Galactic Diplomat (5 page)

“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 n
ow 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’.”

Retief put his elbow on the table. “I’ll give it a try.”

The two men hooked forefingers. The red-head poured a tumbler
half full of rock juice, placed it atop the two fists. “OK, boys. Go!”

The
man named Sam gritted his teeth; his biceps tensed; his knuckles grew white.
The glass trembled. Then it moved—toward Retief. Sam hunched his shoulders,
straining.

“That’s the stuff, Mister!”

“What’s the matter, Sam? You tired?”

The glass moved steadily closer to Retief’s face.

“A hundred the new man makes it!”

“Watch Sam; any minute now . . .”

The glass slowed, paused. Retief’s wrist twitched and the
glass crashed to the table top. A shout went up. Sam leaned back with a sigh,
massaging his hand.

“That’s some arm you got there, Mister,” he said. “If you
hadn’t jumped just then . . .”

“I guess the drinks are on me,” Retief said.

Two hours later Retief’s Marsberry bottle stood empty on the
table beside half a dozen others.

“We
were lucky,” Sam Mancziewicz was saying. “You figure the original volume of the
planet; say 245,000,000,000 cubic miles. The deBerry theory calls for a
collapsed-crystal core no more than a mile in diameter. There’s your odds.”

“And you believe you’ve found a fragment of this core?”

“Damn right we have. Couple of million tons if it’s an
ounce—and at three credits a ton delivered at Port Syrtis, we’re set for life.
About time, too. Twenty years I’ve been in the Belt. Got two kids I haven’t
seen for five years. Things are going to be different now.”

“Hey, Sam; tone it down. You don’t have to broadcast to every
claim jumper in the Belt—”

“Our claim’s on file at the consulate,” Sam said. “As soon as
we get the grant—”

“When’s that gonna be? We been waitin’ a week now.”

“I’ve never seen any collapsed-crystal metal,” Retief said.
“I’d like to take a look at it.”

“Sure; come on, I’ll run you over. It’s about an hour’s run.
We’ll take our skiff. You want to go along, Willy?”

“I got a bottle to go,” Willy said. “See you in the morning.”

The
two men descended in the lift to the boat bay, suited up, and strapped into the
cramped boat. A bored attendant cycled the launch doors, levered the release
that propelled the skiff out and clear of the Jolly Barge Hotel. Retief caught
a glimpse of a tower of lights spinning majestically against the black of space
as the drive hurled the tiny boat away.

Retief’s feet sank ankle deep into the powdery surface that
glinted like snow in the glare of the distant sun.

“It’s
funny stuff,” Sam’s voice sounded in his ear. “Under a gee of gravity, you’d
sink out of sight. The stuff cuts diamond like butter—but temperature changes
break it down into a powder. A lot of it’s used just like this, as an
industrial abrasive. Easy to load, too. Just drop a suction line and start
pumping.”

“And this whole rock is made of the same material?”

“Sure is. We ran plenty of test bores, and a full schedule of
soundings. I’ve got the reports back aboard
Gertie
—that’s our lighter.”

“And you’ve already loaded a cargo here?”

“Yep.
We’re running out of capital fast. I need to get that cargo to port in a
hurry—before the outfit goes into involuntary bankruptcy. With this strike,
that’d be a crime. By the time the legal fees were paid off, we’d be broke
again.”