"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!" Lanse Biggs stared at me curiously. "Why, don't tell me you're afraid, Sparks?" "It's not that. It's just that I--I'm allergic to soap." "Nonsense!" pooh-poohed his uncle. "Why, cleanliness is next to godliness, Donovan." "That's what the rulebooks say," I conceded. "But in this case--cleanliness is next to insanity! Lead on, Sawbones. And here's hoping my veins are positively acrawl with something terrible...." * * * * * But no such luck! As it turned out, we didn't wait for the results of the medical examination to be tabulated before we lifted gravs. Something--I wouldn't know what--upset the routine, with the result that we took off that night for Iris. If you ask me, I think it was Cap Hanson's doings. I think he was afraid he might not pass the physical, and he wanted to be sure of being on the bridge for at least one more trip on the _Saturn_. So we lifted gravs and with Lanse Biggs at the studs set course and traj for little Iris, a mere hop-skip-and-jump from Earth since we were using the V-I unit. For the first time in a long while, Diane Biggs didn't make the shuttle with us. Biggs' wife--the Old Man's daughter--wasn't feeling up to par. Neither was _I_, but they didn't give _me_ any raincheck! Anyhow, in just a little longer time than it takes to digest a day's victuals we were hovering in the strato a mile or so above the capital city of Iris, identifying ourselves to the port authorities on the ground below. "Who are you," demanded the Iris dispatcher, "and what do you want here?" "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.