"Right. As soon," I told him, "as we cradle into Sun City spaceport."
The skipper looked like he'd bitten into an apple and found a worm.
"You mean we're not going to hear the game?"
"That's exactly what I--" Then I paused. "Wait a minute! There's a
faint possibility we might. If his invention really works. He has a
spare plate in his quarters, but he'll have to install it. I don't know
how."
"He?" yelled the Old Man. "Who? The man in the moon?"
"The man in the doghouse," I corrected. "Biggs."
"Biggs!" The skipper's look changed. Now he looked like a man who'd
bitten into an apple and found _half_ a worm. But he turned to Dick
Todd. "Go get him, Mister Todd," he ordered.
Todd left. We all watched the clock. Todd returned, bringing with him
L. Biggs, ex-exile. The skipper glared daggers at his First Mate.
"I hear you've an invention, Mister Biggs," he said caustically. "I
distrust it. It may turn out like some of your other brain-children.
But this is no time to be choosey. Attach it. And be kind enough to
look at the radio controls instead of my daughter!"
Lancelot Biggs stood very, very still.
"Well," roared the Old Man, "get going!"
Lancelot Biggs smiled; a faint, thin smile.
"For," he said, "a price, Captain."
"A price!" Hanson's voice lifted the roof an inch. "Lieutenant, you're
not tryin' to dicker with me?"
"Not trying," corrected Biggs, "I'm dickering. For a price, I'll attach
my new plate unit to the radio. Further, I will absolutely guarantee
its operation."
"You--you insolent young pup!" raved the skipper. "Todd, Wilson--put
him in irons! No, stand still you damn fools! Let him alone! What's
your price, Biggs? You can't have her!"
"Her?" said Biggs innocently. "I don't know what you're talking about,
Captain. My price is--my rocket!"
Cap Hanson looked at the faces of the waiting graduates around him. He
knew when he was stalemated. He said, "Well--" and reached into his
pocket.
Biggs pinned the tiny golden emblem where it belonged and I never saw a
man look more proud. Then he said quietly, "Very well, gentlemen. Now,
Sparks, if you'll lend me a hand here...."
* * * * *
The uranium plate worked. Two minutes later, as I tied in the positive
cable, dancing light began to play over the tubes, the galvanometer
skipped gaily, and current began to hum once again. I yelled, "Biggs,
you're terrific!" and reached for the vernier. But Biggs' hand stayed
mine.
"Not there, Sparks! Higher. The ultra-short wave, I believe. About one
over fifty thousand on the Ang vernier."
Cap Hanson rasped, "Sparks knows how to operate a radio, Mister Biggs,
without your help!"
"Not _this_ radio," shrugged the lanky lieutenant. "This plate is
considerably different from the old type. Considerably different!"
I thought I detected a faint note of amusement in his voice, but the
thought vanished as swiftly as it came--for at that instant my fingers
found the proper spot. There was a moment of whining super-het; then--
"--a great day and a great crowd, folks!" came an excited voice. "And
here comes the next play. The Wranglers have the ball on their own
eighteen yard line, second and ten to go--"
"That's it!" roared Cap Hanson exuberantly. "By golly, that's it!
Biggs, maybe you're not the dope I think you are!"
But the shocks weren't over yet. You remember I told you the Wranglers
were strongly favored to take the Rocketeers down the ramps? Well--this
was evidently just another example that in a traditional battle
anything can happen--and usually does!
We had had the radio on barely five minutes when the Rocketeers blocked
a Wrangler kick, fell on it, and took possession on the Wrangler nine
yard line. In two power plays the eleven from Cap Hanson's academy had
plunged over for a touchdown. One minute later they made the conversion
and the score was 7-0 for the supposed underdogs.
The faces around that room were a sight! Hanson and Garrity looked like
Venusian bunny-men in a carrot patch; those of us who acknowledged
the Academy as our Alma Mammy would have soured milk with our smiles.
The expression on Lancelot Biggs' face defied description. He looked
faintly startled, faintly pleased, like a man shouting echoes against a
mountainside.
Cap Hanson groped in his hip pocket; brought forth a wad of hoarded
Earth and Venus credits.
"Well, you broken-down Wranglers--any of you like to lay a few creds on
your team making a come-back?"
He got plenty of takers. After all, one touchdown isn't a football
game, and the Wranglers _were_ favored to win. I shelled out to the
extent of thirty credits, Todd staked a few. Chief Garrity unbuttoned
his ancient wallet, shooed away the moths, and risked some of his own
credits after demanding three to one odds.
And the game went on.
The first quarter ended, amazingly, with Rocketeers still leading by
that score of 7-0. In the second quarter, Cap Hanson, overflowing with
the milk of human I-told-you-so, turned to Lancelot Biggs, crowed
tauntingly,
"Well, Mister Biggs, I take notice you're careful not to lay any bets
on that team of your'n?"
Biggs, whose eyes had been fastened hungrily on a girl in that
room--guess which one!--gulped, and his neck-elevator bobbled. He said,
almost embarrassedly,
"I--I don't know whether I should, Captain--"