"Now, wait a minute, Inspector!" I said. "Captain Hanson didn't tell me
who you were. I--I guessed it. I'm pretty good at things like that. I
figured it out the first time I saw you. It's my psychic--"
"It will be your neck," he snarled, "if you don't shut your yap!
Well--now that you know who I am, I might as well tell you why I'm
here. I need your cooperation in giving Lieutenant Biggs his final
test."
Some of the chagrin left Hanson's eyes; his voice was hopeful.
"_Final_ test?"
"Yes. I confess to a very great respect for your First Mate, Captain
Hanson. He has proven himself capable in each of the tests offered so
far. His theoretical knowledge is matched by his physical ingenuity; I
have awarded him the highest possible grades in Astrogation, Analytical
Judgment, and General Knowledge.
"If he passes the final test, Resourcefulness, and of course the
verbal quiz on Safety Code practices, I shall take great pleasure in
submitting his name for advancement.
"This test--" He turned to me. "Will be made in your department,
Sparks. You--" He transfixed me with an icy glare. "You are sick!"
"Who, me?"
"Yes. You have--mmm, let me see!--dyspepsia!"
"It's a lie!" I said indignantly. "I haven't been near one of them
Venusian joy-joints for a year!"
"You have," repeated Cooper coldly, "a bad case of dyspepsia. Which
is another name for 'indigestion,' young man! You will develop this
ailment immediately. And since the captain of a space-going vessel
is supposed to be able to step into the breach in any emergency,
Lieutenant Biggs will be assigned the task of relieving you at your
post."
Wow! Was that a break for our side? I darned near split a lip, trying
to hide the great big grin that leaped to my gabber. If there was any
man aboard the _Saturn_ whose knowledge of radio was equal to my own,
that man was Lancelot Biggs! Why, he was the inventor of a new type of
radio transmission plate. If this were to be his "final test," he would
breeze home, win, place _and_ show!
But Cooper didn't notice the elation in my eyes, or the equal joy in
the skipper's optics. He was finishing his instructions.
"--and because you have learned who I am, Sparks, I suggest that you
make no attempt to get in touch with, or speak to, Lieutenant Biggs.
You may consider yourself confined to quarters for the duration of the
trip."
"Very good, sir," I said.
"And now--" Cooper turned to my instruments. "We shall set the stage
for Mr. Biggs' final test--" He picked up a hammer. The biggest one in
the turret. He lifted it, weighed it briefly in his paw, and then--
_Wham!_
Things clanked and clattered; glass tinkled; wires leaped from the
innards of my set and wriggled out onto the floor like tiny metal
snakes. Cap groaned, and I screamed, "Omigawd!"
"_Omigawd!_" I screamed. "Leggo! Stop it! Are you off your jets?"
"Stand back, Sparks!" warned Cooper. He raised the hammer again,
again brought it down ferociously into the entrails of my beautiful
transmission set. _Clinkety-clatter!_ Something shorted; blue fire
spat; there was a loud _pop!_ and I had to clutch my breast to make
sure it wasn't my heart. "Stand back!" he panted. "We--we've got
to--make this--a tough--test!"
"We?" I howled.
And then he was done. He stepped back and studied his work with the
pleased look of a ghoul in a graveyard.
"I think that should do the trick," he said gravely. "If he can repair
this set and get it in working order, I'll give him top grade in
Resourcefulness.
"Very well, now, Captain--you may return to the bridge and tell
Biggs that Sparks has been suddenly overcome with illness. And you,
Sparks--to your quarters. And don't forget--you're sick!"
I stared miserably at my once-perfect apparatus. I passed a hand over
my brow and tottered to the doorway.
"Maybe you think," I wailed, "I'm not?"
* * * * *
Well, I began to feel well enough to sit up and take notice along about
lunch time. Doug Enderby, the steward of our void-cavorting madhouse,
brought me my grub. He tiptoed in and laid the tray on the desk before
me. He whispered:
"Are you feeling better, Bert?"
"Never worse," I told him gloomily. "Why the crape on the victuals? Are
they _that_ bad?"
I whipped off the napkin, took one gander at my so-called "lunch," and
bleated like a branded sheep.
"Great monsoons of Mars--what the hell is this?"
"Shhh!" hushed Enderby. "Poached eggs, Sparks."
"I can see them!" I hollered. I stared at the pair of baleful, golden
horrors-on-toast. "And they can see _me_, too! Take 'em away!"
[Illustration: "I can see them!" I hollered. I stared at the pair of
baleful golden horrors-on-toast. "And they can see _me_, too!"]
Enderby said petulantly, "But you're sick! That's what Captain Cooper
said."
"Cooper, eh?" I groaned. "I always said it wasn't smart to make torture
illegal." Then I remembered why I was confined to durance vile. "You
seen Biggs?" I asked.
"No. He hasn't been down to lunch. He had to take over for you when you
were taken ill." Doug looked anxious. "There--there's something wrong
in your turret, Sparks. The intercommunications system is out, and the
radio won't work."
I glanced at my watch. Two hours had passed since Cooper's coup. Hardly
time for Lanse to unscramble the mess of pottery.
"Well, cheer up," I said. "Everything will be O.Q. in a little while.
Uggh!" I pushed my toast and tea toward him. "Look, pal, how's the cow
situation in the galley? You got a nice, three inch steak? Rare? With
onions?"
"Sirloins," said Doug, "for dinner."
"In that case," I sighed, "I'll give this hen-fruit a miss. See you at
dinner-time."
Doug nodded sagely and sidled toward the doorway.
"Steaks," he said, "for the crew. But _you_ get milk toast. You're a
sick ma--_Hey!_"
Well, I _almost_ nailed him with that second poached egg, anyway.
* * * * *
After he beat it, I opened the door and peeked out, and sure enough,
one of the sailors was standing down at the end of the corridor. Cooper
was a canny duck. He was going to make certain that I didn't get loose
and help Biggs.
But Cooper wasn't the only guy with smart ideas. I hadn't been radio
operator on the _Saturn_ for three years for nothing. There were a
couple of wrinkles in the wiring system that even the Installation
Department knew nothing about. I ducked back into my cabin, locked
the door carefully, hung my coat over the keyhole, and pulled back my
mattress.
Underneath, nestling coyly amongst the box springs of my bunk, was
a tiny, complete transmission-reception set. I'm no dummy. Midnight
watches are a bore, and many is the time I'd turned in with a pair of
earphones on, rather than sit nodding in the turret for dreary hours
waiting for messages that might never come in.
Of course this auxiliary set was useless so long as the main set was
O.O.O.--but by listening in, I could tell how Lanse was coming along
with his repair job, perhaps give him a little assistance by remote
control should he need it.
So I donned the phones--and just like I thought, the circuit was as
cold as a ditch-digger's toes in Siberia. For a few seconds. Then
all of a sudden something squawked, "Krrrr-_wowowooo_! _Brglrp!
Glrp!_"--and a familiar voice came from far, far away. The voice of
Lancelot Biggs, saying:
"_That_ ought to do it! Now, let me see if--"
I hugged myself gleefully. The old master mind had done it again! In
just two hours and sixteen minutes. Tell _me_ Lancelot Biggs isn't a
genius!