Part 2

Of course you know that Iris is only a little hunk of cosmic debris, about three hundred miles in diameter, busting along in the planetoid Belt, just one of myriad specks which are all that remain of what was once upon a time a planet like Earth in the space-sector between Mars and Jupiter. It has no atmosphere of its own, so when you leave the domed cities and villages you have to wear your bulger, and since its gravitational attraction is about as strong as a two-day old kitten, you have to wear clinch-plates in your sandals.

But our boys are a tough crew, accustomed to working under even worse conditions than these, and I'm not bragging too much when I say that in two shakes of a rocket's tail we had staked out our property and buckled down to our task.

Our "task" was, of course, just plain digging. From that grayish-looking topsoil we had to peel away the crumbling layers which would lead us to the basaltic depths beneath. From this substratum we must extract a quantity of the pumice which was to justify our presence here. A simple thing.

Only it didn't turn out that way. It took us three days to scrape off the detritus layer. Then we reached rock. But it wasn't exactly the sort of rock we had expected to find: obsidian or basalt, lava flow. It was sandstone. Gray shale.

Lancelot Biggs looked at samples of this rock and shook his head. He said, "Hmmm! That's funny! Sandstone is not an igneous formation. You know--"

"I don't know nothin'," said the Old Man, "except we ain't got too much time to spare. Let's get on with our job."

So we kept on digging. We had to use atomotors. The rock layer was tougher than a blue-plate steak, but slowly our blaster chunked its way through ... to a layer of slate!

Cap Hanson said worriedly, "You reckon they might of made a mistake back on Earth, Lanse, boy? This here roofing material don't look like what we was supposed to find. Maybe there's pumice underneath, but--"

"Frankly," I said, "I doubt it. Pumice is the result of air bubbles mixing with an uncooled lava mixture. Slate is a sedimentary deposit. I think we've stumbled across a punk piece of ground, myself. We'd better go buy another hunk of property. Eh, Biggs?"

Lancelot Biggs said soberly, "If we want to locate pumice, I'm afraid so. I've been reading up on geological structure, and all the evidence indicates that--"

"Go see what you can do, then, Sparks," ordered the Old Man. "You're the only one of us which can talk Irisian. See if you can buy a nice soap-mine somewhere."

So I went. And I got nowhere--fast. The Irisian from whom we had bought this piece of property was nowhere to be found. He had "disappeared." No other native of the tiny planet would even listen to my pleas. The moment I started talking shop, they covered their fuzzy ears with furry claws and scuttled away.

Things began to make sense. In this maze of mystery I detected the fine touch of Otto Steichner. So I sought him in the armed citadel he called his gubernatorial White House. I put the question to him bluntly ... which does not necessarily mean "boldly," because to tell the truth my knees were shaking like a bowl of unchilled jello when I marched into his guarded study.

* * * * *

"Land?" repeated Steichner, "Land, Mr. Donovan? I'm afraid there is no property for sale on Iris. You see, everything here is owned by the government. Private individuals cannot buy or sell land."

I said, "But only five days ago we bought a piece of property from an Irisian named Tswrrrl. At the time, he mentioned that he had other properties for sale. But now I cannot seem to find him--"

"Tswrrrl? Tswrrrl? Ah, yes--" said the governor thoughtfully--"Tswrrrl! I remember now. An unfortunate incident. So careless of Tswrrrl. He was killed in an--er--accident a few days ago. Just the day before the Irisian government passed the new law forbidding the further sale of private properties, you know--"

"In other words," I said, "your bunch of thugs did him in? Is that it, Steichner?"

Steichner said silkily, "You do us an injustice, Mr. Donovan. We who control the government of Iris operate _within_ the law at all times. That is why we find no need of allowing the Space Patrol within our sphere. Now, if you will excuse me? I am very busy--"

"In short," I said, "you don't intend to let us buy any more land. Is that it?"

"In short," replied Steichner, dropping his pretenses for a moment and giving me a stare which would have curdled a bottle of cream, "no! You have been given every legal opportunity, Mr. Donovan. You have been here on Iris exactly five and one half Solar Constant days. If, within ten days after your arrival, you have not demonstrated your ability to produce a commercial commodity heretofore undeveloped on this planet, you will be asked to leave."

I rose. "O.Q., Steichner," I told him grimly. "You hold the chips, now. But let me tell you this--if we _do_ find what we're looking for, and gain the right to remain on Iris, our _first move_ will be to call in the Space Patrol to protect our property. And you know what that means. It means the end of you and your gang ... the end of your use of Iris as a base for marauding expeditions.

"You know that, Steichner. That's why you're--"

Steichner's face mottled unhealthily. He said in a gray voice, "You are talking dangerously, Donovan. Be careful no 'accident' stops _your_ wagging tongue."

"If anything happens to me," I promised him, "you'll receive a visit from the Space Patrol before you can stutter 'nebular hypothesis,' Steichner. That's been arranged."

His lips were a white slit through which he gritted, "I quite understand, Donovan. But don't underestimate Otto Steichner. Even for _that_ eventuality I am prepared. Now--get out!"

"Moreover--" I began.

"I said--_get out_!"

* * * * *

"So," I concluded my story to the skipper and Lanse Biggs, "I scrammed across the bridge and over the lake and up to camp, here. And thus endeth my little attempt to buy more land. It just can't be done, boys and girls. That's a dead duck."

The Old Man frowned. He said, "Yeah, there's no use squawkin' about it; Steichner holds the whip hand. The worst of it is, he'll probably be able to kick us off Iris without doin' a thing to bring in the Patrol. I mean, we'll get the gate strictly legal. Because we still ain't found no sign of pumice, and we're pretty deep now--Well, Lancelot?"

Biggs had been thinking. You can always tell when he's thinking, because his feet shuttle from side to side like spectators' heads at a tennis-match. Now he said, "Across the _what_ and over the _what_, Sparks?"

"Seriatim," I told him, "bridge and lake. So what's that got to do with the present situation? The problem before the board is--"

"I was just wondering," commented Biggs, "how there should be a _lake_ on the planetoid Iris--and why? As we know, there are no natural bodies of water on this tiny orb. Therefore they must be artificial--"

"All right," growled the skipper, "so they're phoney! Maybe Steichner's got a sense of beauty!"

"Sure," I agreed. "What he likes best is a lovely dagger, attractively decorated with nice, fresh blood. Cap's right, Biggs. We're not here to marvel at the scenic wonders of Iris. We've got a job to do, and we're getting nowhere--fast!"

"You mean," said Biggs, "our excavations? I've been thinking about that, too. And it is beginning to make sense to me. You know my motto, Sparks: 'Get the theory first!' I think I've solved the theory, now. The only thing which still remains is to put it into practice. But that lake--"

"You've solved it, Lanse, son?" broke in the Old Man eagerly. "Fine! Fine! I knew you wouldn't let us down. So what do we do?"

"Well, we must ask McMurtrie to rig up a hydraulic drill, first of all. Then we must--"

"Drill! To dig pumice? Son, you must be--"

Biggs shuffled embarrassedly.

"Well, it was only an idea, sir. Of course if you'd rather we can delve into the matter of that lake--"

"Never mind," said the Old Man hastily. "The drill it is. Anything to get your mind off that damn lagoon, O.Q. Issue the orders, Sparks."

So that was how we started boring instead of digging into the soil of Iris. And of course the shift of operations consumed still more of our ever-dwindling allotment of time. It took McMurtrie and his black gang a full day to rig up the hydraulic drill, and another day to set the cast so it would ram true. The next day we spent watching the diamondhead romp up and down in its casing, interrupting the steady _chug-chug!_ every once in a while so Lancelot Biggs, who was watching the operation with the care and feverish attention of a mamma duck, could study the bore-facing.

He wiped his hand around the friction-heated facing and studied the granules. I craned over his shoulder and got a glimpse. I moaned.

"No go, Lanse. That _still_ isn't pumice. I'm afraid Steichner wins. We've only got a little over one day to go, and it's no soap--hard _or_ soft!"

* * * * *

But there was no discouragement in the eyes of Biggs. Instead, he was muttering with a sort of satisfaction, "Just as I thought. First shale ... then slate ... then this diatomaceous conglomerate. It is phenomenal, but it must be so. Sparks--" He turned to me suddenly--"Call Earth! Tell the authorities to dispatch fighting units of the Space Patrol immediately--to protect our property!"

"Our--?"

"Hurry! There's no time to waste. And--warn them to be very careful in approaching this planetoid. They must make no attempt to land until we signal them the way is clear. Understand?"

"Of--of course," I stammered. "You mean you think Steichner will pit up a scrap rather than let them in. But are you sure you know what you're doing, Lanse? After all, a handful of grit--"

Biggs laughed triumphantly.

"But what grit, Sparks! What grit! See those bits of whitish colored substance?"

I looked again more closely at the powdery substance in the palm of his hand. I said, "Rock-measles?"

"Fossils, Sparks!"

"Fossils? But what have fossils got to do with--?"

"I can't tell you now. There is too much to be done, I've got to go down, for one thing, and have a look at that artificial lake beside the governor's mansion."

Cap Hanson, who had been off supervising the boring operations came up behind him just in time to overhear these final words. He asked.

"Still talkin' about that lake, Lancelot? What for? Why do you have to go down there and snoop around?"

"Because," explained Biggs, "I've been worrying about it, and I've just decided why it was built."

"Well?"

Biggs said slowly, "Steichner is a pirate; right?"

"Doubled and redoubled," I conceded, "in spades. So what?"

"We know he has a fleet of swift space-cruisers, no?"

"Yes."

"Well, then--_where are those cruisers_?"

I gulped and stared at him. So did Hanson. Then the two of us shook our heads and said together, "I don't know."

"Neither do I," admitted Biggs grimly, "for certain. But logic tells me it can be only one place. Hidden from view beneath the waters of that artificial lake--concealed, poised for deadly striking upon any unwary attacker!"

* * * * *

And there's an example of typical Biggsian reasoning. It had never occurred to either of us to wonder at the absence of a spacefleet we should have known must be somewhere around. But the moment Biggs hurled his bombshell we knew he must be right. It was the only explanation which satisfied the mystery of the lake on lakeless Iris. Steichner moored his spacecraft under water to hide them from the view of potentially hostile visitors. From their aqueous vantage-point they could emerge in the split of a second, guns spewing lethal flames to smash down the Patrol if and when the Patrol ever moved to capture Steichner's stronghold!

I yelped, "Great swooning serpents, let me get to my bug--" and started for the ship's radio. But Biggs grabbed my shoulder.

"Not so fast, Sparks! Don't send any warning about the lake in your message--not even in Company code. Steichner is a clever man. His experts might discover we knew their secret, and that would be just too bad--for us. We'd upset their applecart, yes; but we wouldn't be alive to enjoy the fruits of our victory. And--" He grinned wryly--"oddly enough, I have an ardent desire to keep on living."

It was the suddenness of his words which trapped the Old Man. He nodded and said reassuringly, "Of course, my boy. And you will. Why, these days a bum ticker doesn't mean anything. Lots of men have 'em and perk right along--"

Then he stopped, crimsoning, as he realized what he had said. Biggs stared at him open-mouthed, then turned to me. I avoided his eyes. I couldn't help it. Biggs said, "Bum ticker, Dad?"

Hanson said miserably, "I'm sorry, boy. I meant to break it gentler than that, but it sort of slipped out."

"You mean--" said Biggs dazedly--"I didn't pass the physical examination? It--it showed my heart was bad?"

I nodded. "That's right, Lanse."

"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!

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.