"Stop wasting juice," I advised him, "and give out. You got the
reports? What do they say? Is the Old Man--"
"Sturdy," rattled Marlowe, "is the word for Hanson. Your Skipper's as
chipper as a kipper. You're O.Q. Todd is O.Q. Bronson and McMurtrie and
Anderson are O.Q. The crew checks one hundred percent. Enderby needs
two teeth filled; otherwise O.Q. Blaster Jacobs needs sun-lamp Vitamin
C, but otherwise O.Q. As a matter of fact--"
One name was conspicuous by its absence. My gizzard turned over slowly.
I interrupted, "Marlowe--look back over your list. Didn't you forget
somebody? How about--?"
The answer came back slowly, almost sympathetically. Even over the
dit-da-dits you can read expression in talented fingers. Marlowe tapped:
"I'm sorry, Donovan. I'm very sorry to have to tell you this, but there
is one unfavorable report. The examiners have declared one man aboard
the _Saturn_ to be absolutely unfit for space travel. His heart is so
bad that it may give out at any minute. That man is--First Officer
Biggs!"
* * * * *
Well, there you are! Somehow I managed to take down the conclusion of
the memo and sign off. But all the while I was doing so my brain was
churning with the doleful tidings I had received; the thought kept
repeating over and over again: "_Biggs--grounded! Lancelot Biggs--unfit
for space travel!_"
My memory flashed back to the day when, almost three years ago, that
tow-headed youngster had first gangled aboard the _Saturn_, fresh out
of the Academy and not yet dry behind the ears. Fourth Mate he had been
then, with no more responsibility than a laundress in a nudist camp.
The Old Man had not liked him, partly because he was eccentric, mostly
because he had avowed his intention of placing a gold band around the
third finger, left hand, of the charmer whose name was at that time
Diane Hanson.
But somehow Lanse Biggs had overcome these handicaps, by persistence
worked himself up to the position of First Officer, by wit and guile
and intelligence come through every obstacle set before him, by
sheer determination proven to the skipper that he would make a good
son-in-law.
His inventive genius had given mankind the velocity-intensifier unit,
the uranium speech-trap, the first safe way of descending to the planet
Jupiter--oh, why go on? Biggs' discoveries are as prominent as the
Adam's-apple in his neck, and that's plenty outstanding!
But now, his future assured, his erratic past behind him, Biggs was
to be exiled from the space he loved. Biggs--grounded! Lancelot
Biggs--unfit for space travel!
So coursed my gloomy thoughts as I sat there in the silence of my radio
turret. I did not even notice the _Saturn_ was easing into a cradle.
My first intimation that we were on Iris came with the arrival of Cap
Hanson. He came burbling into my cubby, happy as a bee in a honeysuckle
vine.
"O.Q., Sparks--we done it! We're on Iris. Shoot a message to Earth that
we--Hey! What's the matter? Sick?"
Without a word I handed him my transcript of the report. He scanned it
swiftly.
"Ah, the medical report, eh? Glory be, Sparks, this is wonderful! I
passed! Isn't that swell? And you passed ... and Todd ... and...."
Then he stopped as abruptly as I had. A cloud swept across his
forehead leaving his eyes darkened and sombre. In a whisper he said,
"Lancelot--!"
I said, "That's the end of the chapter, Skipper. For three years the
_Saturn_ has been the finest ship in the fleet. We've done more tough
jobs and had more fun than any bunch of spacemen who ever lifted gravs
under the same emblem. But it ends now. When Lanse Biggs leaves this
ship, nothing will be the same ever again."
"His heart," faltered the Old Man. "Who would have believed there was
anything wrong with his heart? I know he's skinny, and all that, but he
always seemed healthy enough--"
"Where is he now?"
"What? Oh--outside. He's trying to make a purchase of some real estate,
Sparks. It don't matter much just _where_ he buys, so long as he buys.
The whole asteroid's honeycombed with pumice pockets, you see. All
we got to do is buy up some land, start diggin', produce hard soap
and earn the right to remain here. But--his heart! Sparks, I can't
believe--"
"Hush!" I warned him. "If those sounds aren't a herd of antelopes on
rollerskates, I think that's him coming now."
Cap Hanson crumpled the flimsy, jammed it deep into his pocket.
"Not a word about this, Sparks! Not yet. We--we've got to break it
gently!"
* * * * *
I nodded just as Biggs, grinning from ear to ear and back again,
lurched into the turret. On his right arm he was carrying a queer
looking little squeegee. At first I thought it was a teddy bear. Then
it moved, and I realized I was in the presence of a native Irisian.
He--or it--was a curious little squirrel-like creature with big,
goggling eyes, a huge bushy tail and enormous whiskers.
Biggs chirruped cheerfully, "Here's one of the local boys, folks!
Sparks, you speak Irisian, don't you? Well--"
He paused, glancing at each of us questioningly. "What's the matter?
You two look as if you'd lost your best friend."
Cap Hanson essayed a laugh. It sounded like an echo from a torture
chamber.
"Nothin' at all, son. We was just discussin' the difficulties of the
problem ahead of us, that's all. So that's an Irisian, huh? And you can
talk to it, Sparks?"
He looked at me with new respect. I smiled. "If my Academy prof
wasn't just fooling," I told him, "I can." And I turned to the little
rodent, twisting my lips into a series of purring whistles which meant
"Greetings!"
"Phwee-twurdle-twurdle-pwwht!" replied the Irisian.
Cap Hanson looked at the asterite disconsolately.
"Needs oilin, don't he, Sparks?"
"Not a bit. That's his native tongue. He said how do you do."
"Yeah? Well, it didn't sound like it to me--"
Biggs suggested, "Ask him, Sparks. Ask him where we can buy or lease
some property on Iris."
So I did. And the answer was encouraging. It seemed the little feller
himself _chwee-fweeple-twee_--meaning he owned some property a few
miles outside the capital city--and he'd be glad to sell us this patch
of ground for _chirp-furdle-foo_--