Robert Sheckley: Prospector's Special

Krandall rotated his telephone. Morrison saw that the chairs, table, desk, filing cabinet and safe were gone from the office. All that was left in the room was the telephone.

“I don’t know why they haven’t taken out the phone,” Krandall said. “I owe two months on my bill.”

“I do too,” said Morrison.

“I’m stripped,” Krandall said. “I haven’t got a dime. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not worried about myself. I can always eat at a soup kitchen. But I can’t ’port you any water. Not you or Remstaater.”

“Jim Remstaater?”

“Yeah. He was following a trace up north past Forgotten River. His sandcar broke an axle last week and he wouldn’t turn back. His water ran out yesterday.”

“I’d bail him out if I could,” said Morrison.

“And he’d bail you out if he could,” Krandall said. “But he can’t and you can’t and I can’t. Tommy, you have only one hope.”

“What’s that?”

“Find goldenstone. Not just traces, find the real thing worth real money. Then phone me. If you really have goldenstone, I’ll bring in Wilkes from Tri-Planet Mining and get him to advance us some money. He’ll probably want fifty per cent of the claim.”

“That’s plain robbery!”

“No, it’s just the high cost of credit on Venus,” Krandall answered. “Don’t worry, there’ll still be plenty left over. But you have to find goldenstone first.”

“OK,” Morrison said. “It should be around here somewhere. Max, what’s today’s date?”

“July thirty-first. Why?”

“Just wondering. I’ll call you when I’ve found something.”

After hanging up, Morrison sat on a little boulder and stared dully at the sand. July thirty-first. Tomorrow was his birthday. His family would be thinking about him. Aunt Bess in Pasadena, the twins in Laos, Uncle Ted in Durango. And Janie, of course, waiting for him in Tampa.

Morrison realized that tomorrow might be his last birthday unless he found goldenstone.

He got to his feet, strapped the telephone back in his pack beside the empty canteens, and set a course to the south.

He wasn’t alone. The birds and beasts of the desert marched with him. Overhead, the silent black kites circled endlessly. The sandwolves crept closer on his flanks, their red tongues lolling out, waiting for the carcass to fall....

“I’m not dead yet!” Morrison shouted at them.

He drew his revolver and fired at the nearest wolf. At twenty feet, he missed. He went down on one knee, held the revolver tightly in both hands and fired again. The wolf yelped in pain. The pack immediately went for the wounded animal, and the kites swooped down for their share.

Morrison put the revolver back in its holster and went on. He could tell he was in a badly dehydrated state. The landscape jumped and danced in front of him, and his footing was unsure. He discarded the empty canteens, threw away everything but the testing kit, telephone and revolver. Either he was coming out of the desert in style or he wasn’t coming out at all.

The traces continued to run rich. But still he came upon no sign of tangible wealth.

That evening he found a shallow cave set into the base of a cliff. He crawled inside and built a barricade of rocks across the entrance. Then he drew his revolver and leaned back against the far wall.

The sandwolves were outside, sniffing and snapping their jaws. Morrison propped himself up and got ready for an all-night vigil.

He didn’t sleep, but he couldn’t stay awake, either. Dreams and visions tormented him. He was back on Earth and Janie was saying to him, “It’s the tuna. Something must be wrong with their diet. Every last one of them is sick.”

“It’s the darnedest thing,” Morrison told her. “Just as soon as you domesticate a fish, it turns into a prima donna.”

“Are you going to stand there philosophizing,” Janie asked, “while your fish are sick?”

“Call the vet.”

“I did. He’s off at the Blake’s place, taking care of their dairy whale.”

“All right, I’ll go out and take a look.” He slipped on his face mask. Grinning, he said, “I don’t even have time to dry off before I have to go out again.”

His face and chest were wet.

Morrison opened his eyes. His face and chest were wet—from perspiration. Staring at the partially blocked mouth of the cave, he could see green eyes, two, four, six, eight.

He fired at them, but they didn’t retreat. He fired again, and his bullet richocheted off the cave wall, stinging him with stone splinters. With his next shots, he succeeded in winging one of the wolves. The pack withdrew.

That emptied the revolver. Morrison searched through his pockets and found five more cartridges. He carefully loaded the gun. Dawn couldn’t be far away now.

And then he was dreaming again, this time of the Prospector’s Special. He had heard about it in every little saloon that bordered the Scorpion. Bristly-bearded old prospectors told a hundred different stories about it, and the cynical bartenders chimed in with their versions. Kirk had it in ’89, ordered up big and special just for him. Edmonson and Arsler received it in ’93. That was certain. And other men had had it too, as they sat on their precious goldenstone claims. Or so people said.

But was it real? Was there such a thing as the Prospector’s Special? Would he live to see that rainbow-hued wonder, tall as a church steeple, wide as a house, more precious than goldenstone itself?

Sure he would! Why, he could almost see it now....

Morrison shook himself awake. It was morning. Painfully, he crawled out of the cave to face the day.

He stumbled and crawled to the south, escorted closely by wolves, shaded by predatory flying things. His fingers scrabbled along rock and sand. The traces were rich, rich!

But where in all this desolation was the goldenstone?

Where? He was almost past caring. He drove his sunburned, dried-out body, stopping only to fire a single shot when the wolves came too close.

Four bullets left.

He had to fire again when the kites, growing impatient, started diving at his head. A lucky shot tore into the flock, downing two. It gave the wolves something to fight over. Morrison crawled on blindly.

And fell over the edge of a little cliff.

It wasn’t a serious fall, but the revolver was knocked from his hand. Before he could find it, the wolves were on him. Only their greed saved Morrison. While they fought over him, he rolled away and retrieved his revolver. Two shots scattered the pack. That left one bullet.

He’d have to save that one for himself, because he was too tired to go on. He sank to his knees. The traces were rich here. Fantastically rich. Somewhere nearby....

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Morrison said.

The little ravine into which he had fallen was solid goldenstone.

He picked up a pebble. Even in its rough state he could see the deep luminous golden glow, the fiery red and purple flecks deep in the shining stone.

“Make sure,” Morrison told himself. “No false alarms, no visions, no wild hopes. Make sure.”

He broke off a chunk of rock with the butt of his revolver. It still looked like goldenstone. He took out his testing kit and spilled a few drops of white solution on the rock. The solution foamed green.

“Goldenstone, sure as sure,” Morrison said, looking around at the glowing cliff walls. “Hey, I’m rich!”

He took out his telephone. With trembling fingers he dialed Krandall’s number.

“Max!” Morrison shouted. “I’ve hit it! I’ve hit the real stuff!”

“My name is not Max,” a voice over the telephone said.

“Huh?”

“My name is Boyard,” the man said.

The video screen cleared, and Morrison saw a thin, sallow-faced man with a hairline mustache.