CHAPTER SEVEN

THE CLAIM JUMPERS

As he lifted away from the cold, bleak surface of Pallas, Pete felt a touch of guilt. This came from the realization that he had not contacted the Windjammer all day.

Earlier, he’d thought of relaying the good news, but then he’d decided it would be more fun to walk in, after filing the claim, and casually announce the results of his single day’s work. Betcha’s grudging approval would be most pleasant, he’d told himself.

But the necessity of rescuing Jane had disrupted everything, and now there was just time to reach the Federation office on Parma and file his claim.

Hoping his father hadn’t worried too much, Pete snapped the switch and gave the Windjammer’s call letters. The gruff voice of Betcha Jones came back.

“What are you doing out there, boy? It’s a good idea to report in once in a while.”

“Sorry, Betcha. I got very busy. How’s Dad?”

“He’s too healthy to be down and not healthy enough to be up.” Betcha turned his voice away and Pete heard him say, “He’s finally come in, Joe. Says he was busy.”

“Are you all right, Pete?” It was Joe Mason’s voice, sharp with concern.

“I’m fine, Dad. I made a real strike! Copper! We can put a full crew to work.”

“Cocky kids—” This was Betcha’s sour comment. “Goes out and makes a strike in a few hours. Of course it’ll turn out to be a dud, but—”

“It will not! It’s a thick vein of high-grade ore. We can work the whole asteroid!”

“What’s the topography, son?” Joe Mason asked.

“Ideal, Dad. Cone-shaped and smooth. Plenty of anchorage surface. Maximum return with minimum effort. I’m on the way to Parma now.”

“Okay, son. Call us when you get there.”

It was significant that neither of the men asked the asteroid’s location. The radio channels were open to everyone in the Belt, and in even describing the asteroid’s shape Pete could have said too much. But he was less than an hour from filing, so he’d decided it was safe to reassure his father.

“All right, Dad. And Betcha—make a big pot of stew. I’ll be plenty hungry when I get back.”

Pete cut off the channel and spent the intervening time thinking about the Barrys. The only thing really wrong with them was Rachel Barry’s mistakes in judgment—keeping a family of girls out here in an environment that was a challenge to strong and experienced men. She could have sold the Snapdragon and gotten enough to establish her growing family in one of the Martian communities. There was work for women there. Rachel Barry could have set up an apparel shop for one thing. The wives and daughters of the Martian colonists were hungry for fashionable clothes, for new things, and they had plenty of money. With a little wisely directed initiative, Rachel could locate on Mars and send them all to schools on Earth. It was a shame that Jane had to waste her early years in a place like the Belt.

He became so preoccupied with the injustice that he almost overshot Parma, dropping down just in time to keep from missing the settlement where the Federation office was located. He moored his car and hurried into the building with just about enough time left to file his claim.

The greeting he received from the young man behind the desk was not enthusiastic. A blond youth with a faraway look in his eyes, he was easily identified for what he was—a native Earthling—a career man in the vast Federation who’d drawn the dreariest of assignments as an apprenticeship—a temporary exile on this airless, soilless rock far from the fabled green hills of Earth. And even though the attractions of Earth were strictly objective to Pete and thus not greatly attractive, the young man still had Pete’s sympathy. Pete got a concept of how he felt by reversing the thing. Suppose he, Pete Mason, were exiled on the big central planet far from the free, robust life in the Belt. He would be miserable!

“I’ve got a claim to file,” Pete said as he pulled off his gloves.

The young man glanced at his wrist chronometer. “It’s pretty late.”

“There’s still time to file, though.”

“Yes. And I’ve got no place to go anyhow.”

“I’ve got the orbit of the claim plotted and entered on a claim form.” Pete plunged a hand into his pocket. A blank look wiped the smile from his face. The clerk looked at him questioningly.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s gone.”

“Maybe you put it in a different pocket.”

He watched as Pete started going through his other pockets. Finally, as a gesture of despair, he took out his wallet and examined the contents, although he knew he hadn’t put the claim form into it.

The clerk was mildly sympathetic. “You couldn’t possibly have those figures in your head?”

“I’m not a genius,” Pete said ruefully.

“Can you locate the claim again?”

“Oh, sure. I remember the section markings and the stream location bearings.”

“It takes a lot more than that to file a claim. I guess you’ll have to do it all over again.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“We’ll be open all day tomorrow.”

“I stopped to tow a disabled car home,” Pete spoke just on the edge of anger. “Otherwise everything would have been all right.”

“Maybe you can claim salvage. That way the day won’t be a total loss.”

“Fat chance. The people I towed haven’t got anything to pay it with.”

The clerk shrugged. “Then you’ve stored up treasure in heaven. You’ll have to settle for that.”

“At least until tomorrow. I’ll see you then.”

“I’ll be here,” the young man said wearily.

* * * *

“You must have just thought you put it in your pocket,” Betcha Jones said. “It would be there otherwise. You went straight to the claim office—”

“Well—not exactly.”

“Not exactly? Where did you go?”

“I towed a disabled monocar.”

Betcha scowled and began tapping his boot on the floor. “Well, that’s interesting. You found a car floating along in the stream—”

“No. There was someone in it.”

“Who was in it, son?” Joe Mason asked.

“Jane Barry.”

“Well, great gadgets!” Betcha marveled. “You make a strike and it just happens that one of the Barrys, the finest pirates in the business, is drifting by at the moment in a crippled car.”

“No. I answered a call. She was way across the stream—in the Badlands. A big space liner hit her there.”

“A space liner—in the Badlands. It gets thicker and thicker. I’ll betcha it had pink spots on it, and the jets were done up in blue ribbons.”

“That was her story, and I didn’t believe it either, but her car was disabled.”

Joe Mason waved an impatient hand. “What else could he do?” Then to Pete, “Did you lose the claim form on the way?”

“Of course he didn’t,” Betcha snorted. “She made eyes at him and swiped it.”

“I went in with her for a cup of tea.”

Betcha gaped in amazement. “Well, glory be to Leo, if that isn’t—”

“Go get the boy something to eat,” Joe Mason snapped. “He’s had a hard day and he’s hungry.” Betcha got up and grumbled his way to the bedroom door. Soon he was slamming pots around in the kitchen.

“Do you think they picked your pocket, son?”

“No, Dad. I honestly don’t think the Barrys are dishonest. I mean—well, she is a lone woman trying to raise a family—”

“What about Homer?”

“I don’t know about Homer.”

“Was he there when you were?”

“He came as I was leaving.”

“I heard there was some trouble at the meeting last night.”

“Yes, I didn’t get a chance to tell you. Milt Blaney accused Homer. He said Homer was one of three men who raided his claim and shot him.” Pete almost added his suspicions of Homer Barry. But his father was quick to flare, so Pete decided to wait for more concrete evidence. Unnecessary excitement at the moment would serve no purpose.

“You helped Homer escape.”

“Yes—yes, I did. It seemed the right thing to do.”

“It was, Pete.” Joe Mason stopped to scowl and Pete was struck by what he could only term as his father’s new mildness. Not mild exactly, but that was the best word Pete could think of. The inherent storminess had gone out of Joe Mason. This was a mixed blessing for Pete. His father was more gentle and understanding now, but this might also indicate that his injuries from the accident were more than physical; that his morale had become a matter of concern.

“It was the right thing to do,” Joe Mason repeated. “Charges of that kind should be made to the authorities, not in front of a bunch of hot-headed miners.”

“That’s the way I felt about it.”

“Now—what about the claim form? Where do you think you lost it?”

“I don’t know. I was wrestling with the Barry children when I visited their ship. Maybe…”

Joe Mason’s eyebrows went up. “I didn’t know you knew them that well.”

“I don’t—I didn’t, that is. They’re—well, they kind of move in and climb all over you. I’ll call and ask them if—”

“I wouldn’t do that. They found it or they didn’t. Calling won’t change that. It would only make them realize how important it is.”

“You still think they’re thieves.”

“I didn’t say that. But I think it would be smarter to keep your business to yourself. Go back and rework the orbit tomorrow and take it straight to the claim office.”

“I’d better not wait. I’d better do it right now.”

“You’ve had a long day. Get some rest first. We can’t have you running yourself down and getting sick.”

Pete obeyed, mainly to humor his father. Again, a different Joe Mason had been reflected, and as he ate his dinner and got into bed, Pete wondered about advancing years and their affect on people. He never talked about such things and even his father was not aware of this serious streak in his nature. But it was not beyond Pete’s scope to think about such things. The older people got, it seemed to him, the less sure of themselves they became.

It followed then, he thought, that fathers got comfort and satisfaction from seeing themselves in their sons; that a son listening to his father and gaining from the experience and wisdom of years was not just a smart thing to do. It was a duty.

As he drifted off to sleep, his thoughts went elsewhere; back to his day with the crazy Barrys. That bunch’ll get me in trouble, he told himself. Stay clear of them.

But even at that point, a small voice deep inside told him it might not work out that way.

Pete slept five hours and when he opened his eyes, he was wide awake. The house was still except for Betcha’s healthy snores. The racket was helpful in a way. It covered the small sounds Pete made as he got dressed, left the house, and headed for his new-found claim. He fed the data he remembered into his finder and set his course. And even though he was sure of his figures, he was still relieved when, two hours later, the cone-shaped asteroid came into view on the sun-side just as it had appeared previously.

Resolving to let nothing divert him from his job this time, he set down on the broad, flat surface and again went to work on the orbit. This being the second time around, the operation went faster. But it was still three hours before he finished filling in the second form and lifted his monocar into the Parma arc.

He had some bad luck in transit. The location of Parma was against the Belt stream in relation to his claim, and he was challenged by a jagged cluster that had drifted into the channel. It was too thick to thread without data on its formation, so Pete went around it, thus losing another two hours. So it was high noon—Belt time—when he sat down on Parma and entered the Federation claim office.

The blond youth was behind the desk. A night’s sleep hadn’t cheered him up any; his manner as wearily resigned as before.

Pete laid his claim form on the desk. “Here it is. A new one. Now we can get this filing business over with.”

“Of course,” the blond young man agreed. He took four additional forms from the neat piles behind him and handed them to Pete. “Just fill these out while I register the orbit.”

Pete crossed the room to a desk and sat down to his work. He’d never filed a claim before, but the process was a familiar one. He’d watched his father do it many times.

He’d worked for perhaps fifteen minutes when the clerk called to him from the desk. “Mr. Mason, would you please step over here a moment?”

Pete went back to the desk, his eyes questioning. “There seems to be some mistake,” the clerk said. “This is a duplicate filing.”

“Why, that’s crazy! What do you mean—duplicate?”

“A claim on this location was legally filed at nine o’clock this morning.”

“That’s impossible!”

“Nevertheless, it’s true. The orbits are identical, and we both know that two claims cannot occupy the same space at the same time.”

If this was an attempt at humor, it was lost on Pete. “Who—what—when—?” he sputtered. “Who filed the other claim? When did—?”

“There were three men waiting for me when I opened the office this morning. They had their claim forms all filled out and ready.”

“Who signed the affidavit?”

The clerk turned away for a moment. “I have it right here. The man’s name was—Homer Deeds.” Uncle Homer! Maybe his last name was Deeds, but that didn’t hide his identity. He was one of the Barry clan, and they were at it again! Here was the proof! They had deliberately and cold-bloodedly jumped the Mason claim!

“It’s all legal and—and finished—right?”

“I’m afraid so. This gentleman beat you to it.” Noting the dazed expression on Pete’s face, the clerk said, “Of course, you can file a protest and the Federation referee will hear both sides and rule on it but…”

That but was most eloquent. The clerk was really saying, Why bother? Unless a criminal act or a criminal conspiracy could be glaringly proven, the duly filed prior claim was invariably favored. And even then the investigation took so long that a man could grow old waiting for a decision.

Pete stared at the offending claim form. Then he said, “I’ll have to think this over,” and walked slowly out of the claim office.

The bald theft shocked him to a point where he forgot a gesture that should have been automatic—he did not snap on his heat unit. Five steps beyond the door the hundred-degree-minus temperature of the Belt hit him like a steel wall. He came out of his daze and snapped on the unit, but after he got back into his monocar it still took five minutes to get the deep chill out of his bones.

His normal blood flow having returned, he tuned his radio into the public channel and sent out the Mason call letters.

Betcha’s rasping voice came back to him. “Pete? Where the devil are you? Why didn’t you wake me up? Your Dad’s worried because you went out without breakfast.”

“Is Dad awake?”

“Awake? He’s trying to crawl out of that cast.”

“Let me talk to him.”

There was a pause and Joe Mason’s voice cut in. “What is it, son?”

“Our claim was jumped.”

Under the old circumstances that would have been enough to bring Joe Mason roaring onto Parma with all jets blazing. Even now, he didn’t take the news casually. “Jumped? What sneaking son of a renegade asteroid had the nerve to jump a Mason claim?”

“Take it easy, Dad. There’s no point in getting excited. Just quiet down and I’ll tell you about it.”

Pete sensed the effort his father exerted in complying with the suggestion. “All right, son. So we got jumped. Tell me about it.”

“I just came from the office. The claim was filed this morning. Three men were waiting when the clerk opened up.”

“Who were they?”

“Uncle Homer signed the affidavit. That’s Homer Barry, except that his name is—”

“Deeds!”

“You knew that?”

“Certainly. I’ve known it for years. But what difference does it make? You’re right. He’s a Barry and they’re all as crooked as a blind man’s mine shaft!”

“I’m heading for the Snapdragon now. I’m going to have this out once and for all.”

“Wait a minute, son.”

“What do you mean? What’s there to wait for?”

Joe Mason’s tone and temper had changed. “What did you just tell me? There’s no point in getting excited. All right. I want you to take your own advice. Quiet down.”

“Sure I said that. But you’re down in bed. What I meant was—”

“You just listen to what I mean—”

“But Dad! We got jumped! We’re in the right!”

“Sure. But you can be just as dead as if you were in the wrong. A bullet doesn’t care who it hits.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Use your head, Pete! Aren’t these sure to be the same men you heard about at the meeting? They’ve already shot one miner. And it might have been their ship I saw after I got that load of shale.”

“I’ve had that in mind for quite a while. Now I’m convinced.”

“All right. But they’re dangerous and I don’t want you getting hurt. Go to the Brotherhood hall. There are always a few miners hanging around there. Tell them the story and they’ll arm themselves and go with you and you can blast your way into the Snapdragon and make your own justice.”

Pete was stunned for a second time that day. “Dad! Have you gone crazy? Go out there and turn guns on those kids?”

“No. I haven’t gone crazy. But I thought for a minute that you had.”

Jarred back to sober thinking, Pete’s sense of humor came to his rescue as his imagination conjured up a picture of little Colleen poking a gun through the airlock of the Snapdragon and letting him have it.

“What are you chuckling at?” Joe Mason asked.

“Nothing Dad. But you’re right. We’ve got to be sensible about this thing. What do you want me to do?”

There was a long pause. Pete wondered if his father had heard him. Then, just as he was about to repeat the question, Joe Mason replied. He spoke very quietly. “I’m leaving that up to you, son.”

“But Dad—”

“When I said you had to take over for the Masons, I didn’t mean I wanted you to just be my messenger boy, doing what I tell you to do. You make the decisions now. I’ll back you in anything you do—and I mean anything. If you decide violence is the answer, Betcha and the men and I will back the play. It’s up to you.”

“You don’t think it’s a good idea, though.”

“No.”

“Then what do you…?”

“I’ll give you advice—if you ask for it.”

“No,” Pete replied suddenly and definitely. “Let me think it over first.”

“That’s the idea. Sit back and sort things out in your mind and then make your decision.”

“I’ll call you back, Dad. In the meantime, see to it that Betcha doesn’t go out on a rampage and get himself killed.”

“Right, son. I’ll keep him under control.”

Pete cut out of the channel, warmed by the pride in his father’s voice. Then he sat back in the monocar seat and applied himself totally to the problem.

The first thought that came to him was his confusion as to Homer Deed’s exact relationship with the Barrys. He was considered to be a member of the Barry clan and yet—even with what had happened—Pete couldn’t see the other Barrys as openly criminal claim jumpers. He’d gotten a certain insight into Jane Barry’s character and personality during the short time they’d been together, and he felt he had at least a clue to the situation. But how should he proceed?

He could go straight to the authorities and lodge a formal complaint. That would put the whole matter out of his hands and he could sit back—perhaps for months—and see what developed. Or he could face Homer directly and make a personal issue of the theft.

He knew that was what his father would have done in the old days. But it was also what he now advised against. Or did he? Perhaps not. Maybe he only wanted Pete to be sure of himself.

Then another thought—a somewhat happier one—struck Pete. He rolled it around in his mind. He liked it. He grinned. Then, turning from thought to action, he left the monocar and went back into the Federation building.

But to a different office this time. The lettering on the door he opened read:

DEPT. OF SALVAGE
PLANS & CLAIMS

This office was laid out pretty much like the other. The same desk, the same furniture, the same picture of the System Capitol dome on the wall. The only difference was the color of the clerks hair. It was black, but he wore the same expression of martyred exile as did his blond compatriot.

“May I help you?” he asked politely.

“Yes,” Pete replied. “I want to file a claim and a plan of salvage on a monocar.”

“I see. If you’ll give me the details, I’ll jot down the primary report. A monocar, you say?”

“Yes. I answered a call for help and located the car just off the Badlands.”

“You can give me an exact location later. What was your procedure?”

“I approached the car and found it to be damaged from a collision. Its air had been lost and the steering jets were so badly damaged it was out of control.”

“The car was occupied?”

“Yes. A girl was inside. Her name is Jane Barry.”

That meant nothing to the clerk and Pete automatically concluded he had never seen Jane or it would have meant something.

“What did you do?”

“I grappled onto the car and returned it to its home port.”

“The girl remained in the craft during the trip?”

“Yes.”

The clerk looked up from his jottings. “The rules on salvage are quite detailed. Let me get the manual.”

“Do that.”

The clerk took a heavy volume from under the counter and began thumbing through the pages. Pete knew what the book contained. It listed spaceships, their every component, and their every function. There were listings of ships by size, classification and origin; ships by tonnage, speed, and method of propulsion; ships by content subdivided into live and inanimate; the inanimate cut down into animal, vegetable, or mineral, each heading again reduced to classifications that filled ten pages; the live alternative was under two main heads: Human and Subhuman, these two heads going blithely on for another fifty pages.

In short, the Guide on Salvage Classifications was complete.

“I assume,” the clerk said after studying the Procedure Rules section of the guidebook, “that your reason for returning to the car’s home port was to deliver the girl into safety.”

“Exactly,” Pete agreed.

“Otherwise, you would have taken possession of the car and brought it to our depot for evaluation.”

“That’s just what I would have done.”

“But so long as the car was delivered into its home port it could not have been legally moved unless the owner recognized your claim and settled it by delivering the car into your ownership.”

“That was the situation.”

“I gather, then, that there was disagreement as to the just amount of the salvage claim.”

“Oh, yes,” Pete assured him. “There was a big disagreement on that point.”

The clerk looked up in complete disinterest. “And your claim was…?”

“Transfer of ownership of the car in the state of disrepair that I found it.”

“Quite harsh,” the clerk murmured.

“It’s legal,” Pete replied.

“Were salvage costs discussed before you moved the car?”

“They weren’t even mentioned.”

“Did the occupant have access to other sources of help?”

“I got the call over the Emergency Band. I assume others heard it.”

“Then your action appears to be legal. I’ll give you a salvage order.” He began filling in a form and added, “Of course the other party does not have to honor this claim. But if it is not honored, the party must appear at this office within two days to file formal objections. Then the case goes before a referee.”

“I understand,” Pete said. He took his form and left the office.