"Their own story doesn't make sense. It's ridiculous. A new missile
system wouldn't be sent on a field trial clear to the Belt before it'd
had enough tests closer to home to get the worst bugs out. A war-head
missile wouldn't be stashed anywhere near something so unreliable, let
alone be put under its control. The testing ship wouldn't hang around
a civilian Station while her gunnery chief tinkered. And Hulse,
Warburton, Liebknecht, they were asking in _such_ detail about how
radiation-proof we are."
"I can't believe it. Nobody will."
"Not back home. Communication with Earth is so sparse and garbled. The
public will only know there was an accident; who'll give a hoot about
the details? We couldn't even prove anything in an asteroid court. The
Navy would say, 'Classified information!' and that'd stop the
proceedings cold. Sure, there'll be a board of inquiry--composed of
naval officers. Probably honorable men, too. But what are they going
to believe, the sworn word of their Goddard House colleague, or the
rantings of an asterite bum?"
"Mike, I know this is terrible for you, but you've let it go to your
head." Ellen laid a hand over his. "Suppose the worst happens. You'll
be compensated for your loss."
"Yeah. To the extent of our personal investment. The Bank of Ceres
still has nearly all the money that was put in. We didn't figure to
have them paid off for another ten years. They, or their insurance
carrier, will get the indemnity. And after our fiasco, they won't make
us a new loan. They were just barely talked into it, the first time
around. I daresay Systemic Developments will make them a nice juicy
offer to take this job over."
Ellen colored. She stamped her foot. "You're talking like a paranoiac.
Do you really believe the government of North America would send a
battleship clear out here to do you dirt?"
"Not the whole government. A few men in the right positions is all
that's necessary. I don't know if Hulse was bribed or talked into
this. But probably he agreed as a duty. He's the prim type."
"A duty--to destroy a North American business?"
* * * * *
Chung finished at the intercom in time to answer: "Not permanent
physical destruction, Miss Ziska. As Mike suggested, some corporation
will doubtless inherit the Sword and repair the damage. But a private,
purely asterite business ... yes, I'm afraid Mike's right. We are the
target."
"In mercy's name, why?"
"From the highest motives, of course," Chung sneered bitterly. "You
know what the Social Justice Party thinks of private capitalism.
What's more important, though, is that the Sword is the first Belt
undertaking not tied to Mother Earth's apron strings. We have no
commitments to anybody back there. We can sell our output wherever we
like. It's notorious that the asterites are itching to build up their
own self-sufficient industries. Quite apart from sentiment, we can
make bigger profits in the Belt than back home, especially when you
figure the cost of sending stuff in and out of Earth's gravitational
well. So certainly we'd be doing most of our business out here.
"Our charter can't simply be revoked. First a good many laws would
have to be revised, and that's politically impossible. There is still
a lot of individualist sentiment in North America, as witness the
fact that businesses do get launched and that the Essjays did have a
hard campaign to get elected. What the new government wants is
something like the Eighteenth Century English policy toward America.
Keep the colonies as a source of raw materials and as a market for
manufactured goods, but don't let them develop a domestic industry.
You can't come right out and say that, but you can let the situation
develop naturally.
"Only ... here the Sword is, obviously bound to grow rich and expand
in every direction. If we're allowed to develop, to reinvest our
profits, we'll become the nucleus of independent asterite enterprise.
If, on the other hand, we're wiped out by an unfortunate accident,
there's no nucleus; and a small change in the banking laws is all
that's needed to prevent others from getting started. Q.E.D."
"I daresay Hulse does think he's doing his patriotic duty," said
Blades. "He wants to guarantee North America our natural resources--in
the long run, maybe, our allegiance. If he has to commit sabotage, too
bad, but it won't cost him any sleep."
"No!" Ellen almost screamed.
Chung sagged in his chair. "We're very neatly trapped," he said like
an old man. "I don't see any way out. Think you can get to work now,
Mike? You can assign group leaders for the evacuation--"
Blades jumped erect. "I can fight!" he growled.
"With what? Can openers?"
"You mean you're going to lie down and let them break us?"
Avis came back. She thrust the bottle into Blades' hands as he paced
the room. "Here you are," she said in a distant voice.
He held it out toward Ellen. "Have some," he invited.
"Not with you ... you subversive!"
Avis brightened noticeably, took the bottle and raised it. "Then
here's to victory," she said, drank, and passed it to Blades.
He started to gulp; but the wine was too noble, and he found himself
savoring its course down his throat. _Why,_ he thought vaguely, _do
people always speak with scorn about Dutch courage? The Dutch have
real guts. They fought themselves free of Spain and free of the ocean
itself; when the French or Germans came, they made the enemy sea their
ally_--
The bottle fell from his grasp. In the weak acceleration, it hadn't
hit the floor when Avis rescued it. "Gimme that, you big
butterfingers," she exclaimed. Her free hand clasped his arm.
"Whatever happens, Mike," she said to him, "we're not quitting."
Still Blades stared beyond her. His fists clenched and unclenched. The
noise of his breathing filled the room. Chung looked around in
bewilderment; Ellen watched with waxing horror; Avis' eyes kindled.
"Holy smoking seegars," Blades whispered at last. "I really think we
can swing it."