Rostoff sneered, "You seem to be getting noble rather late in the game,
Mathers. Business is business."
Don Mathers was shaking his head. "We immediately begin selling our
radioactives at cost of production. I might remind you gentlemen that
although we're supposedly a three-way partnership, actually,
everything's in my name. You thought you had me under your thumb so
securely that it was safe--and you probably didn't trust each other.
Well, I'm blowing the whistle."
* * * * *
Surprisingly fast for such a fat man, Lawrence Demming's hand flitted
into a desk drawer to emerge with a twin of the scrambler tucked in
Don's belt.
Don Mathers grinned at him, even as he pushed his jacket back to reveal
the butt of his own weapon. He made no attempt to draw it, however.
He said softly, "Shoot me, Demming, and you've killed the most popular
man in the Solar System. You'd never escape the gas chamber, no matter
how much money you have. On the other hand, if I shoot you ..."
He put a hand into his pocket and it emerged with a small, inordinately
ordinary bit of ribbon and metal. He displayed it on his palm.
The fat man's face whitened at the ramifications and his hand relaxed to
let the gun drop to the desk. "Listen, Don," he broke out. "We've been
unrealistic with you. We'll reverse ourselves and split, honestly--split
three ways."
Don Mathers laughed at him. "Trying to bribe me with money, Demming? Why
don't you realize, that I'm the only man in existence who has no need
for money, who can't spend money? That my fellow men--whom I've done
such a good job of betraying--have honored me to a point where money is
meaningless?"
Rostoff snatched up the fallen gun, snarling, "I'm calling your bluff,
you gutless rummy."
Don Mathers said, "Okay, Rostoff. There's just two other things I want
to say first. One--I don't care if I die or not. Two--you're only twenty
feet or so away, but you know what? I think you're probably a lousy
shot. I don't think you've had much practice. I think I can get my
scrambler out and cut you down before you can finish me." He grinned
thinly, "Wanta try?"
Max Rostoff snarled a curse and his finger whitened on the trigger.
Don Mathers fell sideward, his hand streaking for his weapon. Without
thought there came back to him the long hours of training in hand
weapons, in judo, in hand to hand combat. He went into action with cool
confidence.
* * * * *
At the spaceport he took a cab to the Presidential Palace. It was an
auto-cab, of course, and at the Palace gates he found he had no money on
him. He snorted wearily. It was the first time in almost a year that
he'd had to pay for anything.
Four sentries were standing at attention. He said, "Do one of you boys
have some coins to feed into this slot? I'm fresh out."
A sergeant grinned, approached, and did the necessary.
Don Mathers said wearily, "I don't know how you go about this. I don't
have an appointment, but I want to see the President."
"We can turn you over to one of the assistant secretaries, Captain
Mathers," the sergeant said. "We can't go any further than that. While
we're waiting, what's the chances of getting your autograph, sir? I
gotta kid ..."
It wasn't nearly as complicated as he'd thought it was going to be. In
half an hour he was seated in the office where he'd received his
decoration only--how long ago was it, really less than a year?
He told the story briefly, making no effort to spare himself. At the end
he stood up long enough to put a paper in front of the other, then sat
down again.
"I'm turning the whole corporation over to the government...."
* * * * *
The President said, "Wait a minute. My administration does not advocate
State ownership of industry."
"I know. When the State controls industry you only put the whole mess
off one step, the question then becomes, who controls the State?
However, I'm not arguing political economy with you, sir. You didn't let
me finish. I was going to say, I'm turning it over to the government to
untangle, even while making use of the inventories of radioactives.
There's going to be a lot of untangling to do. Reimbursing the
prospectors and small operators who were blackjacked out of their
holdings by our super-corporation. Reimbursing of the miners and other
laborers who were talked into accepting low pay in the name of
patriotism." Don Mathers cut it short. "Oh, it's quite a mess."
"Yes," the President said. "And you say Max Rostoff is dead?"
"That's right. And Demming off his rocker. I think he always was a
little unbalanced and the prospect of losing all that money, the
greatest fortune ever conceived of, tipped the scales."