"I realize that, Sparks. I'm devoting a lot of thought to the job,
too. You know, I'm a bit of an experimenter, and it seems to me--"
One of the mess boys brought on my chow then, and I didn't listen to
the rest of his chatter. Which was a sad mistake. If I had listened, I
would have been able to warn Captain Hanson that trouble was on the way.
I think it was about the third day out that I began to smell those
smells. Yes, I know it was the third day, because I'd just contacted
Joe Marlowe on Lunar Three, giving him declination and cruising speed
of the _Saturn_. I thought it was funny, but guessed it would go away.
It didn't. It got worse. Finally, on the fifth day, I decided to do
something.
There's nothing like meeting trouble halfway. I was just on my way from
the radio room to the control turret when I bumped smack into Captain
Hanson. It was a head on collision, but the Skipper's "Oof!" took
longer than mine, so I got to talk first.
"Listen here!" I yelled, "I've had about as much of this rickety old
tub as I'm going to stand. If you can't put a stop to those stinks
Slops makes in the galley--"
Hanson gave me a look that would wilt lettuce.
"I don't want no trouble with you, Sparks!" was his comeback. "I
been smellin' those smells, too. That's what I was aimin' to ask
_you_ about. Have you been foolin' around with some of them chemical
experiments of your'n?"
"I have not," I informed him loftily. "And besides, while chemicals may
stink sometimes, they don't ever give out a smell like the butt of an
overripe cabbage. Except perhaps some of the sulphur compounds." Then I
stared at him. "I'm not kidding. I think those smells are coming up out
of the galley."
The skipper groaned softly.
"Trouble. Nothin' but trouble. It ain't enough I'm supposed to shuttle
this barge between Earth an' Mars. Now I got smells to worry about,
too. Well, come on! Let's look!"
We went down to the galley. Slops was stirring something in a bowl. I
took one look and shuddered. Tapioca--again. And don't tell me you're
not supposed to stir tapioca. I know it. Tell Slops.
Then the skipper loosed his blast.
"Okay, Slops," he snarled. "We give up. Where'd you hide it?"
Slops looked puzzled.
"Hide what? I didn't hide nothin'. What is this, a game?"
"Sure," I chinned in. "It's called Sniff-the-Atmosphere. You play it by
pressing your thumb and forefinger to your nostrils. Then you try to
guess what died."
"Quiet, Sparks!" roared the skipper. Then, to the cook, "Well, Slops?"
Slops shrugged.
"I ain't done nothin'," he protested. "I ain't hid nothin', and I ain't
smelled nothin'. Now I got a meal on the fire. Go 'way and leave me
alone."
The skipper looked at me, and I stared back at him. Both of us
realized the same thing at the same time. Slops wasn't lying. The smell
_wasn't_ as bad here as it had been updeck.
Hanson scratched his head. He said, suspiciously, "Sparks, are you sure
you ain't been mixin' chemicals?"
"I'll swear it," I told him, "on a pile of logbooks. That smell came
from--Hey! What else beside the galley lies beneath my room and the
control turret?"
"I'm a cook," said Slops, still stirring the tapioca, "not a blueprint.
Don't ask me."
"Shut up!" snapped Captain Hanson. "He ain't askin' you. Let's
see, Sparks. There's the storage closet ... the reservoir ... the
refrigeration tanks, and the--" His eyes widened suddenly; fearfully.
"Sparks!" he husked.
"Yes?"
"The vegetable hold!"
* * * * *
Man, that was it! The minute he said it, I knew. The vegetable
hold--and Biggs in charge!
We hightailed it for the nearest ramp. The minute we turned down the
corridor the smell got worse. Hanson blasted down the aisle like a
rogue asteroid, with me trailing along behind. We hit the door; rammed
it open--
Biggs was in there. The darned fool was standing in there dressed in a
bulger, calmly spraying the bins of _mekel_-root and _clab_ with a hose!
He turned as we entered and his eyes lighted behind the quartzite. His
audiophone clacked pleasantly.
"Hello!" he said. "Is there anything wrong?"
"Anything wrong!" bellowed Captain Hanson. "He asks if there's anything
wrong! That--that suit! And that hose--" The skipper's face was turning
purple. "And this _heat_!"
"I turned off the refrigerating unit," clacked Biggs pleasantly. "You
see, I had a theory that since the climate of Venus is warm and moist,
it would be better for the cargo if I attempted to simulate its normal
conditions of growth. So I--"
"And the suit?" roared Hanson. "Why the bulger?"
Biggs moved his hands deprecatingly.
"Why, possible infection, you know. I didn't want to expose the
vegetables to any organisms--"
"Infect ... moisture ... heat...." Captain Hanson gave up. He buried
his face in his hands. "Tell him, Sparks! Tell him what he's doing!"
I said, "Listen, Biggs--your theory is no good. _Clab_ and _mekel_ have
to be kept in a cool, dry atmosphere or they rot. As a matter of fact,
they _are_ rotten! That's why the captain and I came down here--to
investigate the smell. If you weren't wearing a bulger you'd notice it
yourself."
"Smell?" said Biggs. "Why, now, come to think of it, I have noticed a
curious odor about the ship from time to time. But I thought it was
rats!"
Rats! On a space ship! Imagine!
That was the last straw for Hanson. He'd been trying, and trying hard.
But now he exploded.
"Biggs!" he roared, "You've ruined this cargo! Now you're relieved from
your command! But before you report to your quarters, I want every bit
of this mess cleaned up. And I mean every last bit, understand? Junk
it! Clear it out!"