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Ch. 04 · The Man Who Staked The Stars

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  Chapter four of The Man Who Staked the Stars by Catherine MacLean. This LibriVox
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  recording is in the public domain. Chapter four. He went into his luxurious
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  inner office with its deep rugs and eye relaxing colors, and its comfortable wide
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  dusk, with its speaker box and telephones that were like the nerve wires of
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  power, and sat down comfortably like a king on a throne or a mule
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  skinner in the driver's seat, with ten pairs of reins in each hand.
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  He never felt completely awake and up to his full size in the morning until
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  he was here. There was a good stack of letters and memos on the
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  desk waiting for him. On top of the mail stack was a letter labeled
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  Private in a beamed spacegram envelope. He did not recognize the name at the
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  head of it, but the return was General Delivery REEF three the belt.
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  It read something urgent has come up, must see you Arrange when Bob Roberto
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  Arillo, who had been his manager in the small line that UT had taken
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  from him, now the owner of a tiny line of his own, which
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  carefully avoided the competition with UT in the belt, arrange when they could only
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  meet in secret. What would Arillo want to discuss. The theory he had
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  held in the back of his mind for three days gave answer, murder.
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  It was a Rillo who was behind the attempted attack on Earth. This meeting
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  was another trap. A Rillo wanted him dead. Roberto Arillo had been his
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  first helper with the shipping and delivery service. Bryce had built up from the
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  days when he had been merely an asteroid prospector with a sh overstocked with supplies
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  and an obliging willingness to sell his surplus. After he put his traveling stores
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  on schedule, he noticed an increasing number of people began moving into the belt
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  to settle along his route without investing in the proper ship or supplies, depending
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  on him using his ship for a store and bus service, swelling his profits.
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  He found that wherever he chose to extend a route and offer credit for
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  a stake, settlers would appear and a community begin to grow. He absorbed
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  that lesson and laid plans ut blocked them, running his storeships on their regular
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  rounds, making loans, mediating deals, taking half interest in ideas that looked
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  profitable, selling fuel and power, subtly binding his customers to him with bonds
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  of dependence see Deeper than Peenage. Bryce found suddenly that UT, whose trademark
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  had never been seen in the belt before, had slipped in five ships patterned
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  precisely after his, but larger, more magnificent, and expensive, and set
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  them running on the same course as his, but one day ahead. His
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  customers told him they were apologetic, but they had bought at the ship,
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  which came earliest enticed by the glitter in the bargain prices. It was a
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  killing blow and was obviously meant to be so. The UT managers were wise
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  in the ways of power, and with limitless money, could bankrupt him.
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  That day, Bryce saw that he could not fight UT from outside, and
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  he saw a dream of empire greater than Alexander ever dreamed of being ripped from
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  his hands. When a tactful and conciliating offer came from UT for a merger
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  and an exchange of stock at double its value, he saw it was an
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  indirect bride for his silence, submission without complaints to spaceways or to the anti
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  cartel commission of the FN, And he saw that the only way to compete
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  with the gigantic corporation was to destroy it from within. He held out for
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  a seat on the board of directors. They gave it to him, and
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  in three years had done an efficient job of corrupting and undermining UT to the
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  point where it was ready to fall. UT had a week more to live
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  in respected public service before an outrage public tore it apart. Bryce had left
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  Aurillo in the Belt to form a small delivery company servicing thinly settled outlying points
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  where the profits were too small to disturb. It would be this company that
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  would take over and buy out the UT equipment when Spaceways chopped up the Monster
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  Corporation, and it was planned that Orillo offered Bryce full partnership when this event
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  took place. But perhaps Arillo objected to sharing his reign with a partner,
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  and perhaps Arilla had always objected to the fact that Bryce was the only one
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  who knew Arillo was a fugitive from justice. Bryce had never quite been able
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  to tell what went on behind the handsome, blonde face and impassive blue eyes
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  of his assistant. Bryce had taken him in hand and given him a job
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  after Orrillo fled from a murder charge in South America and Bryce had arranged the
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  operations that gave Arillo a new face, new fingerprints, and an unworried future.
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  Only Bryce could now give the word to the police, which could bring
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  the examination that would show Arillo's rete tallied with that of a wanted man.
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  But if murder had always lain behind those impassive, pale blue eyes, why
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  had there been no attempts before? The answer to that was easy. Up
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  to this time, Bryce's activities had been profitable to a Rillo. He had
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  seen where Bryce's plans were leading and wanted them to succeed, so that he
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  might step into Bryce's shoes and reap the results. In three more months,
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  Bryce's death would be the death of a partner and bring the unwonted spotlight of
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  police investigation on a Rillo himself. But now, at this point, the
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  disappearance of Bryce Carter would bring police inquiry and suspicion only to the already shaky
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  and undermined fabric of ut Bryce counted the profit and loss of his death to
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  the man he had helped and smiled ruefully. Yet the request for the meat
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  might be genuine and important. He had to take a chance on it and
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  meet his ex assistant and future partner somewhere far away from witnesses, recognition or
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  protection. Taking a memo pad, he printed I'll meet you Friday, three
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  pm LM and wrote in the coordinates of a position in space not very far
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  out from Earth, indicated the radar blink signals for its BUI, and clip
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  the memo sheet to the envelope with its false name and return address. Ringing
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  for his secretary, he handed it to her. See that gets beamed back
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  immediately. Friend of mine seems to be in some sort of a jam.
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  That was that. He turned to his work. After an hour or so,
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  the intercom box clicked and Kesby said, unexpectedly, visitor to see you,
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  boss. Can I send him in? Yes. The receptionist had strict
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  orders to keep out everyone except those scheduled for appointment, and to announce the
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  names and businesses of dubious cases for his deciding, but Kesby must have overridden
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  her decision. He sounded confident, probably somewhat important. Kesby opened the door
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  with an expression half nervous, half mischievous, your visitor, and closed it
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  hastily as the person stepped in. He didn't belong in there. It was
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  obvious to Bryce that whoever he was, he had gotten in through a lie.
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  The young man who stood inside his office watching him was no one connected
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  with the business. He was too young for any position of importance. The
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  slender frailty of childhood was still with him. Yet that impression soon faded under
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  the impressiveness of a stance. It was more than just arrogance or poise.
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  It was an unshakable confidence, as if no failure could be conceived. He
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  stood balanced to move either forward or back. His voice was again a surprise,
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  absolute total clarity, almost without inflection, as if the words reached the
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  mind without needing a voice. If you're going to throw me out, this
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  is the best time to do it. Dark brown skin of one of the
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  dark races, jet black, straight hair, a dark pair of eyes that
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  were merry and watchful, and had the impact of something dangerous colossal. Gall
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  Bryce characterized it to himself. He might be as good as he thinks he
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  is. He was probably selling the Brooklyn Bridge, and he should never have
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  gotten in, But the fact that he had somehow gotten past Kesby made him
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  worth a few questions before being thrown out. What do you want? He
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  came forward to the dusk to answer, I want to be your right arm.
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  He took out a pack of cigarettes, shaking one free and offering it
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  with courtesy. Have one. Bryce shook his head, and the boy put
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  one between his own lips and put the pack away. My name is Piers,
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  he said, lighting the cigarette with the flame cupped in his hands as
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  if he were used to smoking in the wind. He looked up with his
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  eyes squinting against the smoke, shook the match out and dropped it in the
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  dusk ashtray. Roy Piers, he was as much at home as an invading
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  army. Bryce felt an impulse to laugh. He knew this kid very well,
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  but he couldn't place where, when or how am I supposed to know
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  the name? Do you remember pop Yak? Bryce remembered pop Yack. He
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  gave in with a sigh and ordered, in the sing song vernacular of his
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  childhood, Okay, sits off, dell spiel talk catch up. Pop Yak
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  was a grizzled man who had watched Bryce fighting with another kid. Afterward,
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  he had taken Bryce into a store and given him ice cream and some pointers
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  on dirty fighting. Not much had penetrated the first time, but Bryce went
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  back for advice again, learning that that was the place to be told how
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  to do things and get what he wanted. Pop was always patient with his
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  teaching and always right. He had chosen Bryce as his agent to sell minor
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  drugs to the other kids, and acted as a fence for the things he
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  stole, and he encouraged him to study in the compulsory school and loaned him
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  books, and Pop was the first to give him the tip on legitimate business
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  and how to pull money on the right side of the law and make a
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  profit. They couldn't kick about. Good Old Pop will pay. The boy
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  sat down and leaned forward with a slight intent motion of a hand that was
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  Pop's favorite gesture, one that Bryce had picked up from him himself. He
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  told me, you're on the way up. Roy Pierce held him with a
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  steady, dark gaze. I want a slice of that, and I want
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  it the easy way, hitching my wagon to your rocket. You can use
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  me. A big man is too public. You need a new hand and
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  a new voice, one that does what you want done and can do it
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  in the dark or the light without your name, A stand in for alibis
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  and a contriver of accidents. So they don't break for you without your motion,
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  a left arm that your enemies don't recognize as yours. He was asking
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  to be Bryce's substitute in the things that had to be done without connection to
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  himself, and yet had to be done by Bryce himself, because no no
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  one could be trusted with the knowledge of them. Could he be trusted?
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  His coming could be another trap by the unidentified enemy. It was almost too
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  providential, almost too well timed. References and abilities. Roy Pierce reached into
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  his wallet and handed out an aptitude profile card backed by the Universal test score
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  listings in training and skills. On the other side, Bryce played with a
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  card and studied the youth. The boy was well dressed in a dark tailored
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  suit of the kind Bryce favored. He looked able, clean, cool,
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  and ruthless. Armed. Bryce asked, A thing like a very thick cigar
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  suddenly appeared in Pierce's hand. The end of it, pointing at him was
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  solid except for a very small hole. A needle gun, obviously loaded with
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  two and a half inch groove drug carrying needles. Sleep or death. Bryce
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  asked, sleep. Pierre said, putting it away, it's licensed. Bryce
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  wondered what made him so sure he could trust this kid, He analyzed.
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  While he questioned, he did not bother to look at the card languages Basic
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  Coast, Pigeon, symbolic and Glot, Basic English and Polyglot. The two
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  universals detector proofed. Lie detectors could be a nuisance, for they were used
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  casually and universally without needing the legal warrants and deference to constitutional immunities and medical
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  supervision of hypno questioning, Pierce smiled with a flash of white teeth. First
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  thing I ever saved my money for. Though they spoke standard English, Bryce
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  had placed his intonations almost to the block he grew up in, almost to
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  the half block. He was as familiar as pop Yac, as familiar as
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  his own face in the mirror, and as understandable. Bryce knew the inside
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  of his mind as well as if it were suddenly attached lobe of his own.
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  It was like looking back through time at himself, younger and less complex.
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  Popyak had turned out another on the same model, a younger, simpler
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  duplicate of himself. Pierce was doing exactly what he said, offering service to
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  Bryce as he would offer him a sword simply for the risk and delight of
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  being an instrument in a power game with stakes as high as he had guessed
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  Bryce's game to be. There was no danger of him being a plan and
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  no danger of him squealing under pressure. The risk of death or arrest was
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  part of his pay. Okay, Bryce said. He gestured with his head
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  to a corner of the room behind him. Sit over there, you're my
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  cousin from monte Hado, and I'm showing you the town. He turned to
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  his appointment pat again and read. After Pierce had placed a chair in the
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  indicated position, Bryce said, without turning, this week I can use a
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  bodyguard. Someone's hiring killers for me. There was no sound of motion for
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  a moment. Bryce got the idea that Pierce was more surprised than the fact
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  warranted. But his question was gentle and deadly. Any idea who the line
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  forms to the left, Bryce said, dryly, Put away that needle gun
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  and buy something legal that kills. He handed back a sheaf of letters,
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  memos, and grafts. Read these and learn. For some reason, he
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  felt exhilarated. He turned back to work routing shipments, shifting rates to balance
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  shifting costs, lowering rates for a preliminary incentive on lines that could be run
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  at lower costs with the heavier load, occasionally using the Bell Communication load analyzer
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  and Kesby's formula analysis for a choice of ways of averting bottlenecks and overload slow
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  down points, sometimes consulting the Solar system maps on the walls. Good service
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  built up customer demand and dependency on good service producers manufacturing now on Earth,
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  with the new materials shipped in from space, could not be cut off from
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  access to the new materials without ruin to the manufacturers. Earth was becoming dependent
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  on space transport. Once the customers were given it, they grewed and needed.
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  He smiled at the thought. It was another kind of drug traffic and
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  wielded the same kind of potentially infinite power over the customers. One thing he
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  had learned from the economics tome he had struggled with four nights ago, a
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  simple inexorable principle he had recognized dimly before that since it was difficult and more
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  expensive to ship out goods from Earth to space than it was to drop goods
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  into Earth from space, eventually space people might be independent of Earth and Earth
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  totally dependent on space products. The potentialities of the business game were amazing,
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  past anything pop Yac had ever hinted. But the funny thing was that he
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  had to find it out step by step for himself. That kind of excitement
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  wasn't in stories. The adventures of explorers, research men, and detectives were
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  written into stories, but not money men. The life and growth, and
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  death and blackmail of individuals were in the stories he had read, but not
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  the murder of planets and cities, the control and blackmail of whole populations in
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  this odd legal game with the simple rules. Funny there hadn't been lured stories
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  about this in the magazines he had read a kid, he grinned, well,
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  the kids would read about him. In fifteen years, he'd have everyone
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  under his thumb, and they'd smile and bow and be frightened just speaking to
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  him. The work vanished rapidly, the pile of accumulated letters and reports of
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  dwindling, and the phone ringing at intervals complaints he dealt with, carefully wording
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  each letter in reply so as to give the impression that he bryce Carter,
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  was personally breaking the corporation policy to satisfy the complainer, and adding a word
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  of praise on the intelligence and lucidity of the complaining letter. So far he
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  had made a total of some six hundred letter writing allies that way. Complainants
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  were usually loquacious, interfering types who expressed more than their share of public opinion,
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  and many would glorify him to everyone whose ear they could hold, if
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  only to have it known that they were on pally terms with the director of
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  the Great ut. Many of the letters were merely friendly and chatty, telling
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  of money troubles, successes, and family affairs. To those, he recorded
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  a few friendly remarks on wire's spool, telling the same joke to each,
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  and slipped each sloop of wire into an envelope to be mailed. Pierce,
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  studying a transport routing map, looked over and grinned at the sixth repetition of
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  the joke, and Bryce grinned back and continued on recording a letter to an
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  address in the Ozarks. Got a young cousin of mine in from monte Hado,
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  Miss Fernald. He's sitting here watching to see how a big business office
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  operates, and he's grinning at me because it looks like I want to just
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  sit and talk to my friends all day. I have fifty nine business letters
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  here to answer, Honest to God, fifty nine I just counted them.
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  So I guess I'll cut off and show the young squirt how I can work.
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  Send me that photo of your sister's new baby. He hung up the
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  record's mouthpiece. One more voter and loyal friend to pull for him when he
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  was a public figure and the going got rough, he grinned. It was
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  a strange life and a strange game. End of chapter four read by Paul Hampton,