Retief at Large (6 page)

            Leatherwell
rose, gathered up his papers from Magnan's desk, dumped them into the
briefcase. "Riffraff, 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
directed a sharp look at Retief and a bland one at Magnan. "I trust you'll
communicate the proposal to the interested parties. Inasmuch as time is of the
essence to 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 6942,1 assume?"

            Retief
nodded. "That's what they call it."

            "As
for the ore-carrier, I'd best impound it, pending the 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 mat 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 mat 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 skiffs 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 shouted.

            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
unshaven faces turned to study Retief's six foot three, his close cut black
hair, his non-commital gray coverall, the scars on his knuckles. A redhead 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 every 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
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 redhead 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 redhead poured a tumbler half full of rock
juice, place it atop the two fists. "Okay, boys. Go!"

            The
man named Sam gritted his teeth; his biceps tensed, 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, 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,
put on ambient pressure 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, that'd be
a crime."