Part 1

MR. BIGGS GOES TO TOWN

By NELSON S. BOND

When Lancelot Biggs started in the soap-making business on this asteroid, he got strange results!

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories October 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

One thing is certain. When bigger and better shirts are made, the officials of the Corporation which underpays us will stuff 'em.

We were squatting in a cradle on Earth, waiting for flight orders, when the control turret door swung open and in marched two owl-eyed zombies dressed in frowns and white mess jackets. One of these looked at us, then at a slip of paper. He said, "Donovan, Herbert J.?"

"Present," I said, "but not accountable for. Otherwise known as 'Sparks.' What's the matter, Satyr? Who found out what about me?"

"Come," ordered the stranger curtly, "with me!" And he jerked a thumb in the general direction of the doorway.

Cap Hanson--he's the skipper of our space-shuttling freighter, the _Saturn_--bridled like a mick at an Orangeman's Ball. If there's one thing he cannot tolerate, it is hearing anyone else issue orders on his bridge. His brows congealed into fur-line cumulus clouds.

"And what," he demanded, "is the meaning of this, if I may ask, gentlemen?"

The other whiteclad studied him briefly.

"Hanson?" he queried. "Captain Waldemar V.?"

"That is my name, sir. And why--?"

"Come with me," said the second spectre, and diddled his digit like my accoster.

I said, "Not so fast, kiddies. Last time I followed a flickering phalange I ended up in an alley behind a Martian joy-joint with a headful of ache and a walletful of nothing. In words of one syllable, what's this all about?"

My answer came not from the pair before us, but from the entrance behind them. Through this came two figures. The foremost was that of my long-time friend and shipmate, Lieutenant Lancelot Biggs; behind him was his uncle Prendergast, 1st Vice-president of the I.P.C. It was the older Biggs who spoke.

"It's all right, Sparks. These men are acting under company orders. They are medical officers assigned to give a physical examination to every man aboard the _Saturn_."

"Every man?" choked Cap Hanson. "Did you say _every_ man, sir?"

I knew what he was thinking, and I felt a swift pang of compassion for the old boy. Hanson was one of the finest skippers who ever paced a quarterdeck. He had forgotten more space-lore than most men ever learn. But he wasn't as young as he used to be; not by about fifty odd years. Although Cap _looked_ hale and hearty, his joints were beginning to stiffen like a mud-pie on Mercury, and sometimes, if you stood beside him in a quiet room, you could hear the dim clank and clatter of his arteries hardening. A physical examination might mean an end to his long career, exile from active service to the waffletail job he had long dreaded.

* * * * *

But old P. B. who, being an Earth-lubber, didn't know what grounding means to a true spaceman, just smiled.

"That's right, Captain. Every member of the command and crew is being examined. You see, the company is removing the _Saturn_ from the freighter service--"

Removing! That was Jolt No. 2! Words got as far as my tonsils--and clogged there. But Biggs' uncle continued blandly:

"--and because of its magnificent service record on behalf of the Corporation, your ship is being assigned to new duties. Henceforth, the _Saturn_ will lift gravs only on special tasks, assignments of vital importance which have proven too difficult for ordinary vessels of the fleet."

Well! That was something like! At last our efforts--or should I say the whackypot genius of Lancelot Biggs?--had earned us recognition. My weskit buttons tugged at their moorings; and glancing at my comrades, I saw they shared my pride. Cap Hanson's huge grin threatened to slice off the top of his head, while Lancelot Biggs' sensitive Adam's-apple was galloping up and down in his throat like a runaway yo-yo.

"Well, now!" said Hanson, gratified. "That bein' the case, I can quite understand why physical exams are necessary, sir. But do you feel that _everyone_--?"

"Everyone," nodded the Vice-president, "from highest to lowest. Everyone aboard this ship. Yes, Captain Hanson. Those orders have been issued, and cannot be altered."

Biggs gurgled happily, "Tell them what our first assignment is, Uncle Prenny."

"Ah, yes. Of course, Lancelot. Captain Hanson, you are doubtless cognizant of the--er--delicate situation upon the planetoid Iris?"

"Delicate!" I snorted. Of course Cap knew about it. We all did. It was the top-ranking scandal of the decade. A group of privateers, seeking a base from which to pursue their nefarious exploits, had established themselves upon innocent, helpless little Iris. There, though it was plain to everyone that the diminutive, rodent-like Irisians were being actually held in peonage, the corsairs had set up a puppet government, thereby procuring territorial rights against which the Interplanetary Council could not file demurrer. So:

"Delicate!" I snorted. "That situation smells worse than pole-pussy perfume in a telephone booth! What the Space Patrol ought to do is go in there and grab those rascals--"

"Sparks!" frowned the Old Man. "That will do!" But he turned questioning eyes to his superior. "Why _doesn't_ the Space Patrol do something about it, sir?"

"Because," pointed out Uncle Prenny, "the privateers are--speaking from a purely legal standpoint--quite within their rights. The Patrol cannot move against them because to do so would be to violate the standards of freedom upon which the Interplanetary Union is founded."

"But everybody _knows_ they're crooks ... pirates...."

"True. But by glancing back over the pages of man's history you will learn that it is always the crooks who twist law to serve their own evil purposes.

"These privateers moved to Iris, became citizens of that planetoid. Then, by brute force, they seized control of the political machine, voted themselves into governing power. With such power, it was an easy matter to pass laws forbidding exercise of Space Patrol rights of search and apprehension ... extradition ... prohibiting further immigration of peoples from civilized planets...."

I said, "Hey, wait a minute! There's one thing they _can't_ do! According to interplanetary law, no government can forbid the right of free trade, barter and exchange!"

Lancelot's uncle smiled.

"Absolutely right, Sparks," he agreed. "And _that_ is where _we_ come in!"

* * * * *

A dead silence followed his pronouncement. Then the air began sizzling with a hot, frying sound. That was Hanson preparing to blow a verbal fuse. He exploded like a retread on a hot day.

"_So!_" he roared. "So that's the kind of a company I been workin' for all these years? Well, Vice-president, here's my rocket--" He tore his precious spaceman's emblem from his breast and hurled it to the floor--"and here's my brevet--" He ripped the golden epaulets from his coat, and heaved them after the rocket--"and the hell with you and the I.P.C., sir! Any outfit which would be so stinkin' niggardly as to _trade_ with a crew of scoundrels like that--"

Lanse Biggs said mildly, "Now, Dad! Don't be hasty. After all--"

The Old Man stared at his First Mate and son-in-law sadly. "You, too, Lancelot? I'm disappointed in you, my boy. I never thought _you'd_ fall in line with--"

Biggs' uncle said, "You are a very impetuous person, Captain Hanson. If you will let me continue--"

"I don't want to hear no more," growled Hanson. "Go 'way and leave me alone!"

"But let Uncle Prenny tell you, Dad!" pleaded Biggs.

"The hell with--"

"He can tell _me_," I broke in. "And if there's not a quick change of theme, I'm going to do a little snoot-poking before I leave--with the skipper. Go ahead, Mr. Biggs."

"You are _two_ very impetuous men," decided Prendergast Biggs, "and I am surprised that you could think your employers would--but never mind. Let me assure you that we have no intention of dealing with these criminals on a friendly basis. On the contrary, we are going to do our utmost to break their grip on the suffering citizens of Iris.

"As Sparks has already commented, there is one thing the usurpers of Iris _cannot_ legally do. That is, forbid the right of free trade and commerce between other planets and the captive Irisians.

"On the other hand, they _can_ forbid the establishment of any community, outpost, or permanent trading-station upon their planetoid. They can prevent unwanted outsiders from becoming citizens of their base. In short, strangers may _visit_ Iris, but they cannot stay there."

"Then, why--?" began the Old Man.

"However," continued the Vice-president, "there is a loophole they have overlooked. That is the clause in interplanetary law which reads: '_Any person or group of persons who discover, create or otherwise develop a hitherto undeveloped industry dependent upon the natural resources of any planet in the system are granted the privilege of establishing settlement upon that body for a period not to exceed thirty-five Solar years._'"

He smiled at us. "That, gentlemen, is the entering-wedge with which we plan to crack the defenses of these tyrants who hold Iris in their grip!"

I stared at him confusedly.

"I don't get it, sir! You mean we're going into some kind of business on Iris?"

"Precisely, Sparks."

"But--but _what_? Iris is just a bleak little hunk of rock swinging in the Asteroid Belt. It doesn't have any soil to grow things in, any bodies of water to fish in. It doesn't _have_ any 'natural resources' we can develop. So what excuse are we going to offer for barging into Iris?"

* * * * *

"We need no excuse for barging in, Sparks," pointed out Lancelot Biggs soberly. "It is our right and privilege to do so. All we need do is claim we mean to develop a new natural industry, and by space law they are forced to admit us for a ten day investigatory period. If by the end of that time we have proven our right to remain, they must let us do so. And we, being on Iris, can then call upon the Space Patrol to 'protect' our property ... the Patrol can move in ... and wipe out the pirates."

"Sure!" snorted Cap Hanson. "Sure, that all sounds swell! But in ten measly days what new industry are we goin' to develop on Iris? Like Sparks says, they ain't no natural resources."

"Oh, that?" smiled Biggs' uncle Prendergast. "Why, that has already been arranged. We are going to make--_soap_!"

"S--soap!" gasped Cap Hanson.

"Soap!" I bleated. "Pardon me all to hell, sir, but somebody's crazy! Soap isn't a natural resource. It doesn't grow on trees or come up out of mines. You make it out of oil and fats and--"

"We're not thinking of that kind of soap, Sparks. I mean the form of hard soap used by miners, grease-monkeys and other manual laborers. Soap made out of pumice-stone. Our geological reports indicate that Iris, being composed mainly of igneous rock formations, is rich in pumice. All we have to do is locate an area rich in this material, start mining operations, and--bingo! We have Steichner and his crew of rascals right where we want them."

And that, lads and lassies, was Jolt No. 3! I knew about the Iris situation, but this was the first time I had ever heard the name of its kingpin and instigator. Hearing it, I winced. Steichner! Otto Steichner! The cunningest, meanest, toughest unhanged scoundrel who ever shoved a baby through an airlock--he was our antagonist!

I moaned feebly and pawed at my sagging jowls.

"Examine me quick, buddy," I begged the waiting doctor, "while my blood pressure is zero minus. Something tells me I don't _want_ to go along on this expedition. Steichner!"

Lanse Biggs stared at me curiously.

"Why, don't tell me you're afraid, Sparks?"

"It's not that. It's just that I--I'm allergic to soap."

"Nonsense!" pooh-poohed his uncle. "Why, cleanliness is next to godliness, Donovan."

"That's what the rulebooks say," I conceded. "But in this case--cleanliness is next to insanity! Lead on, Sawbones. And here's hoping my veins are positively acrawl with something terrible...."

* * * * *

But no such luck! As it turned out, we didn't wait for the results of the medical examination to be tabulated before we lifted gravs. Something--I wouldn't know what--upset the routine, with the result that we took off that night for Iris. If you ask me, I think it was Cap Hanson's doings. I think he was afraid he might not pass the physical, and he wanted to be sure of being on the bridge for at least one more trip on the _Saturn_.

So we lifted gravs and with Lanse Biggs at the studs set course and traj for little Iris, a mere hop-skip-and-jump from Earth since we were using the V-I unit. For the first time in a long while, Diane Biggs didn't make the shuttle with us. Biggs' wife--the Old Man's daughter--wasn't feeling up to par. Neither was _I_, but they didn't give _me_ any raincheck!

Anyhow, in just a little longer time than it takes to digest a day's victuals we were hovering in the strato a mile or so above the capital city of Iris, identifying ourselves to the port authorities on the ground below.

"Who are you," demanded the Iris dispatcher, "and what do you want here?"

"I.P.C. freighter _Saturn_," I tapped back, "requesting privilege to land under spacecode regulation 14, paragraph _iv_. May we come in?"

"Just a minute," advised my contact. He cleared and we waited breathlessly. When he came back again, it was on the telaudio rather than via the bug. The visor screen brightened, and we were looking into the scowling pan of none other than the big boss himself, Otto Steichner.

"Well?" he demanded.

Cap Hanson took over. He said boldly, "What seems to be the trouble, sir? We made a simple request for permission to land. We are an exploring expedition attempting to set up a new industry under spacecode regula--"

"I know all about that," growled Steichner. "Well, you're wasting your time, Captain. Iris has no natural resources, and wants no colonists. You'd better try somewhere else."

Cap said stolidly, "My Company's instructions--"

"Your Company be damned!" roared Steichner, his neck thickening darkly. "I control Iris, and I want no busybodies interfering with my--"

Biggs moved forward to the visor plate. When I say moved, I mean exactly that. Even his best friend could never honestly describe his peculiar means of locomotion as walking. His lanky frame lurches along in a cross between a gallop and a trot ... a sort of a bowlegged-pig-in-a-mirror-maze motion. He coughed embarrassedly, and his liquescent larynx performed incredible involutions.

He said, "Er--this is most distressing, Governor Steichner. Of course you realize that if we are not permitted to effect a landing we will be obliged to report the matter to our employers? And they, in turn, will naturally report it to the Space Patrol--"

* * * * *

Well, that did it. Steichner was playing a cautious, tricky game. Trying to get by within the barest shadow of the Law. In order to _bar_ the Space Patrol from his domain, he had to live up to certain interplanetary regulations which forbade their marching in on him.

His eyes flashed dangerously, but he gave in.

"Very well, gentlemen. You may land. But remember! You have only ten days in which to prove there are natural resources upon Iris which you can develop commercially. If in that length of time you have not succeeded, you must leave."

"We understand that," said Biggs. "Thank you, sir!"

And so, unwanted guests of a most unwilling host, we laid the _Saturn_ down in the lair of an acknowledged band of space-pirates. It was a piece of daring which, had I had time to consider it, would have given me more goose-pimples than a Siberian fan-dancer. But as it happened, I was too busy to bother about it. For, as Biggs was maneuvering the _Saturn_ to its cradle, my bug started chattering, and it was Joe Marlowe calling from Lunar III. What he had to say was puh-lenty.

"That you, Donovan?" he tap-tapped. "Greetings, pal! They ache today?"

"What," I shot back, "are you talking about?"

"Your feet, of course. We just got the reports from the medical examiners. They say your tootsies are as flat as a pair of toed flounders. That makes you the same at both ends, doesn't it?"

I stiffened.

"Stop wasting juice," I advised him, "and give out. You got the reports? What do they say? Is the Old Man--"

"Sturdy," rattled Marlowe, "is the word for Hanson. Your Skipper's as chipper as a kipper. You're O.Q. Todd is O.Q. Bronson and McMurtrie and Anderson are O.Q. The crew checks one hundred percent. Enderby needs two teeth filled; otherwise O.Q. Blaster Jacobs needs sun-lamp Vitamin C, but otherwise O.Q. As a matter of fact--"

One name was conspicuous by its absence. My gizzard turned over slowly. I interrupted, "Marlowe--look back over your list. Didn't you forget somebody? How about--?"

The answer came back slowly, almost sympathetically. Even over the dit-da-dits you can read expression in talented fingers. Marlowe tapped:

"I'm sorry, Donovan. I'm very sorry to have to tell you this, but there is one unfavorable report. The examiners have declared one man aboard the _Saturn_ to be absolutely unfit for space travel. His heart is so bad that it may give out at any minute. That man is--First Officer Biggs!"

* * * * *

Well, there you are! Somehow I managed to take down the conclusion of the memo and sign off. But all the while I was doing so my brain was churning with the doleful tidings I had received; the thought kept repeating over and over again: "_Biggs--grounded! Lancelot Biggs--unfit for space travel!_"

My memory flashed back to the day when, almost three years ago, that tow-headed youngster had first gangled aboard the _Saturn_, fresh out of the Academy and not yet dry behind the ears. Fourth Mate he had been then, with no more responsibility than a laundress in a nudist camp. The Old Man had not liked him, partly because he was eccentric, mostly because he had avowed his intention of placing a gold band around the third finger, left hand, of the charmer whose name was at that time Diane Hanson.

But somehow Lanse Biggs had overcome these handicaps, by persistence worked himself up to the position of First Officer, by wit and guile and intelligence come through every obstacle set before him, by sheer determination proven to the skipper that he would make a good son-in-law.

His inventive genius had given mankind the velocity-intensifier unit, the uranium speech-trap, the first safe way of descending to the planet Jupiter--oh, why go on? Biggs' discoveries are as prominent as the Adam's-apple in his neck, and that's plenty outstanding!

But now, his future assured, his erratic past behind him, Biggs was to be exiled from the space he loved. Biggs--grounded! Lancelot Biggs--unfit for space travel!

So coursed my gloomy thoughts as I sat there in the silence of my radio turret. I did not even notice the _Saturn_ was easing into a cradle. My first intimation that we were on Iris came with the arrival of Cap Hanson. He came burbling into my cubby, happy as a bee in a honeysuckle vine.

"O.Q., Sparks--we done it! We're on Iris. Shoot a message to Earth that we--Hey! What's the matter? Sick?"

Without a word I handed him my transcript of the report. He scanned it swiftly.

"Ah, the medical report, eh? Glory be, Sparks, this is wonderful! I passed! Isn't that swell? And you passed ... and Todd ... and...."

Then he stopped as abruptly as I had. A cloud swept across his forehead leaving his eyes darkened and sombre. In a whisper he said, "Lancelot--!"

I said, "That's the end of the chapter, Skipper. For three years the _Saturn_ has been the finest ship in the fleet. We've done more tough jobs and had more fun than any bunch of spacemen who ever lifted gravs under the same emblem. But it ends now. When Lanse Biggs leaves this ship, nothing will be the same ever again."

"His heart," faltered the Old Man. "Who would have believed there was anything wrong with his heart? I know he's skinny, and all that, but he always seemed healthy enough--"

"Where is he now?"

"What? Oh--outside. He's trying to make a purchase of some real estate, Sparks. It don't matter much just _where_ he buys, so long as he buys. The whole asteroid's honeycombed with pumice pockets, you see. All we got to do is buy up some land, start diggin', produce hard soap and earn the right to remain here. But--his heart! Sparks, I can't believe--"

"Hush!" I warned him. "If those sounds aren't a herd of antelopes on rollerskates, I think that's him coming now."

Cap Hanson crumpled the flimsy, jammed it deep into his pocket.

"Not a word about this, Sparks! Not yet. We--we've got to break it gently!"

* * * * *

I nodded just as Biggs, grinning from ear to ear and back again, lurched into the turret. On his right arm he was carrying a queer looking little squeegee. At first I thought it was a teddy bear. Then it moved, and I realized I was in the presence of a native Irisian. He--or it--was a curious little squirrel-like creature with big, goggling eyes, a huge bushy tail and enormous whiskers.

Biggs chirruped cheerfully, "Here's one of the local boys, folks! Sparks, you speak Irisian, don't you? Well--"

He paused, glancing at each of us questioningly. "What's the matter? You two look as if you'd lost your best friend."

Cap Hanson essayed a laugh. It sounded like an echo from a torture chamber.

"Nothin' at all, son. We was just discussin' the difficulties of the problem ahead of us, that's all. So that's an Irisian, huh? And you can talk to it, Sparks?"

He looked at me with new respect. I smiled. "If my Academy prof wasn't just fooling," I told him, "I can." And I turned to the little rodent, twisting my lips into a series of purring whistles which meant "Greetings!"

"Phwee-twurdle-twurdle-pwwht!" replied the Irisian.

Cap Hanson looked at the asterite disconsolately.

"Needs oilin, don't he, Sparks?"

"Not a bit. That's his native tongue. He said how do you do."

"Yeah? Well, it didn't sound like it to me--"

Biggs suggested, "Ask him, Sparks. Ask him where we can buy or lease some property on Iris."

So I did. And the answer was encouraging. It seemed the little feller himself _chwee-fweeple-twee_--meaning he owned some property a few miles outside the capital city--and he'd be glad to sell us this patch of ground for _chirp-furdle-foo_--

I translated. Cap Hanson turned crimson with rage.

"Four thousand Earth credits! For a hunk of ground you could cover with a handkerchief? Ridiculous! We won't pay any such price--"

"It's no skin off our nose, Skipper," I reminded him. "The Corporation's paying for it."

Hanson nodded slowly.

"We-e-ell, maybe you got something there. We can't do no diggin' for soap without something to dig in. O.Q. Go ahead and make the deal, Sparks."

"And I," chimed in Biggs, "will organize the men and get to work on the digging--"

"No!" said Hanson hastily. "You mustn't exert yourself like that, boy. Remember your--"

He stopped abruptly. Lancelot glanced at him.

"What? Remember my _what_, Dad?"

"Nothin'. You stay here and direct the men; I'll get 'em onto the job."

So we became possessors of a bit of Iris terrain and set forth on the adventure which--we hoped--was to bring an end to Otto Steichner's rule over the tiny planetoid.

* * * * *