Hanson said, "I'm sorry, son. But you'll still work for the Corporation, of course. And you'll have lots of time at home with Diane. It--it's even better than battin' around in space--" But he wasn't kidding a soul. Least of all Lancelot Biggs who, for a moment, turned his back to us. When he again faced us there was a curious moisture in his eyes. Which, considering the fact that in the rarified atmosphere of Iris we were all wearing lightweight bulgers, could not have come from blowing dust. He said in a low voice, "Well--get that message off, Sparks. I'll run on along about my errand. For if I'm not very much mistaken, we'll have visitors within the next few hours. As soon as Steichner's radiomen break down your code." And he disappeared toward the city, a lean and lanky, somehow strangely forlorn looking Biggs.... * * * * * Well, I sent the message. It cleared through Johnny Holmes at Long Island Spaceport, and Holmes was so excited he almost busted a finger on the key as he chattered back at me. "No fooling, Donovan? You've succeeded in locating pumice?" "We've succeeded in locating," I told him, "something. Don't ask me what. I'm only the hired help around here. But Biggs says it's O.Q., and whatever he says is all right with me. So goose the Rocketeers and get 'em on their way here as soon as possible--if not sooner." "Right!" snapped Holmes. "Consider them started!" So that was that. I wandered back to the digs, there waited for the second part of Biggs' prophecy to be fulfilled. It didn't take long. About four hours later--Earth standard, of course; you can't figure hours on a tiny planetoid which has no axial revolution--a monocar came blistering from the capital city to our encampment. It was packed to the gunwales, mostly with armed guards and Steichner. Steichner was packed to the gunwales, too, mostly with fury. He hurled himself from the speedster and strode to Hanson's side. "Captain Hanson, may I ask the meaning of this?" He jammed a sheet of paper under the Old Man's nose. On it was typed a complete, interpreted transcription of the message I had recently sent to Earth. The skipper took it, studied it slowly, coolly. He said, "Same to you, Governor Steichner. May I ask how you got a copy of a message which was sent in private code?" "That," blustered the politico, "is neither here nor there. My men are experts at deciphering such messages. What I demand to know is, by what right have you summoned a force of Space Patrolmen to _my_ planet?" The Old Man didn't know. He was as much in the dark as a blindfolded mole in a blackout. But he bluffed it through. "Why," he said calmly, "under Regulation 19, section _xvii_ of the spacecode, of course. To protect our property." "Property?" roared Steichner. "_What_ property? Don't try to pretend to me, sir, that you have succeeded in finding pumice on this terrain!" I broke in, "So you even knew what we were searching for, eh, Steichner?"