part0049

On his way over to the spaceport, Storm tried to fit together the pieces of the story as he had learned it so far. What he knew added up to trouble, and the trouble kept getting bigger every minute.

He had a rival for his asteroid. Obviously.

The rival was the sprawling Universal Mining Cartel. That in itself was practically enough to make him want to throw in the towel now, because nobody had ever defeated UMC in any sort of dispute.

UMC wanted his asteroid badly. So badly that the whole business became suspicious, in fact. By and large, UMC didn’t need to descend to petty theft, and to do a free-lance prospector out of an asteroid claim amounted to petty theft by UMC’s financial standards. It couldn’t possibly be worth it for them to go to all this complicated schemery just to steal a few hundred million dollars’ worth of commercial ore.

Item: they had bribed the claims keeper on Mars.

Item: they had somehow obliterated Storm’s records from the master computer on Earth, which must have cost them a pretty penny.

Item: they were even now, according to Fletcher, hitching up a rocket installation that would blast Storm’s asteroid into a different orbit.

That was the worst blow of all, Storm thought. As matters stood now, he had at least some title to the asteroid, even though it was thoroughly clouded. There was his duplicate copy of the original claim, which would have to be argued away in court. There was the undeniable fact that his records had somehow been wiped from the computer. He could make out a case that the asteroid was his. Chances were a thousand to one against his being able to best UMC in a court fight, but at least he had some sort of case.

He wouldn’t even have a fragment of a case if UMC moved his asteroid. Mining claims in space were dependent wholly on orbital location. The absolute position of asteroids, and of all other heavenly bodies, for that matter, keeps changing every instant. But the orbits, the paths of travel, remain constant.

So the only way of tagging an asteroid is by orbit. But orbits are not immutable. An orbit can be changed, simply by applying a deflecting force.

The orbit of a thousand-pound space satellite can be altered simply by firing a small jet. The orbit of the Earth itself can be altered too, given enough muscle-power.

And as for a tiny asteroid only eight miles in diameter—

It didn’t take much, really. One good swift kick from a bank of rockets would do it. Stir up a thrust of a few thousand tons and permanent changes in the asteroid’s orbit could be effected. Keep the thrust going for a while, and you could push the asteroid anywhere you wanted—clear out to Pluto, if you felt like footing the fuel bill.

Of course, it was expensive. Hitching that much thrust up to an asteroid wasn’t done for dimes. You had to make sure you were putting your installation in a part of the asteroid strong enough to take the kick, or otherwise you might just smash your asteroid to pebbles. So there had to be some engineering work ahead of time, and probably some structural reinforcements. Then, too, the rockets cost money, because you needed pretty big ones for the job. And there was labor, too, at the usual high rates for space work.

Moving an asteroid into a new orbit might cost as much as ten or twenty million dollars, or perhaps more, if you wanted to ice things by carrying the asteroid far from its original orbit. Say, forty million for the job. A lot of money for John Storm to spend, but only pennies by the standards of an outfit like UMC.

Even if the job cost a hundred million, or five hundred million, UMC could swing it, Storm knew. They would move his asteroid into some different orbit, “discover” it, and file a brand-new claim, unencumbered by Storm’s rival title. He could squawk to Doomsday without establishing any claim to the asteroid, once it was moved. True, there was now at least one witness to the moving job, but he could be bought off. Everybody, Storm thought coldly, could be bought off. UMC could bribe half the population of Earth if they felt they had to.

The whole thing baffled him. Why go to such lengths to secure a single small asteroid? The cartel would be lucky to break even, after they finally had secured their claim. Unless, Storm realized, there was something else on the asteroid, something that he had overlooked, something that could justify all the expense and the furious extra-legal maneuvers that the cartel was undertaking.

He knew that he had to go out to the asteroid at once.

The dealer in used spaceships was doing business at his accustomed place at Marsville Spaceport. He was a thick-set, jowly man in his early fifties, with the permanent bronze tan of someone who has spent decades on Mars, where the sun’s rays, feeble as they are, strike through the thin atmosphere with blazing intensity.

He eyed Storm with a puzzled frown and said, “I’ve seen you before.”

Storm nodded. “I sold you my ship last month. You gave me fifteen thousand. It was a Hawthorne 113.”

“I’m back,” Storm said. “And I’m in the market for another ship. I’ll take the 113, if you’ve still got it.”

“Sold it,” the dealer said. “Not much in stock now. There’s a 122, if you want. Cost you sixty grand, but it’s a beauty of a ship.”

“Something a little cheaper.”

“Got a McIntyre B-8 at twenty-seven, if you like. Needs a core job, but otherwise sound. Like to have a look?”

Storm said, “I’ve got three thousand cash.”

“You can’t get a nose-cone for three thou, buddy.”

“I’ve got something else for collateral,” Storm went on. He produced his claim sheet. “I’ve got a claim on an asteroid in Sub-seven. Chock full of goodies. But for technical reasons I’ve got to make a quick trip out there and re-inspect it. If I don’t move fast, I’m likely to lose the claim. But if I hold the claim I’m a millionaire.”

“Sell me a ship. I’ll give you the three thousand down and a mortgage on the rest of the ship. You name the interest rate. You can have a lien on my asteroid besides. I’ll sign all the papers you want. Just let me have the ship.”

The dealer eyed Storm speculatively. “You must think I’m crazy, friend. I sell you a ship, and you go off to the asteroids and maybe crack it up, and I’m stuck with a lien on a claim that maybe isn’t any good? What kind of sense do you think that makes?”

Storm began to sweat. “I was out in space for two years without an accident.”

“So the law of averages is against you, then.”

“Look,” Storm said, “Name your own terms. I’m a desperate man.”

The fat man shook his head. “What good are terms? You could sign a paper agreeing to pay me ten million bucks, soon as you get back from the asteroids with your claim sewed up. Only the claim isn’t sewed up, you never come back, and I’ve got a lien against a vacuum. Uh-uh. No deal. Cash down or nothing. I got a family.”

“Is there anyone on this lousy planet who’s willing to take a risk?” Storm asked.

“Sure,” the fat man said. “See Charlie Byrd, at Town Hall. He’s the Mayor. He’s a gambling man. You talk to him, see what he says. Then come back here.”

Charlie Byrd was lean and hawk-faced, without an ounce of fat anywhere on him. Storm had to search half over Marsville for him, and finally found him, supervising a drain-building project at the extreme east end of the colony. He towered over Storm; he was close to seven feet tall, Storm figured, though he couldn’t have weighed much more than a hundred sixty pounds. He was about sixty, Storm guessed.

Storm said, “Mr. Byrd, I’ve got a proposition for you.”

“Always ready to listen, son.”

With sweat rolling down his cheeks, Storm lined the deal out for the tall man. Byrd listened to him, without saying a word. It was impossible to read the expression on the sharp-beaked, fleshless face. Perhaps it was amusement, perhaps boredom, perhaps irritation, perhaps contempt. Storm had never seen such an enigmatic face before.

When he had finished, Byrd said simply, “Let’s see that claim sheet of yours.”

Storm handed it over. Byrd studied it for a moment and handed it back.

“It looks okay,” Byrd said. It seemed to Storm as though Byrd had put a wee stress on the verb: “It looks okay.” All he had to do, Storm thought bleakly, was to call the Records Office and check on the claim, and discover that it was not officially recorded, and that would be the end of it. Storm would have to walk to his asteroid, if he wanted to get there at all.

A long moment passed, as perhaps Byrd considered whether or not to check on the claim, and it occurred to Storm that Byrd did suspect it, and was deciding whether or not to take the chance anyway.

Finally Byrd said, “You need about twenty thousand, is that right?”

“How do you feel about usury, son? Are you against it on philosophical grounds?”

“Right now I just want the money,” Storm said.

“Well, all right. I’ll loan you twenty thousand. The rate of interest is fifteen percent per annum or fraction thereof. When you pay me back, you give me $23,000, any time within the next year. Okay?”

“Anything you say,” Storm agreed.

“Now, as to collateral. You’ll sign over the ship, of course. That goes without saying. But there’s also some extra risk in it for me. You’ll sign a paper agreeing to pay me back out of future mining royalties on this or any other claim you may make. The first $20,000 that comes out of your claim is mine, in case you default on the loan, plus interest. Agreed?”

Byrd smiled for the first time. “You know something, son? We’re both a couple of damned fools. You’re an idiot for agreeing to be soaked like this. And I’m a worse idiot for lending you money on a claim that most likely won’t pan out. But we got ourselves a deal. Give me half an hour and I’ll get it all drawn up.”

Storm nodded. “The quicker the better,” he said.

The ship he got was a Hawthorne 117, a one-man ship, even tinier than the one he had gone out in the first time. It was a compact little gleaming bullet, not much more than twenty feet long. There was enough room in it for a man, and the blast tubes, and the fuel racks, and hardly anything else.

Storm didn’t care. He wasn’t looking for a luxury liner, just now.

The mortgage was duly made out, and title to the ship was transferred to him. It struck him that he was getting off cheaply, that 15% interest was more than reasonable considering the risks Charlie Byrd was running in making the loan. The thought occurred to him that it was more like philanthropy than usury, despite what looked like a high interest rate, and he quietly blessed the hawk-faced man.

Of course, Charlie Byrd didn’t really know how dismal Storm’s prospects were. Byrd thought there was a claim in existence. He wasn’t aware that UMC workmen were busily jumping that claim right now, and that Storm was about to poke his nose into trouble.

Storm checked out the controls of his ship, running the tedious tests that were required by law. One after another, the green safety lights buzzed their responses. It wasn’t too hard to operate a little ship like this: a little tougher than driving an automobile, but not much. An automobile’s computer brain did about 98% of the work. The spaceship’s computer would take care of only some 95% of the responsibility. Even so, the pilot’s area of control was not very broad.

Storm studied his charts. During all the weeks since he had made his big find, his asteroid had been moving across space toward Mars at a rapid clip, and the distance he would have to cover was very much less than it had been on the first trip. It was still something more than an overnight jaunt, but not much of a journey by space standards. A little 117 like this carried enough fuel to get it out to Jupiter and back, provided you made the trip in slow orbit and didn’t have a very hefty appetite. Hopping into the asteroid belt was no trick at all.

Storm activated his communication channels.

“Request blastoff clearance,” he said crisply.

“Tower here,” came a bored female voice. “When are you blasting, 117?”

“Whenever you give the word. Immediately or sooner, if possible.”

“There’s a Brewster AV-11 blasting downrange,” came the tower voice. “Give him three minutes’ clearance and you can go.”

Storm waited. He had never known that three minutes could last so long. They were Martian minutes, of course, fractionally longer than those of Earth, but that tiny difference alone couldn’t account for their endlessness.

The time ticked away. Storm stared through his narrow port. Red Martian sand, scarred by frequent jet-blasts, stretched out ahead of him. Behind him, invisible now, lay the gleaming geodesic dome of Marsville. He wondered if he’d ever see Mars again, let alone Earth. Out there on the asteroids, if the UMC men ever got hold of him, it would be no great problem to dispose of him for keeps. All they had to do was open his faceplate, let his atmosphere whoosh out, and point him on an orbit toward the Sun. They’d have no further problems with rival claims, then. They wouldn’t even need to bother going through with the business of shifting the asteroid.

And poor old Charlie Byrd would be out twenty thousand dollars, Storm thought.

For an instant he wondered whether it might be smarter to give up, to forget his dreams of glory and go back to Earth. One man couldn’t fight a cartel. He had sixty years of estimated life-span ahead of him, he had Liz waiting—maybe—and he had a good job for the asking. Why look for trouble?

“You have clearance, 117,” came the brassy voice from the control tower. “Blast within twenty seconds.”

Storm shrugged away all defeatist thoughts. He was on his way, and there was no turning back now.

He punched keys. Somewhere in his little ship, computer elements flashed in their bath of liquid helium, and completed the job of activating the ship. Storm hunched back against his acceleration couch, and waited for the big fist to smash into him.

The moment of lift-off came.

Storm relaxed, letting the mounting g’s flatten him, and the tiny ship rose unsteadily on a tongue of flame, hovered for an instant, and arced up at an increasing pace. Storm closed his eyes. The die was cast, now. All he needed to do was sit tight, and the ship would carry him to his asteroid, and from there he’d just have to play it by ear.

Mars became a dwindling red dot in the rear periscope. He watched it for a while, and then lost interest in what lay behind him. It was what was ahead that counted.