Subspace Explorers Part 5

"All right. On this basic factor there's no disagreement whatever. No doubt or question. Tellurian labor is a bunch of plain d.a.m.ned fools. Idiots. Cretins. However, that's only to be expected because everybody with any brains or any guts left Tellus years ago. There's scarcely any good breeding stock left, even. So about the only ones with brains left-except for the connivers, chiselers, I boodlers, gangsters, and b.a.s.t.a.r.dly crooked politicians and that goes for most Tellurian capitalists, too. Right?" "Dead right, and we don't like it one bit better than you do. That's why so much Tellurian capital is all set to join us Galaxians when we leave Tellus."

"Oh? You've gone that far? That's some of the stuff you'll go into later?"

"Yes. Go ahead."

"All right. Every time I think of Tellurian labor it makes me so d.a.m.n mad..."

"Eggie's the evenest-tempered man alive," Wellington explained to the group at large. "Mad all the time." "So what?" the bristly little man snapped. "This is a thing to really get mad about. Slaves! Not slaves, either -slaves don't necessarily like slavery and they sometimes rebel. They're serfs. They like it that way. Dead level advancement by seniority only-security-security, h.e.l.l! No change-change scares the pants off of 'em. Don't want to think. Think? They cart think. One good thought would fracture their brainless d.a.m.ned skulls. And as long as they get a dollar an hour more than they're worth they don't give a c.o.c.keyed tinker's d.a.m.n that their bosses are stealing everything in sight that isn't welded down-and sometimes even some of that. So you can paste it in your tall silk hat, Mayn, that the Planetsmen are free men, not brainless stupid serfs. Burley Hoadman won't get any help at all from us in stealing any more megabucks than he already has stolen. Not by seven thousand spans of Steinman truss."

"Serf labor versus free men," Maynard said, thoughtfully. "Very well put, Eggie. In that connection, Speers of the Little Gem made a tape that shows the att.i.tude of two of his best men. Will you play it, please, Miss Champion?"

She played it and Maynard went on, "We have thousands of similar recordings. The serf att.i.tude is characteristic of non-union, as well as of union labor, and also of white-collar people as a cla.s.s. In fact, it is characteristic of Tellus as a planet. In contrast to that atti- tude, Zeckendorff of the Stockmen brought along a tape, of which we will hear the last few sentences. Scene, a meeting of Local 3856 of the Stockmen. Occasion, the voting upon a resolution presented by a Tellurian union organizer after weeks of work. Miss Champion?"

She flipped a switch and the speaker said, "The vote is nine hundred seventy eight against; none for. That kind of c.r.a.p doesn't go on the planets, g.a.y.l.o.r.d, and if you had the brain G.o.d gave a goose you'd know it. That kind of security is what life-termers on the Rock have and we don't want any part of it. n.o.body but ourselves is ever going to tell us what we can or can't do; so you'd better get the h.e.l.l out of here and back to Tellus before somebody parts your hair with a routing iron."

"I like that," Maynard said. "I like it very much. We knew in general what the sentiment is. However, pure Galaxianism-everybody pulling together harmoniously for the common good-is an ideal and as such can never be realized. The question is, can we approach it nearly enough to snake it work?"

"We can try-and I think we can do it," Bryce said. "Anyway, Mayn, this first hurdle was the biggest one, and it's solid. We can guarantee that."

"Wonderful!" Maynard said. "Then we're in business -so let's get on with it."

And the meeting went on; not only for all the rest of that day, but all day and every day for two solid weeks.

Shortly after the Deston Uranium Expedition got back to Newmars, the Deston family went to Earth and to the Warner-owned, luxury-type Hotel Warner; arriving there early of an evening.

Barbara was thoroughly accustomed to red-carpet treatment. She nodded and smiled; she used first names abundantly in greeting; to a few VIP's she introduced her "husband and business partner, Carlyle Deston." A retinue escorted them up to their penthouse suite; the manager himself made sure that everything was on the beam. Lock, stock, and barrel, the place was theirs.

Deston was not used to high life, but he made a good stab at it. Even when, at the imposing portals of the Deep s.p.a.ce Room, the velvet rope was whisked aside and the crowd of waiting standees was ignored. But when, at the end of the long and perfect meal and of the magnificent floor show, no check was presented for signature, Deston did reach for his wallet; to be stopped by a slight shake of Barbara's head.

"But no tip, even?" he protested, in a whisper.

"Of course not. The office takes care of everything. I never carry any money on Tellus."

And next morning a Warner limousine took them across town to the immense skysc.r.a.per that was the Warner Building, where they were escorted ceremoniously up into WarnOil's innermost private office; a huge, luxuriously business-like office worthy in every respect of being the sanctum sanctorum of the second-largest firm in existence.

As has been said, Warner Oil was not a corporation. It was not even a partnership. It had been owned in toto by Barbara's parents as community property; it was now owned in the same way by Carlyle and Barbara Deston. Thus, it had no stock and no bonds and published no reports of any kind. It had no officers, no board of directors. It had one general manager and a few department heads; men who, despite the unimportance of their t.i.tles, were high on the list of the most powerful operators of Earth.

The Destons' first appointment was with General Manager Lansing; a big, bear-like man who picked Barbara up on sight and kissed her vigorously. "Mighty glad to see you again, Barbry. Glad to meet you, Carl." He engulfed Deston's hand in a huge, hard paw. "I apologize for thinking you were something that crawled out from under a rock. What you've been putting out is the d.a.m.ndest hairiest line of stuff I've seen since the old gut-cutting days when the old man and I were pups. But go ahead, Barbry."

"First, I want to a.s.sure you, Uncle Paul, that neither Carl nor I will bother you any more than father did. Not as much, in fact, because neither of us has any delusions as to who is running WarnOil and we both want you to keep on running it."

"Thanks, both of you. I was hoping, of course, but I got a little dubious when Carl here started showing so many long, sharp, curly teeth."

"I understand. Second, I'm very glad that all of you-all that count, I mean-approve of Carl's program." "Should have incorporated long ago. As for the h.e.l.l raising-wow!" He slapped himself resoundingly on the leg. "If we can push half of that stuff through it'll rock the whole d.a.m.ned galaxy on its foundations." "Third, how is the probate coming along?"

"I'd better call DuPuy in here for that, I..."

"Uh-uh, listen! We don't want two solid hours of whereases and hereinbefores. You talk our language." "We're steam-rollering 'em and it tickles me a foot up..." Lansing broke off and into a bellow of laughter. "Every d.a.m.n shyster the government has got is scream- ing b.l.o.o.d.y murder and threatening everything he can think of, including complete confiscation, but they haven't got a leg to stand on. They can't tax anything except what little stuff we have here on Tellus, and the inheritance tax on that will be only a few megabucks. Everything else belongs to Newmars, where there's no inheritance tax, no income tax, and hardly any property tax; and the fact that DuPuy writes Newmars' laws has nothing to do with the case. So after DuPuy and his crew get tired of quibbling and horsing around we'll pay it out of petty cash and never miss it."

The Destons, during the next few days, held conference after conference, during which hundreds of details were ironed out; and as a by-product of which the news spread abroad that the heiress was very active indeed in the management of civilization-wide Warner Oil.

One morning, then, at nine o'clock, Barbara herself punched the series of letters and numerals that was the unlisted and close-held number of Doris Champion, the First Secretary of Upton Maynard, the president of Galactic Metals, the largest firm that civilization had ever known. Barbara's yellow-haired self appeared up on the FirSec's screen; Barbara saw a tall, cool, svelte brunette seated at something less than forty square feet of cluttered-seeming desk.

"Yes?" the FirSec asked, pleasantly, then stared-and lost a little of her cool poise. For every FirSec on Earth knew that yellow-haired woman by sight... and she was on the com in person and there had been nothing preliminary, through channels, at all...

"That's right," Barbara confirmed the unspoken thought." I'm Barbara Warner Deston of WarnOil. Please arrange a half-hour face-to-face for Mr. Deston and me with Mr. -Maynard. There's no great hurry about it; any time today will do."

"A half hour! Today? I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Deston, but it's simply impossible. Why, he's booked solid for..." "I know he's busy, Miss Champion, but so are we. Just tell him, please, that he is the first metals man we have called, and that tomorrow morning we will call Ajax."

"Very well. If you'll give me a ten-second brief I'll see what we can possibly do and call you back."

"No briefing. You have my private number. We'll be here until twelve o'clock." Barbara's hand moved toward the cut-off switch; but Miss Champion, being a really smart girl, smelled a deal so big that even a top-bracket FirSec should duck-and fast. Wherefore: "Hold the beam for fifty seconds, please, Mrs. Deston," she said, and snapped down the b.u.t.ton that made her office as tight as the vault of a bank. Then, "I'm sorry to interrupt, Mr. Maynard, but Mrs. Deston of WarnOil is on." She cut the audio then, but kept on speaking rapidly.

In thirty seconds the keen, taut face of Upton Maynard appeared upon Barbara's plate. "Good morning, Mrs. Deston. Something about metal, I gather? A little out of your line, isn't it?"

"That's right, Mr. Maynard," Barbara agreed. She added nothing and for a moment he, too, was silent. Then: "It'll have to be after closing," Maynard said.

"That's quite all right. We'll fit our time to yours and you may name the place."

"Seventeen ten. Your office. Satisfactory?"

"Perfectly. Thank you, Mr. Maynard," and as Barbara's hand moved to cut com Maynard's voice went on: "Get my wife, Miss Champion. Tell her I'll be late again getting home this evening."

Chapter 6 MAYNARD BUYS THE PACKAGE.

At ten minutes past five Upton Maynard-a tall, lean, gray-haired man of fifty-odd, with a fringe of gray-brown hair on the sides and back of an otherwise completely bald head-was ushered into the Destons' private office.

"How (lo you do, Mister Maynard." Barbara shook his hard cordially. "You haven't met my husband. Carlyle Deston of Deston and Deston, Incorporated."

As the two men shook hands, Maynard said, "Incorporated, eh? This room is spy-proof, of course."

"Solid," Deston a.s.sured him.

"Okay, Mrs. Deston; what have you got?"

"Oh, it's Carl's party, really. My part of this project was just to bring you two men together," and Deston took over.

"This is such a weirdie, Mr. Maynard, that I'll have to give it to you in stages." He opened a bulging accordion-pleated case and began to spread its contents out over the table. "Barbara and I discovered a planet that's thousands of pa.r.s.ecs beyond where any human being had ever been before. We named it 'Barbizon'. We did,. by proxy, all the development work necessary to establish full ownership of the entire planet.

"Here's an envelope-full of astronautic and planetological data. Here's the file on registration, work, proveup, transfer, and so on. Here's the certification, by Earth's most eminent firm of consulting engineers-Littleton, Bayless, Clifton, and Snelling itself, no less-that said planet Barbizon is a new discovery; that it is exactly where we said it was; that all required work has been done; that the bodies of manganese ore actually exist; that the in situ values run as high as three dollars and seventy one cents per ton; that..."

"Suckered, by G.o.d!" Maynard smacked his right hand flat down against the table's top. "You mouse-trapped us -and that hasn't been done before for twenty five years." His sharp gray eyes bored into Deston's with rapidly mounting respect. "To skip the rest of the preliminaries for the moment, what have you two actually got?"

"I told you he's quick on the uptake, Carl," Barbara laughed, and Deston said, "Uranium, Mr. Maynard. Solid enough for full automation and enough of it to supply every possible demand of all civilization from now on."

"My... good... G.o.d." Maynard almost collapsed back into his chair. "I knew it would have to be something big... but automated uranium-okay. Go ahead. Somebody told you I like fully-developed presentations?"

"That's right. So here are the applications complete, and here are the final patents-not only from Tellus, but also from Galmetia and Newmars as well. All this is proof of ownership; with-according to DuPuy of WarnOil-no possibility whatever of successful challenge."

The tyc.o.o.n, who had begun to examine the doc.u.ments, replaced them in the envelope and nodded approvingly. "If Pete DuPuy says it's ironclad it really is. So I'm ready for Stage Two."

"Here's a large-scale tri-di, in dilometers, of the largest ore-body. There are a lot of others, but this whole plateau is one solid ma.s.s of jewelry ore. It isn't pure pitchblende or pure anything else; it's been altered down by heat and pressure to an average specific gravity of about ten point one. So it will run well over ten metric gigatons to the cubic kilometer, and you can read the cubage for yourself. Do you wonder that we wouldn't talk to anyone except you in person about it?"

"That's evident-quite." For ten silent minutes Maynard scanned data with practised ease. Then, "There are a few points that need clarification. I know that there are a lot of crackpot planetary claims allowed every year; on planets so worthless that they lapse into the public domain as soon as the crackpots lose interest, go broke, or die. Some of the discoverers, crackpots of the purest ray, even get LitBay certification for their junk- b.a.l.l.s. But how in h.e.l.l did you mousetrap LitBay into certifying for worthless manganese ore a planet so reeking with radiation that any high-school girl with a handful of loose wire would have been shrieking 'URANIUM!' half an hour before you landed? You know and I know that any field man of theirs who didn't read his scintillometer every time he goes into a strange restaurant for lunch would get fired right then."

"That did take a little doing," Deston admitted, and Barbara laughed again. "Our development work was done by the stupidest people we could find, and the man we made foreman was the stupidest one of the whole lot. We didn't appear at any Bureau of Planets ourselves, of course. Our proxies were a couple of very good actors who had studied being crackpots until they were letter-perfect. Then we waited until all LitBay's field men were out on jobs. Our proxies were in such a tearing rush to get Barbizon nailed down that they opened negotiations by offering double fees-and you know what LitBay's usual fees are-for fast action. So since it was so obviously just another crackpot location, who was ever to know or care that it was a couple of office-boys who went out? And, some way or other, their scintillometers happened to get swapped temporarily for a pair of slightly finagled ones we had on board."

"I see." Maynard shook his head admiringly. "So the thing never got upstairs in their office... and I can't twit Littleton about it because it never got anywhere near me, either. Okay. Barbizon is of course lifeless-and the whole planet reeks-this ninety-hour limit on the manganese location is the coolest spot on the planet, I suppose."

"That's right. We couldn't put anybody in armor, so we didn't let anybody work over ten six-hour days." "Refresh my memory." Maynard flipped pages; came up with a single sheet of paper. "Ah. All your men were over sixty five-and the LitBay kids were on the ground only nine hours. So when this is over you'll notify them that they've had ten percent of a year's permissible radiation, I suppose."

Barbara smiled meaningly. "No, Mr. Maynard. It has just occurred to me that you might like to tell Mr. Littleton about that yourself."

"So he'll think I mousetrapped him?" Maynard blushed to the top of his bald head. "And I'm small-souled enough to take advantage of that face-saving offer. Thanks. But to get on with it, there's a glaring vacancy in these data-about that incredible tri-di..."

"It's there, Mr. Maynard," Barbara put in. "It really is."

"I know it is. With a planet whose radiation would trip a scanner at four or five astronomical units out, and what it has cost you to nail it down, faking would be completely pointless. No, the missing information is, how did you make that tri-di? We know of one honest-to-G.o.d oil-witch." He paused and looked pointedly at Barbara, "but I've never heard of anyone who ever witched enough virgin ore of any kind to load a shot- gun sh.e.l.l. Do you, Deston, claim to be the first metal-witch? Excuse me-'warlock', I suppose I should have said."

"I most emphatically do not. Such crackpot stuff as that? No: Improved instrumentation and techniques' is the full explanation. Secret, of course-obviously. And whatever made you think Barbara is an oil-witch? They're sinking as many dry holes as anybody."

"Yeah." As Maynard said it, the word was the essence of disbelief. "Lately. I've noticed. You don't want to get her shot. Smart boy-if I were you I wouldn't either." "But sir, I a.s.sure..."

"Yeah," Maynard said again. "I'm a.s.sured, and I don't leak. So go ahead with Stage Three."

"Thank you. Stage Three is to sell you the planet Barbizon, lock, stock, and barrel, for the sum of one dollar and other valuable considerations."

Maynard's whole body tensed, but his voice came calm and quiet as he asked, "Such as?"

"Two million shares of today's Cla.s.s B GalMet common at today's close; to be delivered when the net profit of Project Barbizon amounts to two megabucks more than the cost of the shares."

"What?" Maynard was shaken, and this time he could not help showing it. "Less than two hundred megabucks, paid after we clear it... You're telling me there is a Santa Claus, making us a free-gratis-for-nothing Christmas present of G.o.d-knows-how-many mega-h.e.l.l, no; not megabucks, it'll be billions. With production equaling full demand and the price set by the PESI formula it'll be G.o.d-knows-how-many megbucks over the long pull. So you'll have to do some more explaining, Deston."

"I was going to; but first, who else could possibly handle a project that big the way it should be handled?" "Granted. We're geared for it; no one else is. But you know and I know that with Barbizon nailed down tight you can set and get any royalty you please."

"I know." Deston smiled suddenly. "We just did. We toyed with the idea of socking you, but everything was against it and nothing for it. First; we, too, adhere to the Principle of Enlightened Self-Interest."

"I see." Maynard relaxed and his mien lightened tremendously. "That shaft, son, dead-centered the gold. Go ahead."

"Second; since metal isn't our dish, our take will be pure gravy, and the easier the bite we put on you and the deeper you get into the planet Barbizon, the more convinced you will become that we knew what we're doing."

"It's beginning to make sense. All this will soften me up for the real whingo. So what will Santa Claus, as represented by Deston and Deston Ink, do then?"

"Having established the fact beyond question that we have, by means of our highly advanced instrumentation and techniques, found an immense amount of one highly desirable natural resource, we will ask you what you want next. We will look for it and we will probably find it."

"And, having found it?"

"Are you sold, up to this point?"

"Definitely." Maynard's fingers drummed lightly upon the soft plastic covering of the arm of his chair. "If the stuff were not there you wouldn't be here: none of this would make any sense at all."

"We will then prove to you that we have found whatever it was that you wanted. The next step will be to merge GalMet and WarnOil-Barbara thinks that 'Metals And Energy' would be a good name for the new corporation. Now, considering..."

"You're leaving out one element, Carl," Barbara put in.

"Not exactly. That's speculation, and at the moment I'm...

"He'll be interested in that particular speculation," Barbara broke in, "so I'll tell him. Mr. Maynard, DuPuy says that while it is not vet politically feasible to even suggest including InStell in this proposed merger, he thinks that the present gentlemen's agreement would not only continue, but would become even more so."

Maynard nodded. "I was beginning to think along that same line myself. Go ahead, Deston."

"Considering the size and scope of the proposed firm, and the fact that it would not have to explore, but would have at its command any amount of any natural resource-how fast could it grow?"

"What a program... what a program!" Rock-still, Maynard thought for minutes. "I've always insisted on a fully-developed presentation, but this... the three biggest firms in existence, all pulling together and with everything they need..." He paused.

Lansing and DuPuy both said the trouble would be to keep it from growing too fast-getting all porous and falling apart. But that you knew that as well as they did, and wouldn't expand any faster than you could get top-bracket people, and that such executives are d.a.m.ned scarce."

"They're so right. However, I'm ready-I'll go into that later. It won't be as long as you think. What's WarnOil's thought on organization?"

"To have some widely-known VIP as president, with actual management staying right where it is now; with you running Metals and Lansing running Energy and both of you playing footsie with Hatfield of InStell-with the figurehead president not necessarily knowing quite everything that goes on."

"That sounds good. Lansing's an operator, and so is Hatfield."

"Last, the stock cla.s.ses will be such, and Deston and Deston's payments will be such, that voting control will be... oh, yes, conserved' was the word DuPuy used. That's all, sir."

"Not by several stages that isn't all. You've done altogether too much work on this to have it stop at this point. Next stage, please."

Deston looked baffledly at Barbara; who gave him an I-told-you-so smile and said, "You knew darn well you'd have to tell him the whole wild thing, so go right ahead and do it."

"You certainly will, son," Maynard agreed. He had thought that Deston, like so many other s.p.a.ce officers, had used the glamor of his status to marry money. That idea was out. He wasn't the type. Neither was Barbara; glamor-boys by the score had been trying to marry her ever since she was fifteen... and they could find metal... and this whole deal showed honest-to-G.o.d brains. After a very brief pause he went on, "Neither of you cares any more about money as money than I do. So it's something else. I'm beginning to think, Barbara, that you were right in ascribing most of this to Carl, here."

"Of course I was." Barbara grinned wickedly; she had known exactly what Maynard had been thinking. "My mind doesn't work that way at all. It really doesn't."

Okay, okay; don't rub it in." Maynard answered her grin; not her words. "I'm sure we'll go along, but after all this you'll have to tell me what you're really after." "The trouble is, I can't, at all exactly." Deston spread out both hands. "Too much extrapolation-altogether too many unknowns-at this point the picture becomes ver-ee unclear."

"Okay. Your thinking so far has been eminently precise; I'd like to hear your extrapolations and speculations."

"Okay. MetEnge, or whatever the new firm turns out to be, will employ DesDes as consulting geologists; that is. we would work independently of, and eventually replace, your geological staff and your prospectors and wildcatters and so on. If you should wish to employ us on an exclusive basis...?"

"That goes without saying."

"We would require a very substantial annual fee, payable in MetEnge voting stock at the market. All of our new discoveries, including the find not theretofore revealed, will be leased, not sold, to MetEnge."