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Title: The return of Lancelot Biggs
Author: Nelson S. Bond
Release date: August 1, 2024 [eBook #74173]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: Ziff-Davis Publishing Company, 1942
Credits: Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RETURN OF LANCELOT BIGGS ***
The RETURN of Lancelot BIGGS
By NELSON S. BOND
Gilchrist had no fear of the sun's heat.
Then Biggs gave him a new kind of hotfoot.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Amazing Stories May 1942.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
I guess it was about 7:58 Solar Constant Time--yes, it was exactly
that, because I'd just received a clearance O.Q. for 8:00 from the
Sun City portmaster--when the portal of my radio turret opened and
in waddled Cap Hanson, skipper of our void-mangling freighter, the
_Saturn_.
The Old Man's optics were dancing like a nudist in a hailstorm, and
he wore a grin on his lips that stretched from ear to there.
"Guess what, Sparks?" he chortled. "I got a s'prise for you! Guess who
just came aboard?"
I said gloomily, "If it's anybody like that sourpuss
encyclopedia-on-legs who came aboard at Luna, you can have my
resignation right now, if not sooner. I've been hectored and bulldozed
and criticised so much lately that I'm beginning to feel like one large
apology with corpuscles."
I wasn't joking, either. You know me--Bert Donovan--the easy-goingest
bug-pounder who ever loused up the ether with Morse code. I don't get
mad often, and my nerves are as steady as a forger's fingers, but this
newest addition to the _Saturn's_ personnel had me on the verge of
babbling baby-talk.
His name was Horatio Gilchrist, his rank was "Major" and his title was
"efficiency expert." To summarize briefly: Major Horatio Gilchrist was
a rank efficiency expert--and I _do_ mean rank! He had pale, green,
watery, squinting eyes and a nose like a gimlet. Said proboscis was
always in everybody else's business. He snooped and sniffed and sidled
about the _Saturn_ like a pup in the Petrified Forest, and he had a
habit of popping out where least expected, like a fat man in tights.
He was always making suggestions. He told me how to conserve juice by
pre-heating the tubes before I transmitted. He advised Cap Hanson, who
has been roving the spaceways, man and boy, for more than forty years,
on astrogation practices. He quoted facts, figures and statistics at
Dick Todd till our acting First Mate grew as haggard as a parson at a
burleyque.
"I can't stand it, Sparks!" Todd moaned to me feebly after a
session with Gilchrist. "He's driving me whacky with his confounded
'efficiency'! The hell of it is half the time he's right! There _are_
ways to save time, money and materials while operating the _Saturn_. We
all know that. But you can't run a spaceship like an adding-machine!"
But such complaints were as futile as a bathing-suit on Mars. Major
Gilchrist ranked every officer on the _Saturn_, and his "suggestions"
had to be obeyed--or else!
Cap Hanson said commiseratingly, "I know, Sparks. I hate his g--I
mean, _I_ don't like the gentleman much, either. But, listen! This is
something swell! The guy who joined us at Sun City is none other than--"
But he never finished his sentence. At that moment, the chronometer
tagged 8:00, the hypos whined, the stern-jets roared, and the _Saturn_
lifted gravs from Venus as smoothly as hot butter sliding off a
griddle. My eyes opened wide and my mouth dittoed. There was only one
pilot in space whose touch on the controls was that deft, that gentle!
"_Biggs!_" I cried. "Good old Lancelot Biggs!"
* * * * *
I turned and banged hell-for-leather out of my room, down the ramp,
and into the control cabin, with Hanson vainly trying to lumber along
in the suction of my slipstream. As I had guessed, it was my old chum
and erstwhile roommate, Lance Biggs, at the studs. Beside him stood the
dark-haired beauty who had been Diane Hanson, and was now Mrs. L. Biggs.
I yelled, "Lance, you knobby old son-of-a-scarecrow! Where did you come
from? Where've you been? How did you two get aboard--"
Biggs--_Lieutenant_ Biggs to you, upstart!--swiveled and grinned at
me. Marriage might have worked wonders on the inner man, I wouldn't
know about that, but it had not changed his exterior in any way, shape
or form. He was still the old lean and lanky, gawky and gangling
caricature of humanity I'd always known. Tow-headed and wistful of eye
and blessed with a nervous, oversized Adam's-apple that bobbled up and
down in his throat like an undigested billiard ball.
"Hello, Sparks," he said mildly. "We came aboard at Sun City. We've
been honeymooning. But my leave is up, now, and I've reported back for
duty."
I said, "And, man! am I ever glad to see you! We've been one
hop-skip-and-jump from the loony-bin on this trip--and I don't mean
could be! We can use somebody who has a few brains--"
Biggs looked puzzled.
"Why? What seems to be the trouble?"
"Pig-headed bureaucracy, that's what!" puffed Hanson irately. "Take it
from me, son, the Major--"
Then suddenly his gaze, slipping past me, grew wary. His eyes veiled,
and his arteries stopped hardening. Without a pause he continued in a
milder tone:
"--major difficulty seems to be that we need brushin' up on the latest
space practices. We're a bit rusty, you know. So the Corporation has
assigned a very capable officer to--Why, there he is now! Come in,
Major Gilchrist!"
And in slithered the efficiency expert, glaring like a teetotaller in a
taproom. As usual, he had a nasty comment for everybody. To me he said,
"Sparks, you left your battery on! A sheer waste of valuable current,
sir--_waste_! Be kind enough to go aloft and attend to it instantly!"
Then, to the Old Man, "And you, Captain--surely you know the Company
rule against allowing women in the control cabins of space-craft?"
Biggs, having set the studs into lock-posts, slipped from the
bucket-shaped pilot's chair and walked to his wife's side. No, he
didn't exactly walk, either. Biggs' locomotion can scarcely be
dignified by that term. It is a stiff-legged sort of galumph, like an
ostrich on ice-skates. But his tone held a proper degree of uxorious
dignity.
"The _lady_, Major," he said, "is my wife."
But the old freezeroo didn't chill Gilchrist at all. He just sniffed
down his long, sharp nose at Biggs.
"And who," he demanded, "might _you_ be?"
* * * * *
It was Cap Hanson who answered. The skipper's voice was warm with
justifiable pride. "Permit me, Major. This is my son-in-law and First
Officer, Lt. Lancelot Biggs. He just reported back for active duty.
I'm sure you've heard of him. He invented the V-I unit and the uranium
speech-trap--"[1]
[Footnote 1: For previous adventures of the Interplanetary
Corporation's whackiest wisest young officer, see copies of _Fantastic
Adventures_ for 1939-40.--Ed.]
"Oh!" said Gilchrist frigidly, and stared at my chum like a vegetarian
at a hamburger. "So _you're_ Biggs? This is too bad. I had just
succeeded in training Lieutenant Todd to a point of efficiency. Now
I suppose I must start over again and teach _you_ how to manage a
spaceship!"
Imagine it! That kind of crack to Mr. Biggs, one of the brainiest
spacers who ever lifted gravs! Dick Todd was a good guy, but he wasn't
Biggs' equal by ten decimals! I held my breath and waited for the
explosion. Cap Hanson's mottled old cheeks began to glow like a neon
sign, and Diane _whooshed_ like an enraged Bunsen burner. But Biggs
spoke up hurriedly.
"Yes, sir!" he said. "Very good, sir! I'll be most grateful for your
instructions, sir!"
That was the kind of palaver Gilchrist liked. For a moment he looked
half human as a tight little smile shuddered along his lips. He said,
mollified, "That's very sensible of you, Lieutenant. We may get along,
after all. For a while I feared your--er--lucky accomplishments in the
past might--er--make you a bit difficult. Have you plotted our homeward
course?"
"Yes, sir," replied Mr. Biggs. He lifted a sheet of paper from the
chart-desk, handed it to the Major. Gilchrist studied it briefly,
lifted his gimlet eyes.
"Not bad, Lieutenant. Not bad at all. A little old-fashioned, perhaps--"
That was more than I could stand. If Biggs wouldn't take his own part,
I had to. I burst out, "But, Major, Biggs just graduated from the
Academy two years ago! How could his astrogation be 'old-fashioned'?
There's not a better plotter in space. Lance has yanked us out of more
troubles--"
"_Sparks!_" That was Biggs, warning me with his voice and with his
eyes. "Didn't the Major tell you to go turn off your batteries? You'd
better run along."
"O.Q.," I snarled. "I'm on my way. Come up and see me in my turret some
time, Lance--where the air is fresher!" And I beat it before Major
Gilchrist caught his breath.
* * * * *
So there it was. A couple of hours later I was sitting in my
cubby-hole, still fuming over how the Holy Bonds of Matrimony had
changed a once vivid and daring spaceman into a vapid and scary
yes-man, when there came a knock on the door.
"If you owe me money," I growled, "come in! If vice versa, there's
nobody home but us amperes!"
The door eased open, and it was Biggs. His face was sober. He said,
"Sparks, can I talk to you for a minute?"
"Why don't you ask Gilchrist?" I snorted. "He gives the orders around
here."
He closed the door behind him, snapped the safety.
"It's about Gilchrist I wanted to talk--"
"Then do your talking," I advised him rudely, "somewhere else. If I
never hear that skunk's name again, it will be too soon."
"Don't be hasty, Sparks. He's not a bad chap. Just a trifle headstrong,
maybe--"
"Some people," I scorned, "like spiders. There's no accounting for
tastes. Headstrong? You could use that skull of his to split granite.
And _you_--" My indignation rose as I talked--"you're as bad as he is!
Feeding him the good old soft-soap till it ran out of his ears!"
"It doesn't pay," said Biggs in that peculiar, soft, schoolmarm fashion
he sometimes affects, "to antagonize folks you have to get along with.
Whether we like it or not, Major Gilchrist has senior authority on this
ship. But we can talk about that some other time, Sparks. This is what
I wanted to show you--"
And he hauled a plot-chart from his pocket, gazed at me anxiously as I
scanned it.
Well, you know how plot-charts are. Nothing but one solid mess of
figures, figures, figures. Trajectory, flight-velocity, loft and
acceleration computations--all that junk. They're about as easy to read
as the shorthand scribblings of an illiterate Choctaw. I passed it
back. I said:
"Looks O.Q. to me. Why the corrugated forehead?"
"Look again, Bert," demanded Biggs. "Look carefully at those trajectory
co-ordinates. I may be wrong, and I don't want to influence your
opinion by saying anything, but--"
This time I got it. The figures joined together and formed a picture in
my mind, a picture that startled me worse than a surrealist drawing. I
gasped:
"_Sol!_"
* * * * *
Biggs nodded.
"Mm-hmm. That's what I thought, too. The course he plotted skirts the
Sun. Swings past it at a distance of only ten million miles!"
I'm a lot of things--but one of the things I am _not_ is unresponsive
to suggestion. I broke out in a hectic sweat and started for the door.
"Oh, no!" I yelped. "Maybe _he'd_ like to play pussy-wants-a-corner
with the prominences, but not _me_! The nearest I want to get to any
corona is to smoke one! The guy's nuts! I'm going to tell him--"
But Biggs grabbed my arm.
"It's no use, Sparks. I've already told him."
"You--you have?"
"Yes. And he said--" Biggs' larynx performed some incredible
involutions--"he said he knew perfectly well what he was doing."
"And so do I!" I howled. "He's plowing us smack-dab into Sol's
gravitational clutch! Well, I don't want some! I have no ambition to
become part of a sunspot!"
"No-o-o," said Biggs thoughtfully, "that's one thing we don't have
to fear. Gilchrist's mathematics are O.Q. Our velocity will be great
enough to overcome Sol's gravitation."
"But what are we going to do," I stormed, "about the heat? 6000°
Centigrade ain't exactly what I consider a cool, refreshing climate!"
"That's the trouble. I told him we'd be boiled like beans in a pot
if we passed that near Sol, but he pooh-poohed my warning. Said our
refrigerating system would keep us cool and comfortable." Biggs shook
his head helplessly. "I don't know what to do, Sparks. After all, his
word _is_ law."
I moaned. "And how long," I asked, "before we begin to french-fry in
our own carcasses?"
"About five days, Sparks. Five or six days from the current--" He
stopped suddenly. His pale eyes glowed. His larynx began leaping up and
down like a Mexican jumping bean. "_Current!_" he repeated. "But of
course! _That's it!_"
"'Scuse, please?" I demanded, puzzled.
But Biggs shook me off with an evasion.
"Not now, Sparks I can't tell you now. There's no sense in both of
us getting in trouble. But I think I know a way to convince Major
Gilchrist we must change our course."
* * * * *
So a couple of days skidded by, as days have a habit of doing. About
the middle of the second day, Hanson came up to my turret looking as
confused as a stork at the Old Maids' Home. He said, "Sparks, I been
hearin' funny things--"
"Your digestion?" I asked. "Or have you been dosing your asthma with
that 90-proof cough-medicine again? That'll make you hear things and
_see_ 'em too--"
"That's enough," interrupted the Old Man coldly, "of them kind o'
comments! What I been hearin' is bad. They's a rumor floatin' around
that we're on a dead trajectory for Sol due to Major Gilchrist's course
plottin'."
"Oh, that?" I said. "Forget it, skipper. Mr. Biggs knows all about it.
He's got ideas."
"Well," said the skipper, relieved, "in that case, I guess everything's
O.Q." And he waddled happily away. Which gives you some idea who's the
real Master Mind on the _Saturn_.
That very same night, Diane Biggs stopped me outside the Officers' Mess.
"Sparks, have you seen Lancelot anywhere? I haven't laid eyes on him
all day, and I'm worried."
"You ought to know better than to fret wrinkles into your pretty brow
over that one-man quiz program," I told her. "He's O.Q. Right now he's
engaged in some mysterious project of his own devising. When last seen
he was swiping generator supplies from the storeroom. Don't ask me why,
because maybe I know the right answer, and I don't want to have to
tell."
"He--he's not going to get in any trouble, is he?"
"Well, not exactly," I chuckled. "Though things _may_ be a trifle
hot for a while." For I had seen the stuff Biggs had snaggled from
the supply room, and I had also watched him sneaking out through the
airlock to the _Saturn's_ hull. I had a pretty fair idea what was going
to happen, but I figured it was his pigeon, and I didn't want to upset
the Bostons.
So that was all till the next day. But the next day everything happened
at once.
* * * * *
To begin with, when I tried to make my daily contact with the
transmitting station on Luna I couldn't coax so much as a squeak out
of my radio apparatus. It was as lifeless as a Venusian swamp-snake on
Pluto. I sweated and swore and got under the banks to find the trouble,
but everything seemed to be O.Q. Wiring, rheos, ampies, all were jake.
But the radio wouldn't rade. It just hissed and spluttered and murmured
as feebly as a college girl in a parked car. The trouble was, I finally
discovered, it wasn't getting any juice. Nary a bit!
Meanwhile, Dick Todd audioed me from the bridge. He fumed, "Sparks, for
Pete's sake tell Garrity to turn down the thermoes! It's getting hot up
here!"
Which sentiment I could personally double in spades. Because it was
getting hot in my turret, too. My shirt was a dishrag, and my forehead
was leaking like a rented rowboat.
So I called Garrity, but the Chief Engineer spoke up before I could
ease a word in edgewise.
"Is thot you, Sparrrks?" he bellowed angrily. "It's aboot time ye were
gettin' in tooch wi' me! Whut the de'il's the motter oop therrre? Yon
contrrrol-turrret is michty nigh stewin' us in oor oon grrravy! Turrn
off the heat!"
Well, I'm not dumb. Not too dumb, anyway. Two plus two equals Lancelot
Biggs. That's why, when Capt. Hanson and Diane wilted into my turret a
few minutes later, looking like a brace of parboiled lobsters, I just
grinned at them.
Hanson's eyes were haggard with despair. He wailed, "Sparks--this awful
heat! You know what's causin' it? It's because we're gettin' too close
to the Sun, that's what! You told me Lancelot had everything under
control. Where is he?"
"If I'm not mistaken," I assured him, "he's entering now by the
portcullis gate."
And I was right. Hatless, jacketless, soaked to the belt with
perspiration but grinning triumphantly, entered Mr. Biggs. He mopped
his forehead and said amiably, "'Lo, folks! Hot, isn't it?"
Diane ran to his side fearfully. She cried, "Lancelot, you must _do_
something! Daddy says this heat means we--we're going to plunge into
the Sun! You mustn't let--"
Biggs smiled serenely.
"Now, honey, don't get excited. We're in no danger. This isn't solar
radiation. _I_ caused this heat."
Well, that didn't surprise me. I had guessed it all along. But Diane
and her papa stared at him wildly. "What?" croaked the skipper. "You
done this, son? But--but why?"
"Why, simply because--" began Biggs. But he didn't finish his
explanation. For there came a savage interruption from the doorway. And
in an angry, spiteful voice:
"Continue, Mr. Biggs!" snarled Major Gilchrist. "_Do_ continue, please!
I am most eager to learn why you performed this abominable act of
sabotage!"
* * * * *
I said, "Oh-oh!" and looked for a hole I could crawl into and drag in
after me. Mr. Biggs' grin faded. "H-hello, Major!" he faltered weakly.
"_Mister_ Biggs!" raged the efficiency expert. "May I ask _why_ you
wound a dozen coils of uninsulated wire about the _Saturn's_ hull and
connected the electrical helix so formed to the power generators? Don't
deny it, sir! I've been outside and seen your handiwork!"
Biggs said faintly, "Why, I--I--er--"
"You needn't lie to me, Mr. Biggs! I understand too well. You
deliberately established a hysteresis field around this ship in order
to create a rise in temperature--was that it? You wished to make us
believe the Sun's rays responsible for the heat--isn't that so?"
It's a long worm that has no turning. Biggs finally asserted himself.
He raised his quiet but determined eyes to those of the Corporation
official.
"Yes, sir!" he said. "That is exactly what I did."
"And why, sir?" demanded Gilchrist venomously.
"Because, sir, a close study of the course-chart has convinced me that
we are in grave peril if we continue on our present trajectory."
"What! You question my astrogation, Lieutenant?"
"Excuse me, sir, but--I do!"
Major Gilchrist's gimlet beak quivered like a saucer of gelatin; his
sallow cheeks flooded with color.
"Preposterous, young man! The _Saturn_ will skirt Sol at a distance of
twenty million miles!"
"The correct estimate, sir," disagreed Biggs gently, "is _ten_. I fear
you neglected to take into consideration the space-warp created by
Sol's tremendous mass. I have prepared alternative course instructions,
sir. With your permiss--"
"Silence, Lieutenant!" Gilchrist was wild with fury now. He had no ears
for logic. He wouldn't have listened to a first-run performance of
Lincoln's Gettysburg Address, with sound effects by the original cast.
"I've heard enough! You are guilty of having deliberately conspired
to disturb, alarm and distress your shipmates, of having maliciously
essayed an act of sabotage against your ship, and of flagrantly
disobeying the commands of a senior officer.
"Your rocket, sir! You will go below instantly, and confine yourself to
quarters under arrest!"
Lancelot Biggs said nothing. His larynx leaped, but without a word he
stripped from his breast pocket that prized golden symbol for which
all true spacemen would die, and with steady fingers surrendered it to
Gilchrist. Diane stifled an impetuous little cry. Cap Hanson, his beefy
face a wreath of anxiety, said, "But, Major--"
"I advise you, Captain," rasped Gilchrist viciously, "against defending
Mr. Biggs' piratical actions. One thing I will not tolerate is defiance
of my orders.
"Donovan--" He turned to me--"you will remove the fruits of Mr. Biggs'
labors from the _Saturn's_ hull. The heat which now inconveniences us
will vanish when we are no longer the core of an electro-magnet. But
just to make sure that no further efforts are made to beguile us into
terror created by non-existent dangers, henceforth _I_ will assume
responsibility for all electrical stores and equipment aboard. That is
all! Get to work!"
Thus ended our gay little tea-party....
* * * * *
And of course it was just as Gilchrist had said. As soon as Biggs'
fantastic maze of coils and wiring was removed from the _Saturn's_
hull, the thermometer crept back to normal. But friend Fahrenheit
wasn't the only low thing on the _Saturn_ that evening. My spirits were
_beaucoup_ slumpy when I slipped around to visit Mr. Biggs after dinner.
He was pathetically glad to see me, but apprehensive on my account.
"You--you won't get in any trouble, Sparks?"
I said, "You're under arrest, but the balloon-headed little slob didn't
say anything about solitary confinement--probably because he didn't
think of it. Lance, what the hell are we going to do? I just ran over
our figures again, and I got gooseflesh looking at them. The _Saturn's_
approaching the critical spot. If we don't do something--and damn
soon--to make Gilchrist change his mind--"
"I've been thinking feverishly, Sparks. You know my motto: 'Get the
theory first!' I thought that by heating the ship I might frighten
Gilchrist into changing course. But he caught on to my little trick."
"And we can't try it again," I fumed, "because Major Nuisance has put
all the electrical equipment under lock-and-key. In another twenty-four
hours this freighter is going to be a bake-oven--"
"I know," mourned Biggs. "And Diane--" He stopped suddenly. "Eh? What
was that? What did you say, Sparks?"
"Nothing," I told him glumly. "I was just moaning."
"Oven!" cried Biggs. "Bake-oven! Of course! Ovens aren't all
electrical. Listen--you know where the main fuel valve lies?"
"Why--why, yes. But--"
"Then get down there--quick! And shove the release lever to _Emergency
Discharge_ position!"
"And--and dump all those good tons of crude oil off into space?" I
gasped. "Lance, you've lost your mind!"
"Don't argue with me! Do what I say! Oh, something else--are you
familiar with the refrigerating system?"
"I'd better be. We're going to need it soon--"
"Go to the condensation-valve and close it. Be sure it's tight,
Sparks. Smash it if you have to!"
I stared at him stupidly. It didn't make sense, but then the brilliant
plots of Lancelot Biggs seldom do. I said hopefully, "You--you think
it'll work, Lance?"
"It has to!" he retorted grimly. "Or--but hurry!"
* * * * *
So I did what he told me. I moved the release lever of the fuel oil
emergency discharge to wide open position. I shed a salty tear as I
did it. It almost broke my economical heart to watch those tons upon
tons of thick, black goo flood from their storage tanks out through the
for'rd vent into the empty reaches of space.
Then I found the condensation-valve and jammed it as Biggs had
directed. Then, not knowing what else to do, I sat down and waited.
I didn't have to wait long. Results began resulting immediately, if
not more so. I suddenly discovered that once again--as earlier in the
day--I was sweating. I removed my coat. That didn't help. I took off
my shirt. No use. If I hadn't been dead certain that within a short
time there would be visitors to my turret, I'd have jettisoned my
southernmost garments, too. But having no desire to embarrass Mrs.
Biggs, I stood fast. And stuck fast, too, by the way!
So things started happening. The Chief audioed from the engine-room.
He hollered, "Sparrrks, thot domned heat is on again. Turrn it off; or
bi-gawd, sirrr--"
Well, Biggs hadn't said anything about an allegiance with the crew, but
it looked like a great opportunity to stir up a mild case of mutiny. So
I said placidly, "Sorry, Chief, but I can't do anything about it. Take
a gander through your _perilens_. You see that big red thing blazing
out in front of us? That's what's causing the heat."
Garrity gasped. "Ye--ye mean the Sun, Donovan?"
"We're going to pass it," I told him, "at a distance of only ten
million miles. Figure it out for yourself." And I hung up.
Then Doug Enderby called from the mess-hall. I gave him a dose of the
same medicine. Then Harkness. He screamed like a stuck pig, and began
demanding a change of trajectory. I told him, "Don't squawk to _me_
about it; tell Gilchrist. He laid the course."
And I had just blanked the screen when in raced Gilchrist himself,
followed by Cap Hanson, Diane, and Dick Todd.
"All right, Sparks!" bellowed the efficiency expert, "What are you up
to _now_? I'll see that you get busted out of the service for this!
Rank disobedience, conspiracy to break shipboard morale, plotting with
an imprisoned officer, deliberate sabotage--"
Yeah--Biggs was right! Major Horatio Gilchrist was a nice guy, in a
repulsive sort of way. I glared at him.
"Just a moment, Major!" I said boldly. "If you mean this heat, you'd
better hunt yourself up another victim. You know perfectly well Lt.
Biggs is in durance vile. And as for _my_ having done anything,
why--how could I? You assumed complete control of all electrical
equipment."
Gilchrist raged, "But--but this _heat_! Somebody has made the ship
unbearably hot again--"
"Some_body_?" I asked him shrewdly, "or some _thing_? I guess you've
forgotten, Major, that our real peril--of which Mr. Biggs warned
you--is our proximity to the Sun."
"Nonsense, sir! The Sun--"
"Is getting closer," I finished, "every minute. You have undoubtedly
looked at the ship's hull to make sure there are no wires or coils on
it?"
Some of Major Gilchrist's cockiness had oozed out of him. He said
uncertainly, "Y-yes, I did. The entire hull is thickly coated with some
glutinous substance--"
* * * * *
Oh, golly! That was one thing which hadn't occurred to me. I had just
sort of taken it for granted that the fuel I had dumped would have
whipped away into space. Silly logic on my part, for I've run the
spaceways long enough to realize that nothing ever floats away in the
void; anything you chuck from a spacevessel shares your velocity and
hangs right along by your side. But I made the finest dramatic act of
my life; gasped, and clutched at my forehead wildly.
"The oil! Migod, the oil-tanks have burst! Captain Hanson, we're
doomed!"
And the skipper, too, came through nobly. He moaned and raced to the
wall thermo, whirled from it frantically.
"A hundred an' two!" he bleated, "an' gettin' hotter every minute!
We'll be stewed like peas in a pot!"
Gilchrist's lips turned a sickly bistre. He ran his tongue over them
and faltered, "But my computations--"
"Were wrong!" I told him. "Dead wrong! Take a look at these other
figures. Lancelot Biggs' figures!"
And as I thrust the sheet of paper into his fingers, I reached out
and elbowed the audio button that establishes a complete circuit of
every chamber aboard ship. Instantly the babel of angry, frightened,
complaining voices burst upon our ears. The cries of hot and terrified
men demanding help from the bridge.
"--can't stand it a moment longer," came the cry of Enderby. "Change
course, Skipper!" And from the engine-room the roaring blast of Chief
Garrity: "Ye've no richt t' drive us t' death like this, Captain.
Change coorrse, sirrr, or by the saints, there'll be _moootiny_!"
And that did it! Major Gilchrist's nerve collapsed. His self-assurance
slipped from him like a robe from a strip-teaser's torso, and all of a
sudden he was no longer a tough, gimlet-eyed, hard-boiled efficiency
expert, but a nervous and very frightened Earth-lubber caught in the
grip of forces too strong for him.
"Into the Sun!" he babbled wildly. "The _Sun_? Oh, I mustn't die like
this! Do something, somebody! Captain, you must change the course. Use
the other set of co-ordinates. I was wrong--"
That was all I waited to hear. I shoved the new set of figures into
Todd's hands, shoved him toward the door.
"Get going, Dick! There's no time to waste! We--"
But before I could even finish, there came an interruption that turned
my spinal column to a slow trickle of icy water. The plates beneath my
feet seemed to sag momentarily, then rise and hurl themselves forward.
I slipped and fell to my hands and knees--and found it hard to rise
again! A dull weight fastened itself upon me. Nor was I the only person
so stricken. Diane had tumbled, too, and Cap Hanson was holding onto an
upright stanchion for dear life. Gilchrist lay prone on his puss, his
face a mask of terror. And the audio rasped with an ominous cry from
the bridge.
"Captain Hanson! Captain Hanson, sir, come quickly! We've been caught
by Sol's gravs!"
* * * * *
Well, it was about that time my heart began pounding the hell out of
my shoelaces. Up to now I had been disgusted and sore and fretful, but
not in the least worried. In spite of Gilchrist's pork-patedness, I had
felt a serene confidence that before danger actually threatened Lance
Biggs would find some way to wangle us out of our difficulties. But
now--
But now we were in a sorry mess indeed! Caught in a gravitational grip
thousands of times greater than Jupiter's; a million times more deadly.
Once, from afar, I had been the unwilling but horror-fascinated witness
of the fate of a ship gripped by Sol's terrific attraction. A dark
mote struggling futilely against the brazen magnet that beckoned ...
a moment's brief and hopeless essay to escape ... then a tiny, ochre
flame glinting wanly....
Such a vision must have been flashing, also, through the mind of Major
Gilchrist. For from his prostrate vantagepoint he loosed a howl of
sheer panic.
"Oh, no!" he screamed. "Oh, no! No! No! No!"
How long that monotonous denial would have continued there is no way
of guessing. But Cap Hanson, who despite all his faults has little
use for a fool and _no_ use for a coward, put an abrupt end to it.
Straining against the pressure that half-immobilized us, he lurched to
Gilchrist's side, bent and silenced the efficiency expert's wailing
with a sense-rousing slap across the cheek.
"Stop that, you damn fool!" he roared. "The audio's open! Do you want
to panic every man aboard this ship?" And as Gilchrist relapsed into
whimpering silence, he swiveled to me heavily. "Sparks, there's only
one chance. The velocity-intensifier. Tell Garrity--"
The velocity-intensifier, or V-I unit to give it its more common
name, was that device invented by Biggs which enables a spaceship to
increase its normal cruising speed to an incredible 186,000 mps--the
speed of light! I could see the Old Man's idea. Attain that velocity
and we might break free of Sol's hold. I said, "Aye, sir!" and was just
about to cry the necessary orders to the engine-room when:
"_No!_" The familiar voice of Lt. Lancelot Biggs rang through the
turret. "No, Sparks! Don't do that! It is sure death! As our speed
increases, so does our mass! We'll only accelerate our fall into the
Sun!"
* * * * *
I remembered, then, that every cabin was hooked into a round-robin
circuit, _via_ telaudio. So though it would have been humanly
impossible for Lancelot Biggs to come up to this turret now, he was as
truly with us as if he stood beside us. I cried back answer.
"But what _can_ we do, Mr. Biggs?"
And--most stunning surprise of all!--my words were echoed by the
groveling goon on the floor! Major Gilchrist, his voice cracked and
fearful, bleated, "What can we do? You must help me, Mr. Biggs! Save
me--"
[Illustration: Biggs was yelling into the speaker while Gilchrist
babbled in terror.]
Maybe I was mistaken, but I thought I could detect a ghost of a chuckle
in my gawky pal's voice. He said, "Major, according to Space Practice
Law No. 3, section _viii_, 'A space officer convicted of malfeasance,
or confined under suspicion thereof pending trial and conviction,
may not offer, suggest, or cause to be given any orders, commands or
directions which may affect his ship's course or trajectory--'"
"You're free, Mr. Biggs!" screamed Gilchrist. "Free to come and go as
you please! I was wrong! You're not under arrest any longer! But save
me! Save me--"
This time Biggs _did_ chuckle. I heard him do it. So did every man,
mouse and mess-boy aboard the _Saturn_. And--
"Very well, Major," he said. "Thank you! Todd, set the ship on the new
trajectory."
Todd said, "H-huh?"
Cap Hanson said, "W-what?"
And I croaked, "J-just ... like ... that ... Lance?"
Biggs' tone wobbled as if he were nodding his head.
"Sure. Just like that. Make the necessary stud adjustments, fire the
rockets designated in my alternative plot-chart, and shift trajectory.
That's all! And, oh, yes--you might send a couple of men outside,
Skipper, with disrupters. Have them clear the hull of that caked fuel
oil so it will be a little cooler in here.
"Honey--" He was talking to Diane now--"I'll meet you up there in a few
minutes. Wait for me!"
Major Gilchrist's eyes looked like two poached eggs. As the full
meaning of Biggs' words dawned upon him, he began roaring. But angrily.
And loudly.
"A trick! A dirty, low, mean, contemptible trick by a renegade officer!
Mr. Biggs! Mr. Biggs, sir, I am placing you under arrest again! Remain
in your quarters, sir, or--"
But Todd had already sprung to his task, I had given the orders to
Garrity's crew, and Cap Hanson handled this new threat. Again he
hunched over Gilchrist's struggling-to-rise form, and his voice was a
whiplash of scorn.
"I wouldn't, if I was you, Major!" he warned grimly. "You seem to've
forgot that a minute ago forty-odd men aboard the _Saturn_ heard you
beggin' Lance Biggs to save your scrawny hide. One more crack outa you
between now an' the day we hit Earth, an' this whole affair will be
reported to the Company, so help me Hannah!"
"And in case you think we can't _prove_ it," I assured him sweetly, "it
might interest you to know that I plugged in the audio-recorder five
minutes ago. We've got a nice little transcription of everything you've
said since you entered the turret. Would you like to hear _that_ played
at the trial?"
* * * * *
So that, boys and girls, was all. Except for a tiny conclave some time
later in Cap Hanson's quarters. Biggs was there, and Diane, and the
skipper, and of course yours truly. We were asking, and receiving, a
once-over-lightly on what to all of us save Lancelot Biggs was still a
deep, dark mystery. The Old Man said:
"So we really wasn't never in no danger at all, son? We never was going
to run afoul of the Sun?"
"Well, yes," said Biggs, "and no. We would not have fallen into the
Sun. But we _were_ in danger. Our trajectory, as plotted by Major
Gilchrist, within a few short hours would have carried us to a spot
where Sol's blazing heat might have crisped every soul aboard to a
cinder.
"It was necessary to convince Gilchrist of our peril before it was too
late to avert disaster. Heating the _Saturn_ artificially seemed the
best way to do this. I tried to make him think Sol was burning us up
yesterday, but he got wise to my little scheme for heating the ship
electrically."
"And you," I said, "got jugged. And he gathered all the electrical
equipment into his own paws. But, nevertheless, you did turn the
_Saturn_ into a stew-kettle. How?"
Biggs grinned amiably.
"Why, you ought to know, Sparks. You helped me."
"A mule," I admitted, "helps a man plow a field, but it don't know how
or why. Not that I'm a jackass, but--"
"It was very simple, really. You turned the release valve, allowing
the fuel oil to discharge from its tanks onto the outer hull. The hull
became coated with a thick layer of oil. Now, think hard! Oil in a
vacuum, heated by an outside source--"
I got it. I groaned. That's the trouble with Lance Biggs' logic. Once
you hear it explained, it always looks so easy!
I said, "A convection oven!"
"Why, yes! It's a heating principle invented by Dr. Abbot 'way back
in the Twentieth Century. A large, curved reflector--in this case the
hull of the _Saturn_--concentrates the Sun's rays on a layer of black
oil. A container, highly evacuated, retains all the heat thus formed,
raising the temperature of the 'oven' to almost any desired height."
Biggs grinned. "Our problem was not the heating of the ship. That was a
cinch. Our only hard job was convincing Gilchrist that we must change
our course before we got _too_ hot."
Cap Hanson nodded sagely.
"An' your 'space-oven' worked fine, son," he acknowledged. "But they's
still one thing I don't understand. The pressure. This ship's equipped
with artificial gravs an' all them things. But I distinctly _felt_ the
Sun's gravs grab hold of us. That's when I got the willies."
Biggs said modestly, "You can thank Sparks for that, too. He did it
when he jammed the condensation valves. Made the moisture-content
of the ship's atmosphere rise. The grav plates, being electrical by
nature, short-circuited. Thus we were all subjected to an extreme
'gravitational attraction' which was the direct result of a capacity
overload--but which under the odd circumstances every one naturally
attributed to the Sun's proximity." He smiled faintly. "You might say
it wasn't the heat--it was the humidity!"
* * * * *
Which sage--if time-worn--observation was the last comment our insanely
sensible First Officer would offer on the case of Major Gilchrist _vs._
The-Rest-of-Us. And since the efficiency expert withdrew into his shell
and stayed there for the rest of the trip, nothing more happened to
disturb the peace and tranquillity of ye goode shippe _Saturn_ that
voyage.
So Biggs is back! A slightly older, slightly wiser, definitely more
conventional Biggs, now that he's a married man with responsibilities.
And after all the messes his crack-pot ideas have got us into in the
past, I guess we all ought to be glad he _has_ settled down.
But--I don't know. Married or not, Biggs is Biggs. And wherever his
gangling frame intrudes itself, things have a way of happening. For
instance, next month the _Saturn_ is taking off for Uranus on a simple,
ordinary cargo trip. On the face of it, it looks like smooth sailing.
But Biggs is back on the bridge. And--
Well--anybody want to make any bets?
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RETURN OF LANCELOT BIGGS ***
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