Retief at Large (8 page)

            "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offer is naturally withdrawn!"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 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 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, Monkey wits 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 onto his
tiptoes. "You double-barrelled 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 Grumble. 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.

            "Now
the grant," Retief said. Magnan signed the claim, added a seal.
Mancziewicz tucked the papers away in an inner pocket. He rose.

            "Well,
gents, I guess maybe I had you figured wrong," he said. He looked at
Retief. "Uh ... got time for a drink?"

            "I
shouldn't drink during office hours," Retief said. He rose. "So I'll
take the rest of the day off."

-

            "I
don't get it," Sam said signalling for refills. "What was the routine
with the injunction—and impounding
Gertie?
You could have got
hurt."

            "I
don't think so," Retief said. "If you'd meant business with that
Browning, you'd have flipped the safety off. As for the injunction—orders are
orders."

            "I've
been thinking," Sam said. "That gold deposit. It was a plant, too,
wasn't it?"

            "I'm
just a bureaucrat, Sam. What would I know about gold?"

            "A
double-salting job," Sam said. "I was supposed to spot the phoney
hardware—and then fall for the gold plant. When Leatherwell put his proposition
to me, I'd grab it. The gold was worth plenty, I'd figure, and I couldn't
afford a legal tangle with General Minerals. The lousy skunk! And you must have
spotted it and put it up to him."

            The
bartender leaned across to Retief. "Wanted on the phone."

            In
the booth, Magnan's agitated face stared a Retief.

            "Retief,
Mr. Leatherwell's in a towering rage! The deposit on 2645-P; it was merely a
surface film, barely a few inches thick! The entire deposit wouldn't fill an
ore-boat." A horrified expression dawned on Magnan's face.
"Retief," he gasped, "what did you do with the impounded
ore-carrier?"

            "Well,
let me see," Retief said. "According to the Space Navigation Code, a
body in orbit within twenty miles of any inhabited airless body constitutes a
navigational hazard. Accordingly, I had it towed away."

            "And
the cargo?"

            "Well,
accelerating all that mass was an expensive business, so to save the taxpayer's
credits, I had it dumped."

            "Where?"
Magnan croaked.

            "On
some unimportant asteroid—as specified by Regulations." He smiled blandly
at Magnan. Magnan looked back numbly.

            "But
you said—"

            "All
I said was that there was what looked like a valuable deposit on 2645-P. It
turned out to be a bogus gold mine that somebody had rigged up in a hurry.
Curious, eh?"

            "But
you told me—"

            "And
you told Mr. Leatherwell. Indiscreet of you, Mr. Consul. That was a privileged
communication; classified information, official use only."

            "You
led me to believe there was collapsed crystal!"

            "I
said Sam had mentioned it. He told me his asteroid was made of the stuff."

            Magnan
swallowed hard, twice. "By the way," he said dully. "You were
right about the check. Half an hour ago Mr. Leatherwell tried to stop payment.
He was too late."

            "All
in all, it's been a big day for Leatherwell," Retief said. "Anything
else?"

            "I
hope not," Magnan said. "I sincerely hope not." He leaned close
to the screen. "You'll consider the entire affair as ... confidential?
There's no point in unduly complicating relationships."

            "Have
no fear, Mr. Consul," Retief said cheerfully. "You won't find me
identifying with anything as specific as triple-salting an asteroid."

            Back
at the table, Sam called for another bottle of rock juice.

            "That
Drift's a pretty good game," Retief said. "But let me show you one I
learned out on Yill ..."

-

            RETIEF
SCALED his pale burgundy afternoon informal beret across the office, narrowly
missing the clothes tree, and dumped the heavy carton he was carrying on his
desk. A shapely brunette with a turned-up nose appeared at the connecting door
to the next office.

            "Miss
Braswell," he said before she could speak. "I have here two handsome
half-liter wine glasses which I'm about to field-test. Will you join me?"

            She
made a shushing motion, rolling her eyes toward the inner office. A narrow,
agitated face appeared over her shoulder.

            "Retief!"
Consul-General Magnan burst out. "I've been at wit's end! How does it
happen that every time catastrophe strikes you're out of the office?"

            "It's
merely a matter of timing," Retief said soothingly, stripping paper from
the package. He pulled out a tulip-shaped goblet which seemed to be made of
coils of jewel-colored glass welded together in an intricate pattern. He held
it up to the light.

            "Pretty,
eh? And barely cool from the glass-blower."

            "While
you idled about the bazaar," Magnan snapped, his face an angry pink above
a wide, stiff collar of yellow plastiweave, "I've been coping
single-handed with disaster! I suggest you put aside your baubles; I'm calling
a formal Emergency Staff Meeting in two minutes!"

            "That
means you, me and Miss Braswell, I take it, since the rest of the staff is off
crater-vie wing—"

            "Just
you and I." Magnan mopped at his face with a vast floral-patterned tissue.
"This is a highly classified emergency."

            "Oh,
goody. I'll take the rest of the afternoon off and watch the festivities."
Miss Braswell winked at Retief, extended the tip of her tongue in salute to the
Consul-General's back, and was gone.

            Retief
plucked a bottle from his desk drawer and followed Magnan into the inner
office. The senior officer yanked at his stiff collar, now wilting with
perspiration.

            "Why
this couldn't have waited until Minister Barnshingle's return, I don't
know," he said. "He's already a day overdue. I've tried to contact
him, to no avail. This primitive line-of-sight local telescreen system—"
He broke off. "Retief, kindly defer your tippling until after the
crisis!"

            "Oh,
this isn't tippling, Mr. Magnan. I'm doing a commodity analysis for my next
report. You fobbed the detail of Commercial Attache off on me, if you
recall."

            "As
Charge d'affaires in the absence of the Minister, I forbid drinking on
duty!" Magnan roared.

            "Surely
you jest, Mr. Magnan! It would mean the end of diplomacy as we know it."

            "Well,
not until after lunch, at least. And I hereby authorize you to postpone market
research until further notice; we're facing a possible holocaust in a matter of
hours!"

            "What's
it all about?"