"There must be a solution," Arnold said sullenly.
"Yeah? Suppose you find it."
Arnold sat down where his desk had been and covered his eyes. There was a loud knock on the door, and angry voices outside.
"Lock the door," Arnold said.
Gregor locked it. Arnold thought for a few moments longer, then stood up.
"All is not lost," he said. "Our fortunes will still be made from this machine."
"Let's just destroy it," Gregor said. "Drop it in an ocean or something."
"No! I've got it now! Come on, let's get the spaceship warmed up."
The next few days were hectic ones for AAA Ace. They had to hire men, at exorbitant rates, to clear the building of Tangreese. Then came the problem of getting the machine, still spouting grey dust, into their spaceship. But at last, everything was done. The Free Producer sat in the hold, rapidly filling it with Tangreese, and their ship was out of the system and moving fast on overdrive.
"It's only logical," Arnold explained later. "Naturally there's no market for Tangreese on Earth. Therefore there's no use trying to sell it on Earth. But on the planet Meldge—"
"I don't like it," Gregor said.
"It can't fail. It costs too much to transport Tangreese to Meldge. But we're moving our entire factory there. We can Pour out a constant stream of the stuff." "Suppose the market is low?" Gregor asked.
"How low can it get? This stuff is like bread to the Meldgens. It's their basic diet. How can we miss?"
After two weeks in space, Meldge hove in sight on their starboard bow. It came none too soon. Tangreese had completely filled the hold. They had sealed it off, but the increasing pressure threatened to burst the sides of the ship. They had to dump tons of it every day, but dumping took time, and there was a loss of heat and air in the process.
So they spiralled into Meldge with every inch of their ship crammed with Tangreese, low on oxygen and extremely cold.
As soon as they had landed, a large orange-skinned customs official came on board.
"Welcome," he said. "Seldom do visitors come to our unimportant little planet. Do you expect to stay long?"
"Probably," Arnold said. "We're going to set up a business."
"Excellent!" the official said, smiling happily. "Our planet needs new blood, new enterprise. Might I inquire what business?"
"We're going to sell Tangreese, the basic food of—"
The official's face darkened. "You're going to sell what?"
"Tangreese. We have a Free Producer, and—"
The official pressed a button on a wrist dial. "I am sorry, you must leave at once."
"But we've got passports, clearance papers—"
"And we have laws. You must blast off immediately and take your Free Producer with you."
"Now look here," Gregor said, "there's supposed to be free enterprise on this planet."
"Not in the production of Tangreese there isn't."
Outside, a dozen Army tanks rumbled on to the landing field and ringed themselves around the ship. The official backed out of the port and started down the ladder.
"Wait!" Gregor cried in desperation. "I suppose you're afraid of unfair competition. Well, take the Free Producer as our gift."
"No!" Arnold shouted.
"Yes! Just dig it out and take it. Feed your poor with it. Just raise a statue to us some time."
A second row of Army tanks appeared. Overhead, antiquated jet planes dipped low over the field.
"Get off this planet!" the Official shouted. "Do you really think you can sell Tangreese on Meldge? Look around!"
They looked. The landing field was grey and powdery, and the buildings were the same unpainted grey. Beyond them stretched dull grey fields, to a range of low grey mountains.
On all sides, as far as they could see, everything was Tangreese grey.
"Do you mean," Gregor asked, "that the whole planet—"
"Figure it out for yourself," the official said, backing down the ladder. "The Old Science originated here, and there are always fools who have to tamper with its artifacts. Now get going. But if you ever find a Laxian Key, come back and name your price."
1954