Barrington Bayley - The Great Hydration

“How do we know you are what you say? How do we know you are not a mutated species of our own world who have found a supply of water and learned to live on it? You will take one of us to this ship which you say hangs in space.”

“Agreed.”

The Tlixix turned his four milky eyes on the Earthmen, studying them. Power exuded from the creature. Power and a ruthless determination. “There is equipment with which to communicate with your ship?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“All your property has been brought here. You will arrange for our representative to see the ship in space. Meantime, you remain here as our guests.”

The Tlixix spoke with a finality which caused Krabbe to glance at the crustacean guards behind him.

Turning off his translator, Bouche spoke aside to him. “They don’t trust us yet. They’re measuring us by their own cloth. They probably suspect we aim to control them the same way they control the dehydrate species. But don’t worry. We’re offering them paradise. They’re not going to be able to refuse.”

He turned the translator back on as the master of Tenacity spoke again.

“And if you restore our world to us, what do you want in return?”

Krabbe and Bouche both sighed.

The negotiating was about to begin.

Planets a gogetter company could realistically expect to do business with were generally a patchwork of authorities—nations, empires or the like—and that made matters complicated. Sometimes a gogetter’s intervention would spark off a destructive war, rendering any contract drawn up unenforceable.

To come upon a planet under one set of rules was a pretty good piece of luck. It meant the contract could be global.

However it was dressed up, what a gogetter wanted was to exchange beads for Manhattan. In return for some service or good-looking piece of technology, he would claim from the owner of a territory all interstellar trading rights, sewn together so as to hold up in a human court of law. If Krabbe and Bouche had their way, the lobsters’ ownership of their world would ultimately consist of little more than their tenancy of it.

All off-world commerce, all mining, manufacturing and trading not of a purely domestic character would belong solely to the firm of Krabbe & Bouche, Partners. Exclusive rights in the uninhabited bodies of the local planetary system would also be thrown in.

Exclusivity was in fact what gave the contract its value as an asset. The gogetter would rarely take up the options himself. But when, sooner or later, one of the rapacious large corporations decided to make use of the find it would have to license the right to do so. Meantime, registering the contract increased Krabbe & Bouche’s credit.

Bouche chuckled. “I wonder what these lobsters would think if they found out our licence to operate has been revoked,” he said, translator off.

It probably would be hard to explain to them that actually it didn’t make any difference. The contract drawn up and registered would still be valid.

That was one of many useful lacunae in the law.

“O’Rourke calling Castaneda.”

Resting in the cool of the tent, Roncie answered, “Northrop here. Castaneda is at the site.”

O’Rourke’s voice became distinctly frosty as he recognised the would-be ship-jumper. “Tell Castaneda the partners are in a position to strike a deal. Is the surveying complete?”

“Just about.”

Three teams had been hopping about the planet for the past few days, carrying out seismic tests. Eight catastrophe fracture zones had been mapped in detail. If they got the go-ahead, the teams could start drilling.

“The negotiating is to take place in the natives’ main dome,” O’Rourke went on. “The partners want Shelley present, and also Castaneda. The lobsters are asking for technical details. Got that?”

“Got it.”

“I’m sending a lighter down. Meantime you can put the drilling rigs in place. No point wasting time.”

“Right.” Northrop hesitated. “One other thing. Did the partners beam up language translation?”

“What if they did?”

“Pass it on to us, will you?”

“What for?” Northrop asked suspiciously.

“We’ve spotted bands of dehydrate natives roaming around. We might need to talk to them.”

There was an ominous pause before O’Rourke replied. “There’s a security issue here. On no account must the dehydrate species gain any hint of what is being planned. Request denied.”

“Do you think I’m an idiot? Tenacity dehydrates have a traditional warrior culture. They’ll attack us if we can’t talk to them.”

“You are a bond jumper,” O’Rourke said, with no attempt to hide his hostility. “Any request like that must come from Castaneda.”

He cut the connection. Northrop turned as Castaneda entered the tent. The team leader’s skin was a bright green in hue. He was wearing several layers of radpaint.

“The show’s on,” Northrop informed him, and relayed what O’Rourke had said about the negotiation and drilling. “By the way,” he added, “could you ask him for the partners’ translation package? He got sticky when I asked him for it. Seemed to think I’d blab to the dehydrates.”

With a tired air Castaneda keyed the communicator and got O’Rourke back.

“Are the shock tubes assembled yet?” he asked him.

“They’ll be ready when you need them,” O’Rourke told him.

“Drawing up a legally binding agreement with the lobsters is going to take some time yet. The lighter is leaving now. You’ll need a geological map of the faultline and also a map of the projected new ocean. The natives should be warned if they’ll need to evacuate any of their refuges.”

“I doubt if that will be necessary. The new ocean will lie on the bed of the old one.”

Northrop nudged him. Castaneda grunted in bewilderment, then said, “Oh yes. We want the language package. Might need to talk to the locals if we’re to continue operation down here.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Castaneda said testily, “why do you think I’m asking?”

“All right. Get ready to cop.”

After a warning bleep, the language translation package was dumped into the communicator’s memory.

Castaneda rummaged about the tent. He found a scroll-screen with his charts stored on it. “Wonder if the lobsters have decent eyesight?” he wondered. “Bet I’m down to drawing maps in the sand.”

“It’ll be all right. Shelley has the harder job.”

Castaneda snorted. “Have you never seen the partners in a negotiation? Shelley has practically nothing to do. Krabbe and Bouche will do nearly all the talking. Shelley’s job is to make what comes out legally watertight. It’s vital the lobsters can’t claim they weren’t party to the agreement if it comes to a fight in the courts.”

Naturally Northrop was familiar with this aspect of a gogetter’s fortunes. The laws dealing with contracts drawn up with aliens were extensive. Understandably, they leaned heavily in favour of the human party.

He followed Castaneda out of the tent. Tenacity’s endlessly rolling dunes stretched in all directions. The sand was the colour of sulfur and would probably induce sand blindness if one were left in it for too long. Some of the team had taken to wearing dark goggles, both for that reason and so the fine sand itself would not irritate their eyes.

The three others on the team were tinkering with the squat bulk of the drilling rig, which had the seismic detector beside it. The rig’s energy beam would slice its way through ten kilometers of shale and basalt in only a few days, leaving a shaft wide enough to lower a shock tube down. The only problem would be if the shaft filled with water. Then the tube might have to be forced to its proper depth.