by Keith Laumer
“General Minerals, huh? They haven’t got a leg to stand on.”
“The last time I saw your claim, it was still lying in the pending file. Just a bundle of paper until it’s validated by the Consul. If Leatherwell contests it…well, his lawyers are on annual retainer. How long could you keep the suit going, Sam?”
Mancziewicz closed his helmet with a decisive snap, motioned to Retief to do the same. He opened the hatch, sat with the gun on Retief.
“Get out, paper-pusher.” His voice sounded thin in the headphones. “You’ll get lonesome, maybe, but your suit will keep you alive a few days. I’ll tip somebody off before you lose too much weight. I’m going back and see if I can’t stir up a little action at the Consulate.”
Retief climbed out, walked off fifty yards. He watched as the skiff kicked off in a quickly dispersed cloud of dust, dwindled rapidly away to a bright speck that was lost against the stars. Then he extracted the locator beacon from the pocket of his suit and thumbed the control.
Twenty minutes later, aboard Navy FP-VO-6, Retief pulled off his helmet. “Fast work, Henry. I’ve got a couple of calls to make. Put me through to your HQ, will you? I want a word with Commander Hayle.”
The young naval officer raised the HQ, handed the mike to Retief.
“Vice-Consul Retief here, Commander. I’d like you to intercept a skiff, bound from my present position toward Ceres. There’s a Mr. Mancziewicz aboard. He’s armed, but not dangerous. Collect him and see that he’s delivered to the Consulate at 0900 Greenwich tomorrow.
“Next item: The Consulate has impounded an ore-carrier, Gravel Gertie II. It’s in a parking orbit ten miles off Ceres. I want it taken in tow.” Retief gave detailed instruction. Then he asked for a connection through the Navy switchboard to the Consulate. Magnan’s voice answered.
“Retief speaking, Mr. Consul. I have some news that I think will interest you—”
“Where are you, Retief? What’s wrong with the screen? Have you served the injunction?”
“I’m aboard the Navy patrol vessel. I’ve been out looking over the situation, and I’ve made a surprising discovery. I don’t think we’re going to have any trouble with the Sam’s people; they’ve looked over the body—2645-P—and it seems General Minerals has slipped up. There appears to be a highly valuable deposit there.”
“Oh? What sort of deposit?”
“Mr. Mancziewicz mentioned collapsed crystal metal,” Retief said.
“Well, most interesting.” Magnan’s voice sounded thoughtful.
“Just thought you’d like to know. This should simplify the meeting in the morning.
“Yes,” Magnan said. “Yes, indeed. I think this makes everything very simple….”
* * * *
At 0845 Greenwich, Retief stepped into the outer office of the Consular suite.
“…fantastic configuration,” Leatherwell’s bass voice rumbled, “covering literally acres. My xenogeologists are somewhat confused by the formations. They had only a few hours to examine the site; but it’s clear from the extent of the surface indications that we have a very rich find here. Very rich indeed. Beside it, 95739-A dwindles into insignificance. Very fast thinking on your part, Mr. Consul, to bring the matter to my attention.”
“Not at all, Mr. Leatherwell. After all—”
“Our tentative theory is that the basic crystal fragment encountered the core material at some time, and gathered it in. Since we had been working on—that is, had landed to take samples on the other side of the body, this anomalous deposit escaped our attention completely.”
Retief stepped into the room.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Has Mr. Mancziewicz arrived?”
“Mr. Mancziewicz is under restraint by the Navy. I’ve had a call that he’d be escorted here.”
“Arrested, eh?” Leatherwell nodded. “I told you these people were an irresponsible group. In a way it seems a pity to waste a piece of property like 95739-A on them.”
“I understood General Minerals was claiming that rock,” Retief said, looking surprised.
Leatherwell and Magnan exchanged glances. “Ah, GM has decided to drop all claim to the body,” Leatherwell said. “As always, we wish to encourage enterprise on the part of the small operators. Let them keep the property. After all GM has other deposits well worth exploiting.” He smiled complacently.
“What about 2645-P? You’ve offered it to the Sam’s group.”
“That offer is naturally withdrawn!” Leatherwell snapped.
“I don’t see how you can withdraw the offer,” Retief said. “It’s been officially recorded. It’s a Bona Fide contract, binding on General Minerals, subject to—”
“Out of the goodness of our corporate heart,” Leatherwell roared, “we’ve offered to relinquish our legitimate, rightful claim to asteroid 2645-P. And you have the infernal gall to spout legal technicalities! I have half a mind to withdraw my offer to withdraw!”
“Actually,” Magnan put in, eyeing a corner of the room, “I’m not at all sure I could turn up the record of the offer of 2645-P. I noted it down on a bit of scratch paper—”
“That’s all right,” Retief said, “I had my pocket recorder going. I sealed the record and deposited it in the Consular archives.”
There was a clatter of feet outside. Miss Gumble appeared on the desk screen. “There are a number of persons here—” she began.
* * * *
The door banged open. Sam Mancziewicz stepped into the room, a sailor tugging at each arm. He shook them loose, stared around the room. His eyes lighted on Retief. “How did you get here…?”
“Look here, Monkeywits or whatever your name is,” Leatherwell began, popping out of his chair.
Mancziewicz whirled, seized the stout executive by the shirt front and lifted him onto his tiptoes. “You double-barrelled copper-bottomed oak-lined son-of-a—”
“Don’t spoil him, Sam,” Retief said casually. “He’s here to sign off all rights—if any—to 95739-A. It’s all yours—if you want it.”
Sam glared into Leatherwell’s eyes. “That right?” he grated. Leatherwell bobbed his head, his chins compressed into bulging folds.
“However,” Retief went on, “I wasn’t at all sure you’d still be agreeable, since he’s made your company a binding offer of 2645-P in return for clear title to 95739-A.”
Mancziewicz looked across at Retief with narrowed eyes. He released Leatherwell, who slumped into his chair. Magnan darted around his desk to minister to the magnate. Behind them, Retief closed one eye in a broad wink at Mancziewicz.
“…still, if Mr. Leatherwell will agree, in addition to guaranteeing your title to 95739-A, to purchase your output at four credits a ton, FOB his collection station—”
Mancziewicz looked at Leatherwell. Leatherwell hesitated, then nodded. “Agreed,” he croaked.
“…and to open his commissary and postal facilities to all prospectors operating in the belt….”
Leatherwell swallowed, eyes bulging, glanced at Mancziewicz’s face. He nodded. “Agreed.”
“…then I think I’d sign an agreement releasing him from his offer.”
Mancziewicz looked at Magnan.
“You’re the Terrestrial Consul-General,” he said. “Is that the straight goods?”
Magnan nodded. “If Mr. Leatherwell agrees—”
“He’s already agreed,” Retief said. “My pocket recorder, you know.”
“Put it in writing,” Mancziewicz said.
Magnan called in Miss Gumble. The others waited silently while Magnan dictated. He signed the paper with a flourish, passed it across to Mancziewicz. He read it, re-read it, then picked up the pen and signed. Magnan impressed the Consular seal on the paper.
“Now the grant,” Retief said. Magnan signed the claim, added a seal. Mancziewicz tucked the papers away in an inner pocket. He rose.
“Well, gents, I guess maybe I had you figured wrong,” he said. He looked at Retief. “Uh…got time for a drink?”
“I shouldn’t drink during office hours,” Retief said. He rose. “So I’ll take the rest of the day off.”
* * * *
“I don’t get it,” Sam said signalling for refills. “What was the routine with the injunction—and impounding Gertie? You could have got hurt.”
“I don’t think so,” Retief said. “If you’d meant business with that Browning, you’d have flipped the safety off. As for the injunction—orders are orders.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Sam said. “That gold deposit. It was a plant, too, wasn’t it?”
“I’m just a bureaucrat, Sam. What would I know about gold?”
“A double-salting job,” Sam said. “I was supposed to spot the phoney hardware—and then fall for the gold plant. When Leatherwell put his proposition to me, I’d grab it. The gold was worth plenty, I’d figure, and I couldn’t afford a legal tangle with General Minerals. The lousy skunk! And you must have spotted it and put it up to him.”
The bar-tender leaned across to Retief. “Wanted on the phone.”
In the booth, Magnan’s agitated face stared a Retief.
“Retief, Mr. Leatherwell’s in a towering rage! The deposit on 2645-P; it was merely a surface film, barely a few inches thick! The entire deposit wouldn’t fill an ore-boat.” A horrified expression dawned on Magnan’s face. “Retief,” he gasped, “what did you do with the impounded ore-carrier?”
“Well, let me see,” Retief said. “According to the Space Navigation Code, a body in orbit within twenty miles of any inhabited airless body constitutes a navigational hazard. Accordingly, I had it towed away.”
“And the cargo?”
“Well, accelerating all that mass was an expensive business, so to save the taxpayer’s credits, I had it dumped.”
“Where?” Magnan croaked.
“On some unimportant asteroid—as specified by Regulations.” He smiled blandly at Magnan. Magnan looked back numbly.
“But you said—”
“All I said was that there was what looked like a valuable deposit on 2645-P. It turned out to be a bogus gold mine that somebody had rigged up in a hurry. Curious, eh?”
“But you told me—”
“And you told Mr. Leatherwell. Indiscreet of you, Mr. Consul. That was a privileged communication; classified information, official use only.”
“You led me to believe there was collapsed crystal!”
“I said Sam had mentioned it. He told me his asteroid was made of the stuff.”
Magnan swallowed hard, twice. “By the way,” he said dully. “You were right about the check. Half an hour ago Mr. Leatherwell tried to stop payment. He was too late.”
“All in all, it’s been a big day for Leatherwell,” Retief said. “Anything else?”
“I hope not,” Magnan said. “I sincerely hope not.” He leaned close to the screen. “You’ll consider the entire affair as…confidential? There’s no point in unduly complicating relationships.”
“Have no fear, Mr. Consul,” Retief said cheerfully. “You won’t find me identifying with anything as specific as triple-salting an asteroid.”
Back at the table, Sam called for another bottle of rock juice.
“That Drift’s a pretty good game,” Retief said. “But let me show you one I learned out on Yill….”
[Transcriber’s Note: No Section II heading in original text.]
MIGHTIEST QORN
Originally published in Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963.
I
Ambassador Nitworth glowered across his mirror-polished, nine-foot platinum desk at his assembled staff.
“Gentlemen, are any of you familiar with a race known as the Qornt?”
There was a moment of profound silence. Nitworth leaned forward, looking solemn.
“They were a warlike race known in this sector back in Concordiat times, perhaps two hundred years ago. They vanished as suddenly as they had appeared. There was no record of where they went.” He paused for effect.
“They have now reappeared—occupying the inner planet of this system!”
“But, sir,” Second Secretary Magnan offered. “That’s uninhabited Terrestrial territory….”
“Indeed, Mr. Magnan?” Nitworth smiled icily. “It appears the Qornt do not share that opinion.” He plucked a heavy parchment from a folder before him, harrumphed and read aloud:
His Supreme Excellency The Qorn, Regent of Qornt, Over-Lord of the Galactic Destiny, Greets the Terrestrials and, with reference to the presence in mandated territory of Terrestrial squatters, has the honor to advise that he will require the use of his outer world on the thirtieth day. Then will the Qornt come with steel and fire. Receive, Terrestrials, renewed assurances of my awareness of your existence, and let Those who dare gird for the contest.
“Frankly, I wouldn’t call it conciliatory,” Magnan said.
Nitworth tapped the paper with a finger.
“We have been served, gentlemen, with nothing less than an Ultimatum!”
“Well, we’ll soon straighten these fellows out—” the Military Attache began.
“There happens to be more to this piece of truculence than appears on the surface,” the Ambassador cut in. He paused, waiting for interested frowns to settle into place.
“Note, gentlemen, that these invaders have appeared on terrestrial controlled soil—and without so much as a flicker from the instruments of the Navigational Monitor Service!”
The Military Attache blinked. “That’s absurd,” he said flatly. Nitworth slapped the table.
“We’re up against something new, gentlemen! I’ve considered every hypothesis from cloaks of invisibility to time travel! The fact is—the Qornt fleets are indetectible!”
* * * *
The Military Attache pulled at his lower lip. “In that case, we can’t try conclusions with these fellows until we have an indetectible drive of our own. I recommend a crash project. In the meantime—”
“I’ll have my boys start in to crack this thing,” the Chief of the Confidential Terrestrial Source Section spoke up. “I’ll fit out a couple of volunteers with plastic beaks—”
“No cloak and dagger work, gentlemen! Long range policy will be worked out by Deep-Think teams back at the Department. Our role will be a holding action. Now I want suggestions for a comprehensive, well rounded and decisive course for meeting this threat. Any recommendation?”
The Political Officer placed his fingertips together. “What about a stiff Note demanding an extra week’s time?”
“No! No begging,” the Economic Officer objected. “I’d say a calm, dignified, aggressive withdrawal—as soon as possible.”
“We don’t want to give them the idea we spook easily,” the Military Attache said. “Let’s delay the withdrawal—say, until tomorrow.”
“Early tomorrow,” Magnan said. “Or maybe later today.”
“Well, I see you’re of a mind with me,” Nitworth nodded. “Our plan of action is clear, but it remains to be implemented. We have a population of over fifteen million individuals to relocate.” He eyed the Political Officer. “I want five proposals for resettlement on my desk by oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow.” Nitworth rapped out instructions. Harried-looking staff members arose and hurried from the room. Magnan eased toward the door.
“Where are you going, Magnan?” Nitworth snapped.
“Since you’re so busy, I thought I’d just slip back down to Com Inq. It was a most interesting orientation lecture, Mr. Ambassador. Be sure to let us know how it works out.”
“Kindly return to your chair,” Nitworth said coldly. “A number of chores remain to be assigned. I think you, Magnan, need a little field experience. I want you to get over to Roolit I and take a look at these Qornt personally.”
Magnan’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly.
“Not afraid of a few Qornt, are you, Magnan?”
“Afraid? Good lord, no, ha ha. It’s just that I’m afraid I may lose my head and do something rash if I g
o.”
“Nonsense! A diplomat is immune to heroic impulses. Take Retief along. No dawdling, now! I want you on the way in two hours. Notify the transport pool at once. Now get going!”
Magnan nodded unhappily and went into the hall.
“Oh, Retief,” Nitworth said. Retief turned.
“Try to restrain Mr. Magnan from any impulsive moves—in any direction.”
* * * *
II
Retief and Magnan topped a ridge and looked down across a slope of towering tree-shrubs and glossy violet-stemmed palms set among flamboyant blossoms of yellow and red, reaching down to a strip of white beach with the blue sea beyond.
“A delightful vista,” Magnan said, mopping at his face. “A pity we couldn’t locate the Qornt. We’ll go back now and report—”
“I’m pretty sure the settlement is off to the right,” Retief said. “Why don’t you head back for the boat, while I ease over and see what I can observe.”
“Retief, we’re engaged in a serious mission. This is not a time to think of sightseeing.”
“I’d like to take a good look at what we’re giving away.”
“See here, Retief! One might almost receive the impression that you’re questioning Corps policy!”
“One might, at that. The Qornt have made their play, but I think it might be valuable to take a look at their cards before we fold. If I’m not back at the boat in an hour, lift without me.”
“You expect me to make my way back alone?”
“It’s directly down-slope—” Retief broke off, listening. Magnan clutched at his arm.
There was a sound of crackling foliage. Twenty feet ahead, a leafy branch swung aside. An eight-foot biped stepped into view, long, thin, green-clad legs with back-bending knees moving in quick, bird-like steps. A pair of immense black-lensed goggles covered staring eyes set among bushy green hair above a great bone-white beak. The crest bobbed as the creature cocked its head, listening.
Magnan gulped audibly. The Qornt froze, head tilted, beak aimed directly at the spot where the Terrestrials stood in the deep shade of a giant trunk.
“I’ll go for help,” Magnan squeaked. He whirled and took three leaps into the brush.
A second great green-clad figure rose up to block his way. He spun, darted to the left. The first Qornt pounced, grappled Magnan to its narrow chest. Magnan yelled, threshing and kicking, broke free, turned—and collided with the eight-foot alien, coming in fast from the right. All three went down in a tangle of limbs.