By Dwight V. Swain It was a good proposition, the way the lean, grey man from Associated Independents told it. He ticked off the points on his fingers: "Ten thousand credits an Earth year, Boone, win or lose. Full command of the field force. Five per cent cut on the profits if you get a mekronal processing unit in production on one of the unassigned satellites ahead of the Cartel." "Sorry, Terral." Again, Boone glanced at his chronox. "It's like I said. Any other time I might be interested. But