Hollister shrugged. "If you claim they aren't using the station, I
wouldn't know."
"And if the government were to ask--you would be quite embarrassed."
"Then what do you suggest?" asked Hollister.
"Venus Equilateral has failed to live up to the letter of their license
regardless of what medium they are using to relay communications around
Sol," said Kingman. "Therefore I recommend that you suspend their
license."
"And then who will run Venus Equilateral?" asked Hollister.
"As of three years ago, the Terran Electric Company of Evanston,
Illinois, received an option on the operation of an interplanetary
communications company," said Kingman. "This option was to operate
at such a time as Venus Equilateral ceased operating. Now, since
Venus Equilateral has failed, I suggest that we show them that their
high-handedness will not be condoned. I recommend that this option be
fulfilled; that the license now held by Venus Equilateral be suspended
and turned over to Terran Electric."
Hollister nodded vaguely. "You understand that Venus Equilateral has
posted as bond the holdings of their company. This of course will be
forfeit if we choose to act. Now, Mr. Kingman, is the Terran Electric
Company prepared to post a bond equivalent to the value of Venus
Equilateral? Obviously we cannot wrest holdings from one company
and turn them over to another company free of bond. We must have
bond--assurance that Terran Electric will fulfill the letter of the
license."
"Naturally we cannot post full bond," replied Kingman stiffly. "But
we will post sufficient bond to make the transfer possible. The
remainder of the evaluation will revert to the Commission--as it was
previously. I might point out that had Venus Equilateral kept their
inventiveness and efforts directed only at communications, they would
not be now in this position. It was their side-interests that made
their un-subsidized and free incorporation possible. I promise you that
Terran Electric will never stoop to making a rubber-stamp group out of
the Interplanetary Communications Commission."
Hollister thought for a moment. But instead of thinking of the
ramifications of the deal, Hollister was remembering that in his home
was a medium sized duplicator made by Terran Electric. It had a very
low serial number and it had been delivered on consignment. It had been
sent to him not as a gift, but as a customer-use research--to be paid
for only if the customer were satisfied. Not only had Terran Electric
been happy to accept the thousand dollar bill made in the duplicator,
but it had happily returned three hundred dollars' worth of change--all
with the same serial number. But since Hollister received his
consignment along with the very first of such deliveries, Hollister had
prospered very well and had been very neatly situated by the time that
the desperate times of the Period of Duplication took place. Hollister
recalled that Venus Equilateral wanted to suppress the duplicator.
Hollister recalled also that Venus Equilateral had been rather rough on
a certain magistrate in Buffalo, and though he thought that it was only
a just treatment, it was nevertheless a deep and burning disrespect for
the Law.
Besides, if this deal went through, Hollister would once more be a
guiding hand in the operation of Venus Equilateral. He did believe that
Channing and Franks could out-do Terran Electric any day in the week,
but business is business. And if Kingman failed, the license could
always be turned back to Channing & Co.--with himself still holding a
large hunk of the pie.
"You will post bond by certified identium check," said Hollister.
"And as the new holder of the license, we will tender you papers that
will direct Venus Equilateral to hand over to you as representative
of Terran Electric, the holdings necessary to operate the Venus
Equilateral Relay Station and other outlying equipments and stations."
Kingman nodded happily. His bit of personal graft had begun to pay
off--though he of course did not consider his gift anything but a
matter of furnishing to a deserving person a gratuity that worked no
hardship on the giver.
The bond annoyed Kingman. Even in an era when material holdings had
little value, the posting of such securities as demanded left Kingman a
poor man. Money, of course, was not wanted nor expected. What he handed
over was a statement of the equivalent value on an identium check of
the Terran Electric Company, his holdings in the Research Services
Corporation, and just about everything he had in the way of items
that could not be handled readily by the normal sized duplicator. At
Terran Electric, for instance, they had duplicators that could build a
complete spacecraft if done in sections, and these monstrous machines
were what kept Terran Electric from the cobweb-growing stage. A man
could not build a house with the average household-sized duplicator,
and to own one large enough to build automobiles and the like was
foolish for they were not needed that often. Kingman didn't like to
post that size of bond, but he felt certain that within a year he would
be able to re-establish his free holdings in Terran Electric because
of revenues from Venus Equilateral. Doubtless, too, there were many
people on Venus Equilateral that he could hire--that he would need
desperately.
For Kingman had no intention of losing.
* * * * *
A duplicator produced snowflakes by the myriad and hurled them into
the corridor-ventilators. They swirled and skirled and piled into deep
drifts at the corners and in cul-de-sacs along the way. A faint odor of
pine needles went with the air, and from newly-installed water pipes
along the cornices, long icicles were forming. There was the faint
sound of sleigh bells along the corridors, but this was obviously
synthetic since Venus Equilateral had little use for a horse.
Kids who had never seen snow nor known a cold snap reveled in their
new snow suits and built a huge snowman along the Mall. One long ramp
that led into a snaky corridor was taken over by squatter's or rather
"sledder's"--rights and it became downright dangerous for a pedestrian
to try to keep his ankles away from the speeding sleds.
Snow forts were erected on either side of one wide corridor and the air
was filled with flying snowballs.
And from the station-wide public announcement system came the crooned
strains of Adeste Fideles and White Christmas.
A snowball hissed past Arden's ear and she turned abruptly to
give argument. She was met by another that caught her full in the
face--after which it was wiped off by her husband. "Merry Christmas,"
he chuckled.
"Not very," she said, but she could not help but smile back at him.
When he finished wiping her face Arden neatly dropped a handful of
snow down his collar. He retaliated by scooping a huge block out of
a near-by drift and letting it drape over her head. Arden pushed him
backwards into a snowbank and leaped on him and shovelled snow with
both hands until her hands stung with cold and Don was completely
covered.
Channing climbed out of the drift as Arden raced away. He gave chase,
though both of them were laughing too much to do much running. He
caught her a few hundred feet down the hall and tackled her, bringing
her down in another drift. As he was piling snow on her, he became the
focal point of a veritable barrage from behind, which drove him to
cover behind a girder. His assailants deployed and flushed him from
behind his cover, and he stood in the center of a large square area
being pelted from all sides.
Channing found a handkerchief and waved it as surrender. The pelting
slowed a bit, and Channing took that time to race to one side; join Jim
Baler, and hurl some snowballs at Barney Carroll across the square.
That evened things and the snowfight was joined by Arden, who arose
from her snowdrift to join Barney Carroll and Keg Johnson.
"We used to freeze 'em," grunted Don.
"Me too," agreed Jim. "These things wouldn't stop a fly."
Then down the corridor there hurtled a snowball a good two feet in
diameter. It caught Channing between the shoulder blades and flattened
him completely. Baler turned just in time to stop another one with the
pit of his stomach. He went 'ooof!' and landed in the drift beside Don.
Another huge one went over their heads as Don was arising, and he saw
it splat against a wall to shower Barney Carroll and Arden with bits.
"Those would," remarked Don. "And if Walt weren't honeymooning
somewheres, I'd suspect that Our Tom Swift had just hauled off and
re-invented the ancient Roman catapult."
"There's always Wes Farrell, or does the physicist in him make him
eschew such anachronisms?" asked Jim.
Arden scurried across the square in time to hear him, and she replied:
"Not at all. So long as the thing is powered by a new spring-alloy and
charged by a servo-mechanism run by a beam-energy tube. Bet he packs
'em with an automatic packing gadget, too."
Barney Carroll caught one across the knees that tripped him headlong as
he crossed the square. He arrived grunting and grinning. "We can either
take it idly," he said, "or retreat in disorder, or storm whatever
ramparts he has back there."
"I dislike to retreat in disorder," said Channing. "Seems to me that we
can get under that siege-gun of his. He must take time to re-load. Keep
low, fellers, and pack yourself a goodly load of snowballs as we go."
"How to carry 'em?" asked Arden.
Don stripped off his muffler, and made a sling of it. Then down the
corridor they went, dodging the huge snowballs that came flying over at
regular intervals. Channing finally timed the interval, and then they
raced forward in clear periods and took cover when fire was expected.
They came upon Farrell eventually. He was 'dug in' behind a huge drift
over which the big missiles came looping. Farrell had obviously cut
the power of his catapult to take care of the short-range trajectory,
but his aim was still excellent. With as many snowballs as they could
carry, the attackers stormed the drift, pelting without aim until their
supply was gone and then scooping snow up and throwing without much
packing.
Behind the rampart was Wes Farrell with a trough-shaped gadget and a
pair of heavy coil springs. Above the rear end of the trough was a
duplicator. It dropped a snowball on the trough and the springs snapped
forward.
The flying ball caught Don Channing in the pit of the stomach just as
he attained the top of the rampart.
When he regained the top once more, the festivities were about over.
The shooting was stopped, and the others of his side had Farrell held
face upward on the trough while the duplicator dropped snowball after
snowball on him.
"Wonder how far we could shoot him," suggested Jim Baler.
Farrell did not think that funny. He struggled to his feet and then
grinned, "Fine war," he told them. "Anybody ready for a bit of hot
toddy?"
Channing grunted. "Yeah, and a hot bath and a hearty dinner and a seven
hour sleep. So you've taken over Walt's job of making weapons, huh?"
"Walt will be green with envy," said Arden.
Don sobered. "He's missing plenty. I've got all the word out that if
he's seen, get here quick. He must have dropped the _Relay Girl_ in
some out of the way place. He hasn't landed on any regular spaceport."
"There's lots of room for that in the Palanortis Country," said Farrell.
"We've got likker and wassail and turkey," said Arden. "Also mistletoe.
Let's go to our place and drink Walt's health and Christine's
happiness."
"And that's appropriately apportioned," remarked Don with a grin.
"Walt's health and Christine's happiness. But I'll bet a hat that
they'd not mind being cold if they knew what fun this is." He brushed
snow from the back of his neck and grinned. "Let's add fuel for the
inner man," he suggested, leading the way to the Channing apartment.
* * * * *
Walt Franks sat dully in a chair, his eyes glazed over and but half
open. Through them dimly and out of focus he could see Christine,
who was huddled and quiet under the blankets. Her lips were blue
and Walt felt dully that this should not be so but he had trouble
remembering why. There was but one thought in his mind, and that was
to awaken Christine before he himself fell asleep. They'd been doing
that for--for--for years? No, that was not right. It must have been
days, because he hadn't been living with Christine for years. Fact,
he hadn't really lived with Christine at all; he'd just found her when
this all happened--and--and--
He shook himself, and the motion hurt inside and outside. His muscles
ached and where his skin touched a bit of clothing that hadn't been
against his skin before it was bitterly cold. Quickly, Walt opened his
hands and then drew out his left hand from the pocket and took a quick
look at his wrist watch. He stuffed his hand back in again quickly and
tried to stand up.
His legs were numb and he almost fell forward, which carried him
where he wanted to go anyway, so he just let himself stumble forward
heartlessly until he fell on his knees beside the couch.
"Christine," he mumbled. To himself his voice sounded loud, but it was
faint and cracked. It hurt his lips to move, but he moved them for
Christine where he would have moved them for no one else.
"Christine," he said, a bit more clearly and loudly on the second
attempt.
"Christine!"
Dull eyes opened and cracked lips smiled faintly and painfully.
"Mus' wake up," he warned.
She nodded--painfully slow. She made no effort to move.
Walt stood up and made his way to the accursed feeding machine. He
pressed the button and collected dollops of hot food in a shallow bowl.
It was a mess because coffee mingled with the many other items of a
fine balanced diet including appetizer and dessert made just that--a
mess. But it was hot and it was food, and though there was not a single
bit of silverware in the place, Walt managed. He carried the bowl to
the couch and offered it to Christine, who protestingly permitted Walt
to feed her with his fingers. She did not eat much, but it did warm
her. Then Walt finished the plate.
Christine shuddered under the blankets. "Suits losing ground?" she
asked.
Walt nodded pitifully.
Christine thought that over for a full minute. Then she said: "Must get
up, Walt."
Walt wanted to let her stay there, but he knew that she must arise and
move in order to keep from freezing. He nodded dumbly.
"Losing ground," he said, meaning the heated suite. Minutes he
considered it. Long minutes....
There was a faint crackling noise, and a pungent odor came. It
increased without either of them noticing it because their senses were
numbed. A curl of smoke wreathed Walt's chest and it rose above his
face and got into his eyes. Walt coughed and tears came and the salty
water dribbled down his cheeks, dropped to his suit, and froze.
"Something burning," he mumbled, looking around to see what it was.
"It's you!" cried Christine.
Walt looked down at his hip, where the tiny power tube was, and he saw
it smoking. As he watched, flame burst from the inside and came through.
He shucked the suit just as it burst into open flames, and he watched
it burn on the metal floor. He warmed himself against the flames, but
they were too meager to really help, and five minutes later all that
was left of the heated suit was a still-operating power tube and a
tangled maze of red hot heater-resistance wire.
Walt shivered. Beneath the suit he wore the usual slacks and
short-sleeved shirt, and it was pitifully inadequate. The dullness that
had been assailing him for hours reasserted itself--strengthened by
the exertion of removing the suit--and helped not at all by the scant
warmth from the fire.
Walt reeled dizzily, his eyes half closed, beads of ice from the tears
on his lashes gave the scene a dazzlingly sparkling tone that prevented
him from seeing clearly.
He fell forward and his body twitched violently as his skin touched the
viciously cold metal of the floor.
Christine hurled the covers back and with great effort she pulled and
lifted Walt onto the couch. She covered him and then leaned down and
kissed him with dry, cracked lips. As she stood up, she felt a spear of
pain at her side.
Looking, she found her suit on fire as Walt's had been. As Christine
fumbled with cold fingers at the fastenings, she realized that only
the added warmth of the blankets had kept both suits from burning out
at the same time. For they were duplicated models and were identical;
therefore they would burn out at exactly the same temperature.
She shivered in her thin summer frock even though she stood with the
flames licking at her sandals.
Then there were two useless tangles of wire on the floor, their red-hot
wires struggling hopelessly against the monstrous quantity of cold.
Christine shuddered convulsively, and turned slowly to look at Walt. He
was asleep already.
The sleep of frozen death.
Christine's eyes filled with tears which she brushed away quickly. She
smiled faintly.
It seemed warmer under the blankets, or maybe it was warmer there
beside him. His arm went around her instinctively though he slept and
Christine pressed against him partly to gain what warmth there was from
him and partly to give him what warmth there was in her.
It was warmer beneath the blankets.
Or, she thought just before the dizzying but welcome waves of black
slumber crept over her, this is that feeling of warmth that goes
before--
* * * * *
"Now that," said Arden with complimentary tones, "is something that
duplicating can't buy."
She meant the twenty piece orchestra that filled the vast hall with
music. It was a vast place, for it contained three thousand people,
all talking or dancing. Joe presided over a bowl of punch that would
have made Nero die of jealousy--it was platinum, fifteen feet in
diameter and studded profusely with huge gold chasings and inlays, and
positively alive with diamonds and emeralds. On the edge of the huge
bowl hung Joe's original sign, and Joe handled a huge silver ladle to
scoop the highly-charged punch into small gold cups.
Linna Johnson, she of the formerly be-jewelled class, proudly displayed
a bit of hand-made jewelry and told everybody that Keg had made it for
her. Barney Carroll was holding forth at great length to a group of
women on the marvels and mysteries of digging in the Martian desert
for traces of the Lost Martian Civilization, while his partner Jim was
explaining to Chuck and Freddie Thomas just how they intended to let
a matter-transmitter do their excavating for them. Wes Farrell was
explaining the operation of the element-filter and heterodyne gadget
that produced pure synthetic elements to a woman who nodded gayly and
didn't understand a word he said but would rather be baffled by Farrell
than be catered to by anyone else.
"It's quite a sight," agreed Don. "Never before."