The Rolling Stones (24 page)

Write the figure as 1.35 x 10
^25th
cubic miles; that makes it easier to see if no easier to grasp. At the time the
Rolling Stone
arrived among the rolling stones of Rock City the Belt had a population density of one human soul for every two billion trillion cubic miles—read 2 x 10
²¹
. About half of these six thousand-odd lived on the larger planetoids, Ceres, Pallas, Vesta, Juno; one of the few pleasant surprises in the exploration of our system was the discovery that the largest Asteroids were unbelievably dense and thus had respectable surface gravitations. Ceres, with a diameter of only 485 miles, has an average density five times that of Earth and a surface gravity about the same as Mars. These large planetoids are believed to be mainly core material of lost Lucifer, covered with a few miles of lighter debris.

The other three thousand inhabitants constitute the Belt’s “floating population” in a most literal sense; they live and work in free fall. Almost all of them are gathered into half a dozen loose communities working the nodes or clusters of the Belt. The nodes are several hundred times as dense as the main body of the Belt—if “dense” is the proper word; a transport for Ganymede could have ploughed through the Hallelujah node and Rock City and never noticed it except by radar. The chance that such a liner would hit anything is extremely small.

The miners worked the nodes for uranium, transuranics, and core material, selling their high grade at the most conveniently positioned large Asteroid and occasionally moving on to some other node. Before the strike in the Hallelujah the group calling themselves Rock City had been working Kaiser Wilhelm node behind Ceres in orbit; at the good news they moved, speeding up a trifle and passing in-orbit of Ceres, a ragtag caravan nudged through the sky by scooters, chemical rocket engines, jato units, and faith. Theirs was the only community well placed to migrate. Grogan’s Boys were in the same orbit but in Heartbreak node beyond the Sun, half a billion miles away. New Joburg was not far away but was working the node known as Reynolds Number Two, which rode the Themis orbital pattern, inconveniently far out.

None of these cities in the sky was truly self-supporting, nor perhaps ever would be; but the ravenous appetite of Earth’s industries for power metal and for the even more valuable planetary-core materials for such uses as jet throats and radiation shields—this insatiable demand for what the Asteroids could yield—made certain that the miners could swap what they had for what they needed. Yet in many ways they were almost self-supporting; uranium refined no further away than Ceres gave them heat and light and power; all of their vegetables and much of their protein came from their own hydroponic tanks and yeast vats. Single-H and oxygen came from Ceres or Pallas.

Wherever there is power and mass to manipulate, Man can live.

For almost three days the
Rolling Stone
coasted slowly through Rock City. To the naked eye looking out a port or even to a person standing outside on the hull Rock City looked like any other stretch of space—empty, with a backdrop of stars. A sharp-eyed person who knew the constellations well would have noticed far too many planets distorting the classic configurations, planets which did not limit their wanderings to the Zodiac. Still sharper attention would have spotted motion on the part of these “planets,” causing them to open out and draw aft from the direction the
Stone
was heading.

Just before lunch on the third day Captain Stone slowed his ship still more and corrected her vector by firing a jato unit; City Hall and several other shapes could be seen ahead. Later in the afternoon he fired one more jato unit, leaving the
Stone
dead in space relative to City Hall and less than an eighth of a mile from it. He turned to the phone and called the Mayor.

“
Rolling Stone,
Luna, Captain Stone speaking.”

“We’ve been watching you come in, Captain,” came the voice of the Mayor.

“Good. Mr. Fries, I’m going to try to get a line over to you. With luck, I’ll be over to see you in a half hour or so.”

“Using a line-throwing gun? I’ll send someone out to pick it up.”

“No gun, worse luck. With the best of intentions I forgot to stock one.”

Fries hesitated. “Uh, Captain, pardon me, but are you in good practice for free-fall suit work?”

“Truthfully, no.”

“Then let me send a boy across to put a line on you. No, no! I insist.”

Hazel, the Captain, and the twins suited up, went outside, and waited. They could make out a small figure on the ship across from them; the ship itself looked larger now, larger than the
Stone.
City Hall was an obsolete space-to-space vessel, globular, and perhaps thirty years old. Roger Stone surmised correctly that she had made a one-way freighter trip after she was retired from a regular run.

In close company with City Hall was a stubby cylinder; it was either smaller than the spherical ship or farther away. Near it was an irregular mass impossible to make out; the sunlight on it was bright enough but the unfilled black shadows gave no clear clues. All around them were other ships or shapes close enough to be distinguished from the stars; Pollux estimated that there must be two dozen within as many miles. While he watched a scooter left a ship a mile or more away and headed toward City Hall.

The figure they had seen launched himself across the gap. He seemed to swell; in half a minute he was close by, checking himself by the line he carried. He dropped to an easy landing near the bow of the
Stone
; they went to meet him.

“Howdy, Captain. I’m Don Whitsitt, Mr. Fries’ bookkeeper.”

“Howdy, Don.” He introduced the others; the twins helped haul in the light messenger line and coil it; it was followed by a steel line which Don Whitsitt shackled to the ship.

“See you at the store,” he said. “So long.” He launched himself back the way he came, carrying the coiled messenger line and not bothering with the line he had rigged.

Pollux watched him draw away. “I think I could do that.”

“Just keep on thinking it,” his father said, “and loop yourself to that guide line.”

One leap took them easily across the abyss, provided one did not let one’s loop twist around the guide line. Castor’s loop did so; it braked him to a stop. He had to unsnarl it, then gain momentum again by swarming along the line hand over hand.

Whitsitt had gone inside but he had recycled the lock and left it open for them. They went on in, to be met there by the Honorable Jonathan Fries, Mayor of Rock City. He was a small, bald, pot-bellied man with a sharp, merry look in his eye and a stylus tucked back of his ear. He shook hands with Roger Stone enthusiastically. “Welcome, welcome! We’re honored to have you with us, Mister Mayor. I ought to have a key to the city, or some such, for you. Dancing girls and brass bands.”

Roger shook his head. “I’m an ex-mayor and a private traveler. Never mind the brass bands.”

“But you’ll take the dancing girls?”

“I’m a married man. Thanks anyhow.”

“If we had any dancing girls I’d keep ’em for myself. And I’m a married man, too.”

“You certainly are!” A plump, plain but very jolly woman had floated up behind them.

“Yes, Martha.” They completed the rest of the introductions; Mrs. Fries took Hazel in tow; the twins trailed along with the two men, into the forward half of the globe. It was a storeroom and a shop; racks had been fitted to the struts and thrust members; goods and provisions of every sort were lashed or netted to them. Don Whitsitt clung with his knees to a saddle in the middle of the room with a desk folded into his lap. In his reach were ledgers on lazy tongs and a rack of clips holding several hundred small account books. A miner floated in front of him. Several more were burrowing through the racks of merchandise.

Seeing the display of everything a meteor miner could conceivably need, Pollux was glad that they had concentrated on luxury goods—then remembered with regret that they had precious little left to sell; the flat cats, before they were placed in freeze, had eaten so much that the family had been delving into their trade goods, from caviar to Chicago sausage. He whispered to Castor, “I had no idea the competition would be so stiff.”

“Neither did I.”

A miner slithered up to Mr. Fries. “One-Price, about that centrifuge—”

“Later, Sandy. I’m busy.”

Captain Stone protested, “Don’t let me keep you from your customers.”

“Oh, Sandy hasn’t got anything to do but wait. Right, Sandy? Shake hands with Captain Stone—it was his wife who fixed up old Jocko.”

“It was? Say, I’m mighty proud to know you, Captain! You’re the best news we’ve had in quite a while.” Sandy turned to Fries. “You better put him right on the Committee.”

“I shall. I’m going to call a phone meeting this evening.”

“Just a moment!” objected Roger Stone. “I’m just a visitor. I don’t belong on your Citizens’ Committee.”

Fries shook his head. “You don’t know what it means to our people to have a medical doctor with us again. The Committee ain’t any work, really. It’s just to let you know we’re glad you’ve joined us. And we’ll make Mrs. Stone—I mean Doctor Stone—a member if she wants it. She won’t have time for it, though.”

Captain Stone was beginning to feel hemmed in. “Slow down! We expect to be leaving here come next Earth departure—and my wife is not now engaged in regular practice, anyhow. We’re on a pleasure trip.”

Fries looked worried. “You mean she won’t attend the sick? But she operated on Jock Donaher.”

Stone was about to say that she positively would not under any circumstances take over a regular practice when he realized that he had very little voice in the matter. “She’ll attend the sick. She’s a doctor.”

“Good!”

“But, confound it, man! We didn’t come here for that. She’s on a vacation.”

Fries nodded. “We’ll see what we can work out to make it easy on her. We won’t expect the lady to go hopping rocks the way Doc Schultz did. Get that, Sandy? We can’t have every rock-happy rat in the swarm hollering for the doctor every time he gets a sore finger. We want to get the word around that if a man gets sick or gets hurt it’s up to him and his neighbors to drag him in to City Hall if he can possibly wear a suit. Tell Don to draft me a proclamation.”

The miner nodded solemnly. “That’s right, One-Price.”

Sandy moved away; Fries went on, “Let’s go back into the restaurant and see if Martha has some fresh coffee. I’d like to get your opinion on several civic matters.”

“Frankly, I couldn’t possibly have opinions on your public affairs here. Things are so different.”

“Oh, why don’t I be truthful and admit I want to gossip about politics with another pro—I don’t meet one every day. First, though, did you have any shopping in mind today? Anything you need? Tools? Oxy? Catalysts? Planning on doing any prospecting and if so, do you have your gear?”

“Nothing especial today—except one thing: we need to buy, or by preference rent, a scooter. We’d like to explore a bit.”

Fries shook his head. “Friend, I wish you hadn’t asked me that. That’s the one thing I haven’t got. All these sand rats booming in here from Mars, and even from Luna, half of ’em with no equipment. They lease a scooter and a patent igloo and away they go, red hot to make their fortunes. Tell you what I can do, though—I’ve got more rocket motors and tanks coming in from Ceres two months from now. Don and I can weld you up one and have it ready to slap the motor in when the
Firefly
gets here.”

Roger Stone frowned. “With Earth departure only five months away that’s a long time to wait.”

“Well, we’ll just have to see what we can scare up. Certainly the new doctor is entitled to the best—and the doctor’s family. Say—”

A miner tapped him on the shoulder. “Say, storekeeper, I—”

Fries’ face darkened. “You can address me as ‘Mr. Mayor’!”

“Huh?”

“And beat it! Can’t you see I’m busy?” The man backed away; Fries fumed, “‘One-Price’ I’m known as, to my friends and to my enemies, from here to the Trojans. If he doesn’t know that, he can call me by my title—or take his trade elsewhere. Where was I? Oh, yes! You might try old Charlie.”

“Eh?”

“Did you notice that big tank moored to City Hall? That’s Charlie’s hole. He’s a crazy old coot, rock-happy as they come, and he’s a hermit by intention. Used to hang around the edge of the community, never mixing—but with this boom and ten strangers swarming in for every familiar face Charlie got timid and asked could he please tie in at civic center? I guess he was afraid that somebody would slit his throat and steal his hoorah’s nest. Some of the boomers are a rough lot at that.”

“He sounds like some of the old-timers on Luna. What about him?”

“Oh! Too much on my mind these days; it wanders. Charlie runs sort of a fourth-hand shop, and I say that advisedly. He has stuff I won’t handle. Every time a rock jumper dies, or goes Sunside, his useless plunder winds up in Charlie’s hole. Now I don’t say he’s got a scooter—though you just might lease his own now that he’s moored in-city. But he might have parts that could be jury-rigged. Are you handy with tools?”

“Moderately. But I’ve got just the team for such a job.” He looked around for the twins, finally spotted them pawing through merchandise. “Cas! Pol! Come here.”

The storekeeper explained what he had in mind. Castor nodded. “If it worked once, well fix it.”

“That’s the spirit. Now let’s go test that coffee.”

Castor hung back. “Dad? Why don’t Pol and I go over there and see what he’s got? It’ll save you time.”

“Well—”

“It’s just a short jump,” said Fries.

“Okay, but don’t jump. Use your lines and follow the mooring line over.”

The twins left. Once in the airlock Pollux started fuming. “Stow it,” said Cas. “Dad just wants us to be careful.”

“Yes, but why does he have to say it where everybody can hear?”

Charlie’s hole, they decided, had once been a tow tank to deliver oxygen to a colony. They let themselves into the lock, started it cycling. When pressure was up, they tried the inner door; it wouldn’t budge. Pollux started pounding on it with his belt wrench while Castor searched for a switch or other signal. The lock was miserably lighted by a scant three inches of glow tube.