C7 CHAPTER SEVEN

~ BEN WRAIL WAS TAKING THINGS easy. Stretched out in his chair, with his cigar lit and burning satisfactorily, he listened to a radio program broadcast from Earth.

Through the window beside him, he could look out of his skyscraper apartment over the domed city of Ranthoor. Looming in the sky, slightly distorted by the heavy quartz of the distant dome, was massive Jupiter, a scarlet ball tinged with orange and yellow. Overwhelmingly luminous, monstrously large, it filled a large portion of the visible sky, a sight that brought millions of tourists to the Jovian moons each year, a sight that even the old-timers still must stare at, drawn by some unfathomable fascination.

Ben Wrail stared at it now, puffing at his cigar, listening to the radio. An awe-inspiring thing, a looming planet that seemed almost ready to topple and crash upon this airless, frigid world.

Wrail was an old-timer. For thirty years—Earth years—he had made his home in Ranthoor. He had seen the city grow from a dinky little mining camp enclosed by a small dome to one that boasted half a million population. The dome that now covered the city was the fourth one. Four times, like the nautilus, the city had outgrown its shell, until today it was the greatest domed city in the Solar System. Where life had once been cheap and where the scum of the system had held rendezvous, he had seen Ranthoor grow into a city of dignity, capital of the Jovian confederacy.

He had helped build that confederacy, had been elected a member of the constitution commission, had helped create the government and for over a decade had helped to make its laws.

But now ... Ben Wrail spat angrily and stuffed the cigar back in his mouth again, taking a fresh and fearsome grip. Now everything had changed. The Jovian worlds today were held in bond by Spencer Chambers. The government was in the hands of his henchmen. Duly elected, of course, but in an election held under the unspoken threat that Interplanetary Power would withdraw, leaving the moons circling the great planet without heat, air, energy. For the worlds of the Jovian confederacy, every single one of them, depended for their life upon the accumulators freighted outward from the Sun.

Talk of revolt was in the air, but, lacking a leader, it would get nowhere. John Moore Mallory was imprisoned on one of the prison spaceships that plied through the Solar System. Mallory, months ago, had been secretly transferred from the Callisto prison to the spaceship, but in a week’s time the secret had been spread in angry whispers. If there had been riots and bloodshed, they would have been to no purpose. For revolution, even if successful, would gain nothing. It would merely goad Interplanetary Power into withdrawing, refusing to service the domed cities on the moons.

BEN WRAIL stirred restlessly in his chair. The cigar had gone out. The radio program blared unheard. His eyes still looked out the window without seeing Jupiter.

“Damn,” said Ben Wrail. Why did he have to go and spoil an evening thinking about this damned political situation? Despite his part in the building of the confederacy, he was a businessman, not a politician. Still, it hurt to see something torn down that he had helped to build, though he knew that every pioneering strike in history had been taken over by shrewd, ruthless, powerful operators. Knowing that should have helped, but it didn’t. He and the other Jovian pioneers had hoped it wouldn’t happen and, of course, it had.

“Ben Wrail,” said a voice in the room.

Wrail swung around, away from the window.

“Manning!” he yelled, and the man in the center of the room grinned bleakly at him. “How did you come in without me hearing you? When did you get here?”

“I’m not here,” said Greg. “I’m back on Earth.”

“You’re what?” asked Wrail blankly. “That’s a pretty silly statement, isn’t it, Manning? Or did you decide to loosen up and pull a gag now and then?”

“I mean it,” said Manning. “This is just an image of me. My body is back on Earth.”

“You mean you’re dead? You’re a ghost?”

The grin widened, but the face was bleak as ever.

“No, Ben, I’m just alive as you are. Let me explain. This is a television image of me. Three-dimensional television. I can travel anywhere like this.”

Wrail sat down in the chair again. “I don’t suppose there’d be any use trying to shake hands with you.”

“No use,” agreed Manning’s image. “There isn’t any hand.”

“Nor asking you to have a chair?”

Manning shook his head.

“Anyhow,” said Wrail, “I’m damn glad to see you—or think I see you. I don’t know which. Figure you can stay and talk with me a while?”

“CERTAINLY,” said Manning. “That is what I came for. I want to ask your help.”

“Listen,” declared Wrail, “you can’t be on Earth, Manning. I say something to you and you answer right back. That isn’t possible. You can’t hear anything I say until 45 minutes after I say it, and then I’d have to wait another 45 minutes to hear your answer.”

“That’s right,” agreed the image, “if you insist upon talking about the velocity of light. We have something better than that.”

“We?”

“Russell Page and myself. We have a two-way television apparatus that works almost instantaneously. To all purposes, so far as the distance between Earth and Callisto is concerned, it is instantaneous.”

Wrail’s jaw fell. “Well, I be damned. What have you two fellows been up to now?”

“A lot,” said Manning laconically. “For one thing we are out to bust Interplanetary Power. Bust them wide open. Hear that, Wrail?”

Wrail stared in stupefaction. “Sure, I hear. But I can’t believe it.”

“All right then,” said Manning grimly, “we’ll give you proof. What could you do, Ben, if we told you what was happening on the stock market in New York ... without you having to wait the 45 minutes it takes the quotations to get here ?”

Wrail sprang to his feet. “What could I do? Why, I could run the pants off every trader in the exchange! I could make a billion a minute!” He stopped and looked at the image. “But this isn’t like you. This isn’t the way you’d do things.”

“I don’t want you to hurt anyone but Chambers,” said Manning. “If somebody else gets in the way, of course they have to take the rap along with him. But I do want to give Chambers a licking. That’s what I came here to see you about.”

“By Heaven, Greg, I’ll do it,” said Wrail. He stepped quickly forward, held out his hand to close the deal, and encountered only air.

Manning’s image threw back its head and laughed.

“That’s your proof, Ben. Good enough?”

“I’ll say it is,” said Wrail shakily, looking down at the solid-seeming hand that his own had gone right through.

NOVEMBER 6, 2153, was a day long remembered in financial circles throughout the Solar System. The Ranthoor market opened easy with little activity. Then a few stocks made fractional gains. Mining dropped fractionally. Martian Irrigation still was unexplainably low, as was Pluto Chemical and Asteroid Mining.

Trading through two brokers, Ben Wrail bought 10,000 shares of Venus Farms, Inc. when the market opened at 83½. A few minutes later they bought 10,000 shares of Spacesuits Ltd. at 106¼. The farm stocks dropped off a point. Spacesuits gained a point. Then suddenly both rose. In the second hour of trading the Venus stocks had boomed a full five points and Wrail sold. Ten minutes later they sagged. At the end of the day they were off two points from the opening. In late afternoon Wrail threw his 10,000 shares of Spacesuits on the market, sold them at an even 110. Before the close they had dropped back with a gain of only half a point over the opening.

Those were only two transactions. There were others. Spaceship Fabrication climbed three points before it fell and Wrail cashed in on that. Mercury Metals rose two points and crashed back to close with a full point loss. Wrail sold just before the break. He had realized a cool half million in the day’s trade.

The next day it was a million and then the man who had always been a safe trader, who had always played the conservative side of the market, apparently sure of his ground now, plunged deeper and deeper. It was uncanny. Wrail knew when to buy and when to sell. Other traders watched closely, followed his lead. He threw them off by using different brokers to disguise his transactions.

Hectic day followed hectic day. Ben Wrail did not appear on the floor. Calls to his office netted exactly nothing. Mr. Wrail was not in. So sorry.

His brokers, well paid, were close-mouthed. They bought and sold. That was all.

Seated in his office, Ben Wrail was busy watching two television screens before him. One showed the board in the New York exchange. In the other was the image of Gregory Manning, hunched in a chair in Page’s mountain laboratory back on Earth. And before Greg likewise were two screens, one showing the New York exchange board, the other trained on Ben Wrail’s office.

“That Tourist stuff looks good,” said Greg. “Why not buy a block of it? I happen to know that Chambers owns a few shares. He’ll be dabbling in it.”

Ben Wrail grinned. “It’s made a couple of points, hasn’t it? It’s selling here for 60 right now. In 45 minutes it’ll be quoted at 62.”

He picked up a telephone. “Buy all you can of Tourist,” he said. “Right away. I’ll tell you when to sell. Get rid of whatever you have in Titan Copper at 10:30.”

“Better let go of your holdings of Ranthoor Dome,” suggested Greg. “It’s beginning to slip.”

“I’ll watch it,” promised Ben. “It may revive.”

They lapsed into silence, watching the board in New York.

“You know, Greg,” said Ben finally, “I really didn’t believe all this was true until I saw those credit certificates materialize on my desk.”

“Simple,” grunted Greg. “This thing we’ve got can take anything any place. I could reach out there, grab you up and have you down here in a split second.”

Ben sucked his breath in between his teeth. “I’m not doubting anything any more. You sent me half a billion two days ago. It’s more than doubled now.”

He picked up the phone again and spoke to his broker on the other end.

“Unload Ranthoor Dome when she reaches 79.”

THE real furor came on the Ranthoor floor when Wrail cornered Titan Copper. Striking swiftly, he purchased the stock in huge blocks. The shares rocketed as the exchanges throughout the System were thrown into an uproar. Under the cover of the excitement he proceeded to corner Spacesuits Ltd. Spacesuits zoomed.

For two days the main exchanges on four worlds were in a frenzy as traders watched the shares climb swiftly. Operators representing Interplanetary Power made offerings. No takers were reported. The shares climbed.

Within one hour, however, the entire Wrail holdings in both stocks were dumped on the market. The Interplanetary Power traders, frantic over the prospect of losing control of the two important issues, bought heavily. The price plummeted.

Spencer Chambers lost three billion or more on the deal. Overnight Ben Wrail had become a billionaire many times over. Greg Manning added to his own fortune.

“We have enough,” said Greg. “We’ve given Chambers what he had coming to him. Let’s call it off.”

“Glad to,” agreed Ben. “It was just too damned easy.”

“Be seeing you, Ben.”

“I’ll get down to Earth some day. Come see me when you have a minute. Drop in for an evening.”

“That’s an invitation,” said Greg. “It’s easy with this three-dimension stuff.”

He reached out a hand, snapped a control. The screens in Wrail’s office went dead.

Wrail reached for a cigar, lit it carefully. He leaned back in his chair, put his feet on the desk.

“By Heaven,” he said satisfiedly, “I’ve never enjoyed anything so much in all my life.”