The ordeal of Lancelot Biggs

He's about as tall as an old-fashioned hatrack, and built along the same general lines. He's got more bumps and knobs on his gangling frame than a hyperthyroid cucumber. Of these assorted protuberances, the most prominent is an Adam's-apple which bulges from his throat like a half-swallowed egg, and jiggles up and down when he's excited like a jitter-bug on an innerspring mattress.

He was excited now, and said voice-box was cavorting horribly from N to S and return in non-stop flight.

"I can't go now!" he repeated starkly. "Not now, of all times, Dad--"

Hanson shook his head regretfully.

"It ain't a case of can or can't, Lancelot. It's a case of got to. There's trouble on Themis again."

I said, "Themis--again! You mean another ship--?"

"That's right," nodded the skipper. "Attacked and smashed to smithereens. Not a man left alive. Yes."

"But that's impossible!" I cried. "Only last month the S.S.P. announced that a peace pact had been signed with the Thagwar of Themis. The natives of that satellite agreed to join the Solar Union--"

"Them Themisites," growled the Old Man, "keep their pledges about as good as them Japanese you read about in the hist'ry books. The little yellow squirts the United Nations had to wipe out a couple hundred years ago. This makes the sixth time the Thagwar has signed a peace pact. And it's the sixth time he's broke it. So--"

"So," I said, "we're elected, eh?"

"That's the ticket."

Lanse Biggs' jaw tightened. He said stiffly, "I'm afraid this is one time I shall not be able to obey orders, sir. I--I can't go with you!"

My heart did a flipflop. I understood, and heartily sympathized with Biggs. He wanted to be on Earth right now. Because--well, like a professional grape-farmer, he had raisins of his own.

But I knew what his outright refusal meant. The IPC is a hardboiled corporation. When it issues an order, it expects obedience--or else. If Lanse refused to make this expedition, he would not only lose his rating and his chance to go up for Master's papers--an examination he was planning to take in the very near future--he might also lose his job!

Furthermore--and if this sounds selfish, pardon my sullen accent!--I hated to think of making a truly dangerous trip without Lieutenant Biggs on the bridge. That brilliant wingding has pulled so many bunnies out of the derby, saving our individual and collective necks with such monotonous regularity, that we'd be utterly lost without his assistance.

But I said nothing. After all, this was a question Biggs must decide for himself.

As it turned out, though, it was not I, nor the Old Man, nor Lancelot, who solved the problem. It was Mrs. Biggs. In a calm, decisive voice she said, "But, Lanse, dear--such commotion! Of course you will go!"

"What!" blurted Lanse. "And leave you? Never!"

"Stuff," sniffed Diane, "and nonsense! Stop talking like a cheap play. What earthly good are you doing here? Not a bit! But out there, men have died ... betrayed by a race of scoundrels. Brave men. Spacemen like yourself. Your duty is plain. You must go. You have no choice."

"B-but--" protested Lanse.

"But," interrupted Diane, "nothing! Now, I'm tired. You boys run along and clean up this little job. I'll be here at home, waiting for you."

Biggs asked apprehensively, "And--and you'll be all right while we're gone? You're sure--"

"Certainly I'll be all right," declared Diane. "Now, lift gravs, sailors! And--good luck!"

So we went. It was one hell of a job collecting the Saturn's crew. Some of them were miles away, several of them were--well, let's be charitable and say, "unshipshape"--and all of them were madder than an alizarin dye at having their leaves cancelled.

But none of them were foolhardy enough to refuse the order. So, to make a long story less so, several hours later the Saturn roared from its mooring cradle, all jets blasting. And we were off to Themis.