"Nothing," I said, "under the Sun. Ain't you heard the adage? Look, Mr.
Biggs--you go on duty pretty soon, is that right?"
"That's right."
"Well, you don't happen," I asked him shrewdly, "to have any bright
new inventions hatching under your skull, do you? Like the uranium
time-trap, for instance, or the velocity intensifier?"
He said, "Now, Sparks--can I help it if neither of them worked exactly
as I had planned? After all--"
"Answer," I insisted, "yes or no. Do you?"
He flushed and wriggled one toe in the carpet.
"We-e-ell, not exactly. I did have a little idea I wanted to try out,
though. An anti-gravitic attachment. On the cargo lofts. It occurred to
me that--"
"Well, junk it!" I said. "Hasten, don't hobble, to the nearest
incinerator, and give your diagrams the good old heaveroo!"
He said, "Eh?" and looked faintly startled. "Eh?" he repeated. His
liquescent larynx Immelmanned. "But, why, Sparks?"
I said, "Them stripes on your sleeve, Lieutenant--they're pretty, ain't
they?"
He glanced down, fingered his triple braid proudly.
"Why--why, yes. Very pretty. I'm proud of 'em."
"But the more there are," I pointed out, "the prettier they are. Isn't
that right?"
"I--I suppose so. But what has that to do with--_Sparks_!" His voice
raised to a shout, and suddenly his pale eyes brightened. "Do you mean
that--?"
"Nothing else but. That alleged Q.O. mugg, Cooper, is a phony? He's
really an S.S.C.B. inspector. And since he's not riding the _Saturn_
for his health, I'll give you one guess who he's watching--if you
start with yourself."
Funny what emotion will do to a guy. Biggs was not the type to go into
a blue funk. I'd seen him face danger, disgrace and death, not once but
many times. Every time, he had confronted the situation calmly, coolly,
nary a quake or quiver stirring him. But here, handed good news on a
silver platter, I thought for a minute he was going to pass out.
His eyes grew stalks, and his knees began to rattle like a marimba. The
confused burble emanating from his lips resembled the vocal efforts of
a tongue-tied hippo trying to speak Choctaw. His Adam's-apple--but why
mention that monstrosity? Even _I_ don't believe the things it did, and
I saw it!
Words finally grew out of the _melange_ of gutturals, sibilants and
expectorants. Biggs' eyes receded into their sockets, became dewy and
wistful, like the orbs of an amour-smitten adolescent. His voice was
hushed and awed.
"My own ship!" he breathed. "My own command!"
"Don't cross your bridges," I reminded him, "until they're hatched.
You've still got to win your letter, chum. Two letters, in fact. I-F.
You become Skipper Biggs IF you pass the exam.
"Now, get to work. And remember--don't let on you know who this Cooper
is. Deodorant's the word!"
I gave him a shove toward the door. He disappeared in a haze of little
pink clouds. And I flopped into a seat, feeling so bad I could have
bawled like a kid, but despising myself for feeling that way.
It was selfish, I guess. Biggs deserved the honor. But somehow--well,
dammit! I sort of hated to see him leave the _Saturn_. We'd had a lot
of fun together, our bunch. Cap Hanson and Chief Garrity, Dick Todd,
the Second, and Wilson, the Third. And Biggs. And me.
* * * * *
Well, things settled down into normalcy, then. The _Saturn_ is a ten
day freighter, which meant that Cooper would have beaucoup opportunity
to judge Biggs' capabilities. So tempus fidgeted, and I fidgeted,
and the Old Man came within two spasms of a nervous breakdown, and
Biggs--as might have been expected--got his nerves on ice after that
first shock and performed his routine duties in ultra-stellar fashion.
My duties were far from exacting. Four times a day I had to contact a
Space Station to check our course, speed, and declination against Solar
Constant. That was just regulation blah, though, because with Biggs
plotting the course, we had about as much chance of getting off the
line as a rural subscriber when a juicy scandal is being discussed.
It was also my job to keep in touch with Lunar III, which daily
interlude--Joe Marlowe being the low scut he is--was the only
disturbing influence in an otherwise languid existence. Understand, I
don't believe for a minute that my gal, Maisie Belle, _was_ out with
him. She's true to me. But it was a dirty trick for him to say she was,
and beside, how the hell did he learn about that birthmark if--?
Oh, the hell with it! The fact is that time passed and pretty soon
it was the sixth day, and in just a few more days we'd dock at Mars
Central and Lt. Biggs would be Capt. Biggs.
Because if I had been idle on this shuttle, my rawboned friend had not.
Cooper had been putting him through a series of strenuous paces to test
his knowledge, ability and resourcefulness. The trajectory computations
had mysteriously disappeared, for instance, and Biggs had to compile a
new set. When he went to use the calculometer, he discovered it to be
accidentally-on-purpose "out of order." So he had to evolve the figures
from his own cranium.
Then there was the false alarm fire in the storage compartments--while
Biggs was on the bridge. And the hypos went on the blink--with Biggs on
duty. And one of the aft jets clogged. Guess who was standing watch at
the time?
That sort of thing. But Biggs came through, every time, with flying
colors. And with each succeeding success, another of the grim,
suspicious lines melted from around the corners of Inspector Cooper's
mouth, until he was beginning to look almost like a human being.
Meanwhile, Cap Hanson's face got daily ruddier, happier, and grinnier.
He was just one big smile on legs as he saw his son-in-law-to-be coming
closer and closer to the coveted stripes.
"Just four more days, Sparks!" he chortled happily to me. And then,
"Just _three_ more days! Just _two_ more--" He rubbed his hairy paws
together gleefully. "Two captains in the same family! Ain't that
somethin'? Boy, did you see the way he come through on that test
yesterday? Cooper got Garrity to cross the heat control an' grav
plates. The ship was hot an' weightless at the same time--"
"So that's what it was?" I grumbled. "Hell, who's taking this
test--Biggs or us guinea-pigs? I went soaring to the ceiling, boiling
like a kettle--and with the gravs off, I couldn't even drip sweat!"
"But Lanse fixed it!" gloried Hanson. "Spotted the trouble in three
minutes flat, and had the circuits straight before you could say
'hypertensile dynamics'! What a lad!"
"Two more days," I said. "All I hope is that I can live through it. If
Cooper gets any more whacky ideas--"
"Hrrrrumph!" came a voice from the doorway. I spun, startled.
What did my mama tell me about talking in front of a person's back? It
was Inspector Cooper!
I said, "Look, Inspector--the acoustics are lousy in this room.
Anything you heard which might have sounded like your name was
strictly coincidental."
He glared at me. Then at Cap Hanson. Then at me. And, boy, what I
mean--that guy could really glare!
"So!" he said. "_Inspector_, eh?"
Oh-oh! It dawned on me, all of a sudden--but too late--that I'd upset
the legumes with a vengeance. Calling him "Inspector," when, so far as
I was concerned, he was an officer in the Quarantine Service.
"Inspector, eh?" he repeated. And crisped Hanson's burning cheeks with
a glance. "Well, Captain, it is just as I thought. Too many years of
service have taken their toll on your discretion. When you start taking
common radiomen into your confidence--"