"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.