Robert Sheckley: Prospector's Special

“I do. I’m going to use that emergency telephone of yours.”

“You can’t,” Williams 4 said. “I refuse to extrude it. And you could never reach it without the resources of a machine shop.”

“Could be,” said Morrison. “I plan to find out.” He pulled out his empty revolver.

“What are you going to do?” Williams 4 asked.

“I’m going to see if I can smash you into scrap metal without the resources of a machine shop. I think your eyecells would be a logical place to begin.”

“They would indeed,” said the robot. “I have no personal sense of survival, of course. But let me point out that you would be leaving all Venus without a postman. Many would suffer because of your anti-social action.”

“I hope so,” Morrison said, raising the revolver above his head.

“Also,” the robot said hastily, “you would be destroying government property. That is a serious offense.”

Morrison laughed and swung the pistol. The robot moved its head quickly, dodging the blow. It tried to wriggle free, but Morrison’s two hundred pounds was seated firmly on its thorax.

“I won’t miss this time,” Morrison promised, hefting the revolver.

“Stop!” Williams 4 said. “It is my duty to protect government property, even if that property happens to be myself. You may use my telephone, Mr. Morrison. Bear in mind that this offense is punishable by a sentence of not more than ten and not less than five years in the Solar Swamp Penitentiary.”

“Let’s have that telephone,” Morrison said.

The robot’s chest opened and a small telephone extruded. Morrison dialed Max Krandall and explained the situation.

“I see, I see,” Krandall said. “All right, I’ll try to find Wilkes. But, Tom, I don’t know how much I can do. It’s after business hours. Most places are closed—”

“Get them open again,” said Morrison. “I can pay for it. And get Jim Remstaater out of trouble, too.”

“It can’t be done just like that. You haven’t established any rights to your claim. You haven’t even proved that your claim is valuable.”

“Look at it.” Morrison turned the telephone so that Krandall could see the glowing walls of the ravine.

“Looks real,” Krandall said. “But unfortunately, all that glitters is not goldenstone.”

“What can we do?” Morrison asked.

“We’ll have to take it step by step. I’ll ’port you the Public Surveyor. He’ll check your claim, establish its limits, and make sure no one else has filed on it. You give him a chunk of goldenstone to take back. A big chunk.”

“How can I cut goldenstone? I don’t have any tools.”

“You’ll have to figure out a way. He’ll take the chunk back for assaying. If it’s rich enough, you’re all set.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“Perhaps we better not talk about that,” Krandall said. “I’ll get right to work on this, Tommy. Good luck!”

Morrison signed off. He stood up and helped the robot to its feet.

“In twenty-three years of service,” Williams 4 said, “this is the first time anybody has threatened the life of a government postal employee. I must report this to the police authorities at Venusborg, Mr. Morrison. I have no choice.”

“I know,” Morrison said. “But I guess five or ten years in the penitentiary is better than dying.”

“I doubt it. I carry mail there, you know. You will have the opportunity of seeing for yourself in about six months.”

“What?” said Morrison, stunned.

“In about six months, after I have completed my mail calls around the planet and returned to Venusborg. A matter like this must be reported in person. But first and foremost, the mails must go through.”

“Thanks, Williams. I don’t know how—”

“I am simply performing my duty,” the robot said as it climbed into the vortex. “If you are still on Venus in six months, I will be delivering your mail to the penitentiary.”

“I won’t be here,” Morrison said. “So long, Williams!”

The robot disappeared into the ’porting vortex. Then the vortex disappeared. Morrison was alone in the Venusian twilight.

He found an outcropping of goldenstone larger than a man’s head. He chipped at it with his pistol butt, and tiny particles danced and shimmered in the air. After an hour, he had put four dents in his revolver, but he had barely scratched the highly refractory surface of the goldenstone.

The sandwolves began to edge forward. Morrison threw stones at them and shouted in his dry, cracked voice. The wolves retreated.

He examined the outcropping again and found a hairline fault running along one edge. He concentrated his blows along the fault.

The goldenstone refused to crack.

Morrison wiped sweat from his eyes and tried to think. A chisel, he needed a chisel....

He pulled off his belt. Putting the edge of the steel buckle against the crack, he managed to hammer it in a fraction of an inch. Three more blows drove the buckle firmly into the fault. With another blow, the outcropping sheared off cleanly. He had separated a twenty-pound piece from the cliff. At fifty dollars a troy ounce, this lump should be worth about twelve thousand dollars—if it assayed out as pure as it looked.

The twilight had turned a deep gray when the Public Surveyor ’ported in. It was a short, squat robot with a conservative crackle-black finish.

“Good day, sir,” the surveyor said. “You wish to file a claim? A standard unrestricted mining claim?”

“That’s right,” Morrison said.

“And where is the center of the aforesaid claim?”

“Huh? The center? I guess I’m standing on it.”

“Very well,” the robot said.

Extruding a steel tape, it walked rapidly away from Morrison. At a distance of two hundred yards, it stopped. More steel tape fluttered as it walked, flew and climbed a square with Morrison at the center. When it had finished, the surveyor stood for a long time without moving.

“What are you doing?” Morrison asked.

“I’m making depth-photographs of the terrain,” the robot said. “It’s rather difficult in this light. Couldn’t you wait till morning?”

“No!”

“Well, I’ll just have to cope,” the robot said.

It moved and stood, moved and stood, each subterranean exposure taking longer than the last as the twilight deepened. If it had had pores, it would have sweated.

“There,” said the robot at last, “that takes care of it. Do you have a sample for me to take back?”

“Here it is,” Morrison said, hefting the slab of goldenstone and handing it to the surveyor. “Is that all?”

“Absolutely all,” the robot said. “Except, of course, that you haven’t given me the Deed of Search.”

Morrison blinked. “I haven’t given you the what?”

“The Deed of Search. That is a government document showing that the claim you are filing on is free, as per government order, of fissionable material in excess of fifty per cent of the total mass to a depth of sixty feet. It’s a mere formality, but a necessary one.”

“I never heard of it,” Morrison said.

“It became a requirement last week,” explained the surveyor. “You don’t have the Deed? Then I’m afraid your standard unrestricted claim is invalid.”

“Isn’t there anything I can do?”

“Well,” the robot said, “you could change your standard unrestricted claim to a special restricted claim. That requires no Deed of Search.”

“What does the special restricted part mean?”

“It means that in five hundred years all rights revert to the Government of Venus.”

“All right!” Morrison shouted. “Fine! Good! Is that all?”

“Absolutely all,” the surveyor said. “I shall bring this sample back and have it assayed and evaluated immediately. From it and the depth-photographs we can extrapolate the value and extent of your claim.”