[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Startling Stories, July 1947.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The rings of Saturn stretched like a level sheet in all directions,though actually composed of millions of tiny bodies. Homer Timkincarefully braked with the nose rockets till he floated motionlesslywith respect to the ring's own rotary motion around its primary. Thenhe eagerly donned his vac-suit.
Had he struck it rich this time? Through his binoculars, a momentago, he had seen the glint of one small jagged lump among the ringdebris—and it had glinted like gold or silver. There was vast treasureamong the rings, if one could find it....
In his vac-suit he used his reaction pistol to propel him down towardthe glinting mass. In his eagerness, he almost failed to see the otherring body which now hurtled up, pursuing its own independent orbitwithin the grander sweep of the rings.
Timkin braked with his reaction pistol only in time to let the marauderlumber past, scraping his foot. He let out his breath with a hiss.That had been close. Many a ring prospector never returned to theTitan docks, because of some such accident as this, creeping up on youunawares.
More than prospecting in earth's out-of-the-way spots had ever beenit was a hazardous occupation among Saturn's rings. But it had itsenticing rewards and lures. Some prospectors returned with a load ofprecious metals or uncut virgin diamonds that made them rich for life.
Timkin reached the glinting body he had previously spied. It wasirregular in shape, some five feet in its greatest diameter. And it hada yellow tinge in the soft light shed by huge Saturn over his shoulder.Timkin permitted himself wild hope as he chipped off a piece with hisbelt pick. He held the chip up to his glassine visor, squinting at thegrain.
His face fell slack.
"Fool's gold!" he muttered, flinging the piece away in a small fury.
It was just pyrites, worth a few cents a pound in the market and notworth the hauling. Timkin sat down on the miniature worldlet and cursedall the gods of luck and ill luck. He had been out a month now, and nobonanza. Of course, it had been so for the past ten years. Each yearthe old prospector hoped for his big find, and each year he only ekedout a precarious living, picking up odd bits from the rings.
He looked with bleary eye over the plane of the rings, stretchingvastly in all directions. Timkin was not young any more. His lean sparebody could not stand the rigors of space much longer. His leathery,seamed face showed the strain of countless near-escapes from death. Ifhe didn't strike it rich this trip he'd have to retire—poor. He'd beone of those derelicts, haunting the Titan docks and mooching meals.
He shuddered.
Hopelessly, he watched the endless parade of the rings. By far the mostof their expanse was just worthless rock. Then he saw a jet black lumpnot far off. It was coal. Timkin grinned mirthlessly.
Coal had been used as an industrial fuel and chemical storehouse some200 years ago. Today it was no more than a curiosity in museums. Thatwas his luck—spotting things in the rings that would barely pay theexpenses of his trip.
As he sat he also saw a whitish mass further along—fossil bones. Andnearby, a dully shining angular object, probably a bit of machinery.
Sighing, Timkin got up. "Got to make expenses," he muttered. "Might aswell collect those odds and ends."
His reaction pistol took him to the lump of coal. It was four feet indiameter but in weightless space it was no strain for Timkin to push ittoward hi