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Magnan snapped, taking the pen. “No need to waste Mr.
Leatherwell’s valuable time.” He scratched a signature on the paper.
Leatherwell rose, gathered up his papers from Magnan’s desk, dumped them into
the briefcase. “Riff-raff, of course. Their kind has no business in the Belt—”
    Retief rose, crossed to the desk, and held out a hand. “I
believe you gathered in an official document, along with your own, Mr.
Leatherwell; by error, of course.”
    “What’s that?” Leatherwell bridled. Retief smiled, waiting.
Magnan opened his mouth—
    “It was under your papers, Mr. Leatherwell,” Retief said.
“It’s the thick one, with the rubber bands.”
    Leatherwell dug in his briefcase, produced the document.
“Well, fancy finding this here . . .” he growled. He shoved the
papers into Retief’s hand.
    “You’re a very observant young fellow.” He closed the
briefcase with a snap. “I trust you’ll have a bright future with the CDT.”
    “Really, Retief,” Magnan said reprovingly. “There was no need
to trouble Mr. Leatherwell . . .”
    Leatherwell
rose, crossed to the door. He paused, directed a sharp look at Retief, turned a
bland expression on Magnan. “I trust you’ll communicate the proposal to the
interested parties. Inasmuch as time is of the essence of the GM position, our
offer can only be held open until 0900 Greenwich, tomorrow. I’ll call again at that
time to finalize matters. I trust there’ll be no impediment to a satisfactory
settlement at that time. I should dislike to embark on lengthy litigation.”
    Magnan hurried around his desk to open the door. He turned
back to fix Retief with an exasperated frown.
    “A crass display of boorishness, Retief,” he snapped. “You’ve
embarrassed a most influential member of the business community—and for nothing
more than a few miserable forms.”
    “Those forms represent somebody’s stake in what might be a
valuable property—”
    “They’re mere paper until they’ve been processed!”
    “Still—”
    “My responsibility is to the Public interest—not to a
fly-by-night group of prospectors.”
    “They found it first.”
    “Bah! A worthless rock; after Mr. Leatherwell’s munificent
gesture—”
    “Better rush his check through before he thinks it over and
changes his mind.”
    “Good heavens!” Magnan clutched the check, buzzed for Miss
Gumble. She swept in, took Magnan’s instructions, and left. Retief waited while
Magnan glanced over the injunction, then nodded.
    “Quite in order. A person called Sam Mancziewicz appears to
be the principal. The address given is the Jolly Barge Hotel; that would be
that converted derelict ship in orbit 6942, I assume?”
    Retief nodded. “That’s what they call it.”
    “As for the ore-carrier, I’d best impound it, pending
settlement of the matter.” Magnan drew a form from a drawer, filled in blanks,
shoved the paper across the desk. He turned and consulted a wall chart. “The
hotel is nearby at the moment, as it happens. Take the consulate dinghy. If you
get out there right away, you’ll catch them before the evening binge has
developed fully.”
    “I take it that’s your diplomatic way of telling me that I’m
now a process server.” Retief took the papers and tucked them into an inside
pocket.
    “One of the many functions a diplomat is called on to perform
in a small consular post. Excellent experience. I needn’t warn you to be
circumspect. These miners are an unruly lot—especially when receiving bad
news.”
    “Aren’t we all?” Retief rose. “I don’t suppose there’s any
prospect of your signing off that claim so that I can take a little good news
along, too . . . ?”
    “None whatever,” Magnan snapped. “They’ve been made a most
generous offer. If that fails to satisfy them, they have recourse through the
courts.”
    “Fighting a suit like that costs money. The Sam’s Last Chance
Mining Company hasn’t got any.”
    “Need I remind