"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--" * * * * * Well, that did it. Steichner was playing a cautious, tricky game. Trying to get by within the barest shadow of the Law. In order to _bar_ the Space Patrol from his domain, he had to live up to certain interplanetary regulations which forbade their marching in on him. His eyes flashed dangerously, but he gave in. "Very well, gentlemen. You may land. But remember! You have only ten days in which to prove there are natural resources upon Iris which you can develop commercially. If in that length of time you have not succeeded, you must leave." "We understand that," said Biggs. "Thank you, sir!" And so, unwanted guests of a most unwilling host, we laid the _Saturn_ down in the lair of an acknowledged band of space-pirates. It was a piece of daring which, had I had time to consider it, would have given me more goose-pimples than a Siberian fan-dancer. But as it happened, I was too busy to bother about it. For, as Biggs was maneuvering the _Saturn_ to its cradle, my bug started chattering, and it was Joe Marlowe calling from Lunar III. What he had to say was puh-lenty. "That you, Donovan?" he tap-tapped. "Greetings, pal! They ache today?" "What," I shot back, "are you talking about?" "Your feet, of course. We just got the reports from the medical examiners. They say your tootsies are as flat as a pair of toed flounders. That makes you the same at both ends, doesn't it?" I stiffened. "Stop wasting juice," I advised him, "and give out. You got the reports? What do they say? Is the Old Man--"