The madness of Lancelot Biggs

There was more at stake than just a football game for Lancelot Biggs and the crew of the Saturn. So Biggs made a bargain; his rocket emblem in exchange for a new uranium condenser--and how it worked!

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Fantastic Adventures April 1940. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

We had barely cleared Lunar Three and I was taking final instructions from Joe Marlowe, the port Sparks, when my plates dulled out and there I was staring at a blank expanse of metal. So I said, "Merdejo!" which is Universal for a naughty word, and started looking for the trouble. I was on my hands and knees under the audio bank when Cap Hanson came into my control turret.

He said, "You lose somethin', Sparks?"

"Two minutes ago," I told him. "Take a look around. If you see something bright red and covered with hairy spikes, don't step on it. It's my temper."

The Skipper sighed. "If my troubles," he declaimed, "was as mild as your'n, I'd do cartwheels from here to Venus. Sparks, you got a copy of the Space Manual here, ain't you?"

I nodded toward my bookcase; he found the reg book and leafed through it carefully. Finally he shook his head.

"It ain't here," he gloomed. "Are you sure this is the latest edition?"

"Just what are you looking for?" I asked him.

"I was kinda thinkin'," he said hopefully, "there might be a paragraph givin' a space commander permission to boil his First Mate in oil, or cut him into small cubes an' feed him to the octopussies. But the waffle-fannies what wrote that book--"

I knew, then. It was the same old complaint. Our lanky and incredibly omniscient friend, Lancelot Biggs, whose genius for getting ye goode shippe Saturn out of tight spots was surpassed only by his ability to fester Cap Hanson's epidermis, was back in the soup.

I said, "But, sweet comets, Cap, what's he done now? He hasn't had time to do much. We've just pulled our Ampie[1] out of Earth's H-layer."

[Footnote 1: The strange, energy-devouring Venusian creature that serves as a protective shield for space ships going through a planetary Heaviside layer.--Ed.]

"Which," rasped the skipper, "took three hours. Or time enough for Mister Biggs to render hisself liable to homicide. I've tooken plenty from that long-legged scarecrow. I got carpeted for platinum-chasin' on his say-so.[2] I caressed pirates[3]--which, by the way, if you ever tell anybody, Sparks, I'll massacre you for--an' I--"

[Footnote 2: "FOB Venus", Fantastic Adventures, Nov., 1939.--Ed.]

[Footnote 3: "Lancelot Biggs Cooks a Pirate," Fantastic Adventures, Feb., 1939.--Ed.]

"You also," I reminded him, "got your stripes saved on two separate occasions. Not to mention your bank-roll and your life. Remember?"

"Nevertheless," said the skipper stiffly, "an' however, this time he's gone too far. He's been makin' eyes at my daughter."

"Your," I repeated slowly, "daughter!"

"You seen her. She come aboard at Long Island Port for the Venus trip." Here his space-gnarled, leathery face cracked into a grin that would have melted custard. "Pretty as a picture, don't you think? Some say she resembles me."

"Some people," I told him dazedly, "will say anything for a laugh." I was thinking about that girl. What a girl! Five and a half feet of cream and velvet, surmounted by hair the color of a Martian sunset. Eyes like blue haze over Venus, only alive with crinkly laughter. Sure, she resembled the skipper! They had the same number of arms and legs; they each had one nose and two eyes and two ears--but there the similarity ended. Their difference was that between a lumbering old space freighter like the Saturn and a modern, streamlined man-o'-war. And I do mean streamlined!

The skipper said sourly, "Well, get the blank look off your pan, Sparks. An' take down a special message from me to Mr. Romeo Biggs, on account of if I try to tell him myself I'll forget my dignity an' tear him into asteroids. Tell him that the next time I catch him tossin' goo-goo eyes at Diane, I'll give him a one-way ticket through the air-lock. That's all!"

And he left the turret, snorting. I stared after him dreamily. I found myself doing something I haven't done since I was a kid, counting off my name with that of Diane Hanson. "Friendship, courtship, love, hate, marriage--"

It came out "friendship." I told you I had my troubles....