The monitor screen gave a rundown of the mass collected in each canister. Bob scanned through the data as it built up, and opened to space the canisters which bore common elements. He diverted a trickle of oxygen and magnesium to the foodmaker, then read a bookdisk while waiting for positive results.
So far, nothing valuable had appeared in the sample. Another day on the asteroid, and not a penny gained for it. Yet it had showed such promise from afar. The preliminary mass- probes had revealed pockets of high density and a trace of nuclear instabilities. There had to be something of value on the surface, and though Bob knew it took awhile to pin down small deposits of heavy elements, and though he wore his undying patience like wet hair, still he was a bit disgusted at the day's events.
The monitor gave a signal then, indicating that a canister marked for observation had just registered over a gram of matter. He shook his head, knowing it would not be enough, even though most of the ton sample was still churning away inside the Processor.
Another dull sample, he bitched. Then he checked the ship's resource bank, looking for something in the ore that he needed. He noted the air system was running low on alkalis, and laughed. Then he decided he could put off making fuel rods no longer. He collected some silicon in a canister and took it to the workshop.
The entire interior of the good ship Midget was, by Bob's preference, one huge chamber, except for the reactor which was separated from the rest by the firewall, and the engine beyond the reactor. In the main chamber, the controls occupied a useful position toward the nose, the Processor was a few meters behind it, and there was a grav-couch just behind the Processor. Beyond that, there was about fifty meters of cargo space, which, at the moment, was an abused jumble of empty canisters. Against the firewall was the workshop: a jumble of cheap tools, several crates of unmarked parts, and the AP-accelerator.
His few friends thought he was insane for not having any protective barriers around the accelerator. "What was the point?" he mumbled, "If the magnetic field flutters, no wall could save the ship anyway, so why waste the cash?"
He fumbled through the spares looking for a clamp that he remembered throwing there once. He promised himself he'd sort the parts out someday, but he knew he would never get around to it. He found the clamp under a heap of tubing, then anchored a chunk of silicon on the stained bench and shaved off a few slices with his hand beamer.
The Processor beeped again, reminding him from a distance that his day was ruined. It was almost better to find nothing than to find irritating little traces too small to make it on the commodities market.
During the next few hours, while the Ore Processor sifted the last pieces of its breakfast, Bob filled several feul rods. When he returned from stacking them in the reactor chamber, the Processor was finished. As he floated his chair over to the monitor, he saw a sign of hope. Just under a kilogram of osmium (of all things) registered in canister 12, and nearby canisters registered enough related elements to make him smile. Twelve grand had just jumped into his pocket.
He sent the ore-bins back outside and watched them crawl over the crumbly surface of the planetoid looking for the rest of the deposit. He watched their matter-scans on a split screen and fine-guided them to the most plausible spot. Their hover-beams became disruptor-beams for an instant, after which they loaded themselves with the rubble and returned to the Midget. They had dropped their burden into the Processor and waited for further orders.
The main computer flashed angry colors at him. "Incoming vessel," it insisted. "Unidentified."
Bob checked the tactical. The blip was approaching, obviously headed for Bob's asteroid. There was nothing else of interest within kilomiles.
That was just too bad. Bob had paid a good bribe to register his claim on this miserable little speck of dirt, and after twelve days of nothing, it was finally giving away its secrets to him. Now he had to deal with some lousy claim-pusher.
There was nothing else it could be. There were no Feds in the area, and no other registered claims on the rock.
He performed a matter-scan of the incoming ship. It was much like his own, an obsolete model from the days when humanity thought it could afford Interplanetary travel. The ship had two Processing units on board, and a cargo bay full of heavy equipment. There was one man on board, with the usual assortment of help-drones. For offense, It boasted two 2-cm AP guns, just like Bob's ship, though Bob had mounted a few other, smaller guns as well.
The unwelcome ship scanned the Midget, and began to maneuver into orbit. Bob remained silent, and the intruder did not seem interested in speaking either. Bob wanted to lift off to get some maneuverability, but didn't want to lose his deposit, so he called for an ammo inventory instead. He sent a servo to take a few of his fuel rods up to the gun-tubes, then stared at the intruder on his viewer.
The newcomer began to scan the surface of the asteroid, so Bob jammed him with a network of dissipation. He forcefully blew a cloud of unwanted silicon around his ship as the newcomer drifted overhead. He waited for the ship's reaction, which was imminent.
On the comm, the pilot of the other ship barked, "Who are you, and what are you doing on my claim? I'll give you ten minutes to get out of my gun range, or I won't hesitate to destroy you."
Bob replied, "This is Void-miner "Micro" Bob Small on board the free-ship Midget. Go to hell. I paid good money for this chunk of dirt, UCP registered and all."
There was no response.
The intruder rolled closer to the surface and tried again to scan through Bob's scrambling system. Bob wondered what the man's game was. How could the pilot of the other ship sit still and take such a reply without being infuriated into action?
Bob scanned the other's ship once more. The pilot was no longer at his command console, he was moving toward an outcropping of machinery. Bob requested his computer analyze this equipment, feeling it might be crucial. But then the pilot vanished from the scan and appeared on board the Midget, just behind Bob's seat.
A teleport chamber?
The pilot blinked aboard with a whuffing of displaced air, brandishing a pistol. Bob turned around to identify the sound, then dove from his chair as the beam cut into it. He rolled into the shower unit and cranked the water on full, as the man's gun tracked him and let out another burst. The beam dispersed within the water-mist and boiled some of it before reaching Bob. Bob's own pistol came out and got off a burst before he collapsed.
"Micro" Bob Small awoke to a scorching full-body pain. Across his face and chest were first-degree burns, blistering in places. His eyes were swollen almost shut. He lay in a considerable pool of water. Obviously, the ship's entire water tank had showered onto the floor while he was unconscious. He reminded himself to do something about it as he propped himself on steamburned arms to survey the damage.
The pilot of the other ship was dead. Bob's panicked pistol- shot had scored right on the man's cheekbone. For a few moments, Bob's pain was forgotten, as he realized what he had done. But it was self-defense, he assured himself, even though the Feds wouldn't care. On top of that, it had been sheer luck. He hadn't meant to blow the man's head to scraps. He hadn't had a chance to turn down the power in his beamer since cutting the silicon slices earlier on. This man, whoever he had been, had not allowed Bob much time to stop and think.
After Bob's conscience had settled, he stood up and took off what was left of his shirt. He began to curse at the dead man as he fumbled through the medic-kit for some burn-cream and found he was out of it. Afterwards, he cursed at the man in more general terms, then wondered what he would do with the body.
He didn't want to jettison it. Even though it would be nearly impossible to find, and even more difficult to trace the murder back to Bob, he was not satisfied with this solution. There was a strange rumor that the Feds have been cracking down on drift-murders. They had new devices which could tell the difference between a corpse and a dust-grain. No, the standard Hollywood disposal procedure was out.
Out of curiosity, Bob slogged through the water to the body, and rummaged through the man's belongings. He found the man's credit card. "Marty Schreder, huh?" Bob muttered. "There was something seriously wrong with you, man."
The command console let out a warning beep. Bob sloshed to the burn-edged chair and looked at the monitor. Marty's ship had just impacted with the asteroid, hard enough to dig a pit for itself, but soft enough to remain mostly undamaged. It landed at an angle in a cloud of ejecta. And it was on Bob's planet! All those spare parts, just waiting to be salvaged! Bob was looking at another 200 grand, at least. On top of that, the ship possessed a wonderful secret: a telepod. He knew he could call up some old friends and get a wrecking party going within a fortnight.
Now, if only he knew what to do with Marty ...
The Processor beeped, claiming that its lunch was digested. Bob smiled a wicked smile and looked at the insatiable machine. "Hold on. I've got some dessert for you!"
He looked at the body, still shocked by the man's attack. "Well, Marty, let's see what you're REALLY made of."
Everything was looking good for "Micro" Bob Small.