3: THE MINERS

...It was during the period of 370-390 G.E., that the Federation of Miners made its first tentative steps toward a position of fiscal and political power under the bold and visionary leadership of Jerim Coleman, a young legal student who took the cause of the miners as his own. Coleman, a deeply moral and religious man, was responsible for the heroic stands taken by the downtrodden miners of five major outworlds, including...

—Man: Twelve Millennia of Achievement

...Coleman, who reached the pinnacle of his power around the turn of the fifth century (G.E.), demonstrated all that was most distasteful in Man during the period of his greatest galactic expansion. Unyielding, uncompromising, he single-handedly accounted for the deaths of more than five thousand members of his own species, as well as...

—Origin and History of the Sentient Races , Vol. 7

Coleman was met at the door by a Butterball.

This was not totally unexpected. He knew that the miners usually made alliances with the native life forms, occasionally because of mutual need, more often from sheer loneliness and boredom. And he also knew enough to remain where he was until one of the miners showed up. Any species that could call Gamma Leporis IX—with its bitter cold, raging winds, dust storms, and oppressive gravity—homehad to be pretty tough customers if aroused.

The Butterball emitted an ear-piercing hoot, and a moment later one of the miners opened the door.

“What's up, Ferdinand?” asked the grizzled man. Then his eyes fell on Coleman. “You the man from the Federation?”

Coleman nodded.

“Well, come on in,” said the miner. “Don't mind Ferdy here.

He's pretty docile, all things considered.”

Coleman followed the man into the large auditorium. Most of the seats were filled. He estimated the crowd at 350, which was not a bad turnout, given a world population of 422. He walked immediately to the dais, laid his briefcase out on the podium, withdrew a sheaf of papers, and gratefully noted a cup of hot coffee on the shelf directly beneath the slanted board that was meant to hold his papers, but would doubtless end up supporting his elbows instead. He considered taking his coat off, but decided to wait until he felt just a bit warmer.

He took a sip of the coffee, checked the microphone, and faced his audience.

“Gentlemen,” he said, and waited for the various conversations to subside. “I'm pleased to see such a good turnout. I'm glad you felt this meeting was important enough to leave your videos.” He had hoped for a chuckle with that, and was gratified to note one spreading through the assemblage. Gamma Leporis IX was more than a light-year from the nearest sending station. “Tell me,” he said, blowing into his hands and rubbing them together, “when does summer come around here?”

“You'rein summer!” shouted someone. “You ought to come by someday when it's nippy out!”

That brought the laughter he had been waiting for. If there had been any hostility, at least it would be suspended for a little while.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said, “I'll get right down to business. My name is Jerim Coleman, and I represent the newly-formed Federation of Miners. At present, the Republic has 843 mining worlds, and our Federation has been accepted on well over half of them—and there are a lot we haven't made presentations to yet. I've asked to speak to you this evening because I'd like to tell you a little bit about ourselves, and try to offer you some concrete reasons why joining the Federation will prove to be in your best interests.”

He looked across the audience. So far, so good. Now for the silken hand disguised in a gauntlet of tempered steel.

“I know a number of stories have reached you concerning what membership in our organization entails, so I won't mince words. If you join, every one of you will be required to turn half his salary over to us for a period of five Earth years, and each of you will have to sign a contract guaranteeing that you will remain in the mining profession for a period of no less than fifteen years. You will also have to undergo extensive psychological conditioning.”

He waited for the reaction that he had seen so many times in so many similar meeting places. First silence, then a whispered muttering which quickly turned into a series of outraged curses, cries, and questions. He waited a full four minutes for the noise level to subside before continuing.

“Gentlemen,” he said at last, “please give me your attention for a little while longer. I know most of the objections that you want to raise, and will try my best to answer them right now. After I'm through, I'll be open to questions from the floor. All I ask is that you hear me out. Besides,” he added, “if I get your blood boiling, it'll make the walk home a little easier.”

There were a few grins at that, and one huge guffaw from somewhere to his left.

“Your major objection is probably that no organization can possibly do enough for you to merit half your income. After all, no single vocational group is paid as well as you. Not that you don't deserve it: You're not pick-wielders, but highly trained specialists, responsible for survey work, controlling robotic miners, and refining the ores that you come up with, which makes you well-nigh irreplaceable. Your second objection concerns the fifteen-year contract. You are highly paid because, due to environmental conditions, your work is extremely hazardous, and therefore each of you—or most of you, anyway—hopes to make a killing and get back to civilization to spend some of those hard-earned credits. Am I correct in my assumptions?”

There was a general nodding of heads.

“Good. Now, before I answer those and other objections, I'd like to spend a few minutes filling you in on the background of the Federation so that you may better realize exactly what it is that we have to offer. After all, we couldn't present such extreme conditions for membership unless we felt we could give you value received for time and money spent. And try to keep in the back of your minds the fact that eighty-three percent of the mining worlds that have been offered membership have accepted.

“Now, with that in mind, let's take a brief look at the mining industry as it now exists. The Republic controls almost thirty-five hundred worlds; almost a quarter of them are devoted exclusively to mining. The Republic boasts some thirty-seven billion citizens; less than two million are miners. So what we basically have here is a situation in which less than one ten-thousandth of one percent of the Republic's population is controlling well over twenty percent of its territory.

“And economically, the disparity is even greater. The Republic is powered almost exclusively by atomics; all but a fraction of their fissionable material comes from three hundred and seven mining worlds, of which Gamma Leporis IX is one. The Republic still backs its money with gold and silver; every last bit of it comes from one hundred and two mining worlds, including Gamma Leporis IX. The Republic needs metals for its ships and armaments; all of it, without exception, comes from the mining worlds, including Gamma Leporis IX.”

“So they need us,” broke in a bored voice from directly in front of him. “That's why they pay us so well.”

“Ah, but do they?” said Coleman. “You, sir, since you seem willing to speak up: Would you consent to tell me how much your yearly salary is?”

“Why not?” said the man belligerently. “Seventy-five thousand credits.”

“And your job?”

“I mine gold and silver.”

“How much?” asked Coleman.

“Lots.”

“More than a ton a year?”

“A ton a week'd be more like it,” said the miner with a touch of pride.

“Do you know the going price on gold these days?” continued Coleman.

“Can't say that I do. Lots, I suppose.”

“You suppose right, friend,” said Coleman. “Fifty-three credits an ounce. The Republic pays your salary with what you mine in a day, and has money left over.

“And that's not the only way they're taking advantage of you,” Coleman continued, speaking once more to the entire audience. “I learned in my briefing that there were originally a thousand miners on this world when operations began ten years ago. What happened to the other five hundred and seventy-eight?”

“The nelsons got ‘em,” said the man who had spoken before.

“And what, pray, are the nelsons?” asked Coleman.

“If you ever see one, you'll know what they are!” said the man devoutly, amid much laughter. “They were discovered about forty years ago by a guy named Nelson, the Pioneer who opened up this system. Big, fur-bearing creatures. They can't be carnivores, since there aren't any game animals on this world. I'd guess they ingest minerals, except that I don't know how that would produce fur. Anyway, whatever they are, they don't like people poking around in their supper troughs.”

“In other words, they killed more than five hundred miners?” asked Coleman.

“Tore ‘em to ribbons,” said the man. “They'd probably have butchered the rest of us, too, if we hadn't run across the Butterballs.”

“Butterballs?” asked Coleman, who knew perfectly well what they were.

“Big round yellow things with chubby little legs. You passed one when you came in. Tame as all get-out, but they're poison to the nelsons. I don't know exactly how it works, but they seem to emit some kind of radiation or electrical charge that just knocks nelsons for a loop. We found out that they love magnesium, so we give them all that we mine and they stick around and keep the nelsons from decimating us. Works out pretty well all the way around, except for the nelsons.”

“So along with all the other hazards you have to contend with,” pointed out Coleman, “you also have to fight off a belligerent alien population. And, in addition, and for no extra consideration, you have also made the Butterballs into a loyal ally of the Republic. Am I correct?”

There was a general agreement.

“Then I submit that the miners are the Republic's most exploited minority. Whatever they're paying you, it isn't enough. Whatever political and economic power you wield, it is minuscule compared to what you deserve. Andthat, gentlemen, is the reason for the Federation.”

“We're all for getting a better deal,” said a man in the back of the audience, “but you still haven't said how you intend to help us, or why you need so much of our money.”

“I'm just getting to that point,” said Coleman. “To begin with, the Federation cannot begin to function until at least eighty percent of the mining worlds are members; otherwise, we simply haven't the power. For this reason, we need time: time to build a powerful lobby on Earth and on Deluros VIII, time to get public backing for our demands, time for the government to realize they've no choice but to deal with us. We estimate a minimum of twelve years; therefore, we must demand that you remain on for fifteen years. Once we start the ball rolling, the only thing that could stop us would be defections among our ranks.”

“Why the money?'’ asked another miner.

“For the same reasons: lobby, organization, and propaganda.

And if you're to stay on this world for fifteen more years, you wouldn't have a chance to spend it anyway.”

“What are you going to offer us in exchange for all this?” asked the same man, still dubious.

“Offer is the wrong word,” said Coleman calmly. “We are going todemand a piece of the action. Every miner will get one three-hundredth of what he produces. No salary, no matter how astronomical, can possibly match that. We will also insist on political representation; the details of this haven't been worked out yet. Representation based on our population is wholly unacceptable to us; basing it on our economic power is too much to expect at this time. But we shall and will work out an equitable arrangement.”

“And when the Republic says no?” asked a man.

“They won't say no,” said Coleman.

“But if they do?”

“Then every mining world in the Republic will go on strike. For the next decade and more, you will be carefully and thoroughly conditioned to do whatever is required of you. And how long do you think the Republic could stand a galaxy-wide strike? A day? A week? Surely not a year. Think about it, gentlemen. Cartography may be the great force behind our expansion, but you, and you alone, are the major power insofar as utilizing what we already possess. You've been a sleeping giant up until now, but the time has come to arise and flex those long-dormant muscles.”

There was a low buzzing in the room.

“Gentlemen, it is not my intention to rush you,” said Coleman, “but I must ask for a vote tonight. Tomorrow morning I'm taking off to visit your less fortunate companions of Gamma Leporis X, and—”

“What do you mean, less fortunate?” demanded a miner.

“Your air may be cold,” said Coleman, smiling, “but at least it's breathable. As I was saying, I'll be very happy to answer any questions at this point; but I must have your decision one way or the other, by sunrise.”

To nobody's great surprise, least of all Coleman's, Gamma Leporis IX voted overwhelmingly to join the Federation of Miners.

* * * *

It didn't take twelve years. Things had gone even faster than Coleman had expected, and now, seven years after his visit to the Gamma Leporis system, he stood before the Secretary of the Republic as that graying politician bounced from one tirade to the next, barely pausing for breath.

“Just what the hell are you trying to pull, Coleman?” he demanded for the dozenth time. “This is blackmail, plain and simple! The Republic will not be railroaded into any action by a bunch of militant malcontents.”

“I beg to differ, sir,” said Coleman. “Respectfully, of course. But if the Republic wasn't scared out of its wits, I think our problem would have been handled at a lower level.”

“Your only problem is your so-called Federation!” snapped the Secretary. “And I'm not going tohandle it, I'm going to grind it into the dirt!”

“I think not,” said Coleman. “May I sit down while we discuss it?”

“No!” bellowed the Secretary. “You may not sit down, and we will not discuss it! Had you come in here like a reasonable man, I'd have been happy to talk with you. But no, you toss a list of ultimatums on my desk and demand that the Republic knuckle under to a bunch of hooligans.”

“Had I acted like a reasonable man,” said Coleman, “and had I not come prepared with a list of demands which are absolutely nonnegotiable, I wouldn't be here. I'd be cooling my heels in office after office while everyone in the government hoped the problem would go away. My very presence here attests to the efficacy of our methods.”

“Who the hell are you, anyway?"’ demanded the Secretary. “You're no miner. How did you come to be part of this organization? And where is the Federation's headquarters? Who are its officers?”

“I don't believe that I'm going to tell you,” said Coleman calmly. “None of that information could possibly help our cause, and I can certainly conceive of numerous ways by which releasing any further facts about ourselves could only work to our detriment.”

“In what way?”

“It is not inconceivable that knowledge of our headquarters would precipitate an immediate attack on them,” said Coleman. “We have absolutely no intention of using force, but we do intend to protect our existence. Our power is economic and moral, not military.”

“You're about to learn just how unmilitary your power is,” said the Secretary. “When is this galaxy-wide strike supposed to take place?”

“At midnight, Earth time.”

The Secretary pressed one button from among the multitude on his intercom set. “I want the 27th Fleet sent to Spica II immediately. At precisely midnight, Earth time, they will demand that the miners turn over fifty tons of iron. Should the miners refuse to do so, they are to take whatever action is deemed expedient to secure the iron. Is that understood?” He flicked off the switch without waiting for a reply. “All right, Mr. Coleman. Now let's see just how much gumption your Federation has.”

Coleman pulled a small transistorized communication device out of his pocket and activated it. “This is Coleman.” He waited until his voiceprint had been cleared. “It's Spica II, tonight. Get a camera there on the double.” He replaced the communicator in his pocket and looked up at the Secretary with what he hoped was a confident smile. “It's your move now, sir.”

“You talk about this as if it were a chess game, instead of a crime of treason against the Republic,” said the Secretary. “But since you've made the ground rules, I hope you'll be willing to play by them.” He flicked on the intercom again. “Intercept and detain all ships traveling within one parsec of the Spica system for the next five days.” He looked steadily at Coleman. “Still think you have a chance?”

“Tell me when you're ready to agree publicly to our demands,” said Coleman. He turned and left the office.

At exactly midnight, the Federation of Miners went on strike.

At eleven minutes after midnight, the flagship of the 27th Fleet demanded that the miners of Spica II relinquish their daily quota of iron.

At twelve minutes after midnight, the miners refused.

At fourteen minutes after midnight, the 27th Fleet gave the miners a ten-minute ultimatum, after which they stated that they would take the iron by force and arrest the miners.

At twenty-two minutes after midnight, the seventy-two miners who formed the total population of Spica II gathered by the largest single refinery on the planet and set off a series of three nuclear bombs.

And at three minutes after one in the morning, Coleman was ushered into the Secretary's office under armed guard.

“Just what the hell are you trying to prove?” demanded the Secretary, who had obviously just been aroused from a sound sleep.

“We're not trying to prove anything,” said Coleman. “We're trying to win something: our rights. These miners have undergone three hours of intense hypnotic conditioning every day for more than a decade, and are fully prepared to die for their rights if need be. In fact, they are so completely conditioned that they have no choice in the matter; any opposition by the Republic will trigger this reaction. I assure you that there can and will be no weakening of our resolve.”

“Dammit, you're the best-paid men in the Republic!'’

“Not in relation to the service we render to the Republic,” said Coleman. “Are you ready to agree to our demands yet?”

“You can blow every last mining world to hell before we'll submit to this kind of coercion!” snapped the Secretary.

“I doubt that, sir,” said Coleman. “Once the Republic discovers how deeply these miners believe in their cause...”

“The public won't find out a damned thing,” said the Secretary.

“We stopped your ship, and we'll stop every other ship that attempts to approach a mining world.”

“Then ultimately your own conscience will force you to yield to us,” said Coleman.

“Get him out of here,” said the Secretary disgustedly.

“Is he under arrest?” asked one of the military aids.

“Hell, yes! Charge him with treason and lock him up!”

Coleman was escorted to an electrified cell. He was well fed and was treated with the utmost cordiality. Each morning he was allowed to view the newstapes. He could find nothing about the results of the strike, nor even any acknowledgment of its existence, but he knew it would be continuing. The Republic could get along without the mining worlds for a week or two, possibly three. But then all interstellar traffic would come grinding to a halt. Before long the hospitals would be screaming for supplies. They'd be the first to feel the pinch, and for that he was sorry; but they'd be followed in short order by the huge spacecraft cartels, and they'd scream good and loud. Even the Secretary couldn't keep the lid on this for too much longer.

He spent exactly nineteen days, six hours, and twenty-four minutes in prison. Then he was once again ushered into the Secretary's presence.

The Secretary seemed to have aged perceptibly since the last time he had seen him. There were deep, heavy lines around his eyes, and his pendulous jowls seemed to sag even more.

“If you ever had any friends on Praesepe II and VI, Alphard XVII, or Altair V, you'll never see them again. I hope that makes you happy.”

“It makes me very sad,” said Coleman sincerely. “And I know their deaths must weigh heavily on the conscience of the Republic.”

“How aboutyour conscience?” said the Secretary. “Doesn't the fact that well over four thousand patients have died because your strike has prevented our hospitals from getting vital materials bother you at all?”

“I deeply regret their deaths,” said Coleman carefully. “But our stand has been taken. We are totally committed to our cause, and too many of us have died to back down now. If the Republic cares for either the rights of its miners or the lives of its patients, it has the wherewithal to end the strike this very minute.”

“I told you before: We will not yield to threats.”

“We can wait,” said Coleman. “Time is on our side. Not even you, with all the resources of the Republic behind you, can keep this quiet for much longer. If you'd made it public to begin with, you might have been able to stir up sentiment for your side. But now the miners of five worlds are dead, and not a single member of the military has been harmed. Where do you think the public's sentiment will rest?”

“What's to stop us from surrounding every remaining mining world and moving in after every last miner blows himself to bits?”

“We're using exceptionally dirty bombs,” said Coleman calmly. “It would be years before most of the worlds could be opened for mining, or before the mined material could be safely used. Do you think the Republic's economy can stand that?”

The Secretary closed his eyes and lowered his head in thought for a full minute. Then he looked up at his aides. “Will you leave Mr. Coleman and me alone for a few moment, please?”

When the room emptied out, he gestured for Coleman to sit down opposite him.

“If we agree to your financial terms, will you relinquish your request for greater political representation?”

Coleman shook his head. “You're going to sign it anyway, so why should we yield? Too many of us have died to start striking bargains now.”

“What do you get out of this?” asked the Secretary.

“Justice.”

“I mean, personally.”

“I get a salary of a quarter million credits a year,” said Coleman. “And I donate ninety percent of it to our medical program.”

“I never could stand dealing with a thoroughly righteous man,” sighed the Secretary. He pulled the miners’ demands out of the drawer, picked up the seal of his office, stamped the papers, and signed his name.

* * * *

Victory celebrations were in progress on almost a thousand scattered worlds, not the least of which was Gamma Leporis IX. Intoxicants flowed and happiness reigned supreme on this final night of idleness.

“Hey!” cried somebody. “Let's let Ferdy in and give him a drink! He's got as much right inside here as anybody.”

Indeed he did, agreed Ferdinand silently. He had no auditory orifices with which to hear, but he had means of understanding what was said, and he'd been listening intently all evening.

He didn't especially like being inside the auditorium. It was warm and uncomfortable, the higher oxygen content of the air made his eyes smart, and his metabolism couldn't cope with the whiskey they were feeding him. But Men were a pretty pleasant species, and he was very happy to kill nelsons in exchange for magnesium.

Tomorrow morning, he decided, would be soon enough to present them with the Butterballs’ list of demands.