"Wait a minute," I said, "I just remembered. Our beloved skipper left
you a billet-doux. He told me to tell you to ipskay the assespay at the
aughterday."
Biggs frowned. "Latin?" he hazarded.
"Pig-Latin," I told him, "and horse-sense. Hanson says you've been
wearing it on the sleeve for his gal, Diane. And if he sees it pounding
in the open once more, he's going to chop it into mincemeat."
Biggs' face looked like a national holiday on the calendar. He
strangled gently.
"But--but I like the girl, Sparks. And I believe she likes me."
"She'll revere your memory," I told him frankly, "if you don't obey the
Old Man's orders. When he issued his manifesto he had granite in his
jaw and mayhem in his eyes. You'd better do as he says."
"But it's not fair!" protested Biggs. "After all, I'm an officer and
a--"
"And a gentleman," I finished wearily, "by courtesy of the U.S.S.A.
Yeah, I know. But in my estimation, that's just strike two against you.
The skipper doesn't have a lot of use for you graduate Wranglers, you
know. He graduated from the N.R.I. before there was such a thing as an
Academy."
* * * * *
Perhaps, for the sake of you Earth-lubbers who are tuned in I should
explain this. The rivalry between Earth's two great schools of
astronavigation is something paralleled only by that which existed,
centuries ago, between the United States' two military schools, the
U.S.M.A. and the U.S.N.A.
The National Rocket Institute is the older college for spacemen.
Originally designed for merchant marine training, it became a natural
"friendly foe" of the United States Spaceways Academy when that
institution was founded fourteen years later.
Today there is a constant companionable rivalry between graduates of
the two schools; one subordinate, of course, to the routine of daily
work, but that flares into definite feeling when, each Earth autumn,
the current football teams of the academies meet in their traditional
grid battle.
They tell me that in the old days soldiers and sailors the world around
used to gather about their short-wave radios to hear the broadcast
of the Army-Navy game. Well, it's that way--only worse--nowadays in
space. Graduates of the N.R.I. ("Rocketeers," we call 'em) listen,
cheek-to-jowl, with "Wranglers" from the Spaceways Academy. There's
a lot of groaning and a lot of cheering and a lot of drinking and
sometimes there's a sizable chunk of fisticuffing. It usually ends up
with the representatives of the winning team standing treat, and the
grads of the losing academy vowing they'll win "Next year!"
Take our ship, for instance. The _Saturn_. I won my brevet at the
Academy; so did Dick Todd, the second-in-command, and Lancelot Biggs
graduated just last year. Chief Engineer Garrity, on the other hand,
took his sheepskin from the Rocketeers' school, and so did Cap Hanson.
Which made another important reason why I should do something--and do
it mighty fast--to get the _Saturn's_ radio clicking again. Because
the annual Rocketeer-Wrangler grid fracas was to be broadcast just two
days from now, and my scalp wouldn't be worth the price of a secondhand
toupee if the old grads from both schools couldn't hear the game.
Biggs spluttered like my condenser would if my audio had been working,
which it wasn't--if you know what I mean.
"I'm not one to complain, Sparks. But when Hanson tries to come between
Diane and me--"
I said, "So! Mister Biggs, accept my apology. I underrated you. It's
reached the 'Diane' stage already, has it?"
"It--it--" Biggs stammered into silence. Then he said, almost meekly,
"Sparks--can you keep a secret?"
"I'm a mousetrap," I told him.
"Then I'll tell you--this isn't the first time Diane and I have met.
We--we knew each other before I came aboard the _Saturn_. As a matter
of fact, I asked for this berth in order that I might gain her father's
favor; so we could get married."
That explained a lot of things. I had often wondered why Lancelot
Biggs, whose uncle, Prendergast Biggs, was a Vice-president of the
Corporation, should have chosen to serve out his junior officership on
a wallowing, old-fashioned Earth-to-Venus freighter like the _Saturn_.
Now it all became clear and I began to feel like the adviser of a
lovelorn column in a daily newspaper.
I said, "So to put it poetically, Biggs, you're a little bit off the
gravs for the gal, hey?"
"Little bit?" he said miserably. "Sparks, you'll never know."
"That's what you think," I told him, remembering how it came out
"friendship."
"What?" Then he forgot his curiosity in a burst of--for him--uncommon
petulance. "But I'll not take this lying down, Sparks. I'll show the
skipper I have a right to love his daughter. I don't care if he _is_ a
graduate of the N.R.I., I'll show the leather-pussed old space cow--"
"Are you by any chance," roared a voice, "referrin' to _me_, Mister
Biggs!"
We both started. The Skipper was standing in the doorway!
* * * * *
I said, "Pardon me, folks! I've got to see a guy about a shroud!" and
tried to slide past Cap Hanson to the safety of the deck, but the Old
Man roared me down with a blast.
"Come back here, Sparks! I want you as witness!" He turned to Biggs,
whose face looked like a prism revolving in sunlight. "So! So I'm a
leather-pussed old space cow, _Mister_ Biggs?"