Mystery of the Third Mine

by Robert Lowndes

  “I agree in principle,” replied Vincennes, smiling faintly, “but getting down to actual cases, what does this mean? Suppose you had a situation where the party who could not produce his evidence on the spot was trying to pull a bluff? Clay’s good faith is all right with me, but what about my evidence?”

  “It is possible, Mr. Vincennes, that there was an error when you filed. Until we have more evidence, gentlemen, I suggest we assume that Clay and Abend have valid claims. We are trying to find Glen Abend, who has been missing for several days. You have an undisputed claim to the rest of the asteroid, Mr. Vincennes. If Clay cannot prove his claim, then yours is good as it stands.

  “In the meantime, you are all free to work on your respective areas, once you have given your bond not to trespass upon each other.”

  Vincennes struck the control panel with his fist. “No! I cannot accept this proposal. Put yourself in my position. If I am right, then Clay is working my claim. No matter how honest he is, that doesn’t alter the fact that he would then be taking my property. What do you say, Clay? If it was the other way around, would you agree to my working your claim while you waited around for me to prove I had the right?”

  “That cuts both ways,” Peter broke in. “We can just as well say that we have the rights, and you’re trespassing on our property.”

  “Then, gentlemen,” declared Ezzard, "since you cannot accept a compromise, I shall have to put 20-47 under the protection of the Asteroid Miners’ Association. This asteroid will be closed for a six-month period, and you will have to cease operations. I might add that no one else will be permitted to trespass, and we’ll patrol it regularly to see to it that there is no trespassing. If the disputed claims are settled before six months, then the protection will be withdrawn.” “And suppose they aren't?”

  "Six months should be ample. You would have to show excellent cause for an extension. This measure has been used before, gentlemen. So far, it has never been necessary to renew—in fact, most cases have been settled well within the deadline."

  Peter looked at Vincennes, expecting the man to object vigorously, but the stocky miner’s next words surprised him.

  “This sounds reasonable enough to me, Captain Ezzard. As I said before, I agree in principle that the Clays should have a chance to prove what they say. But I could not accept a situation where unproved filings were taken for valid.”

  Clay said quietly, "You wouldn’t have happened to have run in with Glen Abend, would you? There’s also his claim on 20-47.” Then, to Ezzard: "What about this protection, Ezzard? Does that mean that Abend can’t work his mine, either?”

  The guardsman paced up and down the control room. “You saw Mr. Vincennes’ filing—it covers the whole works. Abend will have to prove priority on his copper mine too. We can’t prove anything until we get back to Cerestown, unless Abend should turn up before we leave.”

  “It would be rather strange if his finder should turn out to be defective too,” mused Clay.

  Vincennes smiled gently. “Really, Mr. Clay, you aren't accusing me of tampering with your finder and your friend's finder, are you? I realize that you aren't. I just wanted to point out that this sort of thing couldn't be done by anyone without your noticing that it had been opened.”

  Peter glanced around the room, trying to find some pattern in the conversation, some undercurrent which would make sense. His eyes fell on a flake of metal; it looked like the one he'd discovered at Glen’s mine. If he could pick it up, unnoticed, when they were leaving . . .

  There was a little more small talk, then the party broke up. Ezzard took Clay aside and spoke to him briefly. Peter couldn't hear what they were saying, yet Ezzard behaved in a worried manner.

  Six months! But that was absurd—it couldn’t take that long to get proof of a filing from the Claims Office. Or could it? Was there something else that miners weren't being told about when they filed?

  Chapter 5 Judas Goat

  Clay sucked in chicory through his tube thoughtfully. “Danged if I can make that Vincennes fellow out; he’s as tricky as a rogue.” Peter looked up from the chart he was studying, calculating the return trip to Ceres, “What's a ‘rogue’?”

  “Out there, partner.” Clay pointed toward the nearest port. “One ought to be visible not too long from now. They are asteroids with very eccentric orbits. They don't follow the general line of the Belt, but cut way in toward the Sun, then far out. Some of them pass pretty close to planets. This one goes near Mars.

  “They travel along at a terrific velocity, which is the only thing that keeps them from being captured by a planet or falling into the Sun. . . . Might be a good idea for you to take a turn at the controls, Pete— keep you from worrying about other things.”

  Pete shook his head. “I still don’t understand it.

  First, Glen disappears. Then we hear about Ama and meet the guard. Then this Vincennes tries to pull a fast one and kick us off 20-47. How is it that Ezzard was right there when this came up—and what does Vincennes want with a whole asteroid? You said yourself there’re only two mines on 20-47, and that our claims aren’t worth jumping.”

  He started to set up the firing-course, as Clay had shown him on previous trips. They didn’t bother to strap themselves into acceleration seats as yet. The initial blast would be only kickers to get them off the asteroid.

  Clay looked over Peters figures and blast-layout. “This looks right,” he observed. “Just one thing, partner. Always allow for a slight error—even if you’re sure—and assume that Ceres is a little farther along her orbit than where the figures show she should be. The important thing is to cut her orbit ahead of her position, so shell be coming toward you. If you cut in, find you’ve miscalculated in the other direction, and you’ve missed her, then you re in a mess.”

  Peter looked puzzled. “How come? We can make up the difference if it’s a slight one, can't we?” “Nope. Ceres travels faster than any ship made so far. You’d never catch up. You'd have to plot a new, wide curve that would bring you ahead of her again. And you might find there wasn't enough fuel or supplies to carry you that far or that long.”

  Peter concentrated on the chronometer, which was set to show firing-times for the course he'd plotted. Once the main direction was established, he wouldn't have to stay in the pilot's seat. The Claymore would continue in the same direction for many hours before deceleration and final steering blasts were required.

  Outside of storms, and an occasional meteorite which their instruments would handle, their course was clear. The ship was still coasting. He'd need a side-tube blast in a few minutes after the next quarter-hour; then came the real acceleration build-up.

  “There’s something I want to show you,” he said. He’d managed to pick up the little flakes of metal back on Vincennes’ ship when no one was watching. He’d taken them out of his suit pouch after they got back on board the Claymore. Pete took the two specimens out of his pocket and handed them over.

  In the light of the control room, the flakes were clearly a soft, grayish-white metal. Clay picked them up, looked carefully, then took them over to a microscope. A few moments later he looked up and whistled softly.

  “This clears up part of the mystery, if it means what I think it does. The only question is whether these came from £0-47, or were brought there. The way Vincennes acted pretty much proves that these came from 20-47.” He looked at the chronometer. “Better get back to the board, partner—bad business to leave before the ship’s ready to go on automatic.” “Is this what Vincennes is after?”

  “I’d lay odds on it—and it explains why he claims the whole asteroid too. No wonder Vincennes wanted us off, no matter how it came about. Glen and I were wrong; there’s a third mine on 20-47. . . . Pete, don’t say anything about this to anyone until later. I’ve got some checking to do, and it might be a good idea if they don’t suspect we know about it.”

  Peter nodded and pressed the firing-stud for the side-tube. His hands were suddenly thrown off t
he board and he found himself flying out of his seat.

  Without thinking, he reached up and caught hold of a stanchion—a small loop of nylon that extended from the wall. He felt a wrenching in his shoulder, but held on as his feet kept going. He pulled up his knees so that the soles of his shoes hit the wall, and heard a thud to one side of him.

  “Meteorite!” he gasped.

  Pete looked around to see Clay picking himself up slowly, his face white. “No . . . tube exploded. You'll have to . .. cut acceleration and make wider curve .. . take a little longer to . . . get there.” Clay managed a faint smile. “Just banged up a bit, partner. . . . Doesn’t feel as if anything’s broken. . . . Bit of shock. Let’s see how well you remember your first aid, after the course is reset” He staggered back to his acceleration seat, sank into it, and closed his eyes.

  Cracked ribs were not quite as uncomfortable in Ceres’ low gravity as they were on Mars, but Clay still had to be taped up. He was ordered to move around as little as possible for a few days. The accident didn’t seem to have dampened his spirits. When Peter left for shopping, Clay was making a bet with Barbara Abend that he’d be around again before she was.

  After a shift on the asteroids, domed Cerestown seemed flooded with light—a little bluer than the lights in Port Syrtis, Mars, but that was all.

  It was good to be able to walk, instead of shuffle or hold yourself to little hops which still carried you far off the ground. The streets and apartment floors were coated with a thin, tough sheeting of metal, through which a mild electric current ran. Similar metal lined the inhabitants’ shoes. You could still sail right up into the air if you jumped, but at least you didn't have to worry about making the slightest sudden move.

  The town was laid out in blocks, allowing for maximum convenience in traveling, without crowding, and as much building space as possible. Apartment buildings went right up to the top of the dome. The rooms inside were not very large, but spacious compared to rooms in the underground cities on Mars. Streets were wide, undersurfaced with magnetic web-work which powered the tractors bringing cargoes of minerals in from the miners' ships. Outside the dome they ran on batteries.

  In recent years Cerestown had set up refineries. There was no smoke, as smelting was done with electric arcs. Only gases, sulfides, sulfates, and oxides developed as unwanted by-products. These went out through escape vents in the dome, where they lost heat rapidly in the cold, and fell in a continuous rain of tiny blue, yellow, and whitish crystals. It was snow, but nothing like snow on Mars or Earth. The crystals fell slowly, but they came straight down—there were no air currents to make them swirl and flurry.

  On either side of the main street lay the business section and government offices—“Central,” as they were called. Around the borders of the dome were hydroponic gardens, metal refineries, and laboratories. The rest of the dome was residential; apartment buildings were separated by parks and public areas. Here shrubbery and bushes pleased the eye as well as furnishing necessary chemicals.

  The Cerestown miners were not the rough-and-unlettered lot that had made up bonanza towns of Earth's history. They were men and women skilled in living under alien conditions, where a thorough education in many arts and sciences was vital. They had studied history, and they avoided such mistakes as trying to live in claptrap, mushrooming towns.

  As a newcomer fresh from "civilization,” Peter had an advantage he didn’t fully recognize; he could see differences sharply. Out here, a man took guns with him when he left town. The guardsman’s ship was called a “fighting ship,” even though there was little about it to compare with films of Earth’s battleships, and so forth. People didn’t need guns on Mars.

  They recognized the existence of claim jumpers and pilferers. They had formed an association to protect “honest” miners.

  But this sort of defense didn’t happen until the threat had become far more serious than most people realized. Most miners were safe on their claims; a good part of the guard’s activity was simple assistance to a miner in difficulties that did not come from the doings of his fellow man. Now, however, there was increasing talk about “legality’’ and “rights”—another clue, Pete thought, to the change that was going on.

  Was Vincennes right about claim jumpers and pilferers working in some sort of organization of their own?

  No word from Glen Abend yet; no news about him. Barbara Abend had been over to see them the night before, and Pete could see her viewpoint. She still had hope, but she was ready to accept what might soon be obvious—Glen had been lost with his ship. She would accept the fact as calmly as Alan Clay accepted the accident that had laid him up, and the accident that had ruined his finder. He should have realized something was wrong the first time he used it, Clay said, and shrugged it off to experience.

  But were all these things accidents?

  Peter had seen Ben Black on the street, waved to him, and walked out to climb aboard the tractor for a talk. Ben had nothing to offer. “A man doesn't come back when he's due, kid, and that’s all you can say then and there. Might be a dozen reasons. Might be he'll show up months later—that's happened often enough when a man's had an accident. It makes you feel uneasy at first, I guess, wondering each trip if this time you won't come back. But after a while you stop thinking about it. There wouldn't be any Cerestown if people didn't take this sort of thing in their stride.”

  Accident . . . accident . . . accident. "But suppose his ship had been wrecked, Ben; suppose he was killed by a claim jumper.”

  Ben Black frowned and looked thoughtful. “I've been here nearly ten years, now, and in all that time there's only been one case of a miner being convicted of murder. They sent him back to Mars—he was sick. Sure, there's claim jumping and pilfering, but that doesn't make killing necessary from the thief’s point of view. It makes for too many complications.

  "I know . . . you have guns, and sometimes you use them. There's been a lot of cases where miners have been shot. But once they were put out of commission, the winner took care to see that they got to safety. You can shield the interior of your helmet so that no one can see your face. After you've done what you set out to do that way, you just remove the shielding and no one's the wiser. . . . Hear tell you shot a jumper yourself. Know what happened to him?”

  “Why, his friends took him back to the ship.”

  “Of course. You wrecked his suit, and he had to get to safety; he couldn't hang around and keep fighting. If he'd been alone, your father would have taken care of him and identified him in the process. When we catch jumpers and pilferers, we exile them. Never heard of any exiles coming back to Cerestown.”

  “Next time you're around the Claims Office, ask them to show you the records. They’ve got photos and complete files on all convicted jumpers and pilferers.”

  Cerestown Supply carried all the goods anyone wanted to buy on the planetoid. Food and basic necessities came through Maintenance; the big store earned appliances and luxury items imported from Mars, or Earth and Luna.

  Peter remembered that he still owed his father that E-string, and decided to pay his debt. Extra credits would soon be in short supply, since their mining operations had stopped. When the Clays started up again, there'd be a backlog of taxes to be deducted. A miner obtained credits from his cargoes or from maintenance work, Public Duty. Everyone shared in the latter, working a certain number of days a year in regulated shifts, wherever their skills were needed.

  A prospector who had a run of bad luck didn't starve. He’d take an emergency shift in Public Duty, and his pay would consist of the excess-value of his work. After a few months his credits would accumulate until he had a grubstake for another expedition. There was a basic staff of men and women, whose careers were in food production in the hydroponic gardens and chemical laboratories, refining, air supply, transportation, communication, construction, repair, light, administration, and so forth. This staff was assisted by those on annual or emergency shifts.

  Peter stood outside
the store, watching in fascination as a tractor stopped and the driver got out and picked up a massive-looking calculator unit and set it on the sidewalk.

  “Pretty heavy, isn’t it?” Peter asked.

  “Few tons." said the man. “Going up to the top floor. Got to be careful with these things, even if they are easy to lift. If this slipped and fell on my foot, someone would have to build me a new one.”

  “You mean it would smash your foot, if it fell on you from a short distance? How come? It wouldn’t come down fast."

  “That’s just the trouble. Things fall so slow, you sometimes forget that they aren’t as light as they seem and don’t get out of the way. It’s the mass that would crush you. You’d feel that as soon as it touched you, and you’d find you couldn’t wriggle out from under then.”

  He called up to a man standing in the doorway overlooking the ledge that ran around each floor of the building. The man fastened a rod with a pulley on its end to the wall, then set in a nylon rope with a hook on the end and let it down. The tractor driver fastened the hook to the unit, and the worker above pulled the calculator up easily.

  “Now and then they slip off," the driver observed as he watched. “Doesn’t damage anything so long as no one’s underneath. If you ever hear anyone yell, "Ware below!’ then look up and see something drifting down at you, don’t wait to see if it’ll bounce off—it won’t!”

  Pete stood there until the unit was up on the ledge, and the man above started to take down the pulley, then went into the store.

  Steve Menotti—a slim youngster just a few years older than Peter—was alone inside. His partner, Kristov, was on Public Duty. The storekeepers knew nearly all the miners, Pete remembered. Perhaps they might have heard something about Abend.

  He repeated his worries to Menotti, but wasn’t surprised to get about the same reaction as Ben Black had shown. Steve had something to add, however. “There is something afoot that doesn’t look too good, but it isn’t jumpers lying in ambush with longmen. Ever hear of the Belt Insurance Company?”