"--so," continued the skipper imperturbably, "I'm allotin' your
quarters to a special passenger. A guy by the name of--"
"I'm not interested in names!" I howled. "I'm not the city directory.
Look, Cap, I've got my rights! I don't have to turn my quarters over to
some damn Earthlubber, just because he's got a yen to chase comets!"
"Will you shut up, Sparks?" snapped the skipper. "Or do I hafta calm
you down with the wrong end of a lug-wrench? This here passenger's name
is Thaxton, an' he comes bearin' a 'Handle With Care' label signed by
Doc Challenger. _Now_ will you pipe down?"
I would and did. Doc Challenger happens to be the president of the IPS,
the corporation that owns the _Saturn_. Any friend of his is a friend
of my pocketbook's.
"Well," I said, "if you're going to put it _that_ way--"
"I'm puttin' this Thaxton guy," Hanson frowned, "in your quarters, on
account of they're furthest from the aft holds. Friend or no friend, I
ain't aimin' to have him find out we're runnin' a load of rotor-guns
an' ammunition to the New California rebels."
He was right there. That was nobody's business but our own. Now,
understand me. I think we had a right to help the rebels. For
one thing, they deserved their independence. For another, our
arch-competitors, the Cosmos Company, was backing the present New
California overlords. A third good reason was, of course, that every
day this war continued, we were losing money.
* * * * *
Earth itself hadn't had a war for almost a hundred and twenty
years--not since the North India uprising of '92. But the distribution
of land and governmental control of the colonies was still what you
might call "unfinished business."
There were always tiny local squabbles going on. Like the Fontanaland
siege three years ago that damn near ruined Mars as a summer resort;
the Rollie Rebellion last year on Mercury; and now, this year, the
struggle for autonomy on the part of a bunch of Californian Earth
colonists in the Venusian hill country.
Our freight experts had decided that of all the IPS ships, the _Saturn_
would be the least likely suspect when it came to gun-running. The
_Saturn_ was as old as a statesman's jokes. It was the slowest,
wallowingest lugger still pushing vacuum. But I agreed with Hanson, it
would not do for anyone connected with the present Venus government to
discover our cargo included contraband.
We'd find ourselves playing tit-tat-toe on the walls of a Sun City
clink faster than a stuttering android could gargle, "Planck's
Constant!"
So I nodded, "Okay, Skipper. You're right and I'm wrong, as you usually
are. So what do I do now? Sleep in the galley?"
"No, Sparks. You take your duffle down to Mr. Biggs' quarters. You can
bunk with him durin' this shuttle."
"_What!_ Lancelot Biggs! You're putting me in with that perambulating
pretzel? Hey, Cap--"
"You're talkin'," reminded the skipper, "about the first mate of this
here tin-can--I mean, ship! Be more respectful of your superiors,
Sparks. Anyhow--" He gazed at me curiously. "Anyhow, I thought you an'
him was pals?"
"Pals," I moaned, "not peas in a pod! I _like_ Mr. Biggs, Skipper. But
I don't want to wear him like a hair-ribbon for the next ten days."
"Sparks!" warned the Old Man.
"Cap, you can't do this to me! It's tyranny, that's what it is!"
"Never mind what you call it!" interrupted the Old Man grimly. "_I_
call it poetic justice. You've buttered your bread, Sparks. Now lie in
it. An' while you're complainin', you might remember how aidful you was
in findin' Mr. Biggs _another_ bunkmate!"
He grinned vengefully and left. I remembered, then, that I'd helped
Lancelot Biggs woo and win Diane, the skipper's beauteous daughter, now
back on Earth making preparations for the wedding. And I groaned.
Hansons, like elephants, never forget....
* * * * *
So I moved in with Mr. Biggs, and it was just like I thought it would
be. My gangling friend, that mad genius of the spaceways, Lancelot
Biggs, was glad to have me share his quarters.
"I do hope you'll be comfortable, Sparks," he told me, gulping and
making his amazing Adam's apple perform loopty-loops. "Of course,
there's not any too much room--"
Which was like saying there's not any too much H_{2}O on Luna. There
was only one bunk in Biggs' stateroom. I am a normal-sized man. Biggs
is, too, only his dimensions are sort of peculiar. I.e., he's one-half
as wide as par for the course, and twice as tall. Which compensates.
He turned out to have seventeen separate and distinct physical
peculiarities, none of which showed up until the first time we
shoehorned ourselves into the same bed. I was chagrined to learn
that he had eleven elbows and seven knees. Also, his idea of resting
comfortably was to spread himself out like a miniature windmill and
revolve rapidly.
The first night I went sleepless. The second night I managed to doze
off to a cat nap, and it almost cost me my life. Lancelot Biggs'
larynx descended suddenly and clopped me on the pate. I climbed out
of bed weakly, bathed the resulting goose-egg in arnica, and spent
the rest of the night studying, thoughtfully, the life history of an
ancient sage known as Procrustes.
Which explains, boys and girls, why I happened to be catching forty
double-winks when Cap Hanson brought Thaxton up to visit me. The first
token I had of their presence was to hear a bull-o'-Bashan voice
bombarding my ear-drums.
"Well, Sparks! An' what do you think _you're_ doing?"