Mystery of the Third Mine

by Robert Lowndes

  “No, never have.’’

  “Well, it’s been going for a short time—sounded like a good thing, at first. You’d sign up, and they’d guarantee full compensation for any kind of accidents. They’d pay your taxes during any period you were laid up, and grubstake you at reasonable rates if you wanted to prospect. The premiums were somewhat high, but not exorbitant.

  “But it turns out that there was a catch. If, at any time, you miss a premium payment, Belt Insurance can seize any and all claims you own, or any claims you stake, until the policy is paid in full. It means that just a little bad luck—the kind any miner’s likely to have—makes you an employee of Belt Insurance. They won’t force you out—nothing like that—but you no longer own your mine. You’re working for them on what amounts to a salary, and they make certain that they get the big cut of your profits. That’s one of the things Ama is shooting at.”

  “Ama, huh? What has the Association done?” asked Peter.

  “They got a ruling from Central to the effect that any such policy sold to a miner who was not clearly told the full meaning of the contract was fraudulent, and the policy void. Belt Insurance had to refund all payments he’d made. Ama members are urged not to sign any contracts without consulting the Association. I know about this, because your friend, Abend, was nearly drawn into it. An agent was trying to sell him a policy right here in this store. Abend was ready to sign when a member of the Miners' Guard came in. He asked to see the policy, and the salesman objected. It ended with the guard arresting the man and taking him over to Ama headquarters. Don’t know what happened to him after that, and I’d never seen him before.”

  “What did the salesman look like? Was he a miner?”

  “Well, let’s see.” Menotti thought a moment, then gave Peter a very good description of Ogden. Somehow, this wasn’t as surprising as it might have been, Pete thought, but it made matters more puzzling than ever.

  Each time he had a partial explanation of what was going on, the answer seemed to widen the general mystery. Pete told the storekeeper about the incident on 34—91.

  "I’ll be danged,” Menotti said. He ran his fingers through his black hair, and whistled. “What do you know about that? Hey—I just remembered! About two weeks ago, a couple of miners were talking about the same sort of thing. They’d had a call for help from a prospector attacked by jumpers—only the guard was already there when they arrived. They signed up with Ama on the spot, and the ‘prospector’ did too. His name wasn’t Ogden, though, and they didn’t say what he looked like."

  “Glen was telling Barb something about Ama,” Pete said, thoughtfully. "The way he was putting it, you couldn’t be sure whether he meant that she should go to the Association for help, or she should look out for it. I’m beginning to think that Ama’s something to look out for. It’s sure suspicious.”

  “Looks peculiar,” Steve agreed. “Yet, the guard has done quite a bit of good work; there’s no doubt about that. It could be that someone inside is crooked.” “But what are they getting out of this ‘lone prospector' stunt? That sounds more and more like a put-up job every time I think of it.”

  “Might be some sort of educational campaign, and a drive to get members. Maybe it is an act, just to show people what might happen, and persuade them that Ama’s a good thing to have. After all, prospectors have been attacked in earnest by jumpers pretty much the way you saw it on 34-91.”

  Peter snapped his fingers. "Now I have it! Been trying to think what it was on 34-91 that made me suspicious. It’s so simple that I didn’t see it at the time. When we answered Ogden’s call for help, we didn’t say who we were. Dad just identified our ship. Yet, when Ezzard came in and asked Ogden who was with him, Ogden told Captain Ezzard our names. How could he know if this hadn’t been arranged in advance for our benefit? Dad and Glen both named their rockets with wordplays on our names, but that isn’t usual at all. It’s just our own personal touch.” Menotti nodded, his face serious. “That fellow Ogden could be a sort of Judas goat,”

  “What’s that?”

  “When they wanted to catch wild animals back on Earth, they’d take a tame one and train it to go out with the wild ones and lead them into a trap.”

  Peter remembered the reason he’d come in, and purchased an E-string. “I have a feeling there’s some kind of trick in this business about 20-47. That Vincennes fellow acted awfully sure that we couldn’t prove our claim. I’m going over to the Claims Office right now!"

  Chapter 6 Skullduggery

  The claims office occupied a suite of rooms on the street floor of the area devoted to government departments. It was one of the few outposts of Mars’ authority in Cerestown. As Peter entered, he heard a red-haired man saying to a dark-haired woman, . . have to worry about that, Miss. You called us from the asteroid, saying you wanted to stake a claim. As soon as we found there wasn’t any other claim on this area, that meant you had a priority. That’s why we asked you how long a trip it was—we allow that much time, plus an extra five days, for you to come in and file. If you hadn’t shown up, or called again within the limit, then the next person who inquired about that area would be told it was open.” He pressed a buzzer on his desk, waited a moment until a series of clicks sounded in reply, “Mr. Lapalme is in that office to your right; he’ll see you now.”

  There was a quiet, unhurried, and efficient air about the place that made Peter feel considerably better. He looked around as the redhead called over to him, “Be with you in just a moment.” The man went back to his desk and picked up a spool of tape, which he started to scan rapidly. One wall of the room was completely covered with filing cases. There were three desks, as well as recorders, communication units, and typewriters. On one of the desks was an instrument which looked something like a typewriter—it had a keyboard—but was otherwise unfamiliar.

  The redhead put down the tape spool, got up and came forward. "Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. "I had to finish this tape and see if it needed passing on immediately, or if it could go into the regular routine. It isn’t urgent. That means it will be taken care of today, but not within the next ten minutes... . What can I do for you?”

  Peter told the man his business, and the redhead nodded. “You’ll want to see Mr. Kreuder,” he said. He turned back to the desk and pressed another buzzer; a similar buzz replied. “He’s occupied right now,” the clerk explained, “but he’ll be free in a few minutes.” The man indicated a door to the left. “When you see the light flash on that door, you can go right in.” Pete pointed to the odd-looking instrument he’d been observing. “What’s that?”

  The redhead chuckled. “That, my friend, is a typewriter—the original kind, as it was used back on Earth. Here, I’ll show you.” He went over to the instrument, disconnected it and carried it over to his own desk where he plugged it in to a wall socket. “You see, it uses flat sheets of plastic, instead of tape spools the way modem typewriters do. Those spools you see on it are treated nylon, so that the keys will make a legible impression.”

  It seemed very wasteful and inefficient, Peter thought—as well as being slow. There didn't seem to be any eraser mechanism and no audio-control—it must be for manual operation only.

  “We do find a bit of use for this implement,” the redhead explained. He put a sheet of plastic into the roller of the relic and started to operate the keys. “Since it was donated to us, and comes in handy for posting notices on the bulletin board, we don’t mind keeping it around.” He typed a few lines to show Peter how the machine worked, then drew out the sheet. “This kind of impression is easy to erase, although it holds as long as you want it”

  Over on one of the desks, the familiar “modern” typewriter burst into operation. One of the other men in the office picked up the tape that emerged from the machine, reading it as it came out. “They used to have something like our present-day typewriters back on Earth,” the clerk said, “in the days when the old-fashioned model was in common use. But those things were completely
automatic and had no keyboards for manual use, as well as being pretty primitive all around. They were called ‘ticker-tapes,’ I think. . . . Hold it! Were getting a report in from the field.”

  The “field” was the Asteroid Belt, of course. Some prospector was giving general information on an asteroid, describing its particulars and what metals were not observed after a thorough search of its surface. This information would go into the General Reports, available to all miners and prospectors. It would not affect anyone’s claim to what he might find, but would save other prospectors wasted effort.

  The third man now arose and opened a large loose-leaf book to a particular spot, then took up a stylus. As the tape stopped coming out of the typewriter, the second man tore off the loose end, attached it to an empty spool, wound it quickly, and started to read: "Asteroid 18-05.”

  The other man looked over the pages quickly, and replied, “Listed and type specified.” He flipped more pages, then read, ‘‘No iron, copper, or nickel.” “Add: ‘No zinc, silver, or aluminum. ” said the one who was reading.

  The redhead grinned. “Too bad every miner doesn’t go out looking for all the metals on every asteroid. We’d get much more complete dope that way. Wouldn’t put it past Old Caution to start suggesting it. . . . Know what? I hear he actually made some definite statements the other day. He told a miner that his filing was unquestionably in order and sent him over to the Administrator with a note.” He glanced at the rear door, where a light now glowed. “Cau—er, Mr. Kreuder—will see you now, fellow.”

  Lon Kreuder was a graying, somewhat harassed-looking man, who gave the appearance that every word he spoke would be tested a dozen ways first. He was tapping a corner of his desk with his finger tips and musing over a spool of tape as Peter entered. There was a faint smile on his lips as he looked up.

  “I see you are a newcomer to Ceres,” he said. “That puts us on an even footing, although I’m not new to this type of work." His smile widened. “I’m here to help you as much as I can. Unfortunately, many people overestimate my authority. The Claims Office can look into cases and make judgments, but we cannot enforce them, so I have to exercise a good deal of care in what I say officially. Let’s start with your story. Just tell me everything you know.”

  He listened attentively while Peter told his story, omitting only the metal he’d found on 20-47, and ending up with, “This Vincennes fellow acts as if he’s sure our claim isn’t any good.”

  “Your filing, you mean. The claim is the mine itself; the filing s what is being contested. Well... the Claims Office is the authority on that. If your filing is in order, you have nothing to worry about. A note from this office to Central is all you need, and it won’t take long unless the filing is doubtful.”

  “That’s what Vincennes says it is."

  Kreuder frowned in thought “From your story alone, it wouldn’t appear that way. You say you have filed upon a definite area of 20-47; so has your friend, Mr. Abend. Vincennes has filed a ‘blanket’ claim, which covers the entire asteroid. He considers your filing doubtful. Hm-m-m . . . what is the date of your filing?”'

  “Glen and Dad—I mean, my partner—both filed at the same time: 13/11/48.”

  “13/11/48. Hm-m-m,” echoed Kreuder. He turned in his chair and looked out the window into the street. “There were two possibilities from the start, Mr. Clay, as to why Mr. Vincennes filed as he did. One might be that, through an error here, Vincennes was not informed about 20-47. The other was that he knew about you and decided to contest your filing.”

  “But what grounds would he have for contesting?” “The date—13/11/48”

  “But,” Peter protested, “what is wrong with that date?”

  Kreuder arose and started toward the files. “There shouldn’t be anything at all wrong with that date, or any other date, Mr. Clay. But.. . unfortunately . . . there may be a good deal wrong with it. It falls right into the middle of the ‘doubtful period'.” He opened a file, bringing forth an envelope from which he drew a sheet of plastic. “Yes, your memory is correct. That is the date listed here.”

  “Then what’s wrong? And what do you mean by ‘doubtful period’?”

  Kreuder placed the envelope on his desk and leaned forward earnestly, “What I have to tell you, Mr. Clay, is in strictest confidence.

  “The former head of this office, Quentin Yerxa, and his entire staff were recalled to Mars some time ago, under occlusion. ... You may not be familiar with that term. It means that they were suspected of highly irregular activities. Yerxa returned—and, I’m happy to say, established his honesty. The others disappeared.

  “What was discovered was that the clerks in the Claims Office had been tampering with records. The earliest-established forgery was on a filing dated 10/48, and the most recent on a filing dated 15/48. As a result, all claims within those two dates can be regarded as doubtful, if they are contested. They have to be certified.”

  “But isn’t that what you do here anyway?” Kreuder shook his head. “Before these incidents, a report bearing the Claims Office seal was accepted in any dispute. Now original filings are sent back to Mars. Copies bearing the personal seal of the Claims Office chief used to be good. But we discovered forgeries, so we cannot take any chances. We have to get the information from Mars.

  "‘You see, filings are made on plastic sheets, sent to Mars and placed on film. Up to recently the question of possible fraud never came up. Now, after it’s happened, people wonder why precautions were not taken. Very easy to be wise after something has happened. Now do you see why this has to be confidential?” “Why?" said Peter." "I suppose that if I were dishonest, and I knew what claims were in this doubtful period, I’d see if I couldn’t jump them and say I had as much right there as anyone else.”

  Kreuder nodded. “That is part of it, and enough reason for keeping quiet,”

  “But what could anyone gain by all this? Everyone has two extra copies of his filings. If the miners own copies show one date, and the copy here shows a different one, then doesn’t that prove that the copy here was altered?”

  “It probably would—if the miner can produce his extra copies? Peter jumped up. “So that was why our finder was sabotaged!”

  “Are you sure it was?”

  “Well—it’s obvious, isn’t it? Those crooks changed the copies of the filings here. Then they handed out defective finders to the miners so that they couldn’t prove their filings when a dispute came up!”

  Kreuder closed his eyes and nodded slowly. “Personally, Mr. Clay, I suspect that is exactly what happened. But suspicion isn’t proof, and that is what we have to produce.

  “You may not have heard about Central’s ruling on disputed claims within the doubtful period. The claimant must present the original filing. That means you’ll have to go to Mars."

  “Can't confirmation be sent on from Mars the way other messages are sent?” Peter asked.

  “Again, my personal opinion is one thing, and the facts in the case another. Mars protested—and I protested also—that this was unnecessary red tape. It puts an unjust burden upon a miner whose filing is disputed. But the Asteroid Miners' Association insisted we try this for one year. They claimed that the old method is too open to fraud.

  “Mars doesn’t agree, but since the Association is trying to restore order here, it was decided to go along with them. We hope they’ll see their mistake before too much time has passed. Mars' policy is to co-operate with Ceres, so long as we are not being deceived.

  “To put it into a more colorful phrase, Ceres can make thickheaded blunders if it must, but Mars isn’t going to certify skullduggery.”

  Peter’s head was swimming. “Skullduggery. There's skullduggery going on all around us, Mr. Kreuder. What about Barbara Abend s accident? What about Glen Abend’s disappearance? What about our ship? What about this scheme to send us to Mars for proof? How did Vincennes find out our filing was in the doubtful period?

  “It looks to me as if Mars is doing just wh
at these crooks want you to do. Temporary measure—huh! Sure—temporary so long as it’s a good way of disposing of legal claims. When they have the loot, they can decide that the system's unjust and change the rules."

  “Your finder was defective—proven." said Kreuder.

  “You say you were not told about the possibility—not proven, I'm afraid, unless you can produce witnesses. Someone must affirm just what he heard Claims Office officials tell you when the units were given to you. Otherwise it is your word alone. That may be excellent in personal relations, but it isn’t enough in legal matters.

  “Now you see why they call me "Old Caution" . . . Oh, I'm aware of it, and I’m not happy about it—but that’s my job.

  “Mrs. Abend and your fa—partner both had accidents. These seem to have been convenient for parties as yet unnamed. But all we know is that they happened. Have you any evidence that the accidents were not exactly what they appeared to be at the time? If not, then nothing is proved.”

  Kreuder slapped an open palm upon the desk and arose from his seat, “Suspicion! Suspicion! Suspicion! Yes, I know how you feel, Mr. Clay. I'm in the same rocket. Very irregular activities went on here in this office. That much has been proved—but nothing more. I suspect far more than you and others have told me, but I'm completely blocked. Without evidence to present to Mars, or to Central, my hands are frozen solid.”

  “But—can’t you do anything? Can't the Claims Office investigate?”

  Kreuder ran his fingers through his hair. “Can the Claims Office find anything? It’s a full-time job keeping things in order here and guarding against any further skullduggery in our own cabin.”

  He started to pace up and down the office. “It’s the overall picture that puzzles me, Clay, and it shouldn’t. I have the feeling that it is right under my nose, so to speak, but disguised so that I don’t recognize it.