And my eyes swiveled to the visiplate once more, just in time to see the last act of the little drama. It came with terrible suddenness, devastating completeness. The waters of the churning lake boiled fiercely for a fraction of an instant as a half dozen spaceships jetted simultaneously. Then from the inwards of the lake, as from a gigantic steam-bomb, burst a violent sheet of flame. A coruscating, eye-blinding moment of brilliance ... then another ... and another ... six, all told.
Then—silence. Quietude. And the sad voice of Mr. Biggs saying, "Cut the connection, Chief McMurtrie. Our task is ended...."
I got it, then. I'm slow, but eventually I always straighten things out. I stared at Biggs with a sort of horrible fascination. I said, "So that's it. You didn't try to harm them. You simply electroplated their ships!"
"That's it, Sparks," acknowledged Biggs sadly. "And when they attempted to jet from the lake, their blasts backfired against the silver barricade deposited over their ports. Their ships exploded like living bombs!"
Later, as our workmen reversed the polarity of Biggs' gigantic electroplating apparatus to reclaim as much as possible of the silver used in the operation, the commander of the Space Patrol fleet stopped by to offer his congratulations.
"It was a magnificent job, gentlemen," said he. "We commend you on having helped the System in ridding itself of one of its few remaining pestholes. Henceforth, the Irisians will govern themselves in freedom and contentment. Meanwhile, if your Corporation wishes to maintain its property rights on Iris, we shall of course honor your discovery of fuel oil."
He paused, staring at Biggs.
"But how did you know there was fuel oil on Iris, Mr. Biggs? Other geologists had never detected its presence."
Biggs flushed.