Lancelot Biggs was an unpredictable quantity, but nobody
aboard the _Saturn_ thought he'd ever turn traitor!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Fantastic Adventures June 1940.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Illustration: "Wait!" As Thaxton went into his trance, Lancelot Biggs'
hoarse whisper held the captain and his men back.]
I should have suspected something screwy the minute Cap Hanson started
talking sweety-pie. Usually you could use his voice for a nutmeg
grater. But you know me, old Drizzle-brain Donovan. If they ever
write a story of my life--only why should they?--they'll title it,
"Gullible's Travels."
Anyhow, about an hour after we'd lifted gravs from Long Island
Spaceport, the skipper smooched into my control-turret, beaming like
a nova in the Coalsack. He plumped himself into the only comfortable
chair and asked:
"Well, Sparks, my lad, how you doin'?"
"If you mean," I retorted, "was I drunk last night, the answer is 'no.'
I am so dry I am parched, and besides, the barkeep at the Wranglers'
Club wouldn't give me any credit."
"He told me," commented the skipper, "he used your last check to
vulcanize an old gum boot."
"Be that as it may," I said with quiet dignity, "I am not one of those
space-hounds who gets three sheets in the ether every time he hits
port--"
"An' speakin' of sheets," interrupted the Old Man, "we got more
passengers aboard the _Saturn_ this trip than we got bunks to flop 'em
in. So--"