"Hold on!" Gregor yelped. "You can't do this! I'm almost out of food, my main drive is shot and I can't stand these animals much longer!"
"Sorry."
"You can't turn me away," Gregor said hoarsely. "This is a public warehouse. You have to —"
"Public? I beg your pardon, sir. This warehouse is owned and operated by the Trigale Combine."
The radio went dead. Gregor stared at it for several minutes.
Trigale!
Of course they hadn't bothered him at their Central Warehouse. They had him by simply refusing landing privileges at their Vermoine warehouse.
And the hell of it was, they were probably within their rights.
He couldn't land on the planet. Bringing the ship down without a main drive would be suicide. And there was no other space warehouse in the Vermoine solar system.
Well, he had brought the animals almost to the warehouse. Certainly Mr. Vens would understand the circumstances and judge his intentions.
He contacted Vens on Vermoine II and explained the situation.
"Not at the warehouse?" Vens asked.
"Well, within fifty miles of the warehouse," Gregor said.
"That really won't do. I'll take the animals, of course. They're mine. But there are forfeiture clauses in the event of incomplete delivery."
"You wouldn't invoke them, would you?" Gregor pleaded. "My intentions —"
"They don't interest me," Vens said. "Margin of profit and all that. We colonists need every little bit." He signed off.
Perspiring in the cold room, Gregor called Arnold and told him the news.
"It's unethical!" Arnold declared in outrage.
"But legal."
"I know, damn it. I have to have time to think."
"You'd better find something good," Gregor said.
"I'll call you back."
Gregor spent the next few hours feeding his animals, picking the Queel wool out of his hair and burning more furniture on the deck of the ship. When the radio buzzed, he crossed his fingers before answering it.
"Arnold?"
"No, this is Vens."
"Listen, Mr. Vens," Gregor said, "if you'd just give us a little more time, we could work out this thing amicably. I'm sure —"
"Oh, you've got me over a barrel, all right," Vens snapped. "It's perfectly legal, too. I checked. Shrewd operation, sir, very shrewd operation. I'm sending a tug for the animals."
"But the forfeiture clause —"
"Naturally, I cannot invoke it." Vens signed off.
Gregor stared at the radio. Shrewd operation? What had Arnold done? He called Arnold's office.
"This is Mr. Arnold's secretary," a young feminine voice answered. "Mr. Arnold has left for the day."
"Left? Secretary? Is this the Arnold of AAA Ace? I've got the wrong Arnold, haven't I?"
"No, sir, this is Mr. Arnold's office, of the AAA Ace Planetary Warehouse Service. Did you wish to place an order? We have a first-class warehouse in the Vermoine system, in an orbit near Vermoine II. We handle light, medium, and heavy gravity products. Personal supervision by our Mr. Gregor. And I think you'll find our rates are quite attractive."
So that was what Arnold had done — he had turned their ship into a warehouse! On paper, at least. And their contract did give them the option of supplying their own warehouse. Clever!
But that nuisance Arnold could never leave well enough alone. Now he wanted to go into the warehouse business!
"What did you say, sir?"
"I said this is the warehouse speaking. I want to leave a message for Mr. Arnold."
"Yes, sir?"
"Tell Mr. Arnold to cancel all orders," Gregor said grimly. "His warehouse is coming home as fast as it can hobble."
1954