And "Oil!" cried Lancelot Biggs triumphantly. "Oil, Steichner! That is the new industry which grants us the right to remain here!"
Well, it was a victory, all right—but for a minute I thought it was going to be a victory with flowers. For Otto Steichner's mouth turned livid with rage as he realized he had lost his tight grip on the planetoid Iris; his hand leaped to his belt, and for the space of a held breath I felt certain he would ray us all down in our tracks.
It was the oil which saved us. Pluming skyward, its jet hit a half-mile ceiling. Then, because Iris is not entirely airless, and has a slight gravitation, the column unbrellaed and splashed earthward. A viscous rain began splattering all around and over us. A greasy black torrent which turned us all into tar-babies before we could duck for shelter.
Steichner gasped, choked, and raced toward his monocar. But as his cohorts piled into it with him, he roared back at us:
"This isn't goodbye, gentlemen! I have other and more important things to take care of right now. But when I have disposed of the Space Patrol fleet, then I will return to take care of you!"
Out of range of the oily deluge, Cap Hanson turned a serious face to Biggs.
"Disposed of the Space Patrol? What does he mean?"
Biggs replied soberly, "I'm afraid he means just what he said, sir. My guess about the lake was right. It is the hiding place of his fleet. Steichner will flee there now, man his ships, and lie in wait for the Patrol. When the fleet arrives—"