Lancelot Biggs was perhaps the worst second
mate Captain Hanson had ever shipped, and
he was convinced of it when he ruined their
cargo. But how dumb a man is, may
sometimes be a matter of opinion.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Fantastic Adventures November 1939.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Something had gone a little haywire with my bug, and I had just
repaired it and was CQ-ing on the 20 band when the door opened and
Captain Hanson walked in.
Naturally, I was surprised. We were only four hours out of the Venus
H-layer, and I hadn't expected any visitors; least of all the skipper.
But he plunked himself down in the best chair and said, "Sparks, look
at me! What do you see?"
That gave me a jolt. Even the best of them make the old dipsy-doo once
in a while, but I never thought I'd live to see the day when Captain
Hanson went space nutty. He'd been with the Corporation, man and boy,
for more than thirty years now, and had never spent a day in dry-dock.
I reached behind me cautiously and said in as soothing a voice as I
could muster, "Why, I see a very nice man, Captain. Now, just you sit
quiet for a minute. I've got to--"
"Stop bein' a damned fool, Sparks!" said the skipper wearily, "An'
put down that monkey-wrench! I'm not slippin' my gravs--yet. I'm just
askin' you a simple question. What do you see?"
I said, "Is it facts you're after, Cap, or am I allowed poetic license?
If it's facts, I see a swell, slightly gray-haired guy in his middle
fifties who's been through the mill, knows space like a book, and--"
"Wrong!" said Hanson. "Sparks, all radiomen are dumb. I guess that's
why they're radiomen. What you see before you is a broken man. A man
sadly buffeted by Fate and the dread clutch of circumstances. Not to
mention meddlesome vice-presidents."
This time I got it.
"Biggs?" I said.
"Yes, Sparks. Biggs. Now tell me, man to man, what did I ever do to
deserve Biggs?"
He had me there. Being the skipper of the _Saturn_ is not what I'd call
an easy job under the best of conditions. The _Saturn_ is the oldest
space-lugger still doing active duty on Corporation runs. She was built
'way back there before the turn of the century. For the past ten or
twelve years, she had been on freight service, having been judged unfit
for passenger duty by the SSCB--Space Safety Control Board.
To make matters worse, while we were taking on cargo at Sun City
spaceport, the skipper had been called into the company offices. When
he came out again, he had this Biggs in tow.
Biggs was tall. Biggs was lanky and gangly and all the other adjectives
you can think of that mean a guy's Adam's-apple sticks out. He was
overflowing at the mouth with a great big grin, and he was as dumb as
they make 'em. He had his Third Mate's papers, and was entitled to be
known as "Mister" Biggs--the "Mister" being a nice camouflage for his
real name, Lancelot.
But--Biggs was the nephew of crusty old Prendergast Biggs, first
vice-president of the Corporation. So there was nothing the skipper
could do but gulp and say, "Very good!" when they assigned Biggs to the
_Saturn_.
There was nothing to prevent him from hoping Biggs would stumble over
his suitcases and bust his scrawny neck--but Biggs didn't do it. He was
awkward enough to stumble, but lucky enough to fall on a cushion if he
did!