"True," admitted Biggs easily. "Quite true, Steichner. But though we have failed to find pumice, we have found something else. Another commodity never before exploited on Iris. We thereby earn the right to stay here for thirty-five years ... and to call in the Patrol to protect our rights...."
Steichner's fingers worked convulsively.
"Another product, sir? Out of this bleak, worthless soil! Impossible!"
And Biggs shook his head.
"Incredible, sir. But not impossible. Because, you see, it exists. Unless my latest estimates are completely in error, our drill should strike, at any minute now, a pocket of that substance which was created when Iris was still a part of a mighty planet swinging in an orbit between Mars and Jupiter. A commodity of great value ... an essential fuel...."
"What?" roared Steichner. "What are you talking about, you blithering idiot?"
Biggs didn't answer him. He didn't have to. For at that moment there rose a sudden warning shout from where our workers tended the diamondhead drill. Voices raised in swift alarm, from the ground beneath our feet came a strange roaring, rushing, gushing sound. And even as the workmen fled, the superstructure of our drill shattered and flew high into the thin air of Iris—borne aloft on a pillar of thick black goo!
There was an awful rushing sound and a column of black muck shot skyward.