[Computer]: In bed, you mean?
That’s her best side, pal.
[Computer]: Is that necessary? It will complicate the interpersonal relationships….
Everything’s already so goddamned complicated that I feel like I’m a pretzel trapped in a spaghetti factory. What should I do?
[Computer]: What do you want to do?
I want to get them both off my back!
[Computer]: And what would be the best way to do that, do you think?
That’s what I’m asking you!
[Computer]: How do you feel about this situation?
Oh Christ! I know this program. Whenever you’re stuck you ask me how I feel. Get lost! Turn off!
[Computer]: Are you certain you want to do this?
End the program, dammit! When I want to jerk off I’ll do it in the bathroom.
Well, those sneaking, slithering, slimy bastards at Rockledge have struck again.
This morning we got an order from the International Astronautical Authority—bless ’em—that forbids us from mining any more asteroids until further notice.
A moratorium on asteroid mining! Only temporary, they say. But “temporary” to those lard-bottomed bureaucrats could mean years! I could be old and senile before they lift the moratorium.
Those fatheaded drones claim that we’ve perturbed the orbit of Aphrodite so much that there’s a chance it might strike the Earth. There’s not much left of Aphrodite, but she’s still big enough to cause damage wherever she lands. The media are already talking about the “killer asteroid” and running stories about how an asteroid hit wiped out the dinosaurs sixty-five million years ago.
Absolute bullshit!
What’s happened is that Rockledge and the other big boys are putting pressure on the IAA to stop me—uh, us, that is. Now that they know we can undercut their price for water, they’re using Aphrodite as an excuse. If the asteroid’s orbit poses a threat, the IAA can send a team out with enough rocket thrusters to nudge it away from the Earth, for chrissakes. I’ll pay the friggin’ cost of the mission, if I have to. Take it off as a business expense; lower my goddamned taxes.
But what the IAA’s done is put a moratorium on all operations that might change an asteroid’s natural orbit. Hell, we’re the only operation out here in the Belt. They’re trying to stop us.
Well, fuck them!
I ordered Lonz to ignore the message. I’m not even going to acknowledge receiving it. We’re going ahead and mining that big chunk of nickel-iron, and then we’ll head back home with enough high-grade metal to make all the off-Earth settlements drool. They’ll want to do business with us, and there’s nothing the friggin’ IAA can do to stop them from buying what I’m selling.
Then we’ll let the lawyers fight it out. I’ll have all the space settlements on my side, and the media will love a story that pits us little guys against the big, bad corporate monsters.
Moratorium, my ass!
Yesterday we named the asteroid Pittsburgh. I called the partners together again and told them, not asked them, what the name would be. I was born in Pittsburgh, and back in its heyday it was a big steel-making town. So will this asteroid be. Our sensors show she’s practically solid metal.
This morning I sent my claim in to the IAA. I haven’t acknowledged their moratorium order, and I haven’t told the partners about it. Filing a claim for the asteroid doesn’t violate their moratorium, of course, but it’ll sure make them suspicious. What the hell! There’s nothing they can do about it. It’d take them a year to get a ship out here to try to stop us.
You’re not allowed to claim possession of an astronomical body, but once you’ve informed the IAA that you’ve established a working facility someplace you’ve got the right to use its natural resources there without anybody else coming in to compete with you. The facility can be scientific, industrial, or a permanent habitat. It could even be commercial, like a tourist hotel. That’s how the various settlements on the Moon were established; no nation owns them, but once a group lays claim to a territory, the IAA prevents any other group from muscling in on the same territory.
With a chunk of metal like Pittsburgh the LAA ought to give S. Gunn Enterprises, Unlimited, exclusive rights to mine its resources—moratorium or no fucking moratorium. The asteroid’s too small to allow another company to start whittling away at it. At least, that’s the legal position that the IAA agreed to before the Argo left Earth orbit. Now we’ll have to see if they stick to it.
In the meantime, there’s work to do.
Pittsburgh’s a beauty! We’re hovering about five hundred meters from her. At this distance she’s huge, immense, like a black pitted mountain hanging over our heads. I’ve spent most of the day taking the partners out for EVAs. To say they were impressed would be the understatement of the decade.
Imagine an enormous lump of coal-black metal, its surface roughened and pitted, its ridges and crater rims gleaming where the Sun strikes them. It’s so big it dwarfs you when you go outside, makes you feel like it’s going to crush you, almost.
I brought the partners out in twos. Each time a pair of them floated free of the airlock and looked up through their bubble helmets I heard the same sound out of them: a gasp—surprise, awe, fear, grandeur, all that and more.
Hubble asked for permission to chip some samples for himself, to study in the little lab he’s set up in his quarters. Bo Williams started reciting poetry, right there in his space suit. Even Jean Margaux, the Ice Queen, was audibly impressed.
Everybody except Darling came out to look.
“There’s our fortune,” I told each one of them over the suit-to-suit comm link. “Considering the mass of this beauty and the prices on today’s metals market, you’re looking at ten billion dollars, on the hoof. At least.”
That made them happy. Which was a good thing, because we’re getting down to the last of the preserved food. In a day or two we’re going to have to start eating the recycled stuff.
The IAA is still sending their moratorium to us, every hour on the hour. I’ve instructed the crew to ignore it and not to tell the partners about it. I’ve ordered them not to acknowledge any incoming messages from anybody. Then I sent out a message to my own office in Florida that we were experiencing some kind of communications difficulty, and all the incoming transmissions were so garbled we couldn’t make them out.
Lonz gave me a funny look when I sent that out. A guilty look.
“Nobody’s gonna hold you responsible,” I told him. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Right, boss,” he said. But he still looked uneasy. And he’s never called me boss before.
I spent most of the night watching the videos of Darling’s movements during the time I was taking the other partners outside to see Pittsburgh close-up.
It bothered me that he refused to go EVA like the rest of them. So I activated the ship’s internal monitoring system, the cameras that are set unobtrusively into the overhead panels of every section of the ship. I suppose I could have been watching everything that everybody does since the moment we left Earth orbit. Maybe that would’ve told me who the Rockledge fink is. Certainly it would have been as good as watching porno flicks.
But there are seven of them and only one of me. I’d have to spend seven times the hours I actually have in the hopes of catching somebody performing an act of sabotage—or doing something in bed I haven’t done myself, and better.
Anyway, I discovered Darling’s secret. Trouble is, it’s got nothing to do with Rockledge or possible sabotage. The sneaky lard-ass has been hoarding food! While the rest of the partners were up in the command center or suiting up at the main airlock, he was tiptoeing down to the food lockers and hauling armfuls of goodies back to his own suite. He’s got packaged food stored in his bureau drawers, canned food stuffed under his bed, whole cases of food hidden in his closets.