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Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The downfall
of Lancelot Biggs
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The downfall of Lancelot Biggs

Author: Nelson S. Bond

Illustrator: Henry del Campo

Release date: July 23, 2024 [eBook #74109]

Language: English

Original publication: New York, NY: Weird Tales, 1940

Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DOWNFALL

OF LANCELOT BIGGS ***
 The Downfall of Lancelot
Biggs

By NELSON S. BOND

Come aboard the Saturn for

fun and laughs with Lancelot
Biggs—mastermind of the spaceways.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from

Weird Tales March 1941.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
We were about three hours out of Long Island Spaceport, and I had
just finished swapping farewell insults with Joe Marlowe, head bug-
pounder at Lunar III, when the door of my radio turret slid open and
in slithered—if round things can slither—Cap Hanson, skipper of our
gallant space-going scow, the Saturn.
The Old Man's eyes were as wide as a lady bowler's beam, and his
face, which boasts a pale mauve hue even under normal
circumstances, was now a ripe, explosive fuchsia. He jammed a
pudgy forefinger against his lips.
"Shh!" he shhed.
He squeezed in and closed the door behind him, shot a nervous
glance about the room, then wheezed throatily, "Is there anybody
here, Sparks?"
"Nobody," I told him, "but us amperes. Why all the Desperate
Desmond stuff, Skipper? Got an old corpus delicti you want hid? You
might try the air-lock—"
He snapped back to normal with a profane bang.
"Don't be a damned fool, Donovan! I ain't murdered any members of
my crew yet. Though if I ever do, I've got a good notion who to
start with. I got reason to be cautions. I just learned something—
Listen!" He hunched forward and shoved his lips so close to my ear
that I could almost hear his whiskers sprouting. "You know that
Captain Cooper which come aboard at Long Island?"
"The Quarantine officer, you mean?"
"Quarantine officer your eye!" The skipper's voice was triumphant.
"He ain't no more a Q.O. than I'm the Queen of Sheba! He's an
inspector from the S.S.C.B."
"An inspector!" I gasped. "From the Space Safety Control Board!
Why—why, that means—"
"Exactly!" Hanson rubbed his hands gleefully. "It means that Lanse is
being examined for a commander's brevet. Well, what do you think
of that? My son-in-law. Captain of his own ship. And him with only
one year's active service!"
I said, "That's swell!" and meant it. The Old Man exaggerated a trifle
when he called Lancelot Biggs his "son-in-law"; Biggs' marriage to
Diane Hanson was not scheduled to take place, yet, for a couple of
months. But with Hanson I could enthuse over the prospect of
seeing Biggs win his four stripes and his own command. Lieutenant
Lancelot Biggs was not only my superior officer, he was my friend, as
well. He had once been my bunkmate. I had watched him rise from
a gangling, awkward, derided Third Mate to First Officer; had been
present when he earned his Master Navigator's papers; had seen
him overcome seemingly insurmountable handicaps of appearance
and personality to win a place in the affections of crew and
command alike.
A screwball gent, this Biggs. Tall, angular, inconceivably skinny,
graced (or disfigured?) with a phenomenally active Adam's-apple
that bobbed eternally up and down in his skinny throat like an
unswallowed cud—but blessed with two saving graces. A swell sense
of humor and a brain!
True, his thought processes were oftimes fantastically involved. His
motto, "Get the theory first!" sometimes led him down dark
passageways of logic. But there never was a problem too deep for
him; time and again his screwy logic had saved the personnel of the
Saturn from peril to person or purse.
So, "That's swell!" I said—and meant it. Then I stared at the skipper
thoughtfully. "But why," I asked him, "tell me about it? Biggs is the
man to tell."
Hanson's eyes clouded, and he gnawed savagely at a grubby
fingernail.
"That's just it, Sparks. I can't tell him."
"Why?" I demanded. "Laryngitis? Or ain't you and him speaking?"
"I can't tell him," explained the skipper, "because it would be
unethical. You see, when a man's bein' examined for his
commander's stripes, he ain't supposed to know about it. That's why
Cooper come aboard under an alias. He wants to watch Lanse
perform his routine duties in routine fashion—like nothin' unusual
was goin' on.
"Then, at the end of the trip, he'll tell Lanse who he is, give him a
verbal exam on the Space Safety Code, navigation practices,
etcetera an' so on, an'—there you are!"
"There," I agreed, "I am. So where am I? Still in the dark, Skipper.
Why tell me?"
Hanson glared at me witheringly.
"If you was as deaf," he said, making noises like a sizzling steak, "as
you are dumb, the Corporation might give me a new radio operator
for this here jallop—I mean, ship! Look, stupid! Biggs had ought to
know he's bein' watched by an examiner, shouldn't he? Not that he
don't know how to do things right, but because—well, because every
so often the boy gets whacky ideas an' starts tryin' experiments.
"An' we don't want him tryin' nothin' like that, do we? Not on this
shuttle. So, bein' as how you're his chum, an' since it would be
unethical for me to spill the beans—you've got to tell him. Warn him
to lay off the nonsense—get it?"
I got it. I nodded.
"Okay, Skipper. You're right and I'm wrong, as you usually are. I'll
warn him. Only—" I hesitated, and the Old Man halted with one
hand on the doorknob, looked back at me impatiently.
"Only what?"
"Only—if it's supposed to be a deep, dark secret, wouldn't it be
unethical for me to tell him, too?"
"Don't," snorted Hanson, "be a donkey, Sparks! Whoever heard of a
radioman with a sense of honor? Get word to him. An' make it
snappy, too. He comes on in half an hour, an' I don't want he should
pull any boners in front of Cooper. G'bye, now!"
The door slammed behind him.

So pretty soon there was a commotion in the rampway like a trained

seal stumbling around on hob-nailed stilts, a rap sounded on my
door, and I said, "Come on in, Mr. Biggs!" And sure enough, it was
him.
He ambled in, grinned lazily and said, "Hi! What's new?"
"Nothing," I said, "under the Sun. Ain't you heard the adage? Look,
Mr. Biggs—you go on duty pretty soon, is that right?"
"That's right."
"Well, you don't happen," I asked him shrewdly, "to have any bright
new inventions hatching under your skull, do you? Like the uranium
time-trap, for instance, or the velocity intensifier?"
He said, "Now, Sparks—can I help it if neither of them worked
exactly as I had planned? After all—"
"Answer," I insisted, "yes or no. Do you?"
He flushed and wriggled one toe in the carpet.
"We-e-ell, not exactly. I did have a little idea I wanted to try out,
though. An anti-gravitic attachment. On the cargo lofts. It occurred
to me that—"
"Well, junk it!" I said. "Hasten, don't hobble, to the nearest
incinerator, and give your diagrams the good old heaveroo!"
He said, "Eh?" and looked faintly startled. "Eh?" he repeated. His
liquescent larynx Immelmanned. "But, why, Sparks?"
I said, "Them stripes on your sleeve, Lieutenant—they're pretty, ain't
they?"
He glanced down, fingered his triple braid proudly.
"Why—why, yes. Very pretty. I'm proud of 'em."
"But the more there are," I pointed out, "the prettier they are. Isn't
that right?"
"I—I suppose so. But what has that to do with—Sparks!" His voice
raised to a shout, and suddenly his pale eyes brightened. "Do you
mean that—?"
"Nothing else but. That alleged Q.O. mugg, Cooper, is a phony? He's
really an S.S.C.B. inspector. And since he's not riding the Saturn for
his health, I'll give you one guess who he's watching—if you start
with yourself."
Funny what emotion will do to a guy. Biggs was not the type to go
into a blue funk. I'd seen him face danger, disgrace and death, not
once but many times. Every time, he had confronted the situation
calmly, coolly, nary a quake or quiver stirring him. But here, handed
good news on a silver platter, I thought for a minute he was going to
pass out.
His eyes grew stalks, and his knees began to rattle like a marimba.
The confused burble emanating from his lips resembled the vocal
efforts of a tongue-tied hippo trying to speak Choctaw. His Adam's-
apple—but why mention that monstrosity? Even I don't believe the
things it did, and I saw it!
Words finally grew out of the melange of gutturals, sibilants and
expectorants. Biggs' eyes receded into their sockets, became dewy
and wistful, like the orbs of an amour-smitten adolescent. His voice
was hushed and awed.
"My own ship!" he breathed. "My own command!"
"Don't cross your bridges," I reminded him, "until they're hatched.
You've still got to win your letter, chum. Two letters, in fact. I-F. You
become Skipper Biggs IF you pass the exam.
"Now, get to work. And remember—don't let on you know who this
Cooper is. Deodorant's the word!"
I gave him a shove toward the door. He disappeared in a haze of
little pink clouds. And I flopped into a seat, feeling so bad I could
have bawled like a kid, but despising myself for feeling that way.
It was selfish, I guess. Biggs deserved the honor. But somehow—
well, dammit! I sort of hated to see him leave the Saturn. We'd had
a lot of fun together, our bunch. Cap Hanson and Chief Garrity, Dick
Todd, the Second, and Wilson, the Third. And Biggs. And me.

Well, things settled down into normalcy, then. The Saturn is a ten
day freighter, which meant that Cooper would have beaucoup
opportunity to judge Biggs' capabilities. So tempus fidgeted, and I
fidgeted, and the Old Man came within two spasms of a nervous
breakdown, and Biggs—as might have been expected—got his
nerves on ice after that first shock and performed his routine duties
in ultra-stellar fashion.
My duties were far from exacting. Four times a day I had to contact
a Space Station to check our course, speed, and declination against
Solar Constant. That was just regulation blah, though, because with
Biggs plotting the course, we had about as much chance of getting
off the line as a rural subscriber when a juicy scandal is being
discussed.
It was also my job to keep in touch with Lunar III, which daily
interlude—Joe Marlowe being the low scut he is—was the only
disturbing influence in an otherwise languid existence. Understand, I
don't believe for a minute that my gal, Maisie Belle, was out with
him. She's true to me. But it was a dirty trick for him to say she was,
and beside, how the hell did he learn about that birthmark if—?
Oh, the hell with it! The fact is that time passed and pretty soon it
was the sixth day, and in just a few more days we'd dock at Mars
Central and Lt. Biggs would be Capt. Biggs.
Because if I had been idle on this shuttle, my rawboned friend had
not. Cooper had been putting him through a series of strenuous
paces to test his knowledge, ability and resourcefulness. The
trajectory computations had mysteriously disappeared, for instance,
and Biggs had to compile a new set. When he went to use the
calculometer, he discovered it to be accidentally-on-purpose "out of
order." So he had to evolve the figures from his own cranium.
Then there was the false alarm fire in the storage compartments—
while Biggs was on the bridge. And the hypos went on the blink—
with Biggs on duty. And one of the aft jets clogged. Guess who was
standing watch at the time?
That sort of thing. But Biggs came through, every time, with flying
colors. And with each succeeding success, another of the grim,
suspicious lines melted from around the corners of Inspector
Cooper's mouth, until he was beginning to look almost like a human
being. Meanwhile, Cap Hanson's face got daily ruddier, happier, and
grinnier. He was just one big smile on legs as he saw his son-in-law-
to-be coming closer and closer to the coveted stripes.
"Just four more days, Sparks!" he chortled happily to me. And then,
"Just three more days! Just two more—" He rubbed his hairy paws
together gleefully. "Two captains in the same family! Ain't that
somethin'? Boy, did you see the way he come through on that test
yesterday? Cooper got Garrity to cross the heat control an' grav
plates. The ship was hot an' weightless at the same time—"
"So that's what it was?" I grumbled. "Hell, who's taking this test—
Biggs or us guinea-pigs? I went soaring to the ceiling, boiling like a
kettle—and with the gravs off, I couldn't even drip sweat!"
"But Lanse fixed it!" gloried Hanson. "Spotted the trouble in three
minutes flat, and had the circuits straight before you could say
'hypertensile dynamics'! What a lad!"
"Two more days," I said. "All I hope is that I can live through it. If
Cooper gets any more whacky ideas—"
"Hrrrrumph!" came a voice from the doorway. I spun, startled.
What did my mama tell me about talking in front of a person's back?
It was Inspector Cooper!
I said, "Look, Inspector—the acoustics are lousy in this room.
Anything you heard which might have sounded like your name was
strictly coincidental."
He glared at me. Then at Cap Hanson. Then at me. And, boy, what I
mean—that guy could really glare!
"So!" he said. "Inspector, eh?"
Oh-oh! It dawned on me, all of a sudden—but too late—that I'd
upset the legumes with a vengeance. Calling him "Inspector," when,
so far as I was concerned, he was an officer in the Quarantine
Service.
"Inspector, eh?" he repeated. And crisped Hanson's burning cheeks
with a glance. "Well, Captain, it is just as I thought. Too many years
of service have taken their toll on your discretion. When you start
taking common radiomen into your confidence—"
I did the best I could. I rallied around.
"Now, wait a minute, Inspector!" I said. "Captain Hanson didn't tell
me who you were. I—I guessed it. I'm pretty good at things like
that. I figured it out the first time I saw you. It's my psychic—"
"It will be your neck," he snarled, "if you don't shut your yap! Well—
now that you know who I am, I might as well tell you why I'm here.
I need your cooperation in giving Lieutenant Biggs his final test."
Some of the chagrin left Hanson's eyes; his voice was hopeful.
"Final test?"
"Yes. I confess to a very great respect for your First Mate, Captain
Hanson. He has proven himself capable in each of the tests offered
so far. His theoretical knowledge is matched by his physical
ingenuity; I have awarded him the highest possible grades in
Astrogation, Analytical Judgment, and General Knowledge.
"If he passes the final test, Resourcefulness, and of course the
verbal quiz on Safety Code practices, I shall take great pleasure in
submitting his name for advancement.
"This test—" He turned to me. "Will be made in your department,
Sparks. You—" He transfixed me with an icy glare. "You are sick!"
"Who, me?"
"Yes. You have—mmm, let me see!—dyspepsia!"
"It's a lie!" I said indignantly. "I haven't been near one of them
Venusian joy-joints for a year!"
"You have," repeated Cooper coldly, "a bad case of dyspepsia. Which
is another name for 'indigestion,' young man! You will develop this
ailment immediately. And since the captain of a space-going vessel is
supposed to be able to step into the breach in any emergency,
Lieutenant Biggs will be assigned the task of relieving you at your
post."
Wow! Was that a break for our side? I darned near split a lip, trying
to hide the great big grin that leaped to my gabber. If there was any
man aboard the Saturn whose knowledge of radio was equal to my
own, that man was Lancelot Biggs! Why, he was the inventor of a
new type of radio transmission plate. If this were to be his "final
test," he would breeze home, win, place and show!
But Cooper didn't notice the elation in my eyes, or the equal joy in
the skipper's optics. He was finishing his instructions.
"—and because you have learned who I am, Sparks, I suggest that
you make no attempt to get in touch with, or speak to, Lieutenant
Biggs. You may consider yourself confined to quarters for the
duration of the trip."
"Very good, sir," I said.
"And now—" Cooper turned to my instruments. "We shall set the
stage for Mr. Biggs' final test—" He picked up a hammer. The biggest
one in the turret. He lifted it, weighed it briefly in his paw, and then
—
Wham!
Things clanked and clattered; glass tinkled; wires leaped from the
innards of my set and wriggled out onto the floor like tiny metal
snakes. Cap groaned, and I screamed, "Omigawd!"
"Omigawd!" I screamed. "Leggo! Stop it! Are you off your jets?"
"Stand back, Sparks!" warned Cooper. He raised the hammer again,
again brought it down ferociously into the entrails of my beautiful
transmission set. Clinkety-clatter! Something shorted; blue fire spat;
there was a loud pop! and I had to clutch my breast to make sure it
wasn't my heart. "Stand back!" he panted. "We—we've got to—make
this—a tough—test!"
"We?" I howled.
And then he was done. He stepped back and studied his work with
the pleased look of a ghoul in a graveyard.
"I think that should do the trick," he said gravely. "If he can repair
this set and get it in working order, I'll give him top grade in
Resourcefulness.
"Very well, now, Captain—you may return to the bridge and tell
Biggs that Sparks has been suddenly overcome with illness. And you,
Sparks—to your quarters. And don't forget—you're sick!"
I stared miserably at my once-perfect apparatus. I passed a hand
over my brow and tottered to the doorway.
"Maybe you think," I wailed, "I'm not?"
Well, I began to feel well enough to sit up and take notice along
about lunch time. Doug Enderby, the steward of our void-cavorting
madhouse, brought me my grub. He tiptoed in and laid the tray on
the desk before me. He whispered:
"Are you feeling better, Bert?"
"Never worse," I told him gloomily. "Why the crape on the victuals?
Are they that bad?"
I whipped off the napkin, took one gander at my so-called "lunch,"
and bleated like a branded sheep.
"Great monsoons of Mars—what the hell is this?"
"Shhh!" hushed Enderby. "Poached eggs, Sparks."
"I can see them!" I hollered. I stared at the pair of baleful, golden
horrors-on-toast. "And they can see me, too! Take 'em away!"
 "I can see them!" I hollered. I stared at the pair of baleful
golden horrors-on-toast. "And they can see me, too!"

Enderby said petulantly, "But you're sick! That's what Captain Cooper
said."
"Cooper, eh?" I groaned. "I always said it wasn't smart to make
torture illegal." Then I remembered why I was confined to durance
vile. "You seen Biggs?" I asked.
"No. He hasn't been down to lunch. He had to take over for you
when you were taken ill." Doug looked anxious. "There—there's
something wrong in your turret, Sparks. The intercommunications
system is out, and the radio won't work."
I glanced at my watch. Two hours had passed since Cooper's coup.
Hardly time for Lanse to unscramble the mess of pottery.
"Well, cheer up," I said. "Everything will be O.Q. in a little while.
Uggh!" I pushed my toast and tea toward him. "Look, pal, how's the
cow situation in the galley? You got a nice, three inch steak? Rare?
With onions?"
"Sirloins," said Doug, "for dinner."
"In that case," I sighed, "I'll give this hen-fruit a miss. See you at
dinner-time."
Doug nodded sagely and sidled toward the doorway.
"Steaks," he said, "for the crew. But you get milk toast. You're a sick
ma—Hey!"
Well, I almost nailed him with that second poached egg, anyway.

After he beat it, I opened the door and peeked out, and sure
enough, one of the sailors was standing down at the end of the
corridor. Cooper was a canny duck. He was going to make certain
that I didn't get loose and help Biggs.
But Cooper wasn't the only guy with smart ideas. I hadn't been radio
operator on the Saturn for three years for nothing. There were a
couple of wrinkles in the wiring system that even the Installation
Department knew nothing about. I ducked back into my cabin,
locked the door carefully, hung my coat over the keyhole, and pulled
back my mattress.
Underneath, nestling coyly amongst the box springs of my bunk,
was a tiny, complete transmission-reception set. I'm no dummy.
Midnight watches are a bore, and many is the time I'd turned in with
a pair of earphones on, rather than sit nodding in the turret for
dreary hours waiting for messages that might never come in.
Of course this auxiliary set was useless so long as the main set was
O.O.O.—but by listening in, I could tell how Lanse was coming along
with his repair job, perhaps give him a little assistance by remote
control should he need it.
So I donned the phones—and just like I thought, the circuit was as
cold as a ditch-digger's toes in Siberia. For a few seconds. Then all
of a sudden something squawked, "Krrrr-wowowooo! Brglrp! Glrp!"—
and a familiar voice came from far, far away. The voice of Lancelot
Biggs, saying:
"That ought to do it! Now, let me see if—"
I hugged myself gleefully. The old master mind had done it again! In
just two hours and sixteen minutes. Tell me Lancelot Biggs isn't a
genius!
I shoved my puss to the mike. I hissed, "Lanse!"
There was a brief silence. Then Biggs' curious response. "Is that
you, Sparks?"
"In person," I told him, "and not a facsimile. How you getting along,
pal?"
"Why, all right, I guess." He clucked, and I could envision the rueful
shake of his head. "It was a frightful mess, Sparks. How you ever let
it get in that condition—"
"I let it get in that condition," I told him, "like I got sick. By orders of
Madman Cooper. That guy's a wingding with the mace, ain't he?
Where'd you get the replacement parts?"
"Out of the supply locker, mostly. I had to rewind the L-49 armature,
though. We had no spares."
"You'd better throw a shunt across the No. 4 rheo," I suggested.
"You're heterodyning on vocal freke; otherwise you seem to have
matters under control. Nice going, bud. I guess you know this is
your final test?"
"I suspected it. Well, I'm going to test now. See if I can contact
Lunar III. Stand by, Sparks. I'll cut you into the circuit so you can
hear."
Current hummed and squealed; dots and dashes ripped the ether as
Biggs pulsed a signal to Mother Earth's satellite. Slow seconds
dragged. We are very close to Mars, and it takes a message almost
two and a half minutes to make the hurdle from the green planet to
the red one.
I waited tensely. And then, faint and far, but yet clear, came the
reply.
"Answering IPS Saturn. Go ahead, Saturn." It was Joe Marlowe's
hand on the bug. I could tell that. You know how it is; every
operator has a transmitting style just as distinctive as handwriting.
"Go ahead, Saturn." Then, "Are you sober, Donovan?"
I gritted my teeth. But Biggs put an end to Joe's smart stuff with his
next transmission.
"Donovan ill. Relief man at key. Saturn reporting for orders. Any
orders, Luna? Any orders?"
Marlowe flashed back, "Sorry about Donovan. Nothing trivial, I
hope? Yes, have one order, Saturn. From S.S.C.B. headquarters. To
Inspector-Commander Cooper. 'If Lt. Biggs passes examination,
assign him immediately to command of—'"
Thump-thump-thump!

Damn! Of all the times to be interrupted. Just at the happy, crucial

moment when I was about to learn the ship to which Biggs was
going to be assigned! And some idiot had to come banging at my
door!
Thump-thump-thump!
"Just a minute!" I howled. I switched off the unit and shoved the
mattress back into place, rumpled the sheets, tousled my hair and
pulled my shirt off. I stumbled to the door, unlocked it and stood
back yawning and rubbing my eyes as if I had just hopped out of the
arms of Morpheus. "C'mon in!" I said. "Whuzza big idea—Oh! How
do you do, sir?"
My visitor was Inspector Cooper. He pushed past me into the room,
glared around suspiciously, turned and heaved me an extraordinarily
evil glare.
"What were you doing in here, Sparks? Don't lie to me! What were
you doing at the exact moment I knocked?"
Behind him, ashen-faced, stood Cap Hanson. He knew about the
auxiliary unit. One more bite, and his forefinger nail would be bitten
off to the second joint.
"The exact moment?" I stalled.
"That's what I said."
I held my breath, which is one way to create a most maidenly blush.
I said, "I—I respectfully decline to answer, sir. My reputation—"
"Your reputation," roared Inspector Cooper, "is not worth a damn
anyway! Answer, sir!"
I shrugged. I said, "Well, after all, you can't be court-martialed for
dreaming. You see, there was this blond kitten named Dolly. Sweet
kid, but—well, reckless. And I was—"
Cooper turned crimson, and he wasn't a bit happy.
"What! You claim you were sleeping? We distinctly heard you talking,
Donovan! Who were you talking to?"
I said plaintively, "Well—it was this way. Dolly was putting up an
argument—"
That stopped him. He glowered about the cabin once more,
helplessly, then he grunted and turned toward the door.
"Very well, Donovan. But if I ever find out you've been engaging in
any skull-duggery—Come, Captain Hanson!"
And they left, Hanson tossing me a swift "saved-by-the-bell" glance
that meant undying affection and a bonus in next month's salary. So
I muttered, "I hope you don't," and when their footsteps faded from
earshot, I made a dive for the concealed set.
But I'd missed the important part. Joe Marlowe was just signing off
when I got the phones on.
"—Captain Biggs will then lift his command," came the closing
sentence, "from Mars Central, in accordance with orders which await
him there! That is all, Saturn!" And he was gone.
Boy, was I nearly busting! I couldn't wait for the sonic to die away so
I could tap Biggs in the turret. "What did he say, Lanse?" I hollered.
"Cooper came pussy-footing, and I missed the message. So you're
going to get a command, eh? Congratulations? Tell me—"
My nerves were like red-hot worms as I listened for Biggs' answer.
And then—
"Whonk!" went my set suddenly. "Gwobble-phweee!"
Out of order! Again!

Well, that was a stinker. But I had learned some things, anyway.
That Biggs was in line for a captaincy, and that his new command
was waiting for him at Mars Central. I dug a copy of Lloyd's
Spaceways out of my desk-file, and leafed through it. The
information was encouraging. Vessels land-docked at the Martian
port included the transport, Antigone, the lugger, Tethys VI, and the
brand-new, magnificent, special-extra-deluxe passenger liner,
Orestes! Any one of these ships would be a feather in the cap of the
skipper who took her bridge. Lancelot Biggs was getting off to a Big
Start!
So I should have been very happy. For him. But I wasn't. Not
altogether. Somehow I couldn't help feeling it wouldn't be the same
ship—the Saturn, I mean—with Biggs no longer ambling the quarter-
deck.
A sentimental sap? Well, maybe I am. But when you have laughed
and cried and fought and triumphed and shared sadness and joy
with a right, tight, snug little gang of men, all of whom you love like
brothers, you hate to think of one of them leaving you.
And that's the way it was aboard the Saturn. Sure, we had our little
squabbles and fusses. Wilson is a sort of show-off, and Todd
sometimes has a tendency to let others do his work. The Old Man's
not much of an astrogator any more; after all, he's been pushing
ether for more years than I've been alive; he's not as smart and
alert as some of the fresh young brevetmen. And Biggs' genius for
getting us in tough spots is second only to his ability at getting us
out again.
But we're a team, see? And now, with Biggs moving up the ladder,
some strange new guy would come in.
It was hot!
I'd been so busy with the crying towel, that for a few minutes I
didn't realize just how hot it was. But now, glancing at the
thermometer on my wall, I was jolted to see the mercury standing at
98 degrees!
Without pausing to recollect that the audio system was out of order,
I reached for the wall phone, bawled into it, "Ahoy, the bridge!
Something's gone wrong with the—"
That's what I meant to yell, anyway. As a matter of strict truth, I got
just as far as, "Ahoy—blub!"
For the moment I yanked the earpiece off the audio, a pencil of
clear, cold water shot from the instrument like a diminutive geyser!
Smack in the tonsils it slapped me—and I turned and hightailed it for
the door!
My guard, a gob named Jorgens, let loose a roar as I appeared.
"Oh, no, Sparks! I got orders to keep you in your cabin!" he
bellowed.
"That's what you think!" I yelled back. "I'm not going to be roast
Donovan for you or anybody! I'm hot!"
"Then maybe this will cool you down." He grabbed the firehose,
pointed it at me, turned the wheel. I wailed, and waited for the
punching gout of water to sweep me off my feet. But it didn't come!
There came a rushing sound, and from the nozzle spilled—
Air!
Jorgens dropped the hose with a howl of surprise. He gave up all
idea of stopping me. As a matter of fact, he was three steps ahead
of me by the time we hit the end of the corridor, but I beat him up
the Jacob's-ladder leading to the bridge by the simple expedient of
using his vertebrae as rungs.
Together we charged through the upper passageways, turned onto
the ramp that feeds the bridge. By now, everything had gone stark,
staring mad. All the time we were on the hoof, I kept hearing music.
And every once in awhile a wild burst of static rasped my eardrums.
And the heat increased.
It took me some minutes to realize, with a burst of horror, that the
music was coming from the radiators, the static from the darkened
electric bulbs set in the ceilings, and the heat was pouring in a
torrential flood from our air supply—the ventilating system!
We reached the bridge, shouldered the door open. But the situation
wasn't any better there. If anything, it was worse. Cap Hanson,
perspiration streaming down his red face, staining his jacket, was
bending over a calculating machine that was flickering hazily with
moving pictures! Across the room, Lieutenant Todd was masterfully
struggling to subdue the clamor of a generator that was chattering
wildly in the Universal Code. Dots and dashes!
Above the bedlam, I managed to make myself heard.
"What's wrong?" I bawled.
The Old Man acknowledged my presence with one look of torment.
"The ship's gone nuts! The heater plays music and the telephone's a
spring; there's static in the lights, and electricity in the gas jets. The
ventilators give heat and Slops just called me on his refrigerator to
tell me the gas stove is spitting ice cubes!"
Cooper, his face flaming with rage, pulled his paws from his ears
long enough to scream, "This is a disgrace to the service! Whoever
caused this should be cashiered! And by the Lord Harry—"
Just then the door opened, and into the room, with a big, friendly
grin on his pan, gangled our lanky lieutenant, Lancelot Biggs.
"Hello, folks!" he said amiably. "Sort of—sort of noisy around here,
isn't it?"
Cooper glared at him wildly.
"Biggs, get out of here! You're supposed to be up in the turret
repairing that radio set. Get along—"
Biggs smiled sort of sheepishly; his unbelievable Adam's-apple did a
loop-the-loop in his throat. He coughed gently.
"Well—er—you see," he said, "that's what made me come down
here. I—I guess I must have got a little bit mixed up in the wiring. I
got the circuits all crossed up, and—well, durn it, this is what
happened!"

By sheer coincidence, just at that moment the air stopped hissing,

the music stopped playing, and the tumult that had been flooding
the room died away to a whisper. In a brief, horrible silence I heard
Cap Hanson gasp, "Lanse! Lanse!" and heard the incredulous snort
of Inspector Cooper.
"What? You caused this, Lieutenant?"
Biggs' pale eyes shifted, and he twisted his lanky frame into a
pretzel.
"R-reckon I did, sir. Couldn't seem to get things straightened out in
the turret, so I—I went down to the control room, and—and I guess
I must have turned the wrong knobs or switches or something."
His excuse dwindled into silence. But Cooper did not. Cooper loosed
a blat like a robot wired for newscasting.
"Wrong knobs! Wrong switches! Indeed, sir—" he swung to me,
sweating painfully and quivering like an electroscope in a
pitchblende mine. "Sparks, can you do anything about this—this
disgraceful mess?"
I couldn't meet Biggs' eyes, nor could I meet those of Cap Hanson. I
just nodded slowly.
"I think so, sir."
"Then get to work! And as for you, Lieutenant—" His eyes burned
Biggs' pale, embarrassed face, "It will not now be necessary to
determine whether or not you are versed in Safety Code practices.
You have demonstrated very well that you are not yet capable of
assuming the rank and duties of a commanding officer. Your butter-
fingered handling of a simple, routine test has resulted in the most
disgusting contretemps it has ever been my lot to witness!"
Cap Hanson said, "But—but look, Inspector—he's only a boy!
Anybody can make a little mistake. Give him a chance to—"
"There is no place for 'boys'," snorted Cooper, "on the bridge of
space-going vessels. Lieutenant Biggs has possibilities, yes. But I
shall suggest to the S.S.C.B. that he be given another year of
intensive training—under an old, accomplished spaceman; yourself,
Captain Hanson—that he may learn resourcefulness, coolness, how
to act under stress of emergency!
"And now, gentlemen, I shall retire until we reach Mars Central.
Sparks, for God's sake quiet this bedlam as soon as possible!"
And he stalked from the bridge with as much dignity as a man can
muster with hands clapped over a pair of sweat-dripping ears.
I went below. It was a mess, but not an impossible one. I got it
straightened out in fifteen or twenty minutes. And by the time things
were back to normal, we were warping into the cradle-lists at Mars
Central Spaceport.

Afterward, everybody was sympathetic. Bud Wilson said, "Too bad,

Biggs! But you'll get another chance." And he went out. Dick Todd
said, "Aw, the hell with it, Lanse. You were just a little excited, that's
all—" And he left, too. And that left Biggs and the skipper and me
alone in the turret.
Biggs squirmed and said meekly, "I—I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to
be such an idiot. But—well, after all, I am young. And I haven't had
your experience."
The skipper still looked like a man who'd grabbed a live wire by
accident. He shook his head sadly.
"I wouldn't of thunk it of you, Lancelot, son," he grieved. "You was
always so quick at graspin' things before this. I was bankin' on you
to make it two captains in the same family. But—well, let bygones be
bygones. Next year you'll have another test. An' in the meantime, I'll
try to teach you more about how to act in emergencies."
Biggs said gratefully, "Thank you, sir. And—and Diane?"
"We won't tell her," said the Old Man promptly. "I alluz say that what
women don't know won't hurt 'em. We'll keep this to ourselves. But,
mind you!" A flash of the old fire lighted his weathered, space-faded
eyes. "But, mind—I want you to study hard durin' this next year! If
you want to win your stripes, you got to listen to a wiser head!"
"Yes, sir," said Lancelot Biggs. "I will, sir."
Then the skipper left. A great old guy. No longer listless and
lackadaisical, space-weary, but a new man, imbued with a strong,
fighting new urge. To help a young man earn his spurs. There was
something admirable in his attitude, and something a little pathetic,
too.
And after he had left, I turned to Biggs. I said, "Okay, pal—come
clean!"
He started.
"I—I beg your pardon, Sparks?"
"Come," I repeated, "clean. You can fool some of the people some of
the time, and you can fool some of the people some of the time—
but you can't fool some of the people some of the time. And I'm
them. Biggs, I know you like I know my own hangnails. I've seen
you in a thousand tight spots, and I never once knew you to go into
a dither. But you messed this one up so bad that it smelled from
here to Pluto. Now I want to know—why?"
Biggs' eyes looked like saucers. His larynx jumped up and down
painfully.
"I don't know what you mean, Bert."
"Talk," I said grimly, "or I start rumors. Why?"
And then—Lancelot Biggs grinned!
"So I made it look bad, eh, Bert?"
"Bad? Awful! That heat—great comets, pal, you nearly killed us all!
But why? I heard part of that transmission from Luna. I heard
enough to know that if you passed your final test you were going to
be given a command immediately. A ship of your own. The Tethys or
the Antigone or the Orestes. All good ships—"
Biggs said quietly, "There was another one, Bert."
"What? No, there wasn't. I looked it up. There were only those three
waiting captainless in port."
"But there would have been four," he said, "if I'd passed my exam.
Sparks—Cap Hanson's a great guy, isn't he?"
"Sure. A grand old-timer. But—"
And then, suddenly, I got it! Got it, and realized what an all-around
humdinging hell of a real man Lancelot Biggs really is! I said:
"You mean—you mean that if you had earned your stripes, the Old
Man was going to be set down? And you'd be placed in command of
the Saturn? Is that it? Why, you—"
And I swallowed hard, and I gave him a shove. And I said, "Aw,
Lanse—"
But Lancelot Biggs isn't the kind of guy you can act gooey with. He
just grinned again, and he said, "Sparks, old-timer, what do you say
you and me have a drink or three, eh?"
So we did. Double. Without soda.