Short Fiction

’lock. Sounds to me as though he had plenty of time.”

Mac gestured inquiringly at his superior, received a nod, and with a sigh unclipped his Sam Browne. “Kittrell? Probably stumbled and slammed his head against a rivet.” He stood up suddenly, savagely snubbed out a freshly lit cigarette. “Oh, hell! I’ll tell you what I really think, Major⁠—I don’t believe Kittrell tried to get out of there. I don’t think he cared, and I haven’t forgotten what he said about dying that way.”

“Could be,” Copeland agreed. “And what did you say that stuff was that saved your life?”

Mac smiled. “Money, of a sort. You know where I was stationed last year?”

“Some place on Earth, wasn’t it?”

MacCauley nodded. “China. Got to know some of the people there. Got kind of chummy with one of them; she gave me a present when I left, as a keepsake. A string of what they call ‘cash.’ It’s a kind of money they used to use; square pieces of copper with holes in the middle. Had ’em strung together and sewn onto a belt. Well, you know how Palladians feel about copper.” His eyes crinkled again. “That was a pretty good keepsake⁠—not worth much, but it bought my life.”

Both men were silent for a while. Then, “What are your plans now, MacCauley? I’ve recommended you for promotion, to fill Kittrell’s job on Pallas. You’ll get a higher rating, more pay⁠—and all the time in the world to yourself.”

MacCauley shook his head. “Sorry, Major,” he said, “But that’s not what I want. My plans are extra-special. Say,” he went on, sitting down and staring earnestly at Copeland, “have you ever heard the story of how Manhattan Island⁠—that’s part of New York City⁠—was bought from the ancient Indians? Twenty-four dollars’ worth of junk beads⁠—that’s what they paid the Indians for it. Now the land is worth billions of dollars⁠—a square foot of it brings the best part of a million.”

“So?” The major was interested but lacked comprehension. “What’s that got to do with your resignation?”

MacCauley smiled. “A lot,” he answered. “Did it ever occur to you that intelligent salesmanship can do wonders? And did you ever think of the possibilities that you could realize on Pallas with⁠—say⁠—a couple of dozen thousand dollars’ worth of copper and other metal junk?”

The major looked startled. “No⁠—not till now,” he added, understanding dawning. “And what you’re going to do is⁠—?”

“What I’m going to do,” MacCauley beamed, “is convert reward money into junk. And then, Major, I’ll begin to convert the junk⁠—into a kingdom. I’m going to buy up a world⁠—a wide-open world⁠—with a boatload of scrap metal!”

Conspiracy on Callisto

I

Duane’s hand flicked to his waist and hung there, poised. His dis-gun remained undrawn.

The tall, white-haired man⁠—Stevens⁠—smiled.

“You’re right, Duane,” he said. “I could blast you, too. Nobody would win that way, so let’s leave the guns where they are.”

The muscles twitched in Peter Duane’s cheeks, but his voice, when it came, was controlled. “Don’t think we’re going to let this go,” he said. “We’ll take it up with Andrias tonight. We’ll see whether you can cut me out!”

The white-haired man’s smile faded. He stepped forward, one hand bracing him against the thrust of the rocket engines underneath, holding to the guide rail at the side of the ship’s corridor.

He said, “Duane, Andrias is your boss, not mine. I’m a free lance; I work for myself. When we land on Callisto tonight I’ll be with you when you turn our⁠—shall I say, our cargo?⁠—over to him. And I’ll collect my fair share of the proceeds. That’s as far as it goes. I take no orders from him.”

A heavyset man in blue appeared at the end of the connecting corridor. He was moving fast, but stopped short when he saw the two men.

“Hey!” he said. “Change of course⁠—get to your cabins.” He seemed about to walk up to them, then reconsidered and hurried off. Neither man paid any attention.

Duane said, “Do I have to kill you?” It was only a question as he asked it, without threatening.

A muted alarm bell sounded through the P.A. speakers, signaling a one-minute warning. The white-haired man cocked his eyebrow.

“Not at all,” he said. He took the measure of his slim, redheaded opponent. Taller, heavier, older, he was still no more uncompromisingly belligerent than Duane, standing there. “Not at all,” he repeated. “Just take your ten thousand and let it go at that. Don’t make trouble. Leave Andrias out of our private argument.”

“Damn you!” Duane flared. “I was promised fifty thousand. I need that money. Do you think⁠—”

“Forget what I think,” Stevens said, his voice clipped and angry. “I don’t care about fairness, Duane, except to myself. I’ve done all the work on this⁠—I’ve supplied the goods. My price is set, a hundred thousand Earth dollars. What Andrias promised you is no concern of mine. The fact is that, after I’ve taken my share, there’s only ten thousand left. That’s all you get!”

Duane stared at him a long second, then nodded abruptly. “I was right the first time,” he said. “I’ll have to kill you!”

Already his hand was streaking toward the grip of his dis-gun, touching it, drawing it forth. But the white-haired man was faster. His arms swept up and pinioned Duane, holding him impotent.

“Don’t be a fool,” he grated. “Duane⁠—”

The P.A. speaker rattled, blared something unintelligible. Neither man heard it. Duane lunged forward into the taller man’s grip, sliding down to the floor. The white-haired man grappled furiously to keep his hold on Peter’s gun arm, but Peter was slipping away. Belatedly, Stevens went for his own gun.

He was too late. Duane’s was out and leveled at him.

“Now will you listen to reason?” Duane panted. But he halted, and the muzzle of his weapon wavered. The floor swooped and surged beneath him as the thrust of the mighty jets was cut off. Suddenly there was no gravity. The two men, locked together, floated weightlessly out to the