Rocket from Infinity Read online

  “Dad. That load of shale—”

  “The blasted crew is deserting.”

  “But—”

  The radio man, Paul Ames, was sitting by in the cabin. He was a clean-cut earthman fresh out of Federated Space Communication School and he and Pete had gotten on well. Ames, interested and friendly, said, “Fie sounds in pretty good shape.”

  The voice out of space crackled over the receiver. “Who’s that loud-mouth cutting in? Speak up, Pete?”

  “I’m here, Dad. Are you sure you’re as well as you claim?”

  “Who’d you say it was?”

  “Paul Ames. The radio man. A friend of mine.”

  “All right, if he’s a friend, tell him to get a little speed out of that Federated pickle jar. You’re needed here. I’ve got five claims staked, and I just got word that the Snapdragon is nosing around in that area.”

  “You mean Rachel Barry’s ship?”

  “Yes, Rachel Barry’s ship,” Joe Mason mimicked angrily. “What other Snapdragon prowls the Belt trying to steal from honest miners?”

  “Somebody ought to do something about those pirates!”

  “I’ll blamed well do something when I get out of this plaster box they put me in! I’ll spread that flying junk yard all over the Belt. But in the meantime, you get back here and hold the line!”

  “I’m coming as fast as I can, Dad. Now you take it easy and get plenty of rest—hear me?”

  “Quit wasting words! I don’t have to pay space-phone rates to get advice like that. You just get here!” After the disconnect, Pete dropped weakly into a chair.

  There was a lull in reception, and Paul Ames had some time to bat the breeze. “That stuff about pirating—I thought the Federation Authority arm had things under control out there.”

  Pete settled back into his chair and extended his long legs. He felt comfortable with Paul Ames and enjoyed talking with him.

  “The main force against lawlessness is the Mining Brotherhood, with the Federation backing it up.”

  Paul Ames frowned thoughtfully. “That’s strange. The books I read called that outfit a vigilante organization. It said they had a way of taking the law into their own hands. The Federation didn’t care too much for them.”

  “You must have read an old book. They were a vigilante group in the beginning and they were pretty rough. I know, because my father is one of them. There was no law and order in the Belt then, and each man had to protect his own.”

  “An operation like that usually ends up with a group of strong men shouldering out the weak.”

  “Not necessarily. Of course, in the beginning it took a strong man to protect his own claim. That changed, though. The Mining Brotherhood isn’t against anybody prospecting the Belt and staking claims.”

  “What are they against?”

  “Piracy. Claim jumping. They can come in swinging if it’s necessary, but as I said, things have changed. They don’t make and enforce their own law. Sometimes they hold the line until the Federation can get into action, but they’re no lynch mob.”

  “From what I’ve heard—”

  “Of course,” Pete added quickly, “it’s no tea party we’re running out there. Some tough characters have come and gone in space mining and some of those left are still tough enough to defend their own property.”

  “So they’re against piracy.”

  “They fight bleeding, too.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s not actually against the law, but it’s against our law. It means taking the top off a strike—skimming off pure ore when it’s found and leaving deposits that take work and effort to get out.”

  “It would seem to me that the asteroids ought to be loaded with ore you could lift off with no work.”

  “That’s not necessarily true. There are limits to everything. The Brotherhood doesn’t believe in grubbing poor ore, and resents lazy operators who don’t like to use machinery and leave rich deposits because mining them would take a little work. We call that bleeding. It’s not illegal or criminal. You might call it a gray area of conduct. Not exactly black.”

  “But what was that about a pirate ship your father called the Snapdragon? You said it belonged to a Rachel Barry. Are there female pirates in the Belt?”

  “Rachel Barry is a specialized case. A real individualist. In a way, you have to admire her.”

  “How can you admire a pirate?”

  “She can hardly be called that. But she’s got a brother-in-law, Homer, who’s a different proposition. Rachel married Jack Barry, a pretty good man. They had three daughters. Then Jack Barry died a couple of years ago, and everybody expected Rachel to move to one of the planets and go on raising her family. But she didn’t. She’s carrying on out in the Belt. They’ve even got a cat they made a little space suit for. But the miners weren’t able to laugh Rachel off the beltways.”

  “She sounds interesting.”

  “She is. I’ve never met her, but they say she’s a pretty fiery old gal. She claims she’s got as much right there as anybody else. She embarrassed the miners, I think—a woman doing a man’s work. And I guess she does—well, let’s say she’s in the gray area. And there is her brother-in-law, Homer.”

  “She must be quite an embarrassment to the Brotherhood,” Paul Ames said. “Pushing a woman out—a woman raising a family—isn’t good public relations.”

  “I’ll grant you that. But we can’t have our claims raided, either.”

  Paul Ames yawned, his interest in the Belt miners and their problems beginning to wane. “How do you think your father’s accident will affect your career? You said you were studying to be an archeologist.”

  “I don’t know,” Pete said gloomily. “My first obligation is to Dad, of course. If he is permanently laid up, I won’t be going back to school.”

  “Were you on a scholarship?”

  “No. That’s another thing. My marks weren’t quite high enough, so there’s the money to be considered.”

  “I’m sure it will work out all right,” Paul Ames sympathized.

  “Of course. At the worst, being an asteroid belt miner is a good life. We work hard, but there’s always the chance of the big strike. Hit the right rock and you can settle down planetside and live like an industrialist.”

  Paul Ames eyed his friend keenly. “But you wouldn’t do that, would you?”

  “No,” Pete answered slowly. “I guess I wouldn’t.”

  “And you wouldn’t get a really big thrill out of striking it rich.”

  “It would—”

  “It would give you a chance to become an archeologist.”

  Before Pete could answer, the Federated Fleet call letters came over the speaker. “The twenty-four-hour newscast from home,” Paul said, coming erect in his chair. He adjusted the dials on the board in front of him.

  Pete watched his new-found friend. Home to Paul meant Earth. Conversely, to Pete, Earth meant a faraway planet, important because it was the location of authority for the whole System. The Planetary League had its seat on Earth. The Federation authorities, all the various branches, had primary location on the lush green planet where living conditions were ideal for the human animal and where all space science had been born.

  Still, Pete had no great urge to go there. He lived and moved and had his being in the Belt, with Mars as the planet from which he and his kind drew support and maintenance.

  Earth, so far as he was concerned, might be an interesting place to visit. But who would want to live there?

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE SPITFIRE FROM THE SNAPDRAGON

  “It’s about time,” Joe Mason snorted. “What did you have to do? Get out and push that Federated bucket of bolts?”

  “We came in pretty fast, Dad. And I had to get here to Parma from Juno, where the ship dropped me. I borrowed a
monocar from Joe Burke at the supply depot.”

  “Least he could do,” Joe grumbled. “And now that you’re here, I’ve got a job for you. There’s a Brotherhood meeting tonight. It’s an important one. You’ve got to represent us at that meeting.”

  The thought of the Windjammer set down beside the rambling structure the Masons called home there on the planetoid Juno had warmed Pete’s heart as he spiraled down from the Harlem. Someday, when the Masons found time, they planned to melt an underground dwelling into the solid rock of Juno. But with the pair of them occupied with more important things, the slab-aluminum prefab would have to do—as it had done for the previous dozen years—ever since the Masons had settled into a permanent base.

  Pete had hurried through the house and into his father’s bedroom where he’d been hit by mixed reactions. The sight of the older man trussed up in white plaster like a cocoon had dismayed him. But the energetically snorted greeting had been most encouraging. Joe Mason was not about to join the dead.

  Seated near the bed was another familiar figure, a grizzled old spaceman who looked to be a hundred and ten years old but who was in truth a mere eighty-seven. His face was like seamed leather and was fashioned into a look of permanent pessimism.

  He eyed Pete sourly and said, “Betcha they didn’t feed you enough on that scow to keep your stomach off your backbone.” His eternal sourness had created the old man’s image and his compulsive use of the first word he’d uttered had given him a name. He was Betcha Jones. He had no other identification.

  Pete smiled affectionately as Betcha shifted his head slightly and put a head of tobacco juice dead center into the spittoon beside the bed.

  “You should eat a meal on one of those Federationships, Betcha. You’d change your tune.”

  After his initial outburst, Joe Mason had lain motionless, his clear, eternally narrowed eyes looking deep into his son’s face. The older man’s expression did not change, but his look was still eloquent. It reflected his love for the only precious thing he had left—his son.

  “You all right, boy?”

  “I’m fine, Dad. But what about you?”

  “Look, son, I’m too tough an old warhorse to—”

  “Dad, I want the truth. That load of shale—”

  The old man scowled. “I can’t prove anything. I was in a kind of dangerous spot. I was checking some old diggings out in the cluster to see if they’d been really worked or just bled—skimmed off.”

  “You were alone?”

  “Uh-huh. And the load of shale I got just might have shaken loose from above, but—”

  He stopped, still scowling.

  “But what?”

  “I climbed out on my own power but I was a little dizzy. I’ll swear I saw a ship pulling away, but no, I can’t swear it. It might have been an asteroid rolling out of position in the cluster.”

  “Well, you’re still alive. I guess we’ll rate that as our good luck—and call it an accident for want of proof.” The frown was gone now. “Not too disappointed at having to come back?”

  Pete sat down on the edge of the bed and made a fake pass at his father’s bearded jaw. “Cut out that kind of talk. It’s great to be here. I was getting bored at school.”

  Joe Mason accepted Pete’s white lie, but was not fooled by it. “Won’t be long,” he rumbled. “I’ll be on my feet in a couple of weeks—”

  “Want to bet?” Betcha cut in.

  “Shut up, you old space rat. I said two weeks. Pete can call it a vacation. We’ll operate light. You can carry me into the Windjammer and we’ll just cruise around and protect our interests.”

  “What’s this about a Brotherhood meeting you want me to attend?”

  “Oh, that—It’s important because there’s been too much piracy going on lately. We’ve got to do something about it.”

  “The Federation patrols—”

  “Those bureaucrats? They’re so wound up in their own red tape they could watch a bleeder stripping a mine and not make a move until they radiophoned Earth and got a go-signal from those chair-warmers down there. In the meantime, we’re being robbed blind.”

  The Federation men, Pete fully realized, weren’t as bad as his father painted them. They were just on uncertain ground because, while the Federation backed the Brotherhood in spirit, there were no clear-cut laws to guide the patrol ships. They were authorized to make arrests on the basis of certain specific complaints of a criminal nature. But moving on their own discretion could lead to all sorts of complications.

  “All right, Dad. I’ll take in the meeting and report back to you.”

  “You do that, son. And if any action is brought up to move against pirates, you vote aye, understand?”

  “Sure, Dad. I’m going to take a shower now. And maybe I will have a bite to eat.”

  “You could o’ taken your shower on the Harlem,” Betcha grumbled, “and used their water instead of ours. The tanks are low.”

  “Okay. I’ll wash my face instead. How many crewmen are left?”

  “Two,” Joe Mason said. “The other six went off to other jobs.”

  “Two of ’em still squatting in the crew quarters because they’re too lazy to hunt for work,” Betcha growled.

  Pete turned to leave the bedroom, shaking his head in good-natured frustration. It seemed the crew members couldn’t get a unanimous vote of confidence whatever they did.

  He washed and ate a cold snack and got ready for the meeting.

  * * * *

  The Mining Brotherhood had established a headquarters on Parma as being the largest centrally located planetoid in that section of the Belt. A supply base was also located on Parma and there a man could stop off and relax in the bars and get a little of the space dust out of his throat. This helped to make for good attendance at the meetings. A lot of the Brotherhood members could usually be found in Parma anyhow.

  Pete jetted over in his own monocar, arriving to find a hundred-odd of the three-hundred-man membership present.

  They were of a pattern, these hardy men who roamed the beltways in one of the last gestures against technological regimentation left to mankind. The belt miners all aged quickly—up to a point. Thus, they all wore the badge of their calling, a tough, seamed, leathery face.

  But beyond a certain point, they appeared to age not at all. There was something about the life, for all its hardships, that promoted longevity. It also seemed to promote frankness and a direct manner, for there was little guile in any of them.

  Pete answered questions from friends as to his father’s condition and then found a seat near the rostrum where Jerry Sells, the President of the Brotherhood took over and banged down a gavel held in a massive, weather-beaten hand.

  “I now call this here meeting to order,” he bellowed.

  There was a gradual cessation of conversational overtone, but it was too gradual to suit Jerry. He let loose a second bellow.

  “All right! Shut up, you rock busters!”

  This brought silence and Jerry Sells glowered at them in triumph.

  “You got something important to say, Jerry—then say it,” demanded a voice.

  “It’s plenty important. Something’s got to be done about them pirates!”

  A cheer went up. Someone yelled, “Throw ’em out of the Belt!”

  “Shut up!” Jerry Sells roared. “Now I want a show of hands. How many of you have had claims jumped lately?”

  A dozen hands went up, including one raised by a man, nicknamed Blaney, whose other arm was in a sling. “Me,” Blaney called out, “I got jumped by three pirates in an old Class Four freighter. A little quarter-mile rock that was dripping nugget gold. When I tried to fight ’em they winged me, and I was lucky to get away that easy.”

  “What about the Federation patrol ships?” someone asked.

  “Sure! I located one and call
ed it in. They made me come aboard, and we spent an hour signing forms. Then when we got to my claim, those rats were gone. So darned if we didn’t sign a lot more forms. They said they’d let me know.”

  A burly miner yelled indignantly. “It was claim jumping. There’s laws about that.”

  “There’s no law but our own,” another miner cried out. “We’d better start enforcing it.”

  “Now hold everything,” Jerry Sells bellowed. “This here meeting’s getting out of order. You all know it’s not legal to carry guns in the Belt.”

  “Whose side are you on?” the wounded man demanded.

  A huge, bearded miner stood up near the rostrum and thus commanded a certain amount of attention. “I got a complaint I want something done about.”

  “What’s that, Dave?” Jerry Sells asked.

  “Hey! What about me?” Blaney demanded.

  “You already been heard,” Jerry said. “Go on, Dave. You got the floor.”

  “Fine meeting this is,” Blaney growled as he sat down.

  “I want something done about that crazy Barry woman—Rachel Barry. She walked in on one of my claims—Rachel Barry and her daughter—and they bled me out of a ton of high-grade stuff and pulled out. I want something done about her. You can’t punch a dame in the jaw!”

  Someone called out, “Did you have the claim filed, Dave?”

  Dave Wilson grumbled, “Well, no. I was just fixing to, though.”

  It was about what everyone expected. It was generally known that Dave Wilson liked the settlement bars better than the hard work on the asteroids.

  There was a general laugh and somebody yelled, “Why don’t you marry her, Dave?”

  A man with a small sense of humor, he stared at the questioner. “Are you crazy? Marry a dame with kids like she’s got? That teen-age girl of hers is a rough package.”

  A howl of mirth went up, diluting some of the anger that had charged the air of the meeting hall.

  Pete Mason, enjoying the meeting but taking no part in it, laughed with the rest and wondered when the meeting would get down to some constructive work.