That line of small intersatellite freighters had been established and built by his father, years before. It supplied a much-needed service, for the great interplanetary ships stopped only at Saturnport. The little lighters carried the slaughtered angrauks from Rhea to the packeries of Dione, and thence to the big port. They hauled ores from the mines of Mimas to the smelters on Titan, and did other chores of the kind. Carmichael saw it was a profitable line and tried to buy into it. The elder Kellog resisted. Carmichael shut down his mines for a year, cutting off important revenue. A quarantine on angrauks was mysteriously promulgated; taxes on intersatellite shipping increased. The bank called Kellog's notes. His lighter service was forced into bankruptcy.
"And Carmichael bought it for a song," muttered Doc, bitterly, "had the new taxes repealed and the quarantine rescinded. It broke dad's heart."
That was the way the Wolf of Saturn did things. Honeyed words, cash advances, at first, anything for a foothold. Then squeeze, squeeze until the enterprise was his. Now that he had the colonies of the Saturnian system well under his thumb, he was branching out into larger fields. He had ambitions of going back to the Earth one day and taking his place among the mighty in Wall Street, where the Systemic Stock Exchange was. He wanted to lock horns with such magnates as Aalman, head of Venus Exploitation, Inc., and chairman of the board of the Tellurian Master Bank. He wanted a bigger say-so in the operation of the Interplanetary Transport Co. and a directorship on Etherways, the planets' communication system. Therefore, when he was not in his office at the Carmichael Building, he could be found in the brokerage office of Neville & Beardsley, trading fiercely in securities, trying to match wits with Aalman and the other tycoons.
Doc Kellog knew all that and knew how hopeless his fight was. Yet that illiterate taunt still rang in his ears. He was smart, but he wasn't rich. There must be something wrong with his approach to things. Other men with half his brains got along and prospered; why couldn't he? That thought was uppermost in his mind when he reached his laboratory.
"What luck, Doc?" asked cheery Billy Wade, his chief assistant.
"The usual," growled Kellog. "He wants to hog the show, otherwise no dice. I told him to go to hell."
"Swell," grinned Billy Wade, admiringly, "but where do we get off? Fold up and get jobs somewhere?"
"Maybe." Doc Kellog's anger had cooled somewhat and dejection had succeeded it. But he was not quite ready to surrender. The memory of that sneering challenge still rankled. Kellog sat down and stared at the floor in deep thought.
Things looked black. The single model of his antichron worked perfectly. It had proved that his theory was correct. He could warp space-time, given power enough, and bring all the planets together, just as centuries before the introduction of telegraph and radio brought all the countries of the Earth together. But his money was gone, his bills mounting, and he was forced to deal with interlocking monopolies for all his supplies, power and credit. Carmichael knew that as well as he did and was waiting for the plum to drop in his lap. Kellog knew that Carmichael would fight him tooth and nail unless he cut him in. And that Kellog was resolved not to do.