The Potter of Firsk and Other Stories Page 35

  The radar alarm sounded eighty thousand miles out from the moon. The pilot threw down the switch. A harsh voice said, “You are approaching my property.”

  Bray pulled himself to the speaker. “I’m going out to my own property, the Niobe claim in Aristillus Crater. If you interfere with me, I’ll call the Space Patrol.”

  The voice made no answer; Bray visualized the frantic search through block maps and title deeds. Ten minutes passed.

  A new voice said, “Aboard approaching boat: who is claimant to the Niobe claim?”

  “Me. Thornton Bray.”

  “Oh. Bray,” said the voice in a different tone. “This is Spargill. Why didn’t you say who you were? Drop on down to home camp.”

  “Where are you?” inquired Bray cautiously.

  “We’re in Hesiodus, at the south point of Mare Nubium—beside Pitatus. The old Goldenrod workings.”

  The camp in Hesiodus Crater occupied a typical old mining compound: a big dome of plastic anchored into the rock by a web of cables which also served to contain the air-pressure from within. The pilot landed the boat and Bray, already clad in a space-suit, jumped out to the surface.

  Three men approached; under the dome of the first Bray recognized the face of Dover Spargill.

  Dover waved. “How are you, Bray? Nice of you to drop out…What’s all this about the Niobe claim?”

  Bray explained. “And since the land was ownerless, I decided I had better snap it up.”

  As he spoke he examined his surroundings. The lunar sky, which he remembered as black, was a deep hyacinth blue. “Looks like all the talk of a moon atmosphere is true.”

  Dover nodded. “Oh yes…Come along over to the dome.” He led Bray across a flat of crushed pumice. A mile behind rose the walls of the crater, tall irregular spires. At the base of the walls Bray discerned a row of black cubes.

  “What’s the pressure here now, Spargill?”

  “Got her up to seven pounds.”

  “Barometric? That is to say, against a mercury column?”

  “Oh my no. A misleading statement. Seven pounds against a spring scale.”

  Bray snorted delicately. “Tremendous waste of money, Spargill.”

  “Do you really think so? I’m sorry to hear you say that; I rather hoped something useful might eventuate…Look there.” He pointed against the wall of the dome. “Geraniums. Growing outside on the moon. Never thought you’d see a sight like that in the old days, did you, Bray?”

  “Mmmph. What good are geraniums? Monumental waste. As fast as you make atmosphere it’ll dissipate into space. Not enough gravity here.”

  Dover closed the outer hatch on Bray and himself. They removed their suits, and Dover conducted Bray to the main lounge, where a dozen men and women sat reading, talking, playing cards, drinking beer.

  “You’ve got quite a colony here,” said Bray in a mystified voice. “Do they work for nothing?”

  Dover laughed shortly. “Of course not…This is only a small part of our operation. We’ve got units going at almost all the old mines…Have some coffee?”

  Bray declined brusquely. “Exactly what are your plans, if I may ask?”

  Dover leaned back in the chair. “It’s a long story, Bray. First, I hope you’ll let bygones be bygones. I suppose I fleeced you pretty thoroughly when I took Lunar Co-op away from you, eh?”

  Bray said in a strangled voice, “You fleeced me?…Well, let it ride. I want to hear about this—” he jerked a thumb toward the sky “—this mad stunt of yours.”

  Dover said soothingly, “It’s probably not so impractical as you think. Consider the future, Bray. Do you see what I see?

  “Forests, meadows, grass-lands. Moon, the green planet! Trees five hundred feet tall! We’re filling craters with water right now. Moon, the world of a million lakes! In five more years we’ll have thirteen pounds pressure, and we’ll be living out-of-doors.”

  “Waste, waste, waste,” intoned Bray. “You’ll never get a stable atmosphere.”

  Dover scratched his head. “Well, of course I may be mistaken—”

  “Sure you are,” said Bray bluffly. “I hate to see you making a fool of yourself, Dover. For old time’s sake, I’m willing to—”

  “My theory,” explained Dover, “was that the composition of the atmosphere determined how fast it dissipated. Naturally we expect to make adjustments for a long time to come.”

  “Well, of course—”

  “But actually, we’re building a special kind of atmosphere, rather different from Earth’s.”

  Bray’s nostrils flared in interest. “How so?”

  “Well, in the first place, xenon replaces nitrogen. Specific gravity of 4.5, as against 1 for nitrogen. Then we’re using the heaviest possible isotopes for oxygen, carbon and nitrogen, and deuterium rather than hydrogen for our water. It all works out to a pretty dense atmosphere—physiologically identical to Earth air, but about three and a half times as dense. So our vapor loss into space will be minimized to almost nothing.”

  Bray cracked his knuckles. Something must be wrong. Dover was saying, “We could easily make the atmosphere even denser, if we so desired—by substituting radon for the xenon.”

  “Radon! My God—you’d fry!”

  Dover smilingly shook his head. “Radon has many isotopes, not all significantly radioactive. On Earth we’re familiar only with the breakdown product of radium, thorium, actinium. But radon’s disadvantage is that it’s too heavy. A gust of wind would bowl a man off his feet, like hitting him with a sack of sawdust.”

  “Hm…Interesting,” remarked Bray absently. Some means must be found to repair what he now recognized as an error in judgment: allowing Dover to become sole owner of the moon. Not quite sole owner; Bray, as a lunar property holder, was entitled to a certain advisory status. Reason, sweet reason, was the phrase.

  He explored the ground cautiously. “What do you propose to do with all this property?” He winked slyly. “Sell it at a fancy figure?”

  Dover made a deprecatory motion. “I suppose that an unprincipled man, by subdividing and selling, could easily become a multi-billionaire…Did you say something?”

  “No,” said Bray, swallowing hard. “I just coughed.”

  “But I have a different end in view. I want to see the moon become a garden suburb of Earth—a park, a residential area. Certainly I want no housing projects on the moon, no tourist hotels…”

  “Naturally you’re using Applied Research transmuters?”

  “Of course. Are there any other kind?”

  “No, not that I know of.”

  “These are special mammoth units built specially for this project. We’ve got two thousand in operation already. We push them under a mountain, bulldoze rock into the hoppers. Every week two more units go into operation; there’s a tremendous amount of material to transmute, and we’re on a fifteen-year schedule. That means that we’ve got to average three billion tons a day, for atmosphere alone; so far, we’re up to the mark.”

  Bray grimaced, clenched his fist. Observing Dover’s questioning look, he blurted, “Sam Abbott at Applied Research is a damn liar. Said he never sold you any transmuters.”

  “But that’s correct, we’re using them free, on a loan basis.”

  “Free!”

  Dover turned out his hands in a gesture of frankness. “That’s the only way I could undertake the project. Buying out Lunar Co-op took almost everything I had. But my father originally endowed the Foundation, and there was a certain sense of obligation. In a way, we’re partners in the deal.” He nodded toward the other occupants of the lounge. “All Foundation staff. They’re sinking the profits from producing the transmuters into the scheme; of course they’ll get it all back ten-fold.”

  “But you still retain control?”

  “All except the Niobe claim.” Dover laughed jovially. “You slipped one over on me there. I thought that I was sole owner, and now I fear that…Well, no matter.”

  Bray cleared his throat.
“As you say, we’re the sole owners, you and I. I imagine we should form some kind of supervisory board to protect our interests so to speak.”

  Dover seemed surprised. “Do you think that such a formality is necessary? After all the Niobe claim—”

  Bray said portentously, “I’m afraid I’ll have to insist.”

  Dover frowned. “I don’t think the claim will impose as much of a burden on your time as you fear.”

  Bray raised his eyebrows. “How so?”

  “Well—” Dover hesitated “—you haven’t visited your holdings yet?”

  “No. All I know that it’s a ten-mile-square block in the floor of Aristillus.”

  Dover got up. “Perhaps we had better fly up and take a look at it.”

  In a small stub-winged air-craft they rose up out of Hesiodus, flew north along the shore of Mare Nubium.

  “All good basalt,” said Dover. “A few years of weathering should produce a magnificent red soil. We’re experimenting with bacteria to hasten the process.”

  Sinus Medii passed below, and the eastern littoral of Mare Vaporum. Ahead loomed the great crags of the Apennines, a little to the left was the great crater Eratosthenes.

  Bray craned his neck. “Surely that’s not water?”

  “Oh yes,” smiled Dover. “Lake Eratosthenes. We’re using Eratosthenes and one other for primary evaporation points. Water will come rather slower than the air; the moon will be a dry world for quite some time yet.”

  Bray said bluffly, “I believe I’ll put up a big resort hotel on my property—amusement park, big casino, dog-racing.” He nudged Dover waggishly. “Thank God, there’s no blue laws out here, eh Dover?”

  Dover said stiffly, “We hope to govern ourselves, with the aid of our native good taste.”

  “Well,” said Bray, “if I had a bit more land, I wouldn’t be forced to make do on so little. Personally I don’t like the idea, but what’ll you have? There’s just the Niobe claim, and no more. I hope it doesn’t turn out an eyesore…Perhaps if you’d make me a good deal for old time’s sake, let me buy back a chunk of Lunar Cooperative for, say—”

  Dover shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

  Bray snapped shut his jaw. “Then I’ll have to do the best I can at Aristillus. A sky-scraper, maybe. We’ll make it the hot-spot of the moon. Sort of a Latin Quarter, a Barbary Coast.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  The Apennines stabbed up at them from below. “Beautiful mountain scenery,” said Dover. “Remarkable. Wait twenty or thirty years, and you’ll really see something. That’s Palus Putredinus below, and ahead, those three craters—”

  “Archimedes, Autolycus and Aristillus,” said Bray. “Aristillus—future hot-spot of the moon.”

  “Lake Aristillus,” said Dover absently.

  Bray froze in his seat. The gleam of water was unmistakable.

  “A beautiful crater,” said Dover. “And it makes a beautiful lake, ten thousand feet deep, I believe.”

  The airplane circled over the placid blue surface. A small island protruded from the center.

  Bray found his voice. “Do you mean to say,” he demanded, “that you’ve submerged my property under ten thousand feet of water?”

  Dover nodded. “See there…” He pointed to a cascade of water tumbling down the eastern wall. “Back along that rill sixty units are turning out water and xenon. I’ll name the river after you, if you’d like. Bray River…From your point of view, rather a sad coincidence that we decided on Eratosthenes and Aristillus for our first lakes. I didn’t have the heart to break the news to you back at the camp.”

  Bray roared, “This is insufferable! You’ve flooded my property, you’ve—”

  Dover said in a conciliatory voice, “Naturally we had no idea that the property was not ours; if I had known that you wanted to build a ‘hot-spot’—as you call it—I’d never have planned the lake.”

  “I’ll sue, I’ll collect damages!”

  “Damages?” asked Dover in a pained voice. “Why surely—”

  Bray rolled his eyes in fury. “I can prove that the property was worth millions, that—”

  “Er—how long ago did you come into possession of the Niobe claim?”

  Bray subsided suddenly. “Well, as a matter of fact—It makes no difference! You’re guilty of—”

  “Surely it’s obvious, Mr. Bray, that you filed claim on property already under water.” Dover scratched his head. “I suppose the claim is legal enough. Can’t see what you’ll do with your property, Mr. Bray. You might try stocking it with trout…”

  Sabotage on Sulfur Planet

  I

  Noland Bannister, superintendent of Star Control Field Office #12, was known at the space-port and along Folger Avenue as a hell-roarer—a loud-voiced man of vigorous action. He made no secret of his dislike for administrative detail and attacked paper work with a grumbling rancor. Negligence in his staff he dealt with rudely. Mistakes of a more serious nature left him grim and white with rage.

  It was Robert Smith’s misfortune to commit the most striking blunder of Bannister’s long and varied experience.

  As usual, at four o’clock Friday afternoon Bannister sat in his office reviewing the week’s work: ships cleared for passage, ships inspected and cleared for discharge of cargo, contraband seizures, crews screened for hijackers and known performers. Last he inspected a précis from the logs of ships which had surfaced during the week; skimming for information of possible economic or scientific value.

  Near the end of the précis he found an informal note.

  Re SpS Messeraria. Supercargo very drunk when ship’s log was taken. Followed me back to the office rambling about planet inhabited by intelligent life-forms (obvious fabrication). Tossed him out of office on ear. Smith.

  Bannister blinked in amazement, stiffened in his chair. He switched the film back to the Messeraria’s log, examined it with flinty attention. It appeared ordinary enough, although Captain Plum’s reputation offered no surety against falsification. He checked the ship’s roster against a master index.

  Jack Fetch, mate. One-time member of the Violet Ray Association. Never convicted.

  Abe McPhee, chief steward. Moral deviant, refused de-aberration.

  Owen Phelps, quartermaster. Expert gambler and game-rigger.

  Don Lowell, supercargo. Known embezzler; a brother refused to prosecute.

  “Mmmph,” said Bannister to himself. “Nice bunch.” He continued. First and second engineers, wiper, mess boy. Pasts stained to a greater or lesser degree.

  Bannister re-read Smith’s breezy message. Anger rose in his throat like the aftertaste of cheap whisky. Suppose Supercargo Don Lowell had been drunkenly babbling the truth? He punched a button on his desk.

  “Yes, Mr. Bannister?”

  “Who the devil is Smith? There’s a report here—just a few casual lines—signed ‘Smith’. Who the devil’s Smith?”

  “That’ll be Robert Smith. A front-office man we hired last week.”

  Bannister said in a metallic voice, “I want to see him.”

  There was a wait of five minutes, while Bannister drummed his fingers on the desk. Then the door slid back a few inches, remained in this position, revealing a hand on the latch, while the owner exchanged a bit of final banter with Bannister’s secretary.

  Bannister barked, “Come in, come in!” He glared at the young man, still grinning, who swung the door open.

  “Smith?” Bannister spoke with steely gentleness.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can you guess why I want to see you?”

  Smith raised his eyebrows. “Not unless it’s about the suggestion I made the other day to the office manager.”

  “A suggestion? Well, well,” said Bannister, catlike. “How long have you been with us now?”

  “About a week. I’m not complaining—don’t get me wrong. I just think the work I’m doing could be handled more efficiently by machine.”

  “What a
re your duties, Smith?”

  “Well, I’ve been collating reports, reviewing similar information in Central Intelligence Bank, and appending or amending. If we had a scanner machine to grade and append the material automatically, I’d be free to tackle more important duties.”

  Bannister inspected Smith under lowered eyebrows. “Interesting. What do you imagine to be the price of the machine you visualize, Smith?”

  Smith frowned. “I’m really not sure. That’s out of my line. Twenty or thirty thousand, I suppose.”

  “Who would service the machine, who would code the material?”

  Smith smiled at the question. “A cyberneticist, naturally.”

  Bannister looked toward the ceiling. “And what, I wonder, is the salary such a technical expert commands?”

  Smith likewise raised his eyes in calculation. “Perhaps five or six hundred. Seven hundred possibly for a good man. You’d want the best.”

  “And how much are we paying you for performing identical work?”

  “Well—three hundred.”

  “Are there any conclusions to be drawn?”

  Robert Smith said candidly, “It must be that I’m worth seven hundred dollars a month to the bureau.”

  Bannister cleared his throat, but managed to continue in the same gentle voice. “May I direct your attention to the matter on the screen?”

  “Oh, certainly.” Smith swung his gaze to the three lines of neat typescript. He nodded. “I remember the man very well. In terrible shape, dead drunk. Vicious stuff, alcohol.” And he confided, “I myself don’t drink; it rots the brain.”

  Bannister was fond of whisky and beer. Once more he cleared his throat. “What exactly did this man say to you?”

  Smith settled himself into Bannister’s most comfortable chair, stretched out his legs. “He was clearly subject to delusions and also victim of a well-established persecution complex. Assured me the captain and mate of his ship were intent on his death.”

  “Did he mention why he was in danger?”

  Smith laughed easily. “Typical paranoia. A man in bad shape. He claimed that the Messeraria had landed on an unknown planet and discovered an intelligent race of beings. He made a full account in his diary—so he insisted—but the captain tore it up and obliterated passages in the ship’s log.”