Joan Vinge: Heaven Chronicles

— more money , Dartagnan thought.

“—to see that you get safely off this miserable hell-world of a planet.” He produced something packaged in foam from his thin folder. “This is the replacement unit, complete with the instructions, for the component that was damaged when your ship landed here on Planet Two.”

Olefin beamed like a child with a birthday present; but Chaim noted the dark flash of another sort of humor that moved behind the hazel eyes. “‘For want of a chip, the ship was lost!’ To think of all the time and money I put in, perfecting the Esso Bee and a nuke-electric that could drag home half a planet; the best design possible—to have it all go for nothing, because one single piece of electronics was put on the outside, when it should have been on the inside.… Thank you—I literally can't thank you enough, Demarch Siamang; but I'll do my best.” He stood, reached out to shake Siamang's hand heartily. Seated again, he poured himself another drink, raised it in salute, drank it down.

“Well, you can repay us, in a sense …” Siamang paused, poised, disarmingly reticent, “… by giving Siamang and Sons the opportunity to be the first corporation to make an offer on the computer software that you reported finding.”

Olefin gave a quick nod, barely visible, that was not meant to be agreement.

Siamang went on, oblivious. “As you obviously know, it would be vital in streamlining our distilling processes—”

“And in streamlining the processing of a lot of other distilleries.” Olefin interrupted with unexpected smoothness. “What I had in mind, Demarch Siamang, was to call a public auction on the media for all the salvage, when I return to the Demarchy. I planned to offer to you, or whomever came after me, a substantial percentage of the take as a reward—”

Siamang's expression tightened imperceptibly. “What we had in mind, Demarch Sekka-Olefin, was more on the order of a flat fee offer on the software. We're not interested in any of the rest, you could bargain however you wanted on that. But it's very important to us—naturally—that Siamang and Sons is the firm to get those programs.”

And a general auction wouldn't guarantee you did. Dartagnan hid a smile behind his camera. He realized suddenly why Siamang and Sons had wanted an edited tape, and not live transmission, on this rescue mission: business transactions were never meant to be public affairs.

“I understand your feelings, Siamang; come from a distillery family myself. But I feel a covert agreement with one firm is too monopolistic, not in keeping with the Demarchy's traditions of free enterprise.… And besides, to be blunt, I've got important plans for the profit I'll be making on this salvage, and I want to get as good a deal on it as possible. That software is by far the most valuable part of it.”

“I see.” Siamang's eyes flickered to the replacement part safely settled on Olefin's knees. Chaim guessed, without trying, what wish he made. “Well, then, if you don't mind, I'll make that pleasant trek to our ship one more time and radio the home company about your position on the matter.” His smile was sunlight on the cold edge of his voice. “They may give me a little more flexibility in making an offer.…” He bowed.

Chaim stood up, goaded by an indefinable unease: he sat down again abruptly.

Siamang glanced back, pulling on his suit. “You stay here, Red. Finish your interview. You'd just slow me up. I don't intend to spend any more time out in that open air than I have to.” He bowed again courteously to Sekka-Olefin, and left the room.

Dartagnan listened to the odd shuffling of unaccustomed footsteps recede, and swore under his breath, with pain and frustration. He lifted the camera again, compulsively, protective coloration. Through the lens he saw Olefin shake his head, hand up, and reach to pour himself another drink. Chaim let the camera drop, irritated, but relieved to see that the prospector wasn't drinking this one down like the others. There was plenty of time for an interview: with the communications time-lag, Siamang wouldn't be back for at least three kiloseconds.

Olefin grinned. “A little loosens tongues, and makes life easier; a lot loosens brains, and makes it hell. I try to draw the line.… Fall was worse than you care to admit, wasn't it? Where does it hurt? … maybe I ought to have a look at that ankle.” He stood up.

Dartagnan leaned back against the cold wall, laughed once. “Ask me where it doesn't hurt! Black and blue and green all over.… Thanks, but you'd have to cut off my boot, by now, and it's the only one I've got. Doesn't matter, we'll be back in normal gee soon and it won't give me any trouble. I just have to get the job done now—” He winced as Olefin's fingers probed along his ankle.

“Job comes before everything, even you, huh? So you're a corporate flak.…” Olefin's fist rapped the sole of his boot, “Siamang's man?”

“I'm—hoping to be!” Dartagnan muttered, through clenched teeth. “So when he tells me to jump, I don't ask why, or how … I just ask, ‘Is this high enough?’”

“You won't be doing much jumping for a while, for anybody. Got a sprain, maybe a fracture.” The green-brown eyes studied him, amused; he wondered exactly what was funny. Olefin went back to pick his drink off a dusty shelf. “Don't think I could stand to work for anybody else. Comes from being raised among the idle rich, I suppose.…”

“You don't have to be rich, believe me.” Dartagnan settled on an elbow, and the cot creaked.

Olefin looked at him, the rough brows rose.

He smiled automatically. “My father was a prospector. Rock poor, to the day he died … just when he'd finally found something big, or so he claimed.” Establish a rapport with the subject, get a better interview.…

“That right? What was his name?” An encouraging interest showed on Olefin's face.

“Dartagnan—Gamal Dartagnan.”

“Yeah, I knew him—” Olefin nodded at his drink. “Didn't know he had a son. Only talked to him four or five times.”

“You and me both. He took me out with him, though. Just before the last trip he made.”

“That's right … heard about his accident. Very sorry to hear it.”

Chaim shifted his weight. “They called it an accident.”

Olefin sat down, said carefully, “Are you saying you don't think it was?”

He shrugged. “My father'd been prospecting for a long time. He knew enough not to make a mistake that big. And it seemed a little coincidental to me that a corporation just happened to be right there to pick up his find.”

“Somebody had to get there first—” Sekka-Olefin shook his head. “I suppose in your line of work you don't see the best side of corporation policy. But not many stoop to that kind of thing; that would be suicide, if it ever got out. Maybe his instruments went out; accidents happen, people make mistakes … space doesn't give you a second chance.”

Dartagnan nodded, looking down. “Maybe so. Maybe that is what happened. I suppose you'd know the truth if anybody would—you play both sides of the game.… He held that damned junkheap together with frozen spit—”

Olefin sipped his drink, expressionless. “What made you decide to quit prospecting to become a mediaman?”

Dartagnan wondered suddenly who was interviewing whom. “Prospecting. Maybe I didn't know when I was well off.”

“But now it's too late.”

He wasn't sure whether it was a question or a moral judgment. “Not if I make good in this job.…”

Olefin nodded, at something. “How'd you like another long-term job instead?”

Chaim sat up, not hiding his eagerness. “Doing what—prospecting?”

“Conducting a media campaign.”