"We need no excuse for barging in, Sparks," pointed out Lancelot Biggs soberly. "It is our right and privilege to do so. All we need do is claim we mean to develop a new natural industry, and by space law they are forced to admit us for a ten day investigatory period. If by the end of that time we have proven our right to remain, they must let us do so. And we, being on Iris, can then call upon the Space Patrol to 'protect' our property ... the Patrol can move in ... and wipe out the pirates."
"Sure!" snorted Cap Hanson. "Sure, that all sounds swell! But in ten measly days what new industry are we goin' to develop on Iris? Like Sparks says, they ain't no natural resources."
"Oh, that?" smiled Biggs' uncle Prendergast. "Why, that has already been arranged. We are going to make—soap!"
"S—soap!" gasped Cap Hanson.
"Soap!" I bleated. "Pardon me all to hell, sir, but somebody's crazy! Soap isn't a natural resource. It doesn't grow on trees or come up out of mines. You make it out of oil and fats and—"
"We're not thinking of that kind of soap, Sparks. I mean the form of hard soap used by miners, grease-monkeys and other manual laborers. Soap made out of pumice-stone. Our geological reports indicate that Iris, being composed mainly of igneous rock formations, is rich in pumice. All we have to do is locate an area rich in this material, start mining operations, and—bingo! We have Steichner and his crew of rascals right where we want them."
And that, lads and lassies, was Jolt No. 3! I knew about the Iris situation, but this was the first time I had ever heard the name of its kingpin and instigator. Hearing it, I winced. Steichner! Otto Steichner! The cunningest, meanest, toughest unhanged scoundrel who ever shoved a baby through an airlock—he was our antagonist!
I moaned feebly and pawed at my sagging jowls.
"Examine me quick, buddy," I begged the waiting doctor, "while my blood pressure is zero minus. Something tells me I don't want to go along on this expedition. Steichner!"