Cap Hanson had finished his calls. Anyway, that's what he thought.
Thaxton thought differently.
"If you don't mind, Captain," he reminded him. "Give the same
message to the chief steward. We don't want any mess-boys or waiters
interrupting our little tête-à-tête. Too many cooks, you know--" And he
grinned.
"Ha!" growled the skipper. "Ha! I'd gladly laugh at your funeral,
Thaxton."
But he called the mess hall, and the voice of our Cockney steward, Doug
Enderby, drifted back over the audio cheerfully.
"Aye, sir! Stay put, sir? Right as ryne!"
Then we all jumped. Because a great shout broke from the scrawny throat
of Lancelot Biggs.
"That's it!" he yelled. "_That's it!_"
* * * * *
For a moment it was touch and go. Thaxton's forefinger tightened
ominously on the trigger of his pierce-gun, and I found myself
wondering how I'd look with a hemstitched abdomen. Then, as Biggs
shouted no more, a look of curiosity spread over the little man's
features.
"Might I inquire, Mr. Biggs--" he began.
Biggs' face was red. He looked embarrassed at his outburst. He glanced
sheepishly at the skipper and at me.
"I--I'm sorry. But I've been wondering how I could--" He faltered.
"Well, anyway, I just thought of a way. That is--if you're agreeable?"
Thaxton's bug eyes goggled at him.
"Speak sense, man!" he ordered pettishly. "How you could _what_? A way
to _what_? If I'm agreeable to _what_?"
Biggs drew a deep breath. Then, carefully,
"Well, here's my thought. I'm planning to be married very soon, Mr.
Thaxton. I have no desire whatsoever to be incarcerated in a Venusian
jail--especially for participation in something over which I have no
control. It was my thought, my hope, that in consideration for services
rendered, you might agree to give me my liberty--"
Once upon a time there was something redder than Cap Hanson's face. But
it exploded. So did the skipper.
"Traitor!" he bellowed. "Why, you dirty, sneaking lowdown space viper!
Selling us out, are you? _I'll_ show you!"
And he made a dive for Señor Biggs. But Thaxton, interested now,
stepped between them, forced the skipper back.
To Biggs he said, "Your proposition is not impossible, Lieutenant. But
might I ask what you have to offer?"
Biggs said, "When your men board the _Saturn_, a long search awaits
them, doesn't it? They'll have to comb the entire ship looking for the
contraband."
Thaxton sniffed. "Thanks to your stupid friend, the radioman," he said,
"we know the contraband is stored in the aft section of the ship."
"But there are many bins in the aft section," Biggs pleaded. "I can
spare you the trouble of searching them all. I'll tell you which ones
to look in--if you'll grant me full pardon. I--I might even be willing
to accept service in your army."
"The Venusian army _uses_ traitors," said Thaxton pointedly, "but it
does not employ them. However, I think your suggestion has merit. It's
a bargain, Biggs. And we might as well take care of that little matter
right now. So if you'll just tell me the bin number--"
"I'll kill you, Biggs!" howled the skipper. "One more word and I'll cut
out your heart and eat it for breakfast!"
But his words fell on deaf ears. For as if the syllables couldn't
tumble past his lips fast enough, Biggs was blurting out,
"Bins Number 13, 14 and 15, Mr. Thaxton. The first two are filled
with ammunition; the last contains rotor-guns, grenades and two field
pieces--"
* * * * *
It was at that moment that hope finally deserted me. True, Lancelot
Biggs' actions had been strange, and he had seemed eager to sell us
out, to save his own skin. But I had been withholding judgment--because
I knew, or _thought_ I knew, something of the genius in Biggs. I had
been hoping against hope that his pose was only a ruse calculated to
lull Thaxton's suspicions; so that somehow, by some trick, everything
might turn out well.
But when he told the numbers of those bins, I knew at last, and with a
sickening sense of distaste for all mankind, that Lancelot Biggs--my
one-time friend and bunkmate--had failed under pressure. He was a
traitor! Because he told the exact truth. The guns and ammunition were
exactly where he had told Thaxton!
Cap Hanson was looking at Biggs as if he were some kind of slimy
snail. Cap made a faint rubbing gesture, and spat. Biggs' eyes sought
mine--but I refused to meet them. For a long moment there was silence,
then Thaxton said,
"And how do I know you're telling the truth, Biggs?"
"But--but I am!" protested Biggs. His lanky legs gangled; there was
sweat on his forehead. He was an abject picture of fear and treachery.
"You know I--"
"I know nothing about you," said Thaxton crisply. "For all I know, the
bins you mention may be designed in such a fashion as to explode if
anyone opens them. If so--"
Sudden hope leaped into Biggs' eyes. He bleated,
"But--but you're an esper, aren't you?"
"Yes, of course. What has that to do with it?"
Biggs said triumphantly, "Well, then, now that you know which bins to
concentrate on, can't you probe into them with your thoughts? Find out
for yourself?" He added, "I--I always heard that really good espers
could guess what was inside sealed boxes."
The little spy bridled.
"Not _guess_, Biggs!" he snapped. "_Know!_ That is a good idea. Perhaps
you're sincere. Well, it won't take long to find out."
Still holding the gun upon us rigidly, Thaxton went into his act. His
body stiffened slightly. His pop-eyes seemed to bulge even more. His
forehead creased with a sort of strain. His lips moved faintly.
I could hear the words as his unusual sense of perception bridged for
him the distance between this turret and the after holds.
"Ah, the bins! Numbers 13, 14, 15. In the first I see boxes. Boxes
filled with ammunition. Ah, yes! In the next I see--"
Then a thought, so dazzling that it almost short-circuited, blazed
across my brain. I nudged Cap Hanson and nodded toward Thaxton. In
that state of half-catalepsy, he was almost vulnerable. There was a
fighting chance that we might be able to dash across the room, knock
him down, yank that gun from his hand before he got us. Or, at least,
_both_ of us.
* * * * *
Hanson got my meaning immediately. His big fists balled at his sides. I
felt his shoulder tense against mine. And then--
"No!" whispered Biggs sibilantly. "That doesn't help, Skipper! The
_Cyclops_ will be here any minute, now!"
"--ammunition," droned Thaxton. "Boxes piled to the ceiling. Ah! And in
the third bin--"
"Out of my way, you gutless wonder!" rasped Hanson viciously. "Let them
come! If we die, we die like men!"
"But," said Lancelot Biggs quietly, "we don't die!" And calmly, easily,
almost tenderly, he raised his voice.
"I speak to you, Thaxton," he said in the soothing tone of a parent.
"Do you hear me? Do you hear me speak?"
"--two hundred rotor-guns," said Thaxton. "Three cartons of fuse-caps,
one carton of--Yes, I hear you speak."
"That is well," said Biggs. "Listen, Thaxton, and do as I say. In a few
minutes you--"
He spoke swiftly. It is well that he did so, for it was scant seconds
after he had finished that the inter-communicating system buzzed
loudly. I flashed in the audio and stared into the panicky face of Lt.
Dick Todd.
"Sparks!" he yelled. "Is the skipper there? Tell him to come up here
right away! There's a Venusian ship off our port bow. It just fired a
shot across our bow and ordered us to heave to!"
Biggs said apologetically, "If you'll permit me, sir?" and the skipper
nodded mutely. "Todd," said Mr. Biggs, "heave to as ordered. And when
they board us, send them to this room."
Five minutes later, the commander of the _S. S. Cyclops_ bustled into
the control-turret, side-arms ready and backed by a hard-bitten foray
party, to find a strange bit of activity.
Lancelot Biggs and I were playing a game of chess. Cap Hanson was
playfully disconnecting the wires of my transmitting unit. Thaxton was
sitting on top of the visiphone equipment, teasing my Ampie with a
flashlight battery.
"You're all," yelled the commander, "under arrest! Er--I hope." And to
Thaxton, uncertainly, "Well, Thaxton?"
The little man smiled at him cherubically.
"Very well, Commander," he piped. "And you?"
Cap Hanson, carefully coached by Biggs, stood up, bridling.
"May I ask," he said stuffily, "the reason for this invasion? My dear
sir, such an unwarranted entry--"
The _Cyclops_ commander looked stunned. He dragged a moist hand across
a moister forehead and said,
"Thaxton, did you complete your investigations?"
Thaxton looked up, bobbed his head.
"Mm-hmm!" he said. "Woo--woo!"
"And--and the result?"
"She wouldn't." Thaxton shook his head regretfully. "When I got
insistent, she slapped my face--"
"You infernal idiot!" roared the Venusian commander. "I'm talking about
the _cargo_! _Did_ you or did you _not_ find contraband aboard this
ship? If you _did_--"
They could have filled two stratosphere balloons with the breath that
was held at that moment. But then the little man broke the spell.
Broke? Shattered. Into ten thousand tiny pieces. For he said,
"Contraband, Commander? Oh, mercy me, no! Whatever made you think
there'd be contraband aboard _this_ ship?" And he slid off the
visiphone unit, to announce:
"Well, we'd better be going now, hadn't we? Thanks for a pleasant trip,
Captain Hanson. I hope I'll see you again some time."
* * * * *
The Venusian commander's face was crimson, but he was a gentleman. To
Hanson he said,
"My apologies, Captain. I hope you'll understand that in times of war,
such incidents as this are unavoidable. My government will make a
formal apology to yours."
Then he, and his men, and his ship, and Thaxton--the dopey little
squirt--were gone. And we were free to continue our journey. With all
mental strain forever relieved. Because now we had the _carte blanche_
of the Venusian government....
Afterward, it was a crestfallen skipper who held out his hand to
Lancelot Biggs in open-hearted apology.
"I'm sorry, Biggs," he said frankly. "I was completely wrong. I might
have known that the man who could win my daughter wouldn't be the kind
to fold up in a tight spot. But I--I--"
He choked up. Biggs said,
"That's all right, Skipper. I had to do it that way. It's the only way
I could get him off guard."
Which was my cue. I said,
"Yeah, come clean, pal. Would you mind giving it the once-over-lightly
for my benefit? Maybe I'm slow on the draw, but it's all still a deep,
dark mystery to me. You hypnotized Thaxton, made him tell his superior
we were as clean as a whale's ears. But how? And when did you figure
out--"
"It was simple," explained Biggs, "once I got the clue. Back in the
twentieth century, when the science of extra-sensory perception was in
its infancy, they discovered among other things that the best natural
'espers' are hyperthyroids.
"Thaxton was a hyper-thyroid. The bulging brow, the pop-eyes, the
nervousness--all these indicated that. And I remembered, too, the
curious fact discovered by an early experimenter in telepathy that the
'esper', while working at his trade, is wide open to hypnosis.
"Being in a receptive frame of mind, it is only natural that an
accomplished hypnotist--"
"So you're that, too," I said, "among other things!"
"I understand the rudiments of the art," Biggs grinned. "Once I got
him under control, it was easy to implant the belief that he had been
through the entire ship, found nothing amiss. He will never know
otherwise. I expunged the memory of the entire interlude from his
brain."
I said thoughtfully, "Which isn't a bad idea, if you ask me. Say,
Biggs, can you do that to everyone? I've owed Enderby five credits for
the past month. If you can help me forget it, it won't worry me nearly
so much."
"Or," said the skipper caustically, "make Enderby forget it. On account
of he ain't never gonna be paid nohow. Well, Mr. Biggs, let's you an'
me get back to work."
"Wait!" I pleaded. "One more thing. Why did you keep muttering names
to yourself, Biggs? And why did you holler, 'That's it!' when Enderby
mentioned the rain?"
* * * * *
"He said 'ryne'," Biggs told me, "not 'rain'. That was the word I'd
been seeking. I knew it was the name of a river--but I couldn't think
which one. Now, Prof. J. B. Rhine was the pioneer in the study of
extra-sensory perception. I knew if I could just remember his name, I
could think of a way to defeat Thaxton."
"But why the hell," I hollered, "did you have to think of Rhine's name?
You knew all the other stuff. Your 'Get the theory first' didn't apply
that time--because you already knew the theory. You just wasted time
and nearly made the Cap and me nervous wrecks!"
The skipper said, "Now, Sparks, don't talk that way to Mr. Biggs--Come
along, son."
But there was a look of utter dismay on my lanky pal's face. His Adam's
apple dropped so far that he had indigestion for two days afterward.
And he gasped,
"Oh, goodness, Sparks, you're right! But it never occurred to me in
that way! All I could think of was that I _must_ remember the name of
the scientist before I could devise a solution!"
I tell you, folks, you ought to know him! That completely screwball,
absolutely mad, incredible genius--Lancelot Biggs!