The roly-poly father of Sam Wilkes turned a querulous eye on Grampaw.
"Who's the antique?" he demanded throatily. "Sounds to me like one of them big-talkin', poor-scrappin' Earth soldiers I fit in the Upland Rebellion."
"Upland Rebellion!" howled Grampaw. "Was you one o' the rebels we chased from the deserts to the Pole? I might of knowed it! Gimme that gun, Dick—"
"Please, Grampaw!" begged Dick. He looked at Wilkes. "My father was right, Mr. Wilkes. There is a dreadful mistake here. Apparently the Colonial offices of Earth and Mars have disagreed on the ownership of this planetoid; your government has issued a land-grant on it, and so has ours."
"Asteroids," said Wilkes, "are Martian. Their very orbits prove—"
"I beg your pardon," interrupted Pop firmly. "Eros' orbit is between Earth and Mars at this moment. It is a part of Earth's empire."
"Is it true," Bobby asked Junior, wide-eyed, "that pirate gangs hide in the Martian deserts? I heard—"
"Shucks, no! We used to live in East Redlands, they wasn't no pirates anywheres about. Were you ever in Chicago, Skinny? Is it true there's a building there two miles high?"
"Two and a half," said Bobby complacently. "And it covers six city blocks. And my name's not 'Skinny'."
"—you'll notice," Wilkes was grunting, "my grant is dated prior to yours. Therefore Eros is mine, no matter which government's claim is soundest. That's Intergalactic law."