"We won't tell her," said the Old Man promptly. "I alluz say that what
women don't know won't hurt 'em. We'll keep this to ourselves. But,
mind you!" A flash of the old fire lighted his weathered, space-faded
eyes. "But, mind--I want you to study hard durin' this next year! If
you want to win your stripes, you got to listen to a wiser head!"
"Yes, sir," said Lancelot Biggs. "I will, sir."
Then the skipper left. A great old guy. No longer listless and
lackadaisical, space-weary, but a new man, imbued with a strong,
fighting new urge. To help a young man earn his spurs. There was
something admirable in his attitude, and something a little pathetic,
too.
And after he had left, I turned to Biggs. I said, "Okay, pal--come
clean!"
He started.
"I--I beg your pardon, Sparks?"
"Come," I repeated, "clean. You can fool some of the people some of the
time, and you can fool some of the people some of the time--but you
can't fool some of the people some of the time. And I'm them. Biggs,
I know you like I know my own hangnails. I've seen you in a thousand
tight spots, and I never once knew you to go into a dither. But you
messed this one up so bad that it smelled from here to Pluto. Now I
want to know--why?"
Biggs' eyes looked like saucers. His larynx jumped up and down
painfully.
"I don't know what you mean, Bert."
"Talk," I said grimly, "or I start rumors. Why?"
And then--Lancelot Biggs grinned!
"So I made it look bad, eh, Bert?"
"Bad? Awful! That heat--great comets, pal, you nearly killed us all!
But why? I heard part of that transmission from Luna. I heard enough to
know that if you passed your final test you were going to be given a
command immediately. A ship of your own. The _Tethys_ or the _Antigone_
or the _Orestes_. All good ships--"