"I.P.C. freighter Saturn," I tapped back, "requesting privilege to land under spacecode regulation 14, paragraph iv. May we come in?"
"Just a minute," advised my contact. He cleared and we waited breathlessly. When he came back again, it was on the telaudio rather than via the bug. The visor screen brightened, and we were looking into the scowling pan of none other than the big boss himself, Otto Steichner.
"Well?" he demanded.
Cap Hanson took over. He said boldly, "What seems to be the trouble, sir? We made a simple request for permission to land. We are an exploring expedition attempting to set up a new industry under spacecode regula—"
"I know all about that," growled Steichner. "Well, you're wasting your time, Captain. Iris has no natural resources, and wants no colonists. You'd better try somewhere else."
Cap said stolidly, "My Company's instructions—"
"Your Company be damned!" roared Steichner, his neck thickening darkly. "I control Iris, and I want no busybodies interfering with my—"
Biggs moved forward to the visor plate. When I say moved, I mean exactly that. Even his best friend could never honestly describe his peculiar means of locomotion as walking. His lanky frame lurches along in a cross between a gallop and a trot ... a sort of a bowlegged-pig-in-a-mirror-maze motion. He coughed embarrassedly, and his liquescent larynx performed incredible involutions.
He said, "Er—this is most distressing, Governor Steichner. Of course you realize that if we are not permitted to effect a landing we will be obliged to report the matter to our employers? And they, in turn, will naturally report it to the Space Patrol—"