"But--but it can't be! I feel perfect. I--" His eyes darkened with a
new fear. "I'll be grounded!" he cried.
Hanson said, "I'm sorry, son. But you'll still work for the
Corporation, of course. And you'll have lots of time at home with
Diane. It--it's even better than battin' around in space--"
But he wasn't kidding a soul. Least of all Lancelot Biggs who, for
a moment, turned his back to us. When he again faced us there was a
curious moisture in his eyes. Which, considering the fact that in the
rarified atmosphere of Iris we were all wearing lightweight bulgers,
could not have come from blowing dust.
He said in a low voice, "Well--get that message off, Sparks. I'll run
on along about my errand. For if I'm not very much mistaken, we'll have
visitors within the next few hours. As soon as Steichner's radiomen
break down your code."
And he disappeared toward the city, a lean and lanky, somehow
strangely forlorn looking Biggs....
* * * * *
Well, I sent the message. It cleared through Johnny Holmes at Long
Island Spaceport, and Holmes was so excited he almost busted a finger
on the key as he chattered back at me.
"No fooling, Donovan? You've succeeded in locating pumice?"
"We've succeeded in locating," I told him, "something. Don't ask me
what. I'm only the hired help around here. But Biggs says it's O.Q.,
and whatever he says is all right with me. So goose the Rocketeers and
get 'em on their way here as soon as possible--if not sooner."
"Right!" snapped Holmes. "Consider them started!"
So that was that. I wandered back to the digs, there waited for the
second part of Biggs' prophecy to be fulfilled. It didn't take long.
About four hours later--Earth standard, of course; you can't figure
hours on a tiny planetoid which has no axial revolution--a monocar came
blistering from the capital city to our encampment. It was packed to
the gunwales, mostly with armed guards and Steichner. Steichner was
packed to the gunwales, too, mostly with fury. He hurled himself from
the speedster and strode to Hanson's side.
"Captain Hanson, may I ask the meaning of this?"
He jammed a sheet of paper under the Old Man's nose. On it was typed a
complete, interpreted transcription of the message I had recently sent
to Earth.
The skipper took it, studied it slowly, coolly. He said, "Same to you,
Governor Steichner. May I ask how you got a copy of a message which was
sent in private code?"
"That," blustered the politico, "is neither here nor there. My men are
experts at deciphering such messages. What I demand to know is, by what
right have you summoned a force of Space Patrolmen to _my_ planet?"
The Old Man didn't know. He was as much in the dark as a blindfolded
mole in a blackout. But he bluffed it through.
"Why," he said calmly, "under Regulation 19, section _xvii_ of the
spacecode, of course. To protect our property."
"Property?" roared Steichner. "_What_ property? Don't try to pretend to
me, sir, that you have succeeded in finding pumice on this terrain!"
I broke in, "So you even knew what we were searching for, eh,
Steichner?"
"Naturally. I leave nothing to chance, gentlemen--nothing. Before your
ship left Earth, I had been advised as to the trick by means of which
you intended to gain a foothold on this asteroid. And care was taken
that the property you were allowed to 'purchase'--at a handsome price,
for which I thank you, gentlemen!--held no basaltic deposits.
"Well, Captain--answer me! Have you, or have you not, unearthed any
pumice deposits?"
The answer came from a few rods away. Biggs had returned from his
exploring trip. Now he took over, a fact for which the skipper was
obviously grateful.
"The answer, Governor Steichner, is--no. We have not!"
"Ah! Then by what right, Lieutenant, did you summon the Patrol to
Iris? You realize you were given but ten days to locate and develop a
heretofore undeveloped industry upon Iris? And by your own admission,
you have failed to find that for which you came--"
* * * * *
"True," admitted Biggs easily. "Quite true, Steichner. But though we
have failed to find pumice, we have found something else. Another
commodity never before exploited on Iris. We thereby earn the right
to stay here for thirty-five years ... and to call in the Patrol to
protect our rights...."
Steichner's fingers worked convulsively.
"_Another_ product, sir? Out of this bleak, worthless soil! Impossible!"
And Biggs shook his head.
"Incredible, sir. But not impossible. Because, you see, it exists.
Unless my latest estimates are completely in error, our drill should
strike, at any minute now, a pocket of that substance which was created
when Iris was still a part of a mighty planet swinging in an orbit
between Mars and Jupiter. A commodity of great value ... an essential
fuel...."
"What?" roared Steichner. "What are you talking about, you blithering
idiot?"
Biggs didn't answer him. He didn't have to. For at that moment
there rose a sudden warning shout from where our workers tended the
diamondhead drill. Voices raised in swift alarm, from the ground
beneath our feet came a strange roaring, rushing, gushing sound. And
even as the workmen fled, the superstructure of our drill shattered and
flew high into the thin air of Iris--borne aloft on a pillar of thick
black goo!
[Illustration: There was an awful rushing sound and a column of black
muck shot skyward.]
And "_Oil!_" cried Lancelot Biggs triumphantly. "_Oil_, Steichner! That
is the new industry which grants us the right to remain here!"
* * * * *
Well, it was a victory, all right--but for a minute I thought it was
going to be a victory with flowers. For Otto Steichner's mouth turned
livid with rage as he realized he had lost his tight grip on the
planetoid Iris; his hand leaped to his belt, and for the space of a
held breath I felt certain he would ray us all down in our tracks.
It was the oil which saved us. Pluming skyward, its jet hit a half-mile
ceiling. Then, because Iris is not _entirely_ airless, and has a
_slight_ gravitation, the column unbrellaed and splashed earthward. A
viscous rain began splattering all around and over us. A greasy black
torrent which turned us all into tar-babies before we could duck for
shelter.
Steichner gasped, choked, and raced toward his monocar. But as his
cohorts piled into it with him, he roared back at us:
"This isn't goodbye, gentlemen! I have other and more important things
to take care of right now. But when I have disposed of the Space Patrol
fleet, then I will return to take care of _you_!"
Out of range of the oily deluge, Cap Hanson turned a serious face to
Biggs.
"Disposed of the Space Patrol? What does he mean?"
Biggs replied soberly, "I'm afraid he means just what he said, sir. My
guess about the lake was right. It _is_ the hiding place of his fleet.
Steichner will flee there now, man his ships, and lie in wait for the
Patrol. When the fleet arrives--"
I said, "Well, then, golly--let's lift the _Saturn_ out of here! Beat
it out into space, and stop the Fleet--?"
But Biggs shook his head.
"No--I have a better plan than that. Oh, Chief--" He called to Chief
Engineer McMurtrie who, dripping with fuel oil and pride, was hobbling
back toward the ship for a change of clothing--"nice work on that
drill. Tell the men to cap the well for the time being. Did you get
those metal poles I asked you for?"
"Yes, sorrr!"
"Good! And the silver?"
"About three tons of it, sorrr!"
"Silver?" broke in Hanson. "Three tons of it? Why, you must be talkin'
about that specie shipment in the A-deck bins. You can't touch that,
Lancelot. It ain't ours to use. It belongs to--"
"It belongs to humanity," declared Biggs. "No price is too high to pay
for the overthrow of Steichner's crew."
He glanced at his wrist chrono.
"What time did you wire the Patrol, Sparks?"
"Eleven-oh-three-ack-em."
"Hmmm! They should arrive in less than six hours. We must get to work.
All right, Chief. You know where I want those materials. And don't
forget the salt!"
"No, sorrr!"
"Salt!" moaned Hanson. "Migawd, what now? You ain't goin' to cook and
_eat_ Steichner?"
Lancelot Biggs smiled tightly.
"No, not entirely. All I'm going to cook is his goose."
* * * * *
What happened in those next few hours makes sense to me now, but it
didn't while it was going on. I'll admit that without a tremor. But,
then, few ordinary mortals do understand what L. Biggs is driving at
until he pops up at the end of his endeavors with a Q. E. D. clenched
in his molars.
All I knew was, that by the time our gang got from the camp down to
the capital city, Steichner and his crowd had disappeared. The city
was empty save for a few assorted thousand fuzzy Irisians scampering
around, whimpering dolefully because they didn't know what was going on.
Otto and his mobile units had taken a run-out powder. But, as Biggs
had hunched it, they hadn't gone far. Just into their spaceships which
lay a few yards below the placid surface of the artificial lake beside
the governor's mansion.
Under Biggs' directions, McMurtrie's men got going. Their first move
was to dump a holdful of ordinary tablesalt, residue of a cargo we had
never completely discharged, into the lake. That was screwy enough, and
drew a murmur from the Old Man. His murmur changed to a moan when they
followed this move by dumping into the lake those bins of silver ore
which Biggs had mentioned.
Then came the whackiest part of all. Biggs implanted one of the two
metal uprights MCMurtrie had forged for him in the southernmost
extremity of the lake. Then--with the help of a tractor crew, of
course; the things were twenty feet long--he set its mate at the other
end of the lake, connected wires from the posts to the hypatomic motors
of our ship.
All this took time, naturally. A lot of time. Maybe too much time.
Because he had scarcely finished these preparations when there came a
message from the commandant of the S.P. flagship:
"Ahoy, Iris! S.P. Cruiser Pollux approaching. Clear cradles for
official landing!"
Our physical labor completed, we were back in my radio turret now. As
we picked up this omniwave call, Biggs spun to me excitedly.
"Sparks--contact Steichner immediately!"
I twisted the dials, finally succeeded in picking up the wavelength
of the submerged Irisian governor's set. Biggs spoke clearly over the
audio.
"Governor Steichner, this is Lt. Lancelot Biggs aboard the _Saturn_.
Can you hear me?"
Steichner's reply shot back savagely.
"I can, Lieutenant. Have patience. I will take care of you when this
other little matter has been attended to."
"I called to warn you," said Biggs expressionlessly, "that you are in
gravest peril. I am offering you a chance to surrender peaceably. Will
you do so?"
Steichner's answer isn't printable. It was a blunt refusal. Biggs
sighed.
"Very well, Governor. Then let me issue this final warning: Do not
attempt to lift gravs from your present location! And do not attempt
to use your ordnance. To do so will be to court instant and terrible
death!"
"Why, you--!" spluttered back Steichner's retort.
But Biggs had turned from the audio, pressed a stud activating the
hypoes of our ship. A dull growl surged about us as the powerful motors
stirred into action.