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 assured 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 parsecs 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 God!" 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 . . . God." 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 tycoon, who had begun to examine the documents, 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 mass 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-

 

balls. But how in hell 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-God 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 shell. 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

assure . . ."

 

"Yeah," Maynard said again. "I'm assured, 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 Class 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 God-knows-how-many

mega-hell, no; not megabucks, it'll be billions. With production equaling full demand and

the price set by the PESI formula it'll be God-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 damned 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 classes 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 space 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-God 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."

 

"Ah. `Conserve' is right. Pete has a very fine Italian hand indeed. I'm going to like this.

Not money at all, but power."

 

"Not exactly-or rather, we want power back of us. We want to explore subspace and

deep space in ways and to depths that have never even been thought of before. There

must be thousands of things not only undiscovered, but not even imagined yet. Barbara

and I want to go out after some of them; and, since nobody can have any idea whatever

of what we may run into, it is clear that the highly special ship may turn out to be the

smallest part of what we'll need. So we'll want the full backing of the biggest private

organization it is possible to build. A firm big enough and strong enough to operate on a

scale-now possible only to governments-one able and willing to handle anything we may

stir up. Our present thought is that when MetEnge gets big enough we will offer it a

fifty-fifty share of the expedition, build the ship, and take off. As I said, there's nothing

clear about it."

 

"It's clear enough for me to like it. You'd be surprised at the way the first part of the

program ties in with stuff I've been working on for a long time. As for the other-

 

untrammeled research into the completely unknown you realize, of course, that if

MetEnge participates fifty-fifty, DesDes will be on a non-retainer basis all the time you

are out and will have to split fifty-fifty."

 

"But there isn't going to be anything the least bit commercial about it!" Barbara protested.

 

"You're wrong there, young lady. Research always has paid off big, in hard dollars. So I'll

buy the package." Maynard got up and shook hands with them both. "I'll take this stuff

along. WarnOil's legal department is acting for you, I suppose?"

 

"Yes."

 

"In the morning we'll send them a check for one dollar, with a firm binder, by special

messenger and start things rolling."

 

"Oh, you don't think it's silly, then?" Barbara asked. "I was awfully afraid you'd think this

last part of it was." "Far from it. I'm sure it will be immensely profitable." "In that case we

have some more news for you." Both Destons were smiling happily. "We also found a

deposit of native copper and copper ores big enough and solid enough for full

automation."

 

"Copper!" Maynard yelled, jumping out of his chair. "Why the hell didn't you bring that up

first?"

 

"When would this other thing have been settled if we had?"

 

"You've got a point there. Where is it?" "Belmark. Strulsa Three, you know."

 

"Belmark! We prospected Belmark-it's colonized-fairly well along. We didn't find any

more copper there than anywhere else."

 

"It'd be impossible to find by any usual method, and it's over five hundred miles from the

nearest town. Our finding it was a ... not an accident, but a byproduct while we were

training for uranium. If we'd known then what we know now I'd've found you a big one,

but we weren't interested in copper."

 

'How big is this one?"

 

"It'll smelt something over a hundred million tons of metal. It'll tide you over, but I don't

know about amortizing the plant."

 

"We can cut the price in half and still amortize in months ... but amortization cuts no ice

here ... let's see, production of primary copper runs about six million tons ... but if we cut

the price to the bone, God knows what the sales potential is. . . ."

 

Maynard immersed himself in thought, then went on, "Definitely. That's the way to do it.

Hit 'em hard. Really slug 'em . . . that is, if ... how sure are you, Carl, that you can find us

another big deposit? Within, say, a year?"

 

Deston's mind flashed back over the comparatively few copper surveys he had made.

"Copper isn't too scarce and it tends to aggregate. I'll guarantee to find you one at least

three times that big within thirty days."

 

"Good! Let's cut the chatter, then. I can use your com?" "Of course," Barbara said; but

Maynard's question had been purely a matter of form. He was already punching his call.

 

"Miss Champion," Maynard said, when his FirSec's face showed on the screen. "I hope

you don't have any engagements for tonight."

 

"I have a date, but it's with Don, so he'll understand perfectly when I break it." She did

not ask any questions; she merely raised her perfectly-sculptured black eyebrows.

 

"I want him, too, so bring him downtown as soon as you can. And please get hold of

Quisenberry and Felton and tell them to get to the office jet-propelled. That's all for now."

 

"I'll get right at it, Mr. Maynard."

 

Maynard punched off and turned to Deston. "I almost forgot-what are you charging for

this?"

 

"Nothing. Free gratis for nothing." "Huh?"

 

"We have no claim on it. Nobody has. It's never even been surveyed; so call it DesDes's

contribution toward knocking Burley Hoadman and his UCM off of the Christmas tree."

 

"You've got the dope on it here in your office?"

 

"Yes." Deston went to his desk and brought back a briefcase. "Here's everything

necessary."

 

"Thanks immensely. We'll own it shortly. As for your royalties, we've been accused of

claim-stealing, but we usually pay discoverers' royalties and we'll be glad to on this one.

Brother, will we be glad to! So Phelps will-no, he'd take it for nothing, the skinflint, and

lick his chops. I'll have Don Smith take care of it tonight. And now that that's settled,"

Maynard smiled as he had not smiled in weeks, "about that trip of yours. I envy you. If

we were twenty five years younger I'd talk my wife into going along with you. I'd better

call her; and I'd like to have her meet both of you."

 

"Why, we'd be delighted to meet her!" Barbara exclaimed.

 

Mrs. Maynard proved to be a willowy, strong-featured, gracious woman with whom the

years had dealt very lightly. She was as glad to meet the Destons, about whom she had

heard so much, as they were to meet her. And so on.

 

"I'm very sorry, Mrs. Maynard," Barbara said, finally, "that we had to keep your husband

so . . ."

 

"Think nothing of it," Maynard interrupted, briskly. "Just one of those things. If you'd like

to come downtown to the office, Floss, I'll take you out to dinner sometime during the

evening."

 

"I would like to, Upton, thanks. I'll be down in an hour or so."

 

The Destons escorted Maynard up to the roof and to his waiting aircar; and after it had

taken off:

 

"What do you suppose he meant by that `just one of those things' crack?" Deston asked.

 

"Why, he was on a com, silly, so he was afraid to say anything! Even that he was going

to work all night!" Barbara explained, excitedly. "That's how big he knows it is!" and the

two went enthusiastically into each other's arms.