There was a brief silence. Then Biggs' curious response. "Is that you,
Sparks?"
"In person," I told him, "and not a facsimile. How you getting along,
pal?"
"Why, all right, I guess." He clucked, and I could envision the rueful
shake of his head. "It was a frightful mess, Sparks. How you ever let
it get in that condition--"
"I let it get in that condition," I told him, "like I got sick. By
orders of Madman Cooper. That guy's a wingding with the mace, ain't he?
Where'd you get the replacement parts?"
"Out of the supply locker, mostly. I had to rewind the L-49 armature,
though. We had no spares."
"You'd better throw a shunt across the No. 4 rheo," I suggested.
"You're heterodyning on vocal freke; otherwise you seem to have matters
under control. Nice going, bud. I guess you know this is your final
test?"
"I suspected it. Well, I'm going to test now. See if I can contact
Lunar III. Stand by, Sparks. I'll cut you into the circuit so you can
hear."
Current hummed and squealed; dots and dashes ripped the ether as Biggs
pulsed a signal to Mother Earth's satellite. Slow seconds dragged. We
are very close to Mars, and it takes a message almost two and a half
minutes to make the hurdle from the green planet to the red one.
I waited tensely. And then, faint and far, but yet clear, came the
reply.
"Answering IPS _Saturn_. Go ahead, _Saturn_." It was Joe Marlowe's hand
on the bug. I could tell that. You know how it is; every operator has
a transmitting style just as distinctive as handwriting. "_Go_ ahead,
_Saturn_." Then, "Are you sober, Donovan?"
I gritted my teeth. But Biggs put an end to Joe's smart stuff with his
next transmission.
"Donovan ill. Relief man at key. _Saturn_ reporting for orders. Any
orders, Luna? Any orders?"
Marlowe flashed back, "Sorry about Donovan. Nothing trivial, I
hope? Yes, have one order, _Saturn_. From S.S.C.B. headquarters. To
Inspector-Commander Cooper. 'If Lt. Biggs passes examination, assign
him immediately to command of--'"
_Thump-thump-thump!_
* * * * *
Damn! Of all the times to be interrupted. Just at the happy, crucial
moment when I was about to learn the ship to which Biggs was going to
be assigned! And some idiot had to come banging at my door!
_Thump-thump-thump!_
"Just a minute!" I howled. I switched off the unit and shoved the
mattress back into place, rumpled the sheets, tousled my hair and
pulled my shirt off. I stumbled to the door, unlocked it and stood back
yawning and rubbing my eyes as if I had just hopped out of the arms of
Morpheus. "C'mon in!" I said. "Whuzza big idea--Oh! How do you do, sir?"
My visitor was Inspector Cooper. He pushed past me into the room,
glared around suspiciously, turned and heaved me an extraordinarily
evil glare.
"What were you doing in here, Sparks? Don't lie to me! What were you
doing at the exact moment I knocked?"
Behind him, ashen-faced, stood Cap Hanson. _He_ knew about the
auxiliary unit. One more bite, and his forefinger nail would be bitten
off to the second joint.
"The _exact_ moment?" I stalled.
"That's what I said."
I held my breath, which is one way to create a most maidenly blush. I
said, "I--I respectfully decline to answer, sir. My reputation--"
"Your reputation," roared Inspector Cooper, "is not worth a damn
anyway! Answer, sir!"
I shrugged. I said, "Well, after all, you can't be court-martialed for
dreaming. You see, there was this blond kitten named Dolly. Sweet kid,
but--well, reckless. And I was--"
Cooper turned crimson, and he wasn't a bit happy.
"What! You claim you were sleeping? We distinctly heard you talking,
Donovan! Who were you talking to?"
I said plaintively, "Well--it was this way. Dolly was putting up an
argument--"
That stopped him. He glowered about the cabin once more, helplessly,
then he grunted and turned toward the door.
"Very well, Donovan. But if I ever find out you've been engaging in any
skull-duggery--Come, Captain Hanson!"
And they left, Hanson tossing me a swift "saved-by-the-bell" glance
that meant undying affection and a bonus in next month's salary. So
I muttered, "I hope you don't," and when their footsteps faded from
earshot, I made a dive for the concealed set.
But I'd missed the important part. Joe Marlowe was just signing off
when I got the phones on.
"--Captain Biggs will then lift his command," came the closing
sentence, "from Mars Central, in accordance with orders which await him
there! That is all, _Saturn_!" And he was gone.
Boy, was I nearly busting! I couldn't wait for the sonic to die away so
I could tap Biggs in the turret. "What did he say, Lanse?" I hollered.
"Cooper came pussy-footing, and I missed the message. So you're going
to get a command, eh? Congratulations? Tell me--"
My nerves were like red-hot worms as I listened for Biggs' answer. And
then--
"_Whonk!_" went my set suddenly. "Gwobble-_phweee_!"
Out of order! Again!
* * * * *
Well, that was a stinker. But I had learned _some_ things, anyway.
That Biggs was in line for a captaincy, and that his new command was
waiting for him at Mars Central. I dug a copy of Lloyd's Spaceways
out of my desk-file, and leafed through it. The information was
encouraging. Vessels land-docked at the Martian port included the
transport, _Antigone_, the lugger, _Tethys VI_, and the brand-new,
magnificent, special-extra-deluxe passenger liner, _Orestes_! Any one
of these ships would be a feather in the cap of the skipper who took
her bridge. Lancelot Biggs was getting off to a Big Start!
So I should have been very happy. For him. But I wasn't. Not
altogether. Somehow I couldn't help feeling it wouldn't be the
same ship--the _Saturn_, I mean--with Biggs no longer ambling the
quarter-deck.
A sentimental sap? Well, maybe I am. But when you have laughed and
cried and fought and triumphed and shared sadness and joy with a right,
tight, snug little gang of men, all of whom you love like brothers, you
hate to think of one of them leaving you.
And that's the way it was aboard the _Saturn_. Sure, we had our little
squabbles and fusses. Wilson is a sort of show-off, and Todd sometimes
has a tendency to let others do his work. The Old Man's not much of an
astrogator any more; after all, he's been pushing ether for more years
than I've been alive; he's not as smart and alert as some of the fresh
young brevetmen. And Biggs' genius for getting us in tough spots is
second only to his ability at getting us out again.
But we're a _team_, see? And now, with Biggs moving up the ladder, some
strange new guy would come in.
It was hot!
I'd been so busy with the crying towel, that for a few minutes I didn't
realize just how hot it was. But now, glancing at the thermometer on my
wall, I was jolted to see the mercury standing at 98 degrees!
Without pausing to recollect that the audio system was out of order,
I reached for the wall phone, bawled into it, "Ahoy, the bridge!
Something's gone wrong with the--"
That's what I meant to yell, anyway. As a matter of strict truth, I got
just as far as, "Ahoy--_blub_!"
For the moment I yanked the earpiece off the audio, a pencil of clear,
cold water shot from the instrument like a diminutive geyser! Smack in
the tonsils it slapped me--and I turned and hightailed it for the door!
My guard, a gob named Jorgens, let loose a roar as I appeared.
"Oh, no, Sparks! I got orders to keep you in your cabin!" he bellowed.
"That's what you think!" I yelled back. "I'm not going to be roast
Donovan for you or anybody! I'm hot!"
"Then maybe this will cool you down." He grabbed the firehose, pointed
it at me, turned the wheel. I wailed, and waited for the punching gout
of water to sweep me off my feet. But it didn't come! There came a
rushing sound, and from the nozzle spilled--
Air!
Jorgens dropped the hose with a howl of surprise. He gave up all idea
of stopping me. As a matter of fact, he was three steps ahead of me
by the time we hit the end of the corridor, but I beat him up the
Jacob's-ladder leading to the bridge by the simple expedient of using
his vertebrae as rungs.
Together we charged through the upper passageways, turned onto the
ramp that feeds the bridge. By now, everything had gone stark, staring
mad. All the time we were on the hoof, I kept hearing music. And every
once in awhile a wild burst of static rasped my eardrums. And the heat
increased.
It took me some minutes to realize, with a burst of horror, that the
music was coming from the radiators, the static from the darkened
electric bulbs set in the ceilings, and the heat was pouring in a
torrential flood from our air supply--the ventilating system!
We reached the bridge, shouldered the door open. But the situation
wasn't any better there. If anything, it was worse. Cap Hanson,
perspiration streaming down his red face, staining his jacket, was
bending over a calculating machine that was flickering hazily with
moving pictures! Across the room, Lieutenant Todd was masterfully
struggling to subdue the clamor of a generator that was chattering
wildly in the Universal Code. Dots and dashes!
Above the bedlam, I managed to make myself heard.
"What's wrong?" I bawled.
The Old Man acknowledged my presence with one look of torment.
"The ship's gone nuts! The heater plays music and the telephone's a
spring; there's static in the lights, and electricity in the gas jets.
The ventilators give heat and Slops just called me on his refrigerator
to tell me the gas stove is spitting ice cubes!"
Cooper, his face flaming with rage, pulled his paws from his ears long
enough to scream, "This is a disgrace to the service! Whoever caused
this should be cashiered! And by the Lord Harry--"
Just then the door opened, and into the room, with a big, friendly grin
on his pan, gangled our lanky lieutenant, Lancelot Biggs.
"Hello, folks!" he said amiably. "Sort of--sort of noisy around here,
isn't it?"
Cooper glared at him wildly.
"Biggs, get out of here! You're supposed to be up in the turret
repairing that radio set. Get along--"
Biggs smiled sort of sheepishly; his unbelievable Adam's-apple did a
loop-the-loop in his throat. He coughed gently.
"Well--er--you see," he said, "that's what made me come down here. I--I
guess I must have got a little bit mixed up in the wiring. I got the
circuits all crossed up, and--well, durn it, this is what happened!"
* * * * *
By sheer coincidence, just at that moment the air stopped hissing,
the music stopped playing, and the tumult that had been flooding the
room died away to a whisper. In a brief, horrible silence I heard
Cap Hanson gasp, "Lanse! Lanse!" and heard the incredulous snort of
Inspector Cooper.
"What? _You_ caused this, Lieutenant?"
Biggs' pale eyes shifted, and he twisted his lanky frame into a pretzel.
"R-reckon I did, sir. Couldn't seem to get things straightened out in
the turret, so I--I went down to the control room, and--and I guess I
must have turned the wrong knobs or switches or something."
His excuse dwindled into silence. But Cooper did not. Cooper loosed a
blat like a robot wired for newscasting.
"Wrong knobs! Wrong switches! Indeed, sir--" he swung to me, sweating
painfully and quivering like an electroscope in a pitchblende mine.
"Sparks, can you do anything about this--this disgraceful mess?"
I couldn't meet Biggs' eyes, nor could I meet those of Cap Hanson. I
just nodded slowly.
"I think so, sir."
"Then get to work! And as for you, Lieutenant--" His eyes burned
Biggs' pale, embarrassed face, "It will not now be necessary to
determine whether or not you are versed in Safety Code practices. You
have demonstrated very well that you are not yet capable of assuming
the rank and duties of a commanding officer. Your butter-fingered
handling of a simple, routine test has resulted in the most disgusting
contretemps it has ever been my lot to witness!"
Cap Hanson said, "But--but look, Inspector--he's only a boy! Anybody
can make a little mistake. Give him a chance to--"
"There is no place for 'boys'," snorted Cooper, "on the bridge of
space-going vessels. Lieutenant Biggs has possibilities, yes. But
I shall suggest to the S.S.C.B. that he be given another year of
intensive training--under an old, accomplished spaceman; yourself,
Captain Hanson--that he may learn resourcefulness, coolness, how to
act under stress of emergency!
"And now, gentlemen, I shall retire until we reach Mars Central.
Sparks, for God's sake quiet this bedlam as soon as possible!"
And he stalked from the bridge with as much dignity as a man can muster
with hands clapped over a pair of sweat-dripping ears.
I went below. It was a mess, but not an impossible one. I got it
straightened out in fifteen or twenty minutes. And by the time things
were back to normal, we were warping into the cradle-lists at Mars
Central Spaceport.
* * * * *
Afterward, everybody was sympathetic. Bud Wilson said, "Too bad, Biggs!
But you'll get another chance." And he went out. Dick Todd said, "Aw,
the hell with it, Lanse. You were just a little excited, that's all--"
And he left, too. And that left Biggs and the skipper and me alone in
the turret.
Biggs squirmed and said meekly, "I--I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to be
such an idiot. But--well, after all, I am young. And I haven't had your
experience."
The skipper still looked like a man who'd grabbed a live wire by
accident. He shook his head sadly.
"I wouldn't of thunk it of you, Lancelot, son," he grieved. "You was
always so quick at graspin' things before this. I was bankin' on you
to make it two captains in the same family. But--well, let bygones be
bygones. Next year you'll have another test. An' in the meantime, I'll
try to teach you more about how to act in emergencies."