F.O.B. Venus

Lancelot Biggs was perhaps the worst second mate Captain Hanson had ever shipped, and he was convinced of it when he ruined their cargo. But how dumb a man is, may sometimes be a matter of opinion.

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Adventures November 1939. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Something had gone a little haywire with my bug, and I had just repaired it and was CQ-ing on the 20 band when the door opened and Captain Hanson walked in.

Naturally, I was surprised. We were only four hours out of the Venus H-layer, and I hadn't expected any visitors; least of all the skipper. But he plunked himself down in the best chair and said, "Sparks, look at me! What do you see?"

That gave me a jolt. Even the best of them make the old dipsy-doo once in a while, but I never thought I'd live to see the day when Captain Hanson went space nutty. He'd been with the Corporation, man and boy, for more than thirty years now, and had never spent a day in dry-dock. I reached behind me cautiously and said in as soothing a voice as I could muster, "Why, I see a very nice man, Captain. Now, just you sit quiet for a minute. I've got to--"

"Stop bein' a damned fool, Sparks!" said the skipper wearily, "An' put down that monkey-wrench! I'm not slippin' my gravs--yet. I'm just askin' you a simple question. What do you see?"

I said, "Is it facts you're after, Cap, or am I allowed poetic license? If it's facts, I see a swell, slightly gray-haired guy in his middle fifties who's been through the mill, knows space like a book, and--"

"Wrong!" said Hanson. "Sparks, all radiomen are dumb. I guess that's why they're radiomen. What you see before you is a broken man. A man sadly buffeted by Fate and the dread clutch of circumstances. Not to mention meddlesome vice-presidents."

This time I got it.

"Biggs?" I said.

"Yes, Sparks. Biggs. Now tell me, man to man, what did I ever do to deserve Biggs?"

He had me there. Being the skipper of the Saturn is not what I'd call an easy job under the best of conditions. The Saturn is the oldest space-lugger still doing active duty on Corporation runs. She was built 'way back there before the turn of the century. For the past ten or twelve years, she had been on freight service, having been judged unfit for passenger duty by the SSCB--Space Safety Control Board.

To make matters worse, while we were taking on cargo at Sun City spaceport, the skipper had been called into the company offices. When he came out again, he had this Biggs in tow.

Biggs was tall. Biggs was lanky and gangly and all the other adjectives you can think of that mean a guy's Adam's-apple sticks out. He was overflowing at the mouth with a great big grin, and he was as dumb as they make 'em. He had his Third Mate's papers, and was entitled to be known as "Mister" Biggs--the "Mister" being a nice camouflage for his real name, Lancelot.

But--Biggs was the nephew of crusty old Prendergast Biggs, first vice-president of the Corporation. So there was nothing the skipper could do but gulp and say, "Very good!" when they assigned Biggs to the Saturn.

There was nothing to prevent him from hoping Biggs would stumble over his suitcases and bust his scrawny neck--but Biggs didn't do it. He was awkward enough to stumble, but lucky enough to fall on a cushion if he did!

I said gently, "What's he up to now, Captain?"

"What isn't he up to?" groaned the skipper. "First, he said he could handle the gravs when we broke out of Venus' clutch. So--"

"Oh!" I said, "_He_ did that, did he?"

"Stop rubbin' your head an' feelin' sorry for yourself," said Hanson. "You got off lucky. Chief Garrity is nursin' two black eyes. One of the wipers has a busted arm. Everybody on the ship went floatin' off to the ceiling, same as you did."

"Anything else?" I asked.

"_Everything_ else!" snorted Hanson. "While we were all scramblin' around in midair, Biggs made a grab for the hand-controls. He got the manual deflector by mistake. Todd has just finished shapin' the course revision. We're point-oh-seven degrees off course now; almost three hundred thousand miles! We've got to up revs and waste fuel to get back, or we'll report in to Earth a day late. And you know what that means!"

Sure, I knew what that meant. Cap on the carpet before the Board; the rest of us sitting around chewing our fingernails, wondering whether they'd yank the Saturn off the Venus run.

"Well, what are you going to do about him?" I asked.

"What can I do?"

"There's always the airlock," I suggested. "Nobody would ever blame you."

"This ain't no time to be funny, Sparks!" complained the skipper. "This is a serious problem. We've got a valuable cargo of _mekel_-root and _clab_-beans to take into New York. But if that guy messes up our flight any more--"

He shook his head dolefully. I scratched mine. Then I got a brilliant idea.

"Cargo!" I said. "There's your answer, Captain!"

"I'm listenin'," said Hanson.

"Put Biggs in charge of the cargo. That way he'll be down in the hold throughout the trip. He won't be up in the control turret to bother you. And there's nothing he can do down there that'll hurt anybody."

"But that's the supercargo's job," frowned the skipper. "Biggs knows that."

"Sure. But Harkness will play along with you. Tell him to let on he's sick. Give him a vacation for this trip. He deserves it, anyway. Then it's logical enough to put Biggs on special duty below."

The skipper grinned.

"Sparks, I take it back what I said about radiomen. I think you got somethin' there!"

"Then you'll do it?"

"Immediately," said Hanson, rising, "if not sooner!"