Biggs' tone wobbled as if he were nodding his head.
"Sure. Just like that. Make the necessary stud adjustments, fire the
rockets designated in my alternative plot-chart, and shift trajectory.
That's all! And, oh, yes--you might send a couple of men outside,
Skipper, with disrupters. Have them clear the hull of that caked fuel
oil so it will be a little cooler in here.
"Honey--" He was talking to Diane now--"I'll meet you up there in a few
minutes. Wait for me!"
Major Gilchrist's eyes looked like two poached eggs. As the full
meaning of Biggs' words dawned upon him, he began roaring. But angrily.
And loudly.
"A trick! A dirty, low, mean, contemptible trick by a renegade officer!
Mr. Biggs! Mr. Biggs, sir, I am placing you under arrest again! Remain
in your quarters, sir, or--"
But Todd had already sprung to his task, I had given the orders to
Garrity's crew, and Cap Hanson handled this new threat. Again he
hunched over Gilchrist's struggling-to-rise form, and his voice was a
whiplash of scorn.
"I wouldn't, if I was you, Major!" he warned grimly. "You seem to've
forgot that a minute ago forty-odd men aboard the _Saturn_ heard you
beggin' Lance Biggs to save your scrawny hide. One more crack outa you
between now an' the day we hit Earth, an' this whole affair will be
reported to the Company, so help me Hannah!"
"And in case you think we can't _prove_ it," I assured him sweetly, "it
might interest you to know that I plugged in the audio-recorder five
minutes ago. We've got a nice little transcription of everything you've
said since you entered the turret. Would you like to hear _that_ played
at the trial?"
* * * * *
So that, boys and girls, was all. Except for a tiny conclave some time
later in Cap Hanson's quarters. Biggs was there, and Diane, and the
skipper, and of course yours truly. We were asking, and receiving, a
once-over-lightly on what to all of us save Lancelot Biggs was still a
deep, dark mystery. The Old Man said:
"So we really wasn't never in no danger at all, son? We never was going
to run afoul of the Sun?"
"Well, yes," said Biggs, "and no. We would not have fallen into the
Sun. But we _were_ in danger. Our trajectory, as plotted by Major
Gilchrist, within a few short hours would have carried us to a spot
where Sol's blazing heat might have crisped every soul aboard to a
cinder.
"It was necessary to convince Gilchrist of our peril before it was too
late to avert disaster. Heating the _Saturn_ artificially seemed the
best way to do this. I tried to make him think Sol was burning us up
yesterday, but he got wise to my little scheme for heating the ship
electrically."
"And you," I said, "got jugged. And he gathered all the electrical
equipment into his own paws. But, nevertheless, you did turn the
_Saturn_ into a stew-kettle. How?"
Biggs grinned amiably.
"Why, you ought to know, Sparks. You helped me."
"A mule," I admitted, "helps a man plow a field, but it don't know how
or why. Not that I'm a jackass, but--"
"It was very simple, really. You turned the release valve, allowing
the fuel oil to discharge from its tanks onto the outer hull. The hull
became coated with a thick layer of oil. Now, think hard! Oil in a
vacuum, heated by an outside source--"
I got it. I groaned. That's the trouble with Lance Biggs' logic. Once
you hear it explained, it always looks so easy!