Morrison wiped sweat from his eyes and tried to think. A chisel, he needed a chisel.... He pulled off his belt. Putting the edge of the steel buckle against the crack, he managed to hammer it in a fraction of an inch. Three more blows drove the buckle firmly into the fault. With another blow, the outcropping sheared off cleanly. He had separated a twenty-pound piece from the cliff. At fifty dollars a troy ounce, this lump should be worth about twelve thousand dollars--if it assayed out as pure as it looked. The twilight had turned a deep gray when the Public Surveyor 'ported in. It was a short, squat robot with a conservative crackle-black finish. "Good day, sir," the surveyor said. "You wish to file a claim? A standard unrestricted mining claim?" "That's right," Morrison said. "And where is the center of the aforesaid claim?" "Huh? The center? I guess I'm standing on it." "Very well," the robot said. Extruding a steel tape, it walked rapidly away from Morrison. At a distance of two hundred yards, it stopped. More steel tape fluttered as it walked, flew and climbed a square with Morrison at the center. When it had finished, the surveyor stood for a long time without moving. "What are you doing?" Morrison asked. "I'm making depth-photographs of the terrain," the robot said. "It's rather difficult in this light. Couldn't you wait till morning?" "No!" "Well, I'll just have to cope," the robot said. It moved and stood, moved and stood, each subterranean exposure taking longer than the last as the twilight deepened. If it had had pores, it would have sweated. "There," said the robot at last, "that takes care of it. Do you have a sample for me to take back?" "Here it is," Morrison said, hefting the slab of goldenstone and handing it to the surveyor. "Is that all?" "Absolutely all," the robot said. "Except, of course, that you haven't given me the Deed of Search." * * * * * Morrison blinked. "I haven't given you the what?" "The Deed of Search. That is a government document showing that the claim you are filing on is free, as per government order, of fissionable material in excess of fifty per cent of the total mass to a depth of sixty feet. It's a mere formality, but a necessary one." "I never heard of it," Morrison said. "It became a requirement last week," explained the surveyor. "You don't have the Deed? Then I'm afraid your standard unrestricted claim is invalid." "Isn't there anything I can do?" "Well," the robot said, "you _could_ change your standard unrestricted claim to a special restricted claim. That requires no Deed of Search." "What does the special restricted part mean?" "It means that in five hundred years all rights revert to the Government of Venus." "All right!" Morrison shouted. "Fine! Good! Is that all?"