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--" I said, "Well, then, golly--let's lift the _Saturn_ out of here! Beat it out into space, and stop the Fleet--?" But Biggs shook his head. "No--I have a better plan than that. Oh, Chief--" He called to Chief Engineer McMurtrie who, dripping with fuel oil and pride, was hobbling back toward the ship for a change of clothing--"nice work on that drill. Tell the men to cap the well for the time being. Did you get those metal poles I asked you for?" "Yes, sorrr!" "Good! And the silver?" "About three tons of it, sorrr!" "Silver?" broke in Hanson. "Three tons of it? Why, you must be talkin' about that specie shipment in the A-deck bins. You can't touch that, Lancelot. It ain't ours to use. It belongs to--" "It belongs to humanity," declared Biggs. "No price is too high to pay for the overthrow of Steichner's crew." He glanced at his wrist chrono. "What time did you wire the Patrol, Sparks?" "Eleven-oh-three-ack-em." "Hmmm! They should arrive in less than six hours. We must get to work. All right, Chief. You know where I want those materials. And don't forget the salt!" "No, sorrr!" "Salt!" moaned Hanson. "Migawd, what now? You ain't goin' to cook and _eat_ Steichner?" Lancelot Biggs smiled tightly. "No, not entirely. All I'm going to cook is his goose." * * * * * What happened in those next few hours makes sense to me now, but it didn't while it was going on. I'll admit that without a tremor. But, then, few ordinary mortals do understand what L. Biggs is driving at until he pops up at the end of his endeavors with a Q. E. D. clenched in his molars. All I knew was, that by the time our gang got from the camp down to the capital city, Steichner and his crowd had disappeared. The city was empty save for a few assorted thousand fuzzy Irisians scampering around, whimpering dolefully because they didn't know what was going on.