"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.