Part 1

The Madness of Lancelot Biggs

By NELSON S. BOND

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.]

[Illustration: With a sigh, Biggs went to work on the radio while the captain glared.]

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....

* * * * *

After a while came a sound like a three-legged pelican doing the Martian fling in a cornpatch, and Lancelot Biggs ambled into my turret, eyes aglow, his unbelievable Adam's-apple bobbing up and down like a photon in a cyclotron. I could tell he was busting with the desire to spill his overflowing heart to me, but he said, "Trouble, Sparks?"

See? That's why you just couldn't help liking the guy. Soon as he saw me fiddling around the audio bank he was ready to help. It's hard to figure a jasper like Biggs. I sometimes thought he was the dumbest mortal who ever hopped gravs, but just about the time I'd be ready to delegate him to the Booby-hatch Convention he'd come through with a spark of brilliance that would make Sol look like an infra-red ray.

I told him glumly, "I wish the nearest I'd ever come to radio was playin' that kid's game with beans. This time the audio's gone haywire and I can't even find out what the hell ails it."

He came over beside me and looked. He jiggled a few wires, snapped switches and succeeded in bunting the button of the feed line cable. At last he said, "The trouble's in the plate, isn't it, Sparks?"

"Looks as if. It's gone cold and I can't raise a signal out of it."

"These plates you use," he frowned, "are made of a seleno-aluminum alloy, aren't they?"

"Right," I told him, "as rain. However right that is. And they're as dependable as a spacecomber's promises. Always going on the blink just when you need 'em most."

"That's what I thought." Biggs shifted his gawky length from one foot to the other, a sign of deep cogitation I'd seen before. Then, suddenly, "Listen, Sparks," he blurted, "I've been thinking over that problem--"

I rose hastily.

"Look, Mr. Biggs, if you've been thinking, this is where I get off. Don't tell me or I'll catch the contagion. I'm just a hard-working bug pounder--"

"--and I think I know a way," he continued eagerly, "to put an end to space radio transmission difficulties. They're using the wrong metal in the audio plates, _that's_ the trouble! The seleno-aluminum alloy was all right for radio in the early days of television, but space-flight demands a sturdier, and at the same time more sensitive receptor."

"Like," I demanded, "what? Comet-tails, maybe?"

"Uranium," explained Biggs simply. "As I told you, I've been experimenting. And I've discovered that uranium, no longer as rare and expensive as it was when audio plates were first invented, is the ideal plate."

"It's been nice," I said sarcastically, "seeing you, Mr. Biggs. Any schoolchild knows that mobile electrons account for the electrical conducting ability of metals. And as the number of electrons per atom increases, metallic properties decrease; the metals become harder, more brittle, less ductile and poorer conductors. Uranium, my friend, would be what we Universal-hurlers call, in our simple patois, a first class 'stinkeroo'."

Biggs flushed faintly, and his liquescent larynx leaped in a lopsided lurch. There was a hurt look in his eyes.

"Would you be convinced if I showed you?"

"St. Louis," I said.

"I--I beg your pardon?"

"I'm from there. It's in the State of Missouri." But I gave my slumbrous receiving set a glance of despair. "Still--this thing's not working. If you'd like to try out your new floppola--"

"I've got it in my quarters," he said delightedly. "I'll go get it right away!" And he started toward the door.

I remembered, then, that I had a message for him.

"Wait a minute," I said, "I just remembered. Our beloved skipper left you a billet-doux. He told me to tell you to ipskay the assespay at the aughterday."

Biggs frowned. "Latin?" he hazarded.

"Pig-Latin," I told him, "and horse-sense. Hanson says you've been wearing it on the sleeve for his gal, Diane. And if he sees it pounding in the open once more, he's going to chop it into mincemeat."

Biggs' face looked like a national holiday on the calendar. He strangled gently.

"But--but I like the girl, Sparks. And I believe she likes me."

"She'll revere your memory," I told him frankly, "if you don't obey the Old Man's orders. When he issued his manifesto he had granite in his jaw and mayhem in his eyes. You'd better do as he says."

"But it's not fair!" protested Biggs. "After all, I'm an officer and a--"

"And a gentleman," I finished wearily, "by courtesy of the U.S.S.A. Yeah, I know. But in my estimation, that's just strike two against you. The skipper doesn't have a lot of use for you graduate Wranglers, you know. He graduated from the N.R.I. before there was such a thing as an Academy."

* * * * *

Perhaps, for the sake of you Earth-lubbers who are tuned in I should explain this. The rivalry between Earth's two great schools of astronavigation is something paralleled only by that which existed, centuries ago, between the United States' two military schools, the U.S.M.A. and the U.S.N.A.

The National Rocket Institute is the older college for spacemen. Originally designed for merchant marine training, it became a natural "friendly foe" of the United States Spaceways Academy when that institution was founded fourteen years later.

Today there is a constant companionable rivalry between graduates of the two schools; one subordinate, of course, to the routine of daily work, but that flares into definite feeling when, each Earth autumn, the current football teams of the academies meet in their traditional grid battle.

They tell me that in the old days soldiers and sailors the world around used to gather about their short-wave radios to hear the broadcast of the Army-Navy game. Well, it's that way--only worse--nowadays in space. Graduates of the N.R.I. ("Rocketeers," we call 'em) listen, cheek-to-jowl, with "Wranglers" from the Spaceways Academy. There's a lot of groaning and a lot of cheering and a lot of drinking and sometimes there's a sizable chunk of fisticuffing. It usually ends up with the representatives of the winning team standing treat, and the grads of the losing academy vowing they'll win "Next year!"

Take our ship, for instance. The _Saturn_. I won my brevet at the Academy; so did Dick Todd, the second-in-command, and Lancelot Biggs graduated just last year. Chief Engineer Garrity, on the other hand, took his sheepskin from the Rocketeers' school, and so did Cap Hanson.

Which made another important reason why I should do something--and do it mighty fast--to get the _Saturn's_ radio clicking again. Because the annual Rocketeer-Wrangler grid fracas was to be broadcast just two days from now, and my scalp wouldn't be worth the price of a secondhand toupee if the old grads from both schools couldn't hear the game.

Biggs spluttered like my condenser would if my audio had been working, which it wasn't--if you know what I mean.

"I'm not one to complain, Sparks. But when Hanson tries to come between Diane and me--"

I said, "So! Mister Biggs, accept my apology. I underrated you. It's reached the 'Diane' stage already, has it?"

"It--it--" Biggs stammered into silence. Then he said, almost meekly, "Sparks--can you keep a secret?"

"I'm a mousetrap," I told him.

"Then I'll tell you--this isn't the first time Diane and I have met. We--we knew each other before I came aboard the _Saturn_. As a matter of fact, I asked for this berth in order that I might gain her father's favor; so we could get married."

That explained a lot of things. I had often wondered why Lancelot Biggs, whose uncle, Prendergast Biggs, was a Vice-president of the Corporation, should have chosen to serve out his junior officership on a wallowing, old-fashioned Earth-to-Venus freighter like the _Saturn_. Now it all became clear and I began to feel like the adviser of a lovelorn column in a daily newspaper.

I said, "So to put it poetically, Biggs, you're a little bit off the gravs for the gal, hey?"

"Little bit?" he said miserably. "Sparks, you'll never know."

"That's what you think," I told him, remembering how it came out "friendship."

"What?" Then he forgot his curiosity in a burst of--for him--uncommon petulance. "But I'll not take this lying down, Sparks. I'll show the skipper I have a right to love his daughter. I don't care if he _is_ a graduate of the N.R.I., I'll show the leather-pussed old space cow--"

"Are you by any chance," roared a voice, "referrin' to _me_, Mister Biggs!"

We both started. The Skipper was standing in the doorway!

* * * * *

I said, "Pardon me, folks! I've got to see a guy about a shroud!" and tried to slide past Cap Hanson to the safety of the deck, but the Old Man roared me down with a blast.

"Come back here, Sparks! I want you as witness!" He turned to Biggs, whose face looked like a prism revolving in sunlight. "So! So I'm a leather-pussed old space cow, _Mister_ Biggs?"

Biggs stammered, "I--I--"

"_What!_" Hanson's bellow raised a dozen decibels. "You impertinent young jackanapes! Did you hear him, Sparks? He said, 'Aye, aye!' Well, I'll show _you_--"

He extended a horny palm. "Your rocket, sir!"

Lancelot Biggs' lips quivered. He reached up and mechanically unpinned from its place over his left breast the tiny, shining gold rocket replica which is the brevet of a space lieutenant. Hanson snatched it. In a decisive voice he said, "I'm markin' you down, Biggs, for insubordination, for slander of a senior officer, conduct unbecomin' an officer, intent to malign an' injure, an'--Well, that's all for now. Maybe I'll think of a few more things later on.

"To your quarters, Mister Biggs. An' consider yourself under arrest until further notice."

Biggs saluted; turned on his heel and marched from the room. And it struck me, suddenly, that for once there was nothing amusing, nothing humorous, in the youngster's gangling walk. Oh, he stalked, yes. And I've often kidded him about how much like a crab on stilts he looks. But now I felt sort of choky when I saw the pathetic dignity in the set of his shoulders, the proud way he strode away without a backward glance.

I guess I lifted my own gravs for a minute. My voice sounded harsh in my own ears when I snarled at Hanson, "Well, you certainly threw the book at him that time!"

But to my surprise, Cap Hanson was grinning. He looked like an Ampie in a power plant. And he said, placatingly, "Oh, come now, Sparks! You don't think I'm such an ogre as all that, do you?"

"You busted him," I accused. "You lifted his rocket and put him under arrest. When the Corporation learns about it, they'll--"

"The Corporation," said the skipper, "isn't goin' to hear about it. I'm not even goin' to put this on the log. This is between you an' me and Lancelot Biggs, Sparks. Don't you see? I had to do somethin' to separate him an' Diane."

I did see. And I realized how completely I was caught in the middle by my friendship with two guys, each of whom believed in his own ideals, each of whom thought he was doing the right thing. I said slowly, "I get it, Cap. But are you sure you're doing the right thing? After all, maybe Biggs and your daughter really like each other."

Cap Hanson said seriously, "That's just what I'm afraid of, Sparks. Put yourself in my place. How would _you_ like to have a grandson what looked like Lancelot Biggs?"

I don't know. Maybe he had something there.

* * * * *

Well, to make a short story longer, that happened the first day out of Long Island Spaceport. Tempus, as the old Romans liked to remark, fidgetted. I spent the working hours of the next two days trying to get that confounded instrument of mine operating; I spent my off hours shuttling back and forth between the bridge and the brig.

I had the pleasure--and, boy! you'd better know I mean it--of meeting Diane Hanson. She was a rag, a bone of contention and a hank of hair, but if she'd snapped her fingers I would have jumped out the spacelock and brought her back a handful of galaxies. She had a voice that made me feel like my backbone was charging .30 amps, and when my eyes met hers my knees went all wobbly.

But her heart belonged to the baddy in the hoosegow. And she didn't care who knew it--except the Old Man. She asked me, "He's all right, Sparks, he's comfortable?"

"He's comfortable enough," I told her. "But he's as restless as a squirrel in a petrified forest. He's been pacing his room so much that he's not only got corns, but he's got corns on his corns."

She said wistfully, "If Dad would only be reasonable. Sparks, do you think that if I went to him and told him everything--?"

I shuddered.

"Don't mention it! Don't even think of it! Your old ma--I mean your father might read your thoughts." I forced a grin named Santa Claus, because I didn't believe in it myself. "Cheer up, Diane. Lancelot will find a way out of this trouble."

"He will?" she said hopefully. "You think he will, Sparks?"

"He always does," I told her. I squared myself with Kid Conscience by muttering under my breath, "Always--except this time."

* * * * *

So finally here we were, a baker's dozen of us, in the radio turret on the fateful day. Twelve of us were scowling, and me--I was number thirteen--I was sweating like an ice-box in the Sahara. Because it was the day, and darn near the hour, of the Big Game back on Earth--and my radio _still_ was as talkative as a deaf-mute in a vacuum.

Todd was there, and Chief Garrity, and Wilson, the third officer, and Billings and--oh, shucks!--every one of us who had studied at either of the two academies. And Cap Hanson was there. He was very much there. He was howling ghastly threats in my ears, the mildest of which was that if I didn't have the radio repaired within the next minute, or maybe less, he'd personally tattoo the word "Scoundrel" on my forehead with a riveting machine.

I squawked, "Good golly, I'm doing the best I can! Don't you think I want to hear this game as much as you do? Maybe more. Because the Wranglers are going to beat the bejeepers out of you Rocketeers today, anyhow."

Cap raged, "What's that?" but it took some of the blast out of his tubes, because he knew it was true. The Spaceways Academy team was strongly favored over the eleven from the N.R.I., having so far run through an undefeated season while the Rocketeers had lost to Army and Notre Dame and been tied by Yale. "What's that? Why, last year--"

"That," Lieutenant Dick Todd taunted him, grinning, "was last year, Skipper. You beat us then, yes. But this year the shoe's on the other foot."

"Well, anyhow," howled the Old Man, "my shoe's goin' to be you-know-where, Sparks, if you don't get that damn radio talkin'."

I stood up and stripped off my rubber gloves. I said, "I've done everything I know how. I've had the thing apart twice and put it together again. It won't work--and for one simple reason. The seleno-aluminum plate is shot."

Chief Garrity said, "Then get ye a new one, lad."

"Right. As soon," I told him, "as we cradle into Sun City spaceport."

The skipper looked like he'd bitten into an apple and found a worm. "You mean we're not going to hear the game?"

"That's exactly what I--" Then I paused. "Wait a minute! There's a faint possibility we might. If his invention really works. He has a spare plate in his quarters, but he'll have to install it. I don't know how."

"He?" yelled the Old Man. "Who? The man in the moon?"

"The man in the doghouse," I corrected. "Biggs."

"Biggs!" The skipper's look changed. Now he looked like a man who'd bitten into an apple and found _half_ a worm. But he turned to Dick Todd. "Go get him, Mister Todd," he ordered.

Todd left. We all watched the clock. Todd returned, bringing with him L. Biggs, ex-exile. The skipper glared daggers at his First Mate.

"I hear you've an invention, Mister Biggs," he said caustically. "I distrust it. It may turn out like some of your other brain-children. But this is no time to be choosey. Attach it. And be kind enough to look at the radio controls instead of my daughter!"

Lancelot Biggs stood very, very still.

"Well," roared the Old Man, "get going!"

Lancelot Biggs smiled; a faint, thin smile.

"For," he said, "a price, Captain."

"A price!" Hanson's voice lifted the roof an inch. "Lieutenant, you're not tryin' to dicker with me?"

"Not trying," corrected Biggs, "I'm dickering. For a price, I'll attach my new plate unit to the radio. Further, I will absolutely guarantee its operation."

"You--you insolent young pup!" raved the skipper. "Todd, Wilson--put him in irons! No, stand still you damn fools! Let him alone! What's your price, Biggs? You can't have her!"

"Her?" said Biggs innocently. "I don't know what you're talking about, Captain. My price is--my rocket!"

Cap Hanson looked at the faces of the waiting graduates around him. He knew when he was stalemated. He said, "Well--" and reached into his pocket.

Biggs pinned the tiny golden emblem where it belonged and I never saw a man look more proud. Then he said quietly, "Very well, gentlemen. Now, Sparks, if you'll lend me a hand here...."

* * * * *

The uranium plate worked. Two minutes later, as I tied in the positive cable, dancing light began to play over the tubes, the galvanometer skipped gaily, and current began to hum once again. I yelled, "Biggs, you're terrific!" and reached for the vernier. But Biggs' hand stayed mine.

"Not there, Sparks! Higher. The ultra-short wave, I believe. About one over fifty thousand on the Ang vernier."

Cap Hanson rasped, "Sparks knows how to operate a radio, Mister Biggs, without your help!"

"Not _this_ radio," shrugged the lanky lieutenant. "This plate is considerably different from the old type. Considerably different!"

I thought I detected a faint note of amusement in his voice, but the thought vanished as swiftly as it came--for at that instant my fingers found the proper spot. There was a moment of whining super-het; then--

"--a great day and a great crowd, folks!" came an excited voice. "And here comes the next play. The Wranglers have the ball on their own eighteen yard line, second and ten to go--"

"That's it!" roared Cap Hanson exuberantly. "By golly, that's it! Biggs, maybe you're not the dope I think you are!"

But the shocks weren't over yet. You remember I told you the Wranglers were strongly favored to take the Rocketeers down the ramps? Well--this was evidently just another example that in a traditional battle anything can happen--and usually does!