Mystery of the Third Mine

by Robert Lowndes

  Menotti’s arms started to fall as his body began to slump. The girls fall had not been entirely stopped, and her head hit the pavement just as Pete touched her shoulders. He grasped them firmly and started back, steeling himself to move slowly and watching the huge machine that was now grinding Menotti’s shoulders downward.

  He remembered a phrase from a novel written on Earth—something about the mill of the gods grinding slowly, but grinding exceedingly small. Back on Earth this was a colorful expression. Out here you saw the full meaning. The girl was free now, and Pete tried to grasp Menotti’s unconscious form and drag him out from under. He could feel that it was too late. Despite the low gravity, Peter's strength was not enough to pull Menotti free from the crushing mass that bore him downward.

  The result was the same as if the unit had fallen swiftly upon him, as if it had struck him down like lightning.

  Pete could feel something wet on his face, and knew that the wetness was tears. He exhaled deeply in sobbing gasps, not caring whether anyone saw him. It wasn't considered unmanly to shed tears, anyway, when you were deeply moved. The man who lived out here in the Belt without showing feeling was looked upon as a misfit—one who would crack up sooner or later.

  Steve Menotti hadn't been a close friend to Peter, but he had been a companionable acquaintance. There were some who would feel personal grief at Steve's death. Peter knew that it was the way Menotti died that shook him. Suddenly, all the great science and technology, which had made Cerestown and the Belt a place where man had come and conquered, seemed very feeble. Peter looked up to the top of the dome and thought of how small and weak men's building was in the face of the titanic forces around him.

  The moment of terror passed away, and Peter s fear gave way to anger. He hated these blind forces which tried to crush him and his fellow humans, as Menotti had been crushed. He was furious at the thought of this hidden group of men who endangered everyone by their private gambles for quick wealth.

  He looked down at the still form of the girl. She’d landed hard and was unconscious, her reddish hair flowing out on the sidewalk. She was about his own age, Peter saw, and he liked the character he could see in her face. She was bleeding slightly from a cut on the side of her head.

  “That was quick work, fellow. We thought for sure that they were both done for!''

  It was Wendl’s voice. Peter turned and saw the Ama official and Vincennes approaching, He saw faces appearing at windows on both sides of the street and people emerging from doors.

  He looked at the two silently. There was shock on their faces—it wasn’t put on, he was sure. They looked at the girl and glanced quickly to one side where Menottis arm projected from beneath die unit. Then they returned their eyes to the girl.

  Wendl murmured, “Golly—if she’d been under that thing!”

  There was horror in his voice, and he was looking at Vincennes as he spoke. The latter showed traces of relief, despite the fact that he was clearly shaken. His eyes traveled again to the dead man quickly.

  Was there satisfaction behind that glance? “Poor Steve,” Vincennes said simply, his tones regretful.

  But what did the regret mean? Was Vincennes sorry that Menotti was dead, or sorry that his death was convenient? Yes, this must have been a convenient accident for someone. Steve Menotti could have identified Ogden as the man who’d been selling those crooked Belt Insurance policies.

  Wendl was bending down and lifting the girl's still form easily. “We’ll take her into the office. She isn’t hurt outside of that bump on the head—thanks to you, Clay.” He looked at Vincennes again. “This won’t be forgotten, fellow.”

  Vincennes was looking at the girl now too. “No, it certainly won’t. You’ll never know how fortunate your presence was.” He wiped his brow. “Close,” he whispered, “too close. Who would have dreamed . . . ?”

  Vincennes stopped himself, as if he’d said too much, and looked at Peter. “Clay, you’re right about these accidents. There have been too many of them, far too many.” He wiped his brow again as he turned away and started back to Ama headquarters. There was quite a crowd gathered around now. Peter saw a doctor come up to Wendl, who paused and nodded in Pete s direction. The man glanced briefly at the girl, nodded, then came over to hear Pete’s story. A tractor came up as Peter was relating what had happened. Public Duty men started to lift up the huge machine.

  Pete said to the doctor, “Let’s get out of here. I don’t want to see . .

  How long he’d been walking, his thoughts in a whirl as he tried to tie in this “accident” with what he had learned, Pete didn’t know. It could have been just what it appeared to be; he realized that. But that calculator unit should have been taken inside. At least, it should have been safe on the ledge. How could it have fallen just in time to catch Menotti?

  It was clear that, were this deliberate, someone hadn’t known of the girl’s presence. But that didn’t make sense. A slight push would have sent the machine off the ledge. Only, if someone had seen Steve below, surely they would have noticed the girl too.

  Peter shook his head. It was fantastic. How could anyone expect Menotti to stand in one spot obligingly and wait for his doom to strike him? This could be nothing more than an accident. Yet, what was the meaning of Vincennes’ attitude?

  Or, could it be that some “accident”' had been planned for Steve Menotti, but not this one? That might explain Vincennes’ relief. The girl wasn’t supposed to have been involved. Menotti was out of the way. That might be satisfying to Vincennes.

  Where was the connection, and who was the girl? Both Vincennes and Wendl knew her. That was plain enough.

  He looked up in time to see a figure pass him from an apartment entrance. Another man was stepping back indoors, and Peter heard the second man say, “Tomorrow, then, Gideon.”

  Something about "Gideon” was familiar. Pete couldn't be sure what it was at first. He followed the man down the street, wondering if he would turn around. If Gideon turned around, all right. If he didn't, all right. What did it matter, anyway? Pete felt tired and somehow spent. He wanted to stop thinking for a while. Walking along after this “Gideon,” and wondering whether the man would or would not turn around, seemed as good a move to make as any other.

  After a while, Peter noticed that someone else was wandering along behind Gideon. Now that, he thought, is interesting. Is this man following Gideon for a reason?

  Gideon stopped and looked in a window; the other man stopped too. When Gideon started in again, the other continued.

  “Nope, he's following Gideon,” Peter said to himself. “Spying on him, perhaps.”

  It wasn’t a game any longer.

  Peter felt that this might be important. Gideon ought to realize that he was being followed after a while, though, if the second man kept it up.

  Now the stalker started to cross the street at an angle. He looked around casually, and suddenly faced Peter.

  Dave Ogden!

  The mans sad-faced features looked startled for a moment, then a crafty-looking smile crossed his face. The smile didn’t fit Ogden. He looked as if his face hadn’t been made for smiling. He came back to the sidewalk, his hand outstretched.

  "Well! If it ain’t my friend Clay. How be things going with you and your partner?”

  Ogden small-talked for a few minutes, and Peter answered mechanically. If Ogden realized that Peter didn’t care about talking to him, he didn’t show it, Ogden sighed finally, as if sorry that their conversation had to be broken off. He said he had to see someone and started across the street again. Peter leaned against a window front.

  "I must have embarrassed him,” he muttered. He went on, turning down a side street and wondering if he could pick up Gideon again. After a short time Peter began to feel that he was being followed. He stepped into an apartment doorway, then turned suddenly to face a man not too far behind.

  There was suspicion on the mans face, but the expression vanished at once when he saw Peter. His mustach
e quivered, and his black eyes sparkled as he came forward.

  “Hi, fellow/’ he said happily.

  Peter s mouth dropped open, but for an instant no sounds came out. This was one surprise too many. It seemed to be hours before he could make his voice work and whisper, "Glen. Glen Abend.”

  Chapter 9 You Name Your Price

  Shh!”said abend. “Call me Gideon. Abend is a ghost for the present.” He was a small, wiry man by Martian standards—barely six feet tall. His eyes showed pleasure at the moment, but there was still an apprehensiveness about his manner. This was so normal with Glen Abend, however, that Peter didn't notice it.

  He frowned in thought; trust Glen to come up with something to puzzle you, no matter what the occasion. “Ghost.” He'd heard the word before, of course, but where, and in what connection?

  “All right . . . Gideon; you've stumped me. What's a ghost?”

  Abend laughed, and most of his nervousness eased away now that he had a chance to explain something. “Old Earth superstition. "Ghosts' were supposed to be people come back from the dead. They weren't solid. You could see them, hear them, and feel their

  presence at times. But if you tried to grasp one, your hand went right through him.”

  “And what kind of a ghost is Abend supposed to be? I hadn’t even heard that he was dead.”

  “Oh, he’s a different kind. Quite solid, I think. I wasn’t using the word literally. You’ll hear about Abend’s fate from official sources soon, I think. I wouldn’t be surprised if Ama didn’t offer a reward for the capture of his killers, as a matter of fact. . . . Tell you about it later, Pete; I have to see someone right now, but I’ll be around. I’ve already called Alan and told him that Mel Gideon would be over later.” He looked up and down the street as if someone might be watching.

  “Listen,” he said, lowering his voice. “Don’t say anything to anyone about Abend. Tell Alan if you want to, but blink it I think your apartment may be wired, mine too. I haven’t dared to call Barb, for fear they’ll find out I’m alive.”

  Peter groaned. “They” again. “Don’t you know anything definite? If there are ghosts around, the ghosts must be all ‘theys.’”

  “Nothing much to go on, so far, but suspicion, and . . ."

  ". . . suspicion isn’t proof; we have to have evidence that will stand up. Golly, Gil—Gideon, I’ll be reciting that in my sleep if I hear it any more . . . today, at least. Well, do you suspect anyone definite?” “Yes. Ama!”

  “You think the whole organization is in this business?”

  Abend started down the street, beckoning Pete along. “That’s where I come in—comparing notes. I’ve seen a few miners—quite a few. Tell you all about it tonight. Stands to reason that everyone in the outfit isn’t necessarily crooked. The problem’s whether it’s the leadership, or whether someone is using Ama for dirty work unknown to die head men. . . . Have to go now. Tell Barb you think she’ll hear something definite about me soon, but not to believe the first thing she hears.”

  "Can I mention your name, Mr. Gideon?”

  Abend stopped in his tracks and meditated, his mustache quivering. He cocked his head as he considered one side of the answer, then straightened it to consider another. Peter waited patiently to see if the cocked-head argument would get in a rebuttal. No, apparently the debate was to be a short one. Glen smiled and nodded, as if he had won a victory in sheer logic.

  “Yes,” he said, nodding emphasis. He started off down the side street, looking as if this decision had taken a great part of the load off his shoulders. Peter watched him for a moment, then shook his head. “Just think how much worse I’d feel about everything if I were an intellectual,” he murmured to himself.

  Clay reacted as Peter had thought he would, after he’d blinked the message. Condensed to one word, Alan’s reply was “Nonsense!” But, Pete noticed, he did blink the reply, rather than speak it out. The trouble with Abend was that you usually found yourself going along with him, even though you disagreed.

  Yet, when all was said and done, Glen had been right. He’d been muttering about large-scale trouble for quite a while before it all hit them at once.

  Pete started to blink the day’s events, but Clay suggested they wait for Abend to show up. Pete sat down facing Clay and blinked, "If Glen right, no speech-talk make give way; I tell what anyone could hear.”

  “Okay,” Clay agreed. Aloud, he said, “You look sort of beaten around, partner. Me, I’ve been taking it easy all day, so I'll get the chow. News can wait until after we finish.”

  "Well, there's some you ought to mull over."

  He told Clay a partial version of the day's events, including Vincennes' offer. “Looks as if he's fair enough, as well as being honest,” he finished. “The question is—is it worth making the trip to Mars for something we can get without that trouble?"

  “Dunno,” Clay answered. “So far as our own interests go, Vincennes' offer seems to answer our problems. But there’s something else to consider. Fighting this case through, without any ill feeling toward Vincennes, might turn up something valuable on the skullduggery. I think we ought to discuss that angle of it with Ama before we decide. I’d be willing to accept a little discomfort if it can help Ama clean out the crookedness. It would mean a better deal for all of us in the future. , . . Wendl didn’t raise that issue, huh?”

  "No.”

  “Well, you say he isn’t the head man there. He might not know as much of what is going on. What did you say the Directors name was?”

  “Webster.”

  “Webster, huh?” He paused a moment and blinked, “How I do?” Pete replied, "Fine. Hope someone listen and make our bother worth.”

  The door buzzer sounded. Clay said, “Answer that, will you? Forgot to tell you... someone named Melvin

  Gideon called me today. He said he’d heard we knew the Mozart E Flat Divertimento, and asked if he could come over for a session. He plays viola.”

  This was a common enough happening in Cerestown. Music was often the ground for acquaintances between strangers outside of meetings in the field, or through official business. Invitation to “come on over” was rarely withheld, and then only because of prior engagements.

  Peter opened the door to admit Abend, who had his viola and bow under his arm.

  “Hello,” Glen said, ‘you'll be Pete Clay, I take it?” “That’s right,” Peter replied, amiably. “And you’re Mel Gideon? My partner, Alan, is throwing food together. Have you eaten?”

  Pete blinked, “We much careful what say speech-talk/’ as Abend accepted the implied invitation and came in to greet Clay. Conversation was general, as it would be between strangers.

  They talked about their common interest—music. Abend took advantage of a slight lull to blink, “Seen Barbara; all told; OK.”

  Pete blinked what he had heard from Wendl concerning Abend’s possible fate, while Clay was telling about Peter’s transcriptions of some of the piano parts in Haydn trios for viola. Nothing personal was touched on. In Cerestown personal questions were not asked unless the party volunteered information.

  They finished, and Clay set up the chairs and stands. Each of the trio could watch the other's eyes while they were playing. Conversation would not interrupt.

  Abend blinked, “Happen return trip last week... no warning . . . suspect nothing. Three strangers . . . spacesuits with face shields suddenly in control room. Threaten with guns . . . say kill if I not obey.”

  ‘How get there?” Pete asked.

  “Not know . . . learn later. Make me get into suit . . . say get out . . . disconnect suit-communicator. I get out . . . watch ship go . . . They not know extra tools in suit pouch . . . repair receiver . . . ship communicator open on suit-band.

  “Hear strangers talk . . . They set Abendland controls . . . full acceleration into Belt . . . leave ship . . . wait for friends to pick up. We near 20-05 . . . they figure I candle there . . . think asteroid empty . . . I die soon no air. Plan guard find me too
late.” “What do?” demanded Peter, almost missing a cue. “They not know 20-05 like us ... Tom Honoye have copper mine there ... I look for Tom . . . luck good ... he there. Come back with him.”

  Abends account was interrupted by a voice calling Clay on the communicator. He got up and went over to the set, switching it to private communication. He listened a moment, then said, “Sure, come on over.” “That was Mr. Jeff Webster of Ama,” he announced. “He wants to see me.”

  Glen put down his viola. ‘I'll run along then,” he said. “Perhaps we can try again later in the week.” “Give us a ring any evening you’re free, Gideon,” Clay said. “I sure would like to play this some more.” “Thanks. They didn't exaggerate when they told me you know the music. Mind if I leave my instrument here?”

  “Perfectly all right; well take care of it.”

  Jeff Webster had the look of a visionary with a commanding appearance, but there were lines of strain about his face. He was large, but built so that his size might not stand out except when he was near another person, Peter had the feeling that Webster didn't know how to rest and had forgotten how to smile.

  He was astonished at the warmth of Webster’s handclasp and at the emotion in his voice. “Mr. Clay,” he said, "my associates were rude to you after what you did today. I ask your forgiveness. They were upset and forgot simple courtesy."

  My associates! Then Vincennes was part of Ama! Webster turned to Alan. “If I have read your partner right—and they say I'm a fair judge—he has not told you the full story of what he did for my niece.” So that was why Wendl and Vincennes were so shocked!

  “I didn’t know who she was, sir,” said Peter. “And I don’t think that made any difference.”

  “No,” the man said, “perhaps it wouldn’t, to you." His eyes grew harried. “It might to some. I am not universally liked, and not entirely without cause.”

  He sat down abruptly, and Peter felt an odd mixture of sympathy and suspicion. Webster turned to Clay and said quietly. “I also heard about your trouble with Vincennes and the Claims Office.” His eyes fell upon the viola that Abend had left behind. “May I play your instrument while we talk? It relaxes me as nothing else can.”