"I'll bet you," said Biggs thoughtfully, "my space claim against the
privilege of the next three landings that the Wranglers beat the
Rocketeers this year."
We all gasped. They were _real_ stakes. Every space officer is
granted, by the IPS, a space claim consisting of property rights in
all unexplored areas of a given arc. He may either explore in this
sector himself after he has served his trick, or he may delegate the
exploration to professional space-hounds. In either case, a substantial
percentage of all ores, precious stones and miscellany found in his
allotted sector belong to him. Many a space officer has found himself
fabulously rich overnight when his sector turned up with rock diamond
detritus or granules of meteoric ore.
On the other hand, Biggs was asking a great privilege. Before a space
officer can become a commander, he must have made five personal cradle
landings on any planet. Skippers were chary of granting permission on
these, often making junior officers wait years to earn their Master's
ticket.
But it looked like Biggs was again sticking his neck out. I tried
to stop him. I said, "Don't, Biggs! This game is in the bag for the
Rocketeers. Don't be so rash!"
But only half the words had garbled through my larynx when Cap Hanson
yelped exuberantly, "_Done!_ Gentlemen, I call upon you to witness that
wager!" And he rubbed his paws together like a raccoon eyeing a bowl of
honey.
* * * * *
Twenty to nothing! That was the score then, and it was the score
fifteen minutes later when, with but seven more minutes remaining in
the annual fracas, Lancelot Biggs went stark, staring mad.
Now, Cap Hanson contributed to that madness. I must admit that his
glee annoyed me. I can stand taking a licking as well as the next man,
but I hate like hell to have someone rub it in. And that's what the
skipper was doing. As the minutes ticked by, and the Rocketeers' margin
became momentarily more insurmountable, he first taunted us Wranglers,
then insulted us by offering ridiculous odds against our winning, and
finally accused us all of lacking sportsmanship.
Biggs, standing carefully aloof from Diane in order not to rouse the
skipper's latent wrath, had a strange pallor on his cheeks. Not so
strange, maybe. It's hard to stand by and watch everything you possess
slipping down the skids.
Cap didn't make things any easier for him. Every so often the Old Man
would bend over, slap his thighs, and howl, "Anything more you'd like
to bet, Mister Biggs? Whoops! I'm a space-bitten son of Jupiter if this
ain't the most fun I ever had!"
And then Lancelot Biggs jolted out of his curious stupor. He said,
"Yes, Captain--I _do_ have something else to bet!"
Even Hanson was staggered by that one. "Huh?" was his snappiest
come-back.
"If--" There was a dreamy look in Biggs' eyes. "If you'd be kind enough
to step into the corridor with me. You and Sparks, please?"
Good old Sparks; witness extraordinary. But don't think it gave me any
pleasure to witness this example of sheer madness. As we moved through
the doorway, away from the wondering crowd, I pleaded with Biggs,
"Biggs, for gosh sakes--haven't you lost enough already? Don't make
another bet!"
But the glance he turned to me was mildly puzzled. And he whispered
swiftly, "It's all right, Sparks. I know what I'm doing--"
Then, outside, to the skipper,
"Captain Hanson, I have only one more thing of potential value left in
the world. The patent rights to my new invention, the practicability of
which you have witnessed all afternoon, the uranium audio plate. This
will be my share of the wager."
Hanson said suspiciously, "I don't know--" To me, "Sparks, is it worth
anything?"