Rocket from Infinity Page 6

  “You could have gone blind in less than a minute!”

  “Do you think I don’t know that?”

  “Then why did you start bawling?”

  “Men are fools!” Jane replied, this being her answer to Pete’s lack of understanding.

  “I’d say it’s the other way around. I never saw a man do a stupid thing like that. Why doesn’t your mother take you to Mars where you belong?”

  “We’ve got just as much right…!”

  “Okay! Okay! Forget I asked.”

  “Let me out of here!”

  Crowded into a car meant for only one, they were packed tight against each other. Jane began to struggle. The car rocked.

  “Cut it out!” Pete snapped. “I don’t like this any better than you do. But until your nostrils get clear of ice and your eyes dry out, you’re going to stay here.” Fighting more tears, Jane turned her face away. Their headpieces were down, the monocar unit having taken over, and Jane sniffled faintly. She said nothing, and Pete couldn’t put any words together either. So they sat there, both of them angry, miserable, and completely frustrated.

  “Do you feel better?” Pete finally asked.

  “I feel all right.”

  “Well wait another couple of minutes. Then you can go back into your ship.”

  Another period of silence followed before Jane said, “I’m sorry.”

  It was the second time she’d admitted to being wrong, and Pete should have found satisfaction therein. But he did not find anything but annoyance. Why, he wondered, did he—practically a stranger—have to get involved with this weird family? He wasn’t hostile to them. He wished them all the good luck imaginable, but he had problems of his own without taking on theirs. Since he was in this spot, though, he had to be decent about it.

  “I think I can talk Dad into letting you moor on Juno.”

  “Thank you,” Jane said contritely. “It doesn’t make any difference to me one way or another—you understand that, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “But if Mother wants to moor there—” Jane cut off in mid-sentence, her face turning thoughtful.

  “What’s the matter?” Pete asked.

  “I wonder why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why Mother wants to moor on Juno. There are plenty of other asteroids if she’s tired of this one.”

  “There’s no ore on Juno.”

  “You mean you think my Mother plans to get all you—?”

  “No,” Pete cut in quickly. “I didn’t mean that at all.”

  He’d learned how defensive she was—how quickly her anger flared and he preferred her in a reasonable mood.

  “The things the Brotherhood says—”

  “I’m not the Brotherhood. I wish you’d understand that. I’m Pete Mason and I don’t go by what other people say.”

  “Are you two having a nice conversation?”

  The question came from the monocar speaker in warm, motherly tones that identified them as originating inside the Snapdragon. Rachel Barry was encouraging “neighborliness” and, when he turned to look toward the Snapdragon, Pete saw the two younger Barrys with their faces again glued to the ports. They were reacting with high glee to the sight of Pete and Jane wedged into the monocar. How, Pete asked himself, had he ever managed to get Uncle Homer into it the previous night?”

  “You’d better explain to your mother why you’re in here,” Pete said as he raised his headpiece preparatory to opening the bubble.

  “She’d only worry,” Jane said.

  It was difficult for Pete to concede the truth of that statement. It didn’t appear to him that Rachel Barry worried as much as she was assumed to. He thought he detected a sublime faith in destiny there. While not bashful in her requests, Rachel Barry appeared to believe that everything would turn out all right if given enough time and a few appropriate nudges.

  Jane said, “Thanks for helping me,” and began to climb out of the car. She wasn’t using her magnets and, as she reached out to grasp the anchor bar beside the Snapdragons air lock, a second monocar dropped down to the asteroid’s surface. As Pete closed his bubble, he glanced in that direction and saw Uncle Homer at the controls. Not wishing to be delayed any longer, Pete raised a hand in salute and lifted his own car away. Evidently Uncle Homer had successfully escaped the wrath of his accuser at the Brotherhood meeting. He wondered how long Homer could continue making such escapes.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE CLAIM JUMPERS

  As he lifted away from the cold, bleak surface of Pallas, Pete felt a touch of guilt. This came from the realization that he had not contacted the Windjammer all day.

  Earlier, he’d thought of relaying the good news, but then he’d decided it would be more fun to walk in, after filing the claim, and casually announce the results of his single day’s work. Betcha’s grudging approval would be most pleasant, he’d told himself.

  But the necessity of rescuing Jane had disrupted everything, and now there was just time to reach the Federation office on Parma and file his claim.

  Hoping his father hadn’t worried too much, Pete snapped the switch and gave the Windjammer’s call letters. The gruff voice of Betcha Jones came back.

  “What are you doing out there, boy? It’s a good idea to report in once in a while.”

  “Sorry, Betcha. I got very busy. How’s Dad?”

  “He’s too healthy to be down and not healthy enough to be up.” Betcha turned his voice away and Pete heard him say, “He’s finally come in, Joe. Says he was busy.”

  “Are you all right, Pete?” It was Joe Mason’s voice, sharp with concern.

  “I’m fine, Dad. I made a real strike! Copper! We can put a full crew to work.”

  “Cocky kids—” This was Betcha’s sour comment. “Goes out and makes a strike in a few hours. Of course it’ll turn out to be a dud, but—”

  “It will not! It’s a thick vein of high-grade ore. We can work the whole asteroid!”

  “What’s the topography, son?” Joe Mason asked.

  “Ideal, Dad. Cone-shaped and smooth. Plenty of anchorage surface. Maximum return with minimum effort. I’m on the way to Parma now.”

  “Okay, son. Call us when you get there.”

  It was significant that neither of the men asked the asteroid’s location. The radio channels were open to everyone in the Belt, and in even describing the asteroid’s shape Pete could have said too much. But he was less than an hour from filing, so he’d decided it was safe to reassure his father.

  “All right, Dad. And Betcha—make a big pot of stew. I’ll be plenty hungry when I get back.”

  Pete cut off the channel and spent the intervening time thinking about the Barrys. The only thing really wrong with them was Rachel Barry’s mistakes in judgment—keeping a family of girls out here in an environment that was a challenge to strong and experienced men. She could have sold the Snapdragon and gotten enough to establish her growing family in one of the Martian communities. There was work for women there. Rachel Barry could have set up an apparel shop for one thing. The wives and daughters of the Martian colonists were hungry for fashionable clothes, for new things, and they had plenty of money. With a little wisely directed initiative, Rachel could locate on Mars and send them all to schools on Earth. It was a shame that Jane had to waste her early years in a place like the Belt.

  He became so preoccupied with the injustice that he almost overshot Parma, dropping down just in time to keep from missing the settlement where the Federation office was located. He moored his car and hurried into the building with just about enough time left to file his claim.

  The greeting he received from the young man behind the desk was not enthusiastic. A blond youth with a faraway look in his eyes, he was easily identified for what he was—a native Earthling—a career man in the vast Federati
on who’d drawn the dreariest of assignments as an apprenticeship—a temporary exile on this airless, soilless rock far from the fabled green hills of Earth. And even though the attractions of Earth were strictly objective to Pete and thus not greatly attractive, the young man still had Pete’s sympathy. Pete got a concept of how he felt by reversing the thing. Suppose he, Pete Mason, were exiled on the big central planet far from the free, robust life in the Belt. He would be miserable!

  “I’ve got a claim to file,” Pete said as he pulled off his gloves.

  The young man glanced at his wrist chronometer. “It’s pretty late.”

  “There’s still time to file, though.”

  “Yes. And I’ve got no place to go anyhow.”

  “I’ve got the orbit of the claim plotted and entered on a claim form.” Pete plunged a hand into his pocket. A blank look wiped the smile from his face. The clerk looked at him questioningly.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s gone.”

  “Maybe you put it in a different pocket.”

  He watched as Pete started going through his other pockets. Finally, as a gesture of despair, he took out his wallet and examined the contents, although he knew he hadn’t put the claim form into it.

  The clerk was mildly sympathetic. “You couldn’t possibly have those figures in your head?”

  “I’m not a genius,” Pete said ruefully.

  “Can you locate the claim again?”

  “Oh, sure. I remember the section markings and the stream location bearings.”

  “It takes a lot more than that to file a claim. I guess you’ll have to do it all over again.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  “We’ll be open all day tomorrow.”

  “I stopped to tow a disabled car home,” Pete spoke just on the edge of anger. “Otherwise everything would have been all right.”

  “Maybe you can claim salvage. That way the day won’t be a total loss.”

  “Fat chance. The people I towed haven’t got anything to pay it with.”

  The clerk shrugged. “Then you’ve stored up treasure in heaven. You’ll have to settle for that.”

  “At least until tomorrow. I’ll see you then.”

  “I’ll be here,” the young man said wearily.

  * * * *

  “You must have just thought you put it in your pocket,” Betcha Jones said. “It would be there otherwise. You went straight to the claim office—”

  “Well—not exactly.”

  “Not exactly? Where did you go?”

  “I towed a disabled monocar.”

  Betcha scowled and began tapping his boot on the floor. “Well, that’s interesting. You found a car floating along in the stream—”

  “No. There was someone in it.”

  “Who was in it, son?” Joe Mason asked.

  “Jane Barry.”

  “Well, great gadgets!” Betcha marveled. “You make a strike and it just happens that one of the Barrys, the finest pirates in the business, is drifting by at the moment in a crippled car.”

  “No. I answered a call. She was way across the stream—in the Badlands. A big space liner hit her there.”

  “A space liner—in the Badlands. It gets thicker and thicker. I’ll betcha it had pink spots on it, and the jets were done up in blue ribbons.”

  “That was her story, and I didn’t believe it either, but her car was disabled.”

  Joe Mason waved an impatient hand. “What else could he do?” Then to Pete, “Did you lose the claim form on the way?”

  “Of course he didn’t,” Betcha snorted. “She made eyes at him and swiped it.”

  “I went in with her for a cup of tea.”

  Betcha gaped in amazement. “Well, glory be to Leo, if that isn’t—”

  “Go get the boy something to eat,” Joe Mason snapped. “He’s had a hard day and he’s hungry.” Betcha got up and grumbled his way to the bedroom door. Soon he was slamming pots around in the kitchen.

  “Do you think they picked your pocket, son?”

  “No, Dad. I honestly don’t think the Barrys are dishonest. I mean—well, she is a lone woman trying to raise a family—”

  “What about Homer?”

  “I don’t know about Homer.”

  “Was he there when you were?”

  “He came as I was leaving.”

  “I heard there was some trouble at the meeting last night.”

  “Yes, I didn’t get a chance to tell you. Milt Blaney accused Homer. He said Homer was one of three men who raided his claim and shot him.” Pete almost added his suspicions of Homer Barry. But his father was quick to flare, so Pete decided to wait for more concrete evidence. Unnecessary excitement at the moment would serve no purpose.

  “You helped Homer escape.”

  “Yes—yes, I did. It seemed the right thing to do.”

  “It was, Pete.” Joe Mason stopped to scowl and Pete was struck by what he could only term as his father’s new mildness. Not mild exactly, but that was the best word Pete could think of. The inherent storminess had gone out of Joe Mason. This was a mixed blessing for Pete. His father was more gentle and understanding now, but this might also indicate that his injuries from the accident were more than physical; that his morale had become a matter of concern.

  “It was the right thing to do,” Joe Mason repeated. “Charges of that kind should be made to the authorities, not in front of a bunch of hot-headed miners.”

  “That’s the way I felt about it.”

  “Now—what about the claim form? Where do you think you lost it?”

  “I don’t know. I was wrestling with the Barry children when I visited their ship. Maybe…”

  Joe Mason’s eyebrows went up. “I didn’t know you knew them that well.”

  “I don’t—I didn’t, that is. They’re—well, they kind of move in and climb all over you. I’ll call and ask them if—”

  “I wouldn’t do that. They found it or they didn’t. Calling won’t change that. It would only make them realize how important it is.”

  “You still think they’re thieves.”

  “I didn’t say that. But I think it would be smarter to keep your business to yourself. Go back and rework the orbit tomorrow and take it straight to the claim office.”

  “I’d better not wait. I’d better do it right now.”

  “You’ve had a long day. Get some rest first. We can’t have you running yourself down and getting sick.”

  Pete obeyed, mainly to humor his father. Again, a different Joe Mason had been reflected, and as he ate his dinner and got into bed, Pete wondered about advancing years and their affect on people. He never talked about such things and even his father was not aware of this serious streak in his nature. But it was not beyond Pete’s scope to think about such things. The older people got, it seemed to him, the less sure of themselves they became.

  It followed then, he thought, that fathers got comfort and satisfaction from seeing themselves in their sons; that a son listening to his father and gaining from the experience and wisdom of years was not just a smart thing to do. It was a duty.

  As he drifted off to sleep, his thoughts went elsewhere; back to his day with the crazy Barrys. That bunch’ll get me in trouble, he told himself. Stay clear of them.

  But even at that point, a small voice deep inside told him it might not work out that way.

  Pete slept five hours and when he opened his eyes, he was wide awake. The house was still except for Betcha’s healthy snores. The racket was helpful in a way. It covered the small sounds Pete made as he got dressed, left the house, and headed for his new-found claim. He fed the data he remembered into his finder and set his course. And even though he was sure of his figures, he was still relieved when, two hours later, the cone-shaped asteroid came into view on the
sun-side just as it had appeared previously.

  Resolving to let nothing divert him from his job this time, he set down on the broad, flat surface and again went to work on the orbit. This being the second time around, the operation went faster. But it was still three hours before he finished filling in the second form and lifted his monocar into the Parma arc.

  He had some bad luck in transit. The location of Parma was against the Belt stream in relation to his claim, and he was challenged by a jagged cluster that had drifted into the channel. It was too thick to thread without data on its formation, so Pete went around it, thus losing another two hours. So it was high noon—Belt time—when he sat down on Parma and entered the Federation claim office.

  The blond youth was behind the desk. A night’s sleep hadn’t cheered him up any; his manner as wearily resigned as before.

  Pete laid his claim form on the desk. “Here it is. A new one. Now we can get this filing business over with.”

  “Of course,” the blond young man agreed. He took four additional forms from the neat piles behind him and handed them to Pete. “Just fill these out while I register the orbit.”

  Pete crossed the room to a desk and sat down to his work. He’d never filed a claim before, but the process was a familiar one. He’d watched his father do it many times.

  He’d worked for perhaps fifteen minutes when the clerk called to him from the desk. “Mr. Mason, would you please step over here a moment?”

  Pete went back to the desk, his eyes questioning. “There seems to be some mistake,” the clerk said. “This is a duplicate filing.”

  “Why, that’s crazy! What do you mean—duplicate?”

  “A claim on this location was legally filed at nine o’clock this morning.”

  “That’s impossible!”

  “Nevertheless, it’s true. The orbits are identical, and we both know that two claims cannot occupy the same space at the same time.”

  If this was an attempt at humor, it was lost on Pete. “Who—what—when—?” he sputtered. “Who filed the other claim? When did—?”

  “There were three men waiting for me when I opened the office this morning. They had their claim forms all filled out and ready.”