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Title: Mr. Biggs goes to town
Author: Nelson S. Bond
Release date: August 1, 2024 [eBook #74174]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: Ziff-Davis Publishing Company, 1942
Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MR. BIGGS GOES TO TOWN ***
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.
* * * * *
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!
[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.
I stared at him questioningly.
"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?"
Biggs said resignedly, "You'd better call Earth and find out, Sparks."
So I contacted H.Q. And when I had asked my question there was a moment
of silence. Then the bug-pounder on the other end of the connection
said, "Do with Biggs? What do you _want_ to do with him, Donovan? Why,
bring him home, of course."
I said, "But if his heart won't stand the trip--"
"Heart? Heart? What's matter with Biggs' heart?"
"Why, the medico reported--"
"Oh, that!" pooh-poohed the Earth operator. "That was a mistake--didn't
I tell you? The examiners got mixed up. It seems their orders were to
examine _every_ single man aboard the _Saturn_, with no exceptions. And
since there were _two_ Biggs on board--"
Biggs, who had been listening to the message come in, jerked like a
spitballed schoolmarm.
"_Uncle Prenny!_" he yelled. "They got him mixed up with me. I'm the
_First_ Mate and he's the _First_ Vice-president. They probably just
entered the report that the 'First Officer' was unfit for space travel!
Uncle Prenny's heart has been bad for thirty years!"
I grunted contentedly and cut the connection. "Then all's well," I
said, "that ends swell, huh?"
The Old Man, too, grinned happily.
"Right you are, Sparks. From now on our troubles are over. Peace and
contentment from now on...."
But with Biggs aboard the _Saturn_, that's a thousand-to-one shot. Any
bets?
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