"As for the ore-carrier, I'd best impound it, pending the settlement of
the matter." Magnan drew a form from a drawer, filled in blanks, shoved
the paper across the desk. He turned and consulted a wall chart.
"The hotel is nearby at the moment, as it happens. Take the Consulate
dinghy. If you get out there right away, you'll catch them before the
evening binge has developed fully."
"I take it that's your diplomatic way of telling me that I'm now a
process server." Retief took the papers and tucked them into an inside
pocket.
"One of the many functions a diplomat is called on to perform in a
small consular post. Excellent experience. I needn't warn you to be
circumspect. These miners are an unruly lot--especially when receiving
bad news."
"Aren't we all." Retief rose. "I don't suppose there's any prospect
of your signing off that claim so that I can take a little good news
along, too?"
"None whatever," Magnan snapped. "They've been made a most generous
offer. If that fails to satisfy them, they have recourse through the
courts."
"Fighting a suit like that costs money. The Sam's Last Chance Mining
Company hasn't got any."
"Need I remind you--"
"I know. That's none of our concern."
"On your way out," Magnan said as Retief turned to the door, "ask Miss
Gumble to bring in the Gourmet catalog from the Commercial Library. I
want to check on the specifications of the Model C Banquet synthesizer."
An hour later, nine hundred miles from Ceres and fast approaching the
Jolly Barge Hotel, Retief keyed the skiff's transmitter.
"CDT 347-89 calling Navy FP-VO-6."
"Navy VO-6 here, CDT," a prompt voice came back. A flickering image
appeared on the small screen. "Oh, hi there, Mr. Retief. What brings
you out in the cold night air?"
"Hello, Henry. I'm estimating the Jolly Barge in ten minutes. It looks
like a busy night ahead. I may be moving around a little. How about
keeping an eye on me? I'll be carrying a personnel beacon. Monitor it,
and if I switch it into high, come in fast. I can't afford to be held
up. I've got a big meeting in the morning."
"Sure thing, Mr. Retief. We'll keep an eye open."
* * * * *
Retief dropped a ten-credit note on the bar, accepted a glass and
a squat bottle of black Marsberry brandy and turned to survey the
low-ceilinged room, a former hydroponics deck now known as the Jungle
Bar. Under the low ceiling, unpruned _Ipomoea batatas_ and _Lathyrus
odoratus_ vines sprawled in a tangle that filtered the light of the
S-spectrum glare panels to a muted green. A six-foot trideo screen,
salvaged from the wreck of a Concordiat transport, blared taped music
in the style of two centuries past. At the tables, heavy-shouldered men
in bright-dyed suit liners played cards, clanked bottles and shouted.
Carrying the bottle and glass, Retief moved across to an empty chair at
one of the tables.
"You gentlemen mind if I join you?"
Five unshaven faces turned to study Retief's six foot three, his
close cut black hair, his non-commital gray coverall, the scars on
his knuckles. A redhead with a broken nose nodded. "Pull up a chair,
stranger."
"You workin' a claim, pardner?"
"Just looking around."
"Try a shot of this rock juice."
"Don't do it, Mister. He makes it himself."
"Best rock juice this side of Luna."
"Say, feller--"
"The name's Retief."
"Retief, you ever play Drift?"
"Can't say that I did."
"Don't gamble with Sam, pardner. He's the local champ."
"How do you play it?"
The black-browed miner who had suggested the game rolled back his
sleeve to reveal a sinewy forearm, put his elbow on the table.
"You hook forefingers, and put a glass right up on top. The man that
takes a swallow wins. If the drink spills, it's drinks for the house."
"A man don't often win out-right," the redhead said cheerfully. "But it
makes for plenty of drinkin'."