In spite of peace pacts, Earth ships were being
attacked on Themis. Could Biggs answer that one?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories May 1943.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Well, like it says in the old adage, "Things equal to the same thing
gather no moss."
When the Corporation that under-pays us snatched the _Saturn_ off
the freight shuttle and turned it into a trouble-shooter for special
assignments, we thought we were getting a break. Huh! We were. "Break"
is just another word for "bust." The result of our alleged "promotion"
was that for a fractional increase in salary we worked twice as hard at
jobs ten times nastier than any we had ever tackled before.
Like for instance the night Cap Hanson and I--I'm Bert Donovan,
bug-pounder of the _Saturn_--were at the home of Lt. and Mrs. Lancelot
Biggs. Biggs is, of course, the First Mate of our void-mangling jalopy.
A year ago he married the skipper's daughter, Diane.
We were sitting around, chatting about this and that and the other
inconsequential truffle, trying to look calmer than we actually felt,
when the telephone jangled. "Bet it's a wrong number!" I said--and
picked it up.
I was right. It _was_ a Wrong Number named Cheeverly, Assignment Clerk
at Long Island Spaceport. He said, "_Salujo_, Sparks. Is Captain Hanson
there?"
"Present," I said, "but not accountable for. Listen, Dracula, how about
calling back tomorrow or next month?"
He snapped, "This is official business, Donovan! Put him on before I
report you!"
So I handed the receiver to the Old Man, and for the next few minutes
Diane and Lanse and I eavesdropped upon one of those unintelligible
half conversations between Hanson and the drip at the other end of the
wire.
"Yeah?" said the Old Man. "Yeah, this is Hanson.... Eh? Eh, what's
that?... But Cheeverly, I.... What?... But I'm on furlough, man! The
staff and crew of the _Saturn_ were granted a three week vaca.... Oh!
Oh, I see! Emergency, eh? Well, if we _have_ to. But can't you find
some other ship to.... Mmm-hmmm! I understand. Yes. Yes. Very well.
I'll get in touch with my men immediately...."
He hung up and turned to us gravely. I think we all knew what he was
going to say before he said it. Diane cried, "Oh, _no_, Daddy! No! Not
_now_!" And Biggs asked, "What is it, sir? I hope they don't want us
to--?"
Hanson fumed, "They do, dingbust 'em to Hades! It's an emergency
mission. We're to lift gravs immediately!"
"Lift gravs!" exclaimed Biggs bleakly. His lump of a larynx leaped like
a lemon in his scrawny neck. "But, Dad! I can't go _now_!"
His jaw sagged to his wishbone, making him homelier than usual. And,
brother, that's saying something! Lancelot Biggs is a lot of things.
He's a genius, for one, and he's slightly whacky, for another. Also
he's one of the grandest friends a guy ever had. But even his doting
mother could not honestly call him good looking.
* * * * *
He's about as tall as an old-fashioned hatrack, and built along the
same general lines. He's got more bumps and knobs on his gangling frame
than a hyperthyroid cucumber. Of these assorted protuberances, the
most prominent is an Adam's-apple which bulges from his throat like a
half-swallowed egg, and jiggles up and down when he's excited like a
jitter-bug on an innerspring mattress.
He was excited now, and said voice-box was cavorting horribly from N to
S and return in non-stop flight.
"I can't go _now_!" he repeated starkly. "Not _now_, of all times,
Dad--"
Hanson shook his head regretfully.
"It ain't a case of can or can't, Lancelot. It's a case of _got_ to.
There's trouble on Themis again."