbara put in.
“Not exactly. That’s speculation, and at the moment I’m…
“He’ll be interested in that particular speculation,” Barbara broke in, “so I’ll tell him. Mr.
Maynard, DuPuy says that while it is not vet politically feasible to even suggest including
InStell in this proposed merger, he thinks that the present gentlemen’s agreement would
not only continue, but would become even more so.”
Maynard nodded. “I was beginning to think along that same line myself. Go ahead,
Deston.”
“Considering the size and scope of the proposed firm, and the fact that it would not have
to explore, but would have at its command any amount of any natural resource-how fast