Galactic Diplomat (6 page)

“What do you know about General Minerals, Sam?”

“You thinking of hiring on with them? Better read the fine
print in your contract before you sign. Sneakiest bunch this side of a
burglar’s convention.”

“They own a chunk of rock known as 2645-P. Do you suppose we
could find it?”

“Oh, you’re buying in, hey? Sure, we can find it. You damn
sure want to look it over good if General Minerals is selling.”

Back aboard the skiff, Mancziewicz flipped the pages of the
chart book, consulted a table. “Yep, she’s not too far off. Let’s go see what
GM’s trying to unload . . . 

The skiff hovered two miles from the giant boulder known as
2645-P. Retief and Mancziewicz looked it over at high magnification. “It don’t
look like much, Retief,” Sam said. “Let’s go down and take a closer look.”

The boat dropped rapidly toward the scarred surface of the
tiny world, a floating mountain, glaring black and white in the spotlight of
the sun. Sam frowned at his instrument panel.

“That’s funny; my ion-counter is revving up. Looks like a
drive trail, not more than an hour or two old. Somebody’s been
here . . .”

The boat grounded. Retief and Sam got out. The stony surface
was littered with rock fragments varying in size from pebbles to great slabs
twenty feet long, tumbled in a loose bed of dust and sand. Retief pushed off
gently, drifted up to a vantage point atop an upended wedge of rock. Sam joined
him.

“This is all igneous stuff,” he said. “Not likely we’ll find
much here that would pay the freight to Syrtis—unless maybe you lucked onto
some Bodean artifacts. They bring plenty.”

He flipped a binocular in place as he talked, scanned the
riven landscape. “Hey!” he said. “Over there . . .”

Retief followed Sam’s pointing glove. He studied the dark
patch against a smooth expanse of eroded rock.

“A friend of mine came across a chunk of the old planetary
surface two years ago,” Sam said thoughtfully. “Had a tunnel in it that’d been used
as a storage depot by the Bodeans. Took out over two ton of hardware. Course,
nobody’s discovered how the stuff works yet, but it brings top
prices . . .”

“Looks like water erosion,” Retief said.

“Yep. This could be another piece of surface, all right.
Could be a cave over there. The Bodeans liked caves, too. Must have been some
war—but then, if it hadn’t been, they wouldn’t have tucked so much stuff away
underground where it could weather the planetary break-up.”

They descended, crossed the jumbled rocks with light,
thirty-foot leaps.

“It’s a cave, all right,” Sam said, stooping to peer into the
five-foot bore. Retief followed him inside.

“Let’s
get some light in here.” Mancziewicz flipped on a beam. It glinted back from
dull polished surfaces of Bodean synthetic. Sam’s low whistle sounded in
Retief’s headset.

“That’s funny,” Retief said.

“Funny, Hell! It’s hilarious. General Minerals trying to sell
off a worthless rock to a tenderfoot—and it’s loaded with Bodean hardware. No
telling how much is here; the tunnel seems to go quite a ways back. And there
may be more caves around here—”

“That’s not what I mean. Do you notice your suit warming up?”

“Huh? Yeah, now that you mention it . . .”

Retief
rapped with a gauntleted hand on the satiny black curve of the nearest Bodean
artifact. It clunked dully through the suit. “That’s not metal,” he said. “It’s
plastic.”

“There’s something fishy here,” Sam said. “This erosion; it
looks more like a heat beam . . .”

“Sam,” Retief said, turning; “it appears to me somebody has
gone to a great deal of trouble to give a false impression here—”

Sam snorted. “I told you they were a crafty bunch.” He
started out of the cave, then paused, went to one knee to study the floor. “But
maybe they outsmarted themselves,” he said, his voice tense with excitement.
“Look here!”

Retief looked. Sam’s beam reflected from a fused surface of
milky white, shot through with dirty yellow. He snapped a pointed instrument in
place on his gauntlet, dug at one of the yellow streaks. It furrowed under the
gouge, a particle adhering to the instrument. With his left hand, Mancziewicz
opened a pouch clipped to his belt, carefully deposited the sample in a small
orifice on the device in the pouch. He flipped a key, squinted at a dial.

“Atomic weight 197.2,” he said. Retief turned down the audio
volume on his headset as Sam’s laughter rang in his helmet.

“Those clowns were out to stick you, Retief,” he gasped,
still chuckling. “They salted the rock with a cave full of Bodean artifacts—”

“Fake Bodean artifacts,” Retief put in.

“They planed off the rock so it would look like an old beach,
and then cut this cave with beamers. And they were boring through practically
solid gold!”

“As good as that?”

Mancziewicz flashed the light around. “This stuff will assay
out at a thousand credits a ton, easy. If the vein doesn’t run to five thousand
tons, the beers are on me.” He snapped off the light. “Let’s get moving,
Retief. You want to sew this deal up before they get around to taking another
look at it.”

Back in the boat, Retief and Mancziewicz opened their
helmets. “This calls for a drink,” Sam said, extracting a pressure flask from
the map case. “This rock’s worth as much as mine, maybe more. You hit it lucky,
Retief. Congratulations.” He thrust out a hand.

“I’m afraid you’ve jumped to a couple of conclusions, Sam,”
Retief said. “I’m not out here to buy mining properties.”

“You’re not—then why—but man! Even if you didn’t figure on
buying . . .” He trailed off as Retief shook his head, unzipped
his suit to reach to an inside pocket, take out a packet of folded papers.

“In my capacity as Terrestrial Vice-Consul, I’m serving you
with an injunction restraining you from further exploitation of the body known
as 95739-A.” He handed a paper across to Sam. “I also have here an Order
impounding the vessel
Gravel Gertie II
.”

Sam
took the papers silently, sat looking at them. He looked up at Retief. “Funny;
when you beat me at Drift and then threw the game so you wouldn’t show me up in
front of the boys, I figured you for a right guy. I’ve been spilling my heart
out to you like you were my old grandma—an old-timer in the game like me.” He
dropped a hand, brought it up with a Browning 2mm pointed at Retief’s chest.

“I could shoot you and dump you here with a slab over you,
toss these papers in the john, and high-tail it with the
load . . .”

“That wouldn’t do you much good in the long run, Sam. Besides
which you’re not a criminal or an idiot.”

Sam chewed his lip. “My claim is on file in the consulate,
legal and proper. Maybe by now the grant’s gone through and I’ve got clear
title—”

“Other people have their eye on your rock, Sam. Ever meet a
fellow called Leatherwell?”

“General Minerals, huh? They haven’t got a leg to stand on.”

“The last time I saw your claim, it was still lying in the
pending file—just a bundle of paper until it’s validated by the Consul. If
Leatherwell contests it . . . well, his lawyers are on
annual retainer. How long could you keep the suit going, Sam?”

Mancziewicz closed his helmet with a decisive snap, motioned
to Retief to do the same. He opened the hatch, sat with the gun on Retief.

“Get out, paper-pusher,” his voice sounded thin in the
headphones. “You’ll get lonesome maybe, but your suit will keep you alive a few
days. I’ll tip somebody off before you lose too much weight. I’m going back and
see if I can’t stir up a little action at the consulate.”

Retief climbed out, walked off fifty yards. He watched as the
skiff kicked off in a quickly-dispersed cloud of dust, dwindled rapidly away to
a bright speck that was lost against the stars. Then he extracted the locator
beacon from the pocket of his suit and thumbed the control.

Twenty minutes later, aboard Navy FP-VO-6, Retief pulled off
his helmet. “Fast work, Henry. I’ve got a couple of calls to make. Put me
through to your HQ, will you? I want a word with Commander Hayle.”

The young Naval officer raised the HQ, handed the mike to
Retief.

“Vice-Consul Retief here, commander. I’d like you to
intercept a skiff, bound from my present position toward Ceres. There’s a Mr.
Mancziewicz aboard. He’s armed, but not dangerous. Collect him and see that
he’s delivered to the consulate at 0900 Greenwich tomorrow.

“Next
item: The consulate has impounded an ore-carrier,
Gravel Gertie II
. It’s
in a parking orbit ten miles off Ceres. I want it taken in
tow . . .” Retief gave detailed instruction. Then he asked for a
connection through the Navy switchboard to the consulate. Magnan’s voice
answered.

“Retief speaking, Mr. Consul; I have some news that I think
will interest you—”

“Where are you, Retief? What’s wrong with the screen? Have
you served the injunction?”

“I’m aboard the Navy patrol vessel. I’ve been looking over
the situation, and I’ve made a surprising discovery. I don’t think we’re going
to have any trouble with the Sam’s people; they’ve looked over the
body—2645-P—and it seems General Minerals has slipped up. There appears to be a
highly valuable deposit there.”

“Oh? What sort of deposit?”

“Mr. Mancziewicz mentioned collapsed-crystal metal,” Retief
said.      

“Well,
most interesting.” Magnan’s voice sounded thoughtful.

“Just thought you’d like to know. This should simplify the
meeting in the morning.”

“Yes,” Magnan said. “Yes, indeed. I think this makes
everything very simple . . .”

At
0845 Greenwich, Retief stepped into the outer office of the consular suite.

“ . . . fantastic configuration,”
Leatherwell’s bass voice rumbled, “covering literally acres. My xeno-geologists
are somewhat confused by the formations. They had only a few hours to examine
the site; but it’s clear from the extent of the surface indications that we
have a very rich find here; very rich, indeed. Beside it, 95739-A dwindles into
significance. Very fast thinking on your part, Mr. Consul, to bring the matter
to my attention.”

“Not at all, Mr. Leatherwell. After all—”

“Our tentative theory is that the basic crystal fragment
encountered the core material at some time, and gathered it in. Since we had
been working on—that is, had landed to take samples on the other side of the
body, this anomalous deposit escaped our attention completely—”

Retief stepped into the room.

“Good
morning, gentlemen. Has Mr. Mancziewicz arrived?”

“Mr. Mancziewicz is under restraint by the Navy. I’ve had a
call to the effect that he’d be escorted here.”

“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 claim—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’s face
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, Monkeywits 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 into his tiptoes. “You double-barreled 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.”