There was an awful rushing sound and a column of black muck shot skyward.
There was an awful rushing sound and a column of black muck shot skyward.
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 notentirelyairless, and has aslightgravitation, 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 ofyou!"
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. Itisthe 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 theSaturnout 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 andeatSteichner?"
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 theSaturn. 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'rehalfright," acknowledged my lanky friend. "Not electrocuting, 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 simplyelectroplated 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 asteroidismostly 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 youwantto 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 examineeverysingle man aboard theSaturn, with no exceptions. And since there weretwoBiggs 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 theFirstMate and he's theFirstVice-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 theSaturn, that's a thousand-to-one shot. Any bets?