Iron Head: Science Fiction Mystery Tales

by E. C. Tubb

  Could I? Mentally, I licked my lips for the killing of my career. Couple the old bio-logical urge to the natural one of getting-rich-quick, and I had a hand-made sucker. I hauled out the files, the half-dozen genuine claims mixed with about fifty others, which looked good, but were there just for the padding. I riffled them and set myself to find out just what he was worth.

  It wasn’t hard. I mentioned a high price and he looked uncomfortable. I mentioned a low one and he looked relieved. I adjusted the margins until I could tell, to within ten credits, just what he was prepared to spend. Then I settled down to take it from him.

  “Here is a nice rock,” I said. I walked over to the map and rested my finger on a coloured pin. I didn’t worry about which colour. “Number 254/675/89,” I said. “A potential source of great wealth for an enterprising man.” I wasn’t lying, either. It could have been solid platinum for all I knew. No one had ever been there to find out.

  “Is it expensive?”

  “Ten thousand credits will cover it.” I sounded as casual as I could, but I had guessed right and he nodded.

  “It sounds nice. Have you any samples?”

  I looked at him sharply, because anyone who talked about samples knew what he was doing. I sighed and shook my head.

  “No. But if you want samples I have a specimen from a claim which I think you will agree shows great promise.” I hunted through my lower drawer and found some old pieces of rock. Skelton had left them and, up until now, I hadn’t given them a thought. I dragged one out and held it before the geiger. It would have chattered anyway, but maybe it was because I held the sample in my left hand, and had a radium-painted dial on my wrist watch, it sounded like a battery of machine-guns letting off at the same time. I dropped the sample back into the drawer and switched off the geiger.

  My prospective customer looked suitably impressed. “Why didn’t you show me that before?”

  I couldn’t answer that honestly because the reason would have sent him out of the office and screaming for the police. Instead I shrugged.

  “I’m afraid the price on that particular claim is very high. Twenty thousand credits and I won’t take a credit less.”

  He blinked, and I could see him performing mental arithmetic. While he was thinking about it, my eye fell on the framed claim Skelton had left, and I lifted it from the wall. Why the old man had kept it I didn’t know. Naturally, I discounted his wild talk of it being valuable; if it had been he would have cashed in on it long ago, and I guessed that he’d bought it from some drunk for the price of a bed. Looking at it gave me an idea. The claim was genuine and, as far as I knew, must be worthless. If I could give the impression that the sample I had shown the customer belonged to the claim in my hand I might be good for double what I had thought. A quick look at the youngster showed me that he had finished his calculations and had reached some kind of a decision.

  “Twenty thousand will just about clean me out,” he said dubiously. “But if the claim is as good as you say it is ...”

  “I make no claims,” I said quickly. “All I can do is to show you the registration and a sample.” I smiled at him, man to man, and spoke the simple truth. “I have never seen this particular claim and I refuse to make any statements outside of my personal knowledge. It could be barren rock.” My smile grew wider. “On the other hand it could be worth billions. Common logic will tell you that there must be an element of risk because, if I were sure as to its value, then I wouldn’t be offering it for sale.”

  Ridiculous? No. I knew that he wouldn’t believe me and, in a case like that, it’s far easier and a lot more honest to speak the unvarnished truth. Not that I ever do anything else, you understand, but there are ways of speaking the truth, and there are more ways of leaving the important parts unsaid. I have a great contempt for liars; they betray a pathetic lack of imagination, also, they are the more easily caught.

  He bought the claim.

  I sighed with relief as I fingered the heap of credit notes he had left me, and I even went so far as to kiss one for luck. Just one kiss because, just after he had left, a gang of zany tourists, with a yen for easy money and about as much knowledge of the Asteroids as I have of deep-sea diving, entered the office. For the next few hours I was busy selling them brand new pieces of rock no one had ever before sullied with a human foot. I sold them cheap, too, which was considerate of me, considering all the trouble I had gone to in order to give them the exact co-ordinates. It saved them the price of a stellar map, anyway.

  Things went pretty smooth after that. I had the usual trouble with the police, and a little more from the other agencies who had the temerity to insinuate that I wasn’t operating in an ethical manner. I cured both problems the same way. After all, I had my half-dozen genuine registrations, didn’t I?

  I did, and I took great care never to have less. I even bought a few to replace those I’d sold, but in the main, my best business was done with wide-eyed hopefuls who were eager for cheap bargains. One thing about that sort of customer, they’re so keen to get something cheap they never stop to ask themselves why it’s cheap in the first place. By the end of the first month I’d had to rearrange my coloured pins so as not to sell the same Asteroid twice. Not that it mattered all that much; you can’t sell what doesn’t belong to you, anyway, but I like to be nice about such matters.

  Towards the end of the second month Skelton came back. He looked older than he had before, and there was a hangdog air about him which gave me the impression that his ‘little girl’ had thrown him over after sucking the orange dry. He didn’t waste any time.

  “That claim, Dusty,” he said. “The one in the frame. I want it.”

  “You can’t have it,” I said coldly. “You sold it to me, remember?”

  “No I didn’t,” he said, and gave a nasty grin. “I transferred the rest of the claims to you, but not that one. Where is it?”

  I didn’t answer straight away. I spent some time checking the transfer receipts and felt a cold hand grip my stomach when I found out that he was telling me the simple truth. It hadn’t mattered at the time. I’d only insisted that he leave it for the hell of it, but, if he wanted to get nasty, I was in a spot.

  He wanted to get nasty.

  I tried to convince him that what he was doing was unethical, un-business-like, and dishonest. I even went so far as to threaten to call in the police, but he met that one with information which startled me. Skelton was a shrewd operator, too shrewd for the good of an honest man like me. It seems that the agencies worked in a nice tight little ring in order to keep selling prices up and buying prices down. I hadn’t bothered about that; details such as price rings belong to a long-term policy, and I’d had my own ideas. Anyway, Skelton had kept an eye on things and had had his suspicions. The pay-off came when he told me that my last customer had been a paid spy, seeking proof to have me thrown out of business and into jail. And guess who he’d been paid by?

  Skelton, the rat!

  Even at that I wasn’t worried. I’d kept strictly within the letter of the law. I hadn’t sold any claim twice; in fact, I’d hardly sold any claims at all. All I’d really sold was my personal permission to go out and look at the specified Asteroid. That was the part in very small print. The compositor had worn magnifying spectacles to set the type. The rest of my forms contained a lot of double-talk which sounded good, but boiled down to nothing.

  Skelton admitted that, as far as that went, I was in the clear, and that was why he was after his claim certificate. Not because he wanted it, but .because he wanted money. If I’d have had it I would have given it to him, but I didn’t have it. I’d sold it, and that, on Mars, was a criminal offence carrying a ten-year penalty.

  And Skelton knew it.

  “Look,” I said cautiously. “I’ve mislaid it somewhere. It’ll turn up again I’m sure, but, just to keep the books straight, how about me buying it from you for say... a hundred credits?”

  He cupped his hand to his ear as though he were deaf.<
br />
  “Five hundred,” I said. “And you know very well that it isn’t worth half of that.”

  He made his stupid gesture again and grinned like the fool he had taken me for. “All right,” I surrendered. “A thousand, take it and get the hell out of here.”

  “You’ve sold it,” he said. “I checked the transfer and I know. I want what you sold it for.”

  “Impossible!” I felt ill as I thought about it. “For one thing I haven’t got that much money, and upkeep of this place is expensive and 1 had debts to pay.” I leaned forward and set to work to sell myself to a man who didn’t know what humanity was. I sweated, I pleaded, I even wept real tears, but the least he would take was fifteen thousand. He must have been psychic; that was just about the amount I had in the bank. Naturally, I don’t keep all I own in the bank, but what was left in my sock wasn’t anywhere near as much.

  I had just finished writing out the cheque and was examining his signature of the transfer certificate, back-dated, naturally, when the door opened and a young couple entered the office. At first I didn’t recognise the man, but when he spoke I realised that he was the lucky purchaser of the disputed claim. I steeled myself for more trouble.

  “Mr. Dribble,” he said. “I want to thank you. Yes, sir. You’ve been a real gentleman to me, and I’d like you to know how much I appreciate it.”

  He grabbed my hand and tried to tear my arm off.

  “Mavis and me got married yesterday, right after I got back from that claim you sold me.” He grinned even wider. “We’re rich, Mr. Dribble, and we owe it all to you.”

  I swallowed. “To me? You mean that the claim was a good one?”

  “A bonanza!” He almost glowed as he spoke about it. “At a rough guess I’d say it works out at about ten credits the pound. Thanks again, Mr. Dribble. I’ll recommend you to all my friends.”

  “Thanks,” I croaked and managed to smile. I lost the smile as soon as they had left the office.

  “Ten credits the pound,” whispered Skelton. “That rock was registered at around five hundred tons. Ten million credits! Dusty! I feel ill!”

  He looked it, too, but not half as bad as I felt. Ten million credits in the palm of my hand, and I’d thrown it away!

  Asteroids!

  MAN OF WAR

  The torp which smashed the control room did more than cripple the ship. It converted Captain Seng into ash, decimated the crew and gave the rest of us an uneasy ten-day gamble with death before we could reach Morgans’ World for repairs and replacements.

  You know how it is in a war, everything seems to get mixed to hell and replacements come from all over. So far we’d been lucky, getting home-world personnel whenever we needed them, but the grape-vine had it that things were beginning to come apart at the seams. Home-world replacements could no longer be guaranteed and too many ships were going into battle with mixed crews.

  Our luck didn’t hold out this time. We managed the crew but missed out on the captain.

  “He’s from Earth.” Second Officer Lee joined me where I stood outside the ship. He’d just come from the tower, the inevitable sheaf of papers in his hand, an odd expression on his face. “A real, keen bright boy fresh from training school.”

  From Earth?” I was surprised. Terrestrials usually stuck together closer than a weld. They ran the war, of course, but ships usually had home-world commanders. “How come?”

  “A new directive from Central Bureau.” Lee sounded disgusted. “Seems that all Fed auxiliaries are to have Terrestrial commanders in future; said commanders to take over as and when the opportunity arises.”

  “Such as Seng getting his.” I looked towards the tower. A figure marched towards us, very tall, very neat, very upright. Even at this distance he looked very young. Our new captain, no doubt. I had about five minutes to get used to the idea.

  His name was Brant, Captain Carl Brant, he insisted on the title.

  “First Officer Prin,” he rapped, “you will please remember that I am the captain of this vessel. You will see to it that I am addressed as such.”

  “Okay, Carl.” I gave him a smile. “No need to be so formal about it.”

  He looked at me. He had a pink face and blue eyes. Beneath his uniform cap his dark hair was so closely cropped as to reveal the skull. He smelt of soap and after-shave lotions, his uniform was a tailor’s masterpiece. He was painfully correct, painfully precise, painfully the exact picture of what a model captain should be—to anyone who had never served beneath a model captain.

  “I shall not repeat myself, First Officer Prin.” His voice matched the coldness of his eyes. “Any familiarity will be considered insubordination and treated as such.” He drew in his breath. “Do you understand?”

  “Sure, Car—Cap—sir.” I almost choked over the word. What the hell difference did it make what you called a man as long as you were willing to die with him?

  “Are you quite sure, First Officer Prin?”

  “Yes, sir.” I knew what he wanted now. Repetition didn’t make it any easier. “I understand.”

  “I hope that you do.” He looked hard at me, then at Lee. “See to it that the others do also.”

  I heard Lee say something under his breath but I didn’t catch exactly what.

  We began the tour of inspection.

  Brant wasn’t impressed. The Wentar, like most Federation auxiliaries, was a converted cargo vessel with all that implied. She’d been fitted with a more powerful Banner engine, the control room had a hash of extra instruments, a gunnery room had been built with a complex mass of plotting and tracing gear, but she had none of the smooth, relentless beauty of a ship designed and built for war.

  Her crew, like the vessel, had also been converted. Basically they were civilians pressed into uniform and they looked it. They acted it too, much to Brant’s disgust. What he didn’t give them credit for was their efficiency.

  I halted by a bulkhead liberally dotted with stars.

  “Our record to date. Twenty-eight enemy vessels destroyed.”

  “On how many missions?”

  “Thirty-seven.” I remembered something. “Sir.”

  “I see.” He stared at the bulkhead. “Your record would be more to the point had you troubled to signify the types of ships destroyed.”

  “Does it make any difference?” Lee was bitter. “There isn’t a ship so small that it can’t mount a torp-tube.”

  “You forget yourself, Second Officer Lee.”

  “Do I?” Lee swallowed, he was thinking of our late near-miss and the single-man enemy scouter which had caused it. “Perhaps I do—sir.”

  “That’s better.” Brant was more pleased with the use of the title than he was with the record of the ship he now commanded. “Shall we continue?”

  He didn’t say much during the rest of the tour, not in actual words, that is, but he left us in no doubt as to how he felt. Later, in the control room, he put us through the hoop.

  “This ship,” he said coldly, “is a disgrace.”

  “Now wait a minute—” Lee wanted to say more but he wasn’t given the chance.

  “I was warned what to expect,” continued Brant, ignoring the interruption, “so I cannot say that I am unduly surprised. Disappointed, perhaps, but not surprised.” He looked at me. “You were about to say, First Officer?”

  What I wanted to say would have put me in deep trouble. Squirt or not Brant was the captain with all that implied. I found refuge in generalities.

  “The Wentar may not be a perfect ship, Captain, but it is an efficient one. Our record proves that.”

  “Perhaps. But had the ship been truly efficient your score would have stood higher. I am not forgetting those nine wasted missions, First Officer Prin.”

  “Wasted, Captain?” Lee couldn’t control himself. “May I remind you that if it hadn’t been for our last ‘wasted’ mission you would not be in command?”

  “And that is the thing which really upsets you, isn’t it?” Brant looked from Lee to m
e and then back to Lee again. “I am not of your world and you object to that fact. Why?”

  It staggered me that he should ask the question. All through the war ships had been crewed by one-world personnel, until lately, that is. A man fights better with his own, has a closer affinity, feels more at ease. Ships from Ligur had Ligurian crews, ships from Orestis the same. I came from Ormond, so did Lee, so had Seng and every captain before him. Those captains understood our ways, knew how we felt, knew how to get the best of us. A dozen reasons told against assorted crews—religion, customs, lack of something common to discuss, even the spices used in cooking.

  The Federation recognised that fact, had recognised it, that is. Now, for some reason, they were ignoring it. Brant told us why.

  “Every empire had this problem,” he explained coldly. “Provincials, no matter how loyal they are supposed to be, cannot have the same interests at heart as the Mother World. They only grasp a part of the pattern, not the whole. I may as well tell you this now; the war is going against us. The reason is to be found in the auxiliaries.”

  That was going too far. Both Lee and I protested. Violently.

  Brant cut us short.

  “What you think is of no importance,” he said evenly. “Central Bureau has studied the problem and arrived at the answer. From now all auxiliaries will be commanded by Terrestrials. Law discipline will be tightened, morale improved, the major aims of the war kept in mind.”

  “In other words,” I said bitterly, “you don’t trust us. Is that it?”

  “If you were not trusted you would not be on my ship,” said Brant. “I think that you have been allowed to slip into lax ways. That, obviously, was the fault of your previous com-mander. It is a fault that I shall remedy.”

  “Captain Seng was a good man,” said Lee. “One of the best.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “No ‘perhaps’ about it.” Lee was in a temper. “He was a damn fine—”