"What are you trying to do, Lanse? Scare Steichner into surrendering?"
"No, Sparks. I meant every word I said. Look at the lake."
* * * * *
I flashed on the visilens, swung it to cover outside. And what I saw
there broke a gasp from my lips.
The surface of the lake was alive with tiny, frothy bubbles. The whole
lake was seething with motion.
Cap Hanson cried, "Sweet saint, now I understand! You--you've turned
that lake into a stew-kettle! You're boilin' 'em alive!"
"No!" I contradicted. "It can't be that. The ships are insulated
against the absolute zero of space. Heat and cold mean nothing to them.
Electricity! You must be electrocuting them, Biggs--?"
"You're _half_ right," acknowledged my lanky friend. "Not
electro_cuting_, though--"
He never finished his sentence. For at that moment there came to us
over our still-connected audio the voice of Governor Otto Steichner
issuing a command to his men.
"Fleet, prepare for action! Set studs! Battle formation! Set to lift
gravs--"
"No!" cried Biggs. "Don't, Steichner! It will mean death to you all!"
"Ready!" rasped the stern voice. "Follow me! _Lift!_"
There sounded the rising tumult of mighty motors thundering into
action. Then:
"The fools!" cried Lancelot Biggs pityingly. "The poor doomed fools!
Why wouldn't they believe me?"
And my eyes swiveled to the visiplate once more, just in time to see
the last act of the little drama. It came with terrible suddenness,
devastating completeness. The waters of the churning lake boiled
fiercely for a fraction of an instant as a half dozen spaceships jetted
simultaneously. Then from the inwards of the lake, as from a gigantic
steam-bomb, burst a violent sheet of flame. A coruscating, eye-blinding
moment of brilliance ... then another ... and another ... six, all told.
Then--silence. Quietude. And the sad voice of Mr. Biggs saying, "Cut
the connection, Chief McMurtrie. Our task is ended...."
I got it, then. I'm slow, but eventually I always straighten things
out. I stared at Biggs with a sort of horrible fascination. I said, "So
that's it. You didn't try to harm them. You simply _electroplated their
ships_!"
"That's it, Sparks," acknowledged Biggs sadly. "And when they attempted
to jet from the lake, their blasts backfired against the silver
barricade deposited over their ports. Their ships exploded like living
bombs!"
* * * * *
Later, as our workmen reversed the polarity of Biggs' gigantic
electroplating apparatus to reclaim as much as possible of the silver
used in the operation, the commander of the Space Patrol fleet stopped
by to offer his congratulations.
"It was a magnificent job, gentlemen," said he. "We commend you on
having helped the System in ridding itself of one of its few remaining
pestholes. Henceforth, the Irisians will govern themselves in freedom
and contentment. Meanwhile, if your Corporation wishes to maintain its
property rights on Iris, we shall of course honor your discovery of
fuel oil."
He paused, staring at Biggs.
"But how did you know there was fuel oil on Iris, Mr. Biggs? Other
geologists had never detected its presence."
Biggs flushed.
"I didn't know," he confessed. "As a matter of fact, I suspect that
little oil-well will run itself dry in less than two days. You see, it
can be but a tiny pocket, at most. The asteroid _is_ mostly composed of
igneous rock formations. My guess is that it comprised the side of a
volcanic mountain on the planet of which it was once, ages ago, a part.
When the planet exploded, a minute portion of the mountain valley was
torn away with this fragment. It was from this ancient peat bog the oil
derived.
"I began to guess there might be a vestige of oil when we dug up black
slate. That is the invariable residue of submersion. Then, when we
found the fossiliferous rocks, I knew we were on the right track.
It--it was just luck."
"Well, luck or not," said the space officer heartily, "you certainly
grasped every advantage which came your way. We need spacemen like you,
Biggs!"
And--there it was again! For the first time in many hours, another
reminder of the fate overhanging Biggs. Space needed men like
Biggs ... but by virtue of a medical examination, he had been declared
unfit for space travel!
The Old Man's face clouded. He said slowly, "There's another delicate
problem. If Lance can't stand space travel, what are we goin' to do?
Take him home, or leave him here on Iris?"