"Help yourself," I said, pointing to my bookcase. "Why, what's the
sudden excitement?"
"I've been thinking," he began, "that maybe--"
Captain Hanson let out a blat like an angry lion.
"Mister Biggs! I thought you were reclaiming those Forenzi jars?"
"Yes, sir. I was. I mean--I am. But--"
"Never mind the 'buts'! Get back to work!"
"Y-yes, sir!" Biggs saluted meekly; tossed me a grateful glance.
"Thanks, Sparks. I've got an idea, and if I'm right--"
"Get out, Biggs!" roared the skipper.
"Yes, sir." Biggs backed out hastily. He was thumbing the pages as he
disappeared. Hanson yanked his lower lip angrily.
"The Corporation goes busted. The _Saturn_ goes under the hammer. We're
all out of jobs. And that--that insane young whippersnapper wants to
play school!"
"He seemed mighty excited about something," I said.
"He'll be worse than that," promised the skipper, "if he doesn't get
those jars back on board."
All this, to get Biblical about it, took place on the seventh day.
The _Saturn_ is a ten-day freighter. So we had three more days of
headaches before us till we slipped into New York spaceport.
They were three days of headaches, too. The skipper and I spent most
of our time hanging over the radio, watching the progress of the stock
market slump in New York. We hoped the situation would ease up so that
our coming in with a zero cargo wouldn't make any difference--but no
such luck. Somehow the rumor had gotten around that the _Saturn's_
cargo would not be of sufficient value to keep the Corporation in the
blue. And the Wall Street wolves were closing in, getting ready to snap
if the rumor were true.
In the meantime, our stupid friend, Biggs, was taking a hell of a long
time to reclaim those Forenzis. It's really not a hard job, you know.
All he had to do was slip out through the airlock, throw a grapple
around each jar, and bring it in.
But he seemed to be as awkward at this as at every other job he had
ever attempted. On an off-period, I went down to watch him once. I
found he'd thrown grapples around the jars, but had not brought a
single one into the airlock yet.
[Illustration: Biggs was in a frightful mess, trying to throw grapples
around the jars.]
I told him, "You'd better get a wiggle on, Biggs. We hit the tropo
tomorrow. If those things get into the atmosphere, you'll be able to
_pour_ them into the airlock."
"I know," he said abstractedly, "but I'm not quite ready to--Sparks,
according to that book you lent me, cosmic rays go down to 1/100,000
Ângstrom units."
"That's right," I told him.
"That means they are more than ten times as intense as gamma rays."
"Right again. Why? What's the pay-off?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out," he said strangely. He finished
tying a loop around one of the jars; pushed himself free and toward the
airlock.
"You want me to help you drag 'em in now?" I asked.
"No thanks, Sparks. I think we'll leave them out till tomorrow," he
said.
"But Captain Hanson--" I began.
"Tomorrow."
"After all, I'm just a radioman," I shrugged. "It's your funeral," I
said.
* * * * *
He got them inside the next day. I saw them lying in the corridor
beside the airlock, covered with a strip of tarpaulin. And he got them
in just in time, too, for about an hour later we hit the Heaviside
layer.
We set out our Ampie and eased through all right. From there on, it
was just an easy coast to Earth. We threw out our lug-sails--the
retractable metal fins which give "space luggers" their name--and put
on the power brakes. In a couple of hours we were settling into our
hangar off New York spaceport.
I closed out my key and locked the radio room. There was nothing more
I could do now. So I went up to the control turret and found Captain
Hanson gnawing the fingernail of his index finger down to the second
joint.
"Well, Captain?" I said.
"Any late news, Sparks?" he demanded anxiously.