Trace lifted a second chair and sent it crashing through the window behind their table, and they ran out through the jagged opening. They ran for a block before they stopped to catch their breath.
“Let’s get a ticket for the mines,” Trace said, leaning against a luminous, intricately carved panel of green. “The whole fleet’s probably going to get recalled for this.”
Duncan was grinning happily. He nodded. Arm in arm they went on down the street, the natives making room for them unassumingly. The mining country was twelve hundred miles north, and there was one scheduled carrier leaving that evening, or four on the following day. Knowing that if they remained in the city, and if the fleet was recalled as a result of the brawl, they would miss their chance to see the mines, they chose to go on the overnight carrier.
The ride was whisper quiet and smooth and they slept throughout the night, to be awakened by the slowing of the carrier as they approached a town. They were in mountainous country now; the early morning sun glinted from green extrusions of bare rock at elevations of over fifteen thousand feet. The land they were passing through looked as if a war had been fought over it. It was pitted and stripped and bared to the elements which had removed the rest of the topsoil, greenery, trees, everything that had rested on the valuable rocky bed.
The town they were entering was largely abandoned, with tall, handsome buildings of the ubiquitous green stone standing empty and uncared for. Shops were closed; in some cases the sheets of paper-thin stone that was often used for windows had been taken from the frames, and the wind howled through the bare interiors. A second track joined theirs, and then there were more until the tracks gave the appearance of gigantic metal rays even spaced, all drawing in close to the centre of an immense web. They began to see other carriers, not sleek, shiny-green as theirs was, but work-carriers, grey, heavy bellied and ugly, loaded with ores in every stage of refinement, from the virgin metallic rocks, to shaped blocks ready to be used for buildings, to car-loads of what looked like green dust. Other cars were tightly sealed, with guards riding them. The guards were all wearing the dun-coloured uniforms of the World Group Security forces. They looked at Trace and Duncan without expression when they left their carrier and started to walk across the loading dock following a sign, in W.G. English, that directed them to the car leaving for Mocklem Mines.
They had time for breakfast, they learned, and they were directed to the only restaurant in town that was still open. In it they were served the food that the World Group workers were fed throughout the galaxy: thin, tasteless coffee, synthetic eggs, paper-like bread. The restaurant had been one of the natives’ buildings, but it now bore the stamp of the World Group. Government issue furnishings appeared oversized against the built-in fixtures, oversized and awkwardly ugly, and where there had been surfaces that could be painted, they had been: flat whites that now were streaked and dirty, dark red floor paint that was chipping and cracked. It was a depressing room; they hurried through the meal and went back outside to wait in the cool morning mountain air until it was time to leave.
“If there was a train, or anything, going back right now, I’d take it,” Duncan said once as they waited.
Trace knew he would too. From what he had read of this world, he knew it was mostly mountainous, with little flat land for farming. The cities must be like oases, he thought, where people can pretend they haven’t spoiled everything outside. They deserved to be invaded and controlled, he decided. Most of them did, if you looked closely enough. He was glad when they could get in the smaller carrier that would take them to the mines.
They were met by a guard who looked them over sourly, glanced at their passes and then called to a second guard to show them to Dr. Vianti. The second man looked even sourer. “Inspection?” he asked. Trace kept his face straight and said nothing. In silence they were taken across a wide, empty compound to a low, grey-green building. The guard took them inside and turned them over to a native girl who seemed afraid. Her eyes were very large and golden in her pale face. Her yellow hair was below her waist at the back when she turned and led them into an inner room.
“Doctor,” she said softly, “some inspectors are here.”
Trace and Duncan exchanged glances; neither of them smiled nor corrected the girl. They waited a moment; with an apologetic murmur the girl left them, hurrying across the room to a door in the far wall. She knocked lightly on it, opened it a crack and said something, then pulled it closed and returned to them.
“Dr. Vianti will be out in a moment,” she said in flawless English. Hurriedly she walked out. The room they were left in was a larger office. What attracted the attention of both of them was the view from the window wall of shimmering, transparent stone. They were looking out over the biggest mine in the galaxy. A whole mountain was being eaten away, layer by layer, section by section. It was being carved into terraces, like giant stairs, and against each riser metal machines were shining in the sun, machines that moved and cut and loaded cars, all at the same pace, so that all the steps were being cut away simultaneously. In the few moments that they watched, car after car was carried away on the tracks, each one loaded with the ore, each one giving mute evidence to so many cubic feet of the mountain now gone.
There was a sound behind them and they turned together to see a tiny man emerge from the other room. He glanced at them, turned a key in the door and pocketed it, and then came forward to meet them.
“I am Dr. Vianti,” he said. He stood two feet shorter than Trace, and couldn’t have weighed more than sixty pounds. His eyes were piercing brilliant green, his skin unhealthily white, and he looked as if what flesh he had were being melted away from his frame. But there was life and intelligence in his very green eyes.
“Lieutenant Ellender Tracy, sir. And this is Lieutenant Ford Duncan,” Trace said, coming to attention.
“Ah, yes. Another inspection, my secretary tells me. Of course. This way, gentlemen.” The doctor turned and led them from the room. He didn’t look at them again. His voice was as emotionless as a professional guide’s. “This is Mocklem Mine, the site of the world’s richest deposits of native platinum, along with peridot, magnesium, iron, and olivine pyroxenite. If you will, please.” He led them outside to a small car suspended from a rail. The car swayed as he opened the door for them. The rail went out over a chasm that looked bottomless as mist swirled, hiding the lower levels. The doctor was talking again, as they hesitated. “This car will take us to the mines themselves, which, as you can see, are across the valley now. It is an eleven-thousand-foot drop to the floor of the valley, which incidentally is entirely man-made. Or machine-made, I should say. At one time the mines were on a level with the headquarters building we have just left. Above us the peak rises another seventeen thousand feet, and it is being worked to the peak, as you can see.” They continued to hesitate, and he looked at Trace for the first time since emerging from his locked room. “You do want to inspect the mines themselves, don’t you?”
There was no humour on his face; he simply looked very old, and very tired. Trace thought he must be quite ill. He shrugged and climbed inside the car that swayed precariously with his weight. Duncan followed, and then the doctor got in and pulled the door closed. He continued, as if he had not stopped:
“Mocklem Mine has been worked for twenty-seven years, has had ninety-six billion tons of ore removed from the site, and continues to yield pure, native platinum at the rate of one part to each three parts of gabbro and olivine pyroxenite. There are numerous vugs where druses of peridot crystals averaging eight inches are found.”