by Mike Jurist
"Satisfied now?" demanded Ball. The sight of that precious vein which was rightfully his by prior discovery embittered him all over again. Someday he'd get those birds!
"Looks all right. We're landing, though."
"Why?"
"To reset your monuments. Filing's no good without them, you know."
Let him have his fun, thought Ball sourly. Nuisance value, my eye! That skunk, Foote, won't pay him a nickel.
The ceremony didn't take long. Four metal stakes were driven deep into the stone, exactly in the niches where Ball's old ones had been ripped out. Then a photoengraving of claim to title was etched deep within the area bounded by the stakes. Meanwhile, Jem gleefully broke off the evidences left by the highjackers.
"Now," said Kerry, "we'll sign the documents. Here's a waiver of salvage, properly prepared, wherein I agree to tow you into port and to accept in full payment thereof your assignment of rights in this asteroid. Please sign here."
For a moment the captain hesitated. This Kerry Dale was a pretty slick fellow. Did he have something up his sleeve? Hell, how could he? Sometimes the smartest fellows overreached themselves. With a little smile he signed.
Carefully Kerry folded the assignment, placed it in his pocket. The captain buttoned up his agreement with a sigh of satisfaction. "Let's get going," he said.
"Right. We start at once, Captain Ball. If you'll get back into the Flying Meteor—"
CHAPTER 7
ON THE Flash, Jem said anxiously: "I didn't want to say nothing, Kerry; but it 'pears to me you done yourself out of some healthy money."
Kerry grinned. "So does Ball. Well, we'll see. Meantime, tell the engineer to pull away." He thrust a paper into Jem's hand. "I've plotted our course. Give these figures to him."
Jem stared at them. He knew something about the elements of space navigation. His face showed stupefaction. "This here ain't right—" he exclaimed.
Kerry cut him short. "I'm the navigation officer on board, not you. Please follow orders." Then, with a smile, lie patted Jem on the back. "Don't worry. I know what I'm doing."
Still bewildered, Jem went obediently below.
The lifting rockets spurted. The Flash, hitched firmly to the larger Flying Meteor, groaned in every strut. The tiny asteroid fell away. They swung a wide arc in space and moved steadily off. The asteroid dropped out of sight.
Kerry settled himself comfortably to await the expected explosion.
It was not long in coming!
About an hour later the visiscreen buzzed sharply. Kerry grinned. That would be Captain Ball. He had given him a single battery for his emergency rig; enough to establish communication between the two ships; but not nearly enough to raise anything outside of a few-thousand-miles range.
He opened the screen.
The captain's apoplectic countenance appeared. "Hey, Dale," he shouted, "where the hell are you going?"
"To port, of course. Where else?"
"You're either crazy, or no navigator. I've been watching the way we're heading this last hour. You'll never get to Planets on this course in a million years."
"Who said anything about Planets?"
Ball choked. "Well, I'll be— And where the hell are you going?"
"To Ganymede City, Ganymede, Sector of Jupiter. What's wrong with that?"
The captain's face was purple and green. He shook his fist. "What's wrong with that? Nothing, except that I want to go to Planets. If you don't turn at once—"
"What will happen?" Kerry asked softly.
"I'll have the law on you! Simeon Kenton will have the law on you! We'll break you so hard you'll never be able to pick up the pieces. We'll sue you for damages on the contract."
Kerry composed himself into a more comfortable position. "You mean that waiver of salvage I just signed?"
"I mean nothing, else. You agreed to tow me to Planets."
"Look at it. If you'll find Planets mentioned once in there, I'll not only turn around but pay you salvage."
"Huh? Well . . . uh . . . maybe it isn't mentioned. That doesn't mean a thing. Any fool would know that's the port. That's where I came from; that's where you came from."
"I agreed to take you to port; and I'm taking you. Maybe you've forgotten, or maybe you never knew, but the Interplanetary Commission defined the word 'port' only about two years ago. 'Port,' it said, 'in a contract of salvage, is to be construed as the nearest port of call to the place where the tow was commenced; it being understood, however, that the said point of entry is properly equipped with repair facilities sufficient to put the disabled tow into space worthy condition again. Surely, my dear captain, you don't deny that Ganymede City has proper repair docks? And certainly, if you'd look at your charts, you'd notice that we're a good fifty million miles closer to Ganymede City than to Planets."
Kerry put on a reproachful air. "Why, if I took you anywhere else I'd be guilty of a serious breach of contract; and Mr. Kenton would be perfectly within his rights in suing me."
"Damn your decisions and legal twisting’s!" roared Ball. "It was understood we were to go to Planets. Who the hell wants to go to Ganymede?"
"I do. I have business there. As for your understanding, I'm sorry you misunderstood. Naturally, if you were so keen on Planets you should have inserted it in the agreement."
Ball shook his fist again. "I'm coming on board to—"
"Not on my ship," Kerry answered cheerfully. "My space lock's jammed. I'm afraid I won't be able to fix it until we get to Ganymede. See you there."
He reached over and blanked the screen on the torrent of language that the harassed captain was letting loose.
Within a week they were on Ganymede, port of entry for the Jovian System, and capital of the Sector. Ganymede City was a frontier town, rough and sprawling and alive with adventurers come to seek their fortunes on the outskirts of civilization.
But Kerry wasted no time on its sordid delights. He went to the proper officials to transact the business he had in mind, and blasted off for Planets as soon as it was completed and his supplies were replenished.
Captain Ball, irascible, vowing vengeance, took off a day after him. The first thing he had done, after being released from tow in the city's dry-dock, was to give orders to buy fuel for his tanks and to repair his radio. His next was to hasten to the police authorities to swear out a warrant against Kerry for breach of contract, kidnaping, forcible detainer and whatever else he could think of.
The police sent for Kerry. He came smilingly and stated his case. He exhibited his waiver; reached back of the official to take down a volume of the Interplanetary Commission's decisions, turned unerringly to the proper page and showed the text to him. The official read, looked impressed, and forthwith dismissed the case.
Ball stalked out, breathing vengeance. He hurried to the office of the Intersystem Communications System and sent off a long, blistering spacegram to Simeon Kenton, Megalon, Earth. He didn't know Simeon was on Planets. Then he rushed back to the dry-dock and lashed the repair men to a more furious gait.
Out in space, Jem said: "Whew! I never saw Captain Ball so mad before. He'll rip the insides of his ship getting to Planets ahead of us."
"Let him." Kerry was quite placid. "I'm in no hurry."
Jem shook his head. He was in over his depth. There would be plenty of grief waiting for them on Ceres. Ball was hopping mad; Kenton would be hopping mad; and what Kerry had got out of it, he couldn't for the life of him see.
Planets rocked with excitement. There hadn't been so much excitement in that usually turbulent town since a section of the roofed enclosure had broken half a century before and exposed the population to the vacuum of space.
First a rakish craft had come into port, bearing all the marks of a long, fast journey. Tough-looking eggs had disembarked and hurried straight to the Claims Office. Filings were supposed to be confidential; but a clerk told a friend, who in turn told another, and in six hours the whole town buzzed with the discovery of a wandering asteroid wor
th a couple of dozen millions.
Twelve hours later there was more news. Jericho Foote had filed an assignment of the claim to himself; and the strangers had blasted off hurriedly without bothering to attend to the necessary formalities attending ship departures. The same clerk started this bit of information rolling also.
Jericho Foote met reporters with a modest air. Yes, he had purchased the rights to an asteroid. Well, of course, there was supposed to be thermatite on it. How much? Maybe a couple of millions; it was hard to say. Did he know the strangers who had discovered it? No; never saw them before. But they had come to him with papers authenticating their find, and some samples. The assay showed 97.24 percent purity. They needed money in a hurry, and they offered the asteroid for sale. Why hadn't they gone to Simeon Kenton as well? A twisted smirk gloated on Foote's face. He didn't know; maybe it was because his reputation was better.
The reporters took this down and whistled under their breaths. When Old Fireball heard of this, there would be fireworks. Would Mr. Foote care to tell for publication what he had paid? Why, of course, boys. He showed them a canceled check, made payable to bearer. The check was for one hundred thousand dollars. He didn't tell them, naturally, that this was the price for highjacking Captain Ball.
When the news hit old Simeon, he was stunned. So stunned that for an unprecedented five minutes he lost all flow of language. Sally couldn't understand his reaction. He hadn't told her about the Flying Meteor's secret mission; nor that part of his reasons for coming to Planets had been to be on the spot for first news of the venture. She herself bad wandered around the roaring town, feeling curiously empty and unsatisfied. Several weeks had passed and there had been no report from the salvage ship, Flash, nor from its owner-captain. Why she was staying on she didn't know. Yet every time she determined to take ship back to Earth her will gave way and she weakly remained.
"Why, what's the matter, dad?" she exclaimed anxiously. She was alarmed over her father's sudden choked, empurpled silence. "Just because that man, Foote, hints his reputation is better than yours is no reason for you to risk apoplexy. Everyone knows—"
Simeon found part of his voice. "It isn't that, Sally," he said hoarsely. "It's about Ball and the Flying Meteor."
"What about them?"
He told her then; of the dying prospector and his half-delirious story, of the secret expedition of the Flying Meteor. "That there asteroid to which that swamp snake, Foote, got an assignment is the very same one that Ball went after. And Ball should 've been back by now. There's funny work afoot, and I mean Foote."
How funny the work was, showed up three days later in the form of a long spacegram from Ball on Ganymede City, relayed from Earth. There were two portions to the spacegram, and both of them unsealed all of the explosive possibilities that dwelt under Simeon's mild-seeming exterior.
Even Sally had never heard him go on like this. For a solid half-hour he coruscated and sizzled. His epithets were triumphs of twisted word compounding’s. For five minutes he'd devote himself to the slimy, subterranean, hell-spawned Foote. Then, for five minutes more he'd devote himself with equal expertness to a certain ding-dinged, balloon-headed, smart-alecky young feller by the name of Kerry Dale. Then he'd return to his characterizations of Foote.
Sally knew her father; knew it was no use to try and stop him when he was in this vein. Instead, she read the code spacegram that had touched him off. It spoke for itself. Hot fury assailed her at the first part; puzzlement at the second. It wasn't like Kerry. From what she had seen of the young man he didn't do things out of sheer nastiness. Always he had gained by his tricks. His was a hard, realistic code of ethics; but so was her father's. They each recognized in the other an antagonist worthy of his steel; and secretly, she had no doubt, they admired and respected each other.
But this stunt of hauling the Flying Meteor to Ganymede instead of to Planets and thereby ruining whatever slim chance there might have been of bringing the highjackers to justice didn't make sense. Neither did his waiver of the substantial salvage fees to take up an assignment of a claim that he surely must have known wasn't worth a cent.
Old Simeon finished with a resounding burst of oratory that started curls of smoke in the cushioned sofa. He picked up his walking stick—a flexible, ornamented piece of duraluminum shouted to his daughter: "Send a spacegram to Roger Horn to come here right away. Tell him to charter a boat; a whole fleet of boats, if necessary. It's about time that stuffed windbag starts to earn the fees I'm paying him." Then he was gone.
He met Jericho Foote in the hotel lobby, surrounded by reporters, still hot on the scent of the story.
"Oh, oh!" murmured one of them to his fellows. "Here comes Old Fireball and there's that certain look in his eyes. Watch this. It's going to be good."
How good it was going to be even the hardened reporters did not know.
Old Simeon moved swiftly through them, paying no attention as they scattered from his path. Jericho Foote rose to meet him. A slight alarm assailed him, but it passed. After all, there were plenty of witnesses around.
"Well, if it isn't Kenton!" he exclaimed. "You're looking—"
Simeon said nothing. He lashed out swiftly with his cane. It caught Foote on the shoulder. lie staggered back, crying out. Simeon followed relentlessly. Thwack! Swish! Crack!
The cane whistled and sang about Foote's ears, slashed his body, cut down his up flung arm, thumped across his back as he turned to flee. Foote screamed for help, yelled for mercy. But still the cane sang and danced. It was whispered later that the reporters did not interfere until Foote had been soundly and thoroughly beaten, and then only because, after all, they didn't want actual murder committed. They didn't like Foote.
Foote was carried to bed and Kenton sallied triumphantly into the street. Foote commenced action against Kenton for fifty thousand dollars for assault and battery with a dangerous weapon and intent of mayhem. Kenton counterclaimed for one hundred thousand dollars for slander and innuendo that his, Kenton's reputation wasn't all that it might be.
Planets rubbed its collective hands and looked forward with glee to a fine summer.
Roger Horn and Captain Ball arrived almost simultaneously; Horn puffing and gasping from the urgency of his call, the captain burning with desire for revenge against all and sundry.
Horn listened and hemmed and hawed. When the captain was through he looked worried. "Of course . . . hem . . . we have a good cause of action against these . . . haw . . . highjackers; if they can be found."
"To hell with them!" yelled Simeon. "I want you to get that asteroid back and get that Venusian swamp snake, Foote, in the bargain."
Horn cleared his throat. "Well, in the first place," he said judicially, "Captain Ball admits he can't prove in a court of law that these . . . hem . . . scoundrels were hired by Foote."
"I can't," growled Ball.
"Therefore, Foote is an . . . ahem . . . innocent purchaser for value, and whatever claim of forcible entry and detainer may be alleged against his . . . haw . . . sellers cannot be imputed to him."
"Dadfoozle it!" shouted Simeon. "I didn't need you to tell me that. Any law apprentice could 've told me the same thing. I’m paying you disgusting sums to tell me how to get things done, not why they can't be done. I'll bet that scaddlewagged Dale would've—"
Horn winced. Damn Dale! He was sick and tired of hearing his name thrown in his false teeth every time. Then he brightened. He put on an air of dignity. "Speaking . . . ahem . . . Of this . . . ah . . . young Dale, you lost whatever claim you might have had on the asteroid by assigning your rights to him. I have examined the document, Mr. Kenton, and I assure you it was properly drawn."
Simeon deflated. "Huh? Yeah—I suppose so." Then he, too, brightened. "Anyway, dadburn him! He outsmarted himself this time. Salvage would have amounted to over a hundred thousand. Instead, all he's got is a worthless assignment." He turned suddenly on Horn. "You're sure, though, it is worthless?"
"As sure as I am of anythin
g. I'm willing to stake my reputation—"
"Huh!" Old Simeon's snort was plainer than words. "Then how about getting after him for towing Ball to Ganymede?"
"Well . . . hem . . . I'll have to consult my books—"
"You won't have to," Ball said bitterly. "Dale consulted them before he started. He found a decision which permitted him to head for the nearest port, which was Ganymede City. You'll find it, my dear Mr. Horn," he added with biting sarcasm, "in the Decisions of the Interplanetary Commission, Volume 53, Page 209."
"But why did he take you there?" demanded Sally. "He lost by it as well as you. Didn't you say he's on his way here now?"
"Yes; and I don't know, Miss Sally."
Old Simeon regained his elastic good humor. "Just pure spite, my dear," he chuckled. "He found out he'd made a foolish bargain, and he took it out on the captain. After all, losing a hundred thousand in salvage would—"
A new voice sounded in the room.
"By this time, Mr. Kenton, you ought to realize I do nothing out of spite."
They all whirled. The door had opened silently.
"Kerry . . . Mr. Dale!" gasped Sally, surprised at the way her heart thumped. "When . . . when did you arrive?"
He looked leaner and fitter even than that single time she had seen him before. Space life agreed with him. He carried himself easily and there was a sureness about his movements and speech.
"About five minutes ago. I took an aerocab to beat the news. And just stick to Kerry. I like that better from your lips . . . Sally."
Simeon glared at him. "Har-rumph! You have a nerve coming to me after the dirty trick you played."
Kerry became curiously humble. "That's why I came, Mr. Kenton. I felt . . . uh . . . under the circumstances it was no more than right that I make you a proposition."
"I'm not interested in your propositions, dingblast you!"
"Wait till you hear it. I'm willing to give you half of my assigned rights in the asteroid provided you pay me the full salvage on the Flying Meteor."
