When Lancelot Biggs started in
the soap-making business on this
asteroid, he got strange results!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories October 1942.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
One thing is certain. When bigger and better shirts are made, the
officials of the Corporation which underpays us will stuff 'em.
We were squatting in a cradle on Earth, waiting for flight orders, when
the control turret door swung open and in marched two owl-eyed zombies
dressed in frowns and white mess jackets. One of these looked at us,
then at a slip of paper. He said, "Donovan, Herbert J.?"
"Present," I said, "but not accountable for. Otherwise known as
'Sparks.' What's the matter, Satyr? Who found out what about me?"
"Come," ordered the stranger curtly, "with me!" And he jerked a thumb
in the general direction of the doorway.
Cap Hanson--he's the skipper of our space-shuttling freighter, the
_Saturn_--bridled like a mick at an Orangeman's Ball. If there's one
thing he cannot tolerate, it is hearing anyone else issue orders on
his bridge. His brows congealed into fur-line cumulus clouds.
"And what," he demanded, "is the meaning of this, if I may ask,
gentlemen?"
The other whiteclad studied him briefly.
"Hanson?" he queried. "Captain Waldemar V.?"
"That is my name, sir. And why--?"
"Come with me," said the second spectre, and diddled his digit like my
accoster.
I said, "Not so fast, kiddies. Last time I followed a flickering
phalange I ended up in an alley behind a Martian joy-joint with a
headful of ache and a walletful of nothing. In words of one syllable,
what's this all about?"
My answer came not from the pair before us, but from the entrance
behind them. Through this came two figures. The foremost was that of my
long-time friend and shipmate, Lieutenant Lancelot Biggs; behind him
was his uncle Prendergast, 1st Vice-president of the I.P.C. It was the
older Biggs who spoke.
"It's all right, Sparks. These men are acting under company orders.
They are medical officers assigned to give a physical examination to
every man aboard the _Saturn_."
"Every man?" choked Cap Hanson. "Did you say _every_ man, sir?"
I knew what he was thinking, and I felt a swift pang of compassion for
the old boy. Hanson was one of the finest skippers who ever paced a
quarterdeck. He had forgotten more space-lore than most men ever learn.
But he wasn't as young as he used to be; not by about fifty odd years.
Although Cap _looked_ hale and hearty, his joints were beginning to
stiffen like a mud-pie on Mercury, and sometimes, if you stood beside
him in a quiet room, you could hear the dim clank and clatter of his
arteries hardening. A physical examination might mean an end to his
long career, exile from active service to the waffletail job he had
long dreaded.
* * * * *
But old P. B. who, being an Earth-lubber, didn't know what grounding
means to a true spaceman, just smiled.
"That's right, Captain. Every member of the command and crew is being
examined. You see, the company is removing the _Saturn_ from the
freighter service--"
Removing! That was Jolt No. 2! Words got as far as my tonsils--and
clogged there. But Biggs' uncle continued blandly:
"--and because of its magnificent service record on behalf of the
Corporation, your ship is being assigned to new duties. Henceforth, the
_Saturn_ will lift gravs only on special tasks, assignments of vital
importance which have proven too difficult for ordinary vessels of the
fleet."
Well! That was something like! At last our efforts--or should I say the
whackypot genius of Lancelot Biggs?--had earned us recognition. My
weskit buttons tugged at their moorings; and glancing at my comrades,
I saw they shared my pride. Cap Hanson's huge grin threatened to slice
off the top of his head, while Lancelot Biggs' sensitive Adam's-apple
was galloping up and down in his throat like a runaway yo-yo.
"Well, now!" said Hanson, gratified. "That bein' the case, I can quite
understand why physical exams are necessary, sir. But do you feel that
_everyone_--?"
"Everyone," nodded the Vice-president, "from highest to lowest.
Everyone aboard this ship. Yes, Captain Hanson. Those orders have been
issued, and cannot be altered."
Biggs gurgled happily, "Tell them what our first assignment is, Uncle
Prenny."
"Ah, yes. Of course, Lancelot. Captain Hanson, you are doubtless
cognizant of the--er--delicate situation upon the planetoid Iris?"
"Delicate!" I snorted. Of course Cap knew about it. We all did. It was
the top-ranking scandal of the decade. A group of privateers, seeking
a base from which to pursue their nefarious exploits, had established
themselves upon innocent, helpless little Iris. There, though it was
plain to everyone that the diminutive, rodent-like Irisians were being
actually held in peonage, the corsairs had set up a puppet government,
thereby procuring territorial rights against which the Interplanetary
Council could not file demurrer. So:
"Delicate!" I snorted. "That situation smells worse than pole-pussy
perfume in a telephone booth! What the Space Patrol ought to do is go
in there and grab those rascals--"
"Sparks!" frowned the Old Man. "That will do!" But he turned
questioning eyes to his superior. "Why _doesn't_ the Space Patrol do
something about it, sir?"
"Because," pointed out Uncle Prenny, "the privateers are--speaking from
a purely legal standpoint--quite within their rights. The Patrol cannot
move against them because to do so would be to violate the standards of
freedom upon which the Interplanetary Union is founded."
"But everybody _knows_ they're crooks ... pirates...."
"True. But by glancing back over the pages of man's history you will
learn that it is always the crooks who twist law to serve their own
evil purposes.
"These privateers moved to Iris, became citizens of that planetoid.
Then, by brute force, they seized control of the political machine,
voted themselves into governing power. With such power, it was an
easy matter to pass laws forbidding exercise of Space Patrol rights
of search and apprehension ... extradition ... prohibiting further
immigration of peoples from civilized planets...."
I said, "Hey, wait a minute! There's one thing they _can't_ do!
According to interplanetary law, no government can forbid the right of
free trade, barter and exchange!"
Lancelot's uncle smiled.
"Absolutely right, Sparks," he agreed. "And _that_ is where _we_ come
in!"
* * * * *
A dead silence followed his pronouncement. Then the air began sizzling
with a hot, frying sound. That was Hanson preparing to blow a verbal
fuse. He exploded like a retread on a hot day.
"_So!_" he roared. "So that's the kind of a company I been workin' for
all these years? Well, Vice-president, here's my rocket--" He tore
his precious spaceman's emblem from his breast and hurled it to the
floor--"and here's my brevet--" He ripped the golden epaulets from his
coat, and heaved them after the rocket--"and the hell with you and the
I.P.C., sir! Any outfit which would be so stinkin' niggardly as to
_trade_ with a crew of scoundrels like that--"