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—"