Part 2

We had had the radio on barely five minutes when the Rocketeers blocked a Wrangler kick, fell on it, and took possession on the Wrangler nine yard line. In two power plays the eleven from Cap Hanson's academy had plunged over for a touchdown. One minute later they made the conversion and the score was 7-0 for the supposed underdogs.

The faces around that room were a sight! Hanson and Garrity looked like Venusian bunny-men in a carrot patch; those of us who acknowledged the Academy as our Alma Mammy would have soured milk with our smiles. The expression on Lancelot Biggs' face defied description. He looked faintly startled, faintly pleased, like a man shouting echoes against a mountainside.

Cap Hanson groped in his hip pocket; brought forth a wad of hoarded Earth and Venus credits.

"Well, you broken-down Wranglers--any of you like to lay a few creds on your team making a come-back?"

He got plenty of takers. After all, one touchdown isn't a football game, and the Wranglers _were_ favored to win. I shelled out to the extent of thirty credits, Todd staked a few. Chief Garrity unbuttoned his ancient wallet, shooed away the moths, and risked some of his own credits after demanding three to one odds.

And the game went on.

The first quarter ended, amazingly, with Rocketeers still leading by that score of 7-0. In the second quarter, Cap Hanson, overflowing with the milk of human I-told-you-so, turned to Lancelot Biggs, crowed tauntingly,

"Well, Mister Biggs, I take notice you're careful not to lay any bets on that team of your'n?"

Biggs, whose eyes had been fastened hungrily on a girl in that room--guess which one!--gulped, and his neck-elevator bobbled. He said, almost embarrassedly,

"I--I don't know whether I should, Captain--"

Hanson snorted. "Just what I might have expected of a Wrangler. Well--"

Then Chief Garrity shushed him suddenly. "Quiet, skipper! Something's going on!"

Something was, indeed. The radio announcer was in a dither. "--and it looks bad for the Wranglers, friends! The Rocketeers' quick kick has them on the one yard line ... now they're lining up to kick out of trouble.... Wait a minute! Here comes a substitute from the Wrangler bench. It's--we don't have time to get you his name, folks, but it's number 36. He's going in at quarterback for O'Doule--"

Hanson gibed, "Well, Biggs?"

The announcer continued, "Number 36 in at quarterback, folks. Now he's calling signals. There's the snapback. The new man is going to kick.... No, he's going to pass.... No, he's going to run.... No--he's fumbled!

"There's a pile-up behind the goalposts! They're unscrambling the players. And--it's a touchdown for the Rocketeers, folks! The score is 13-0!"

Hanson let loose a great roar of delight. "There! I knew it! Good thing you didn't bet, Biggs!"

And then, astonishingly, Lancelot Biggs spoke up. "How much would you like to wager, Captain?"

"How--much?" Hanson looked stunned. "Every cred in my poke, Lieutenant. Two hundred and fifty."

"I'll take that bet," said Biggs.

* * * * *

I sidled to his elbow and gave him a swift poke in the ribs. I hissed, "Don't be a sap, Biggs! Make him give you odds if you _must_ bet--"

But I spoke too late. The bet had already been placed in the hands of a neutral party, steward Doug Enderby. And now, a new tenseness in all of us, we listened to the remainder of the broadcast.

In the third quarter, Dick Todd got out the crying towel. "Gosh, Sparks," he mourned to me, "what's the matter with our boys? This is a slaughter. The same as last year."

Because by that time the Rocketeers had scored once again; this time on a smooth sixty yard forward. Garrity and Hanson were literally swooning with joy, by this time offering fantastic odds to any Wrangler who would bet. But we had all pulled in our horns. All, that is, but one man--First Mate Lancelot Biggs.

In a moment of lull, he turned to the skipper.

"Skipper," he said, "I have no more creds, but I'd like to wager for another stake."

Hanson chuckled. "Your shirt won't fit me, Biggs."

"I'll bet you," said Biggs thoughtfully, "my space claim against the privilege of the next three landings that the Wranglers beat the Rocketeers this year."

We all gasped. They were _real_ stakes. Every space officer is granted, by the IPS, a space claim consisting of property rights in all unexplored areas of a given arc. He may either explore in this sector himself after he has served his trick, or he may delegate the exploration to professional space-hounds. In either case, a substantial percentage of all ores, precious stones and miscellany found in his allotted sector belong to him. Many a space officer has found himself fabulously rich overnight when his sector turned up with rock diamond detritus or granules of meteoric ore.

On the other hand, Biggs was asking a great privilege. Before a space officer can become a commander, he must have made five personal cradle landings on any planet. Skippers were chary of granting permission on these, often making junior officers wait years to earn their Master's ticket.

But it looked like Biggs was again sticking his neck out. I tried to stop him. I said, "Don't, Biggs! This game is in the bag for the Rocketeers. Don't be so rash!"

But only half the words had garbled through my larynx when Cap Hanson yelped exuberantly, "_Done!_ Gentlemen, I call upon you to witness that wager!" And he rubbed his paws together like a raccoon eyeing a bowl of honey.

* * * * *

Twenty to nothing! That was the score then, and it was the score fifteen minutes later when, with but seven more minutes remaining in the annual fracas, Lancelot Biggs went stark, staring mad.

Now, Cap Hanson contributed to that madness. I must admit that his glee annoyed me. I can stand taking a licking as well as the next man, but I hate like hell to have someone rub it in. And that's what the skipper was doing. As the minutes ticked by, and the Rocketeers' margin became momentarily more insurmountable, he first taunted us Wranglers, then insulted us by offering ridiculous odds against our winning, and finally accused us all of lacking sportsmanship.

Biggs, standing carefully aloof from Diane in order not to rouse the skipper's latent wrath, had a strange pallor on his cheeks. Not so strange, maybe. It's hard to stand by and watch everything you possess slipping down the skids.

Cap didn't make things any easier for him. Every so often the Old Man would bend over, slap his thighs, and howl, "Anything more you'd like to bet, Mister Biggs? Whoops! I'm a space-bitten son of Jupiter if this ain't the most fun I ever had!"

And then Lancelot Biggs jolted out of his curious stupor. He said, "Yes, Captain--I _do_ have something else to bet!"

Even Hanson was staggered by that one. "Huh?" was his snappiest come-back.

"If--" There was a dreamy look in Biggs' eyes. "If you'd be kind enough to step into the corridor with me. You and Sparks, please?"

Good old Sparks; witness extraordinary. But don't think it gave me any pleasure to witness this example of sheer madness. As we moved through the doorway, away from the wondering crowd, I pleaded with Biggs, "Biggs, for gosh sakes--haven't you lost enough already? Don't make another bet!"

But the glance he turned to me was mildly puzzled. And he whispered swiftly, "It's all right, Sparks. I know what I'm doing--"

Then, outside, to the skipper,

"Captain Hanson, I have only one more thing of potential value left in the world. The patent rights to my new invention, the practicability of which you have witnessed all afternoon, the uranium audio plate. This will be my share of the wager."

Hanson said suspiciously, "I don't know--" To me, "Sparks, is it worth anything?"

I nodded sombrely.

"In my estimation," I told him, "it's worth at least a quarter million credits. It's the first plate I've ever seen that really works. Didn't you notice we're not even picking up static?"

The Old Man nodded. "Very well. And my stake--?"

Biggs said boldly, "Permission to continue seeing your daughter. And--if she'll have me--to marry her!"

Something popped, and for a minute I thought it was the Old Man's fuses, but it was only the top of his head rising two feet.

"_What!_ I thought you understood--" Then a crafty grin touched his lips. "Just a minute," he said cannily, "I presume that you imply by this that if you lose, you'll never try to see Diane again?"

I wanted to shout "No!" so bad I could taste it. But I was just the party of the third part. Biggs' reply was just the opposite.

"Yes!" he said.

I groaned. Love's young dream--twenty points away!

* * * * *

Let's get the agony over with. We returned to a control room full of madmen. For in our absence the Rocketeers had intercepted a desperate Wrangler pass, and the score was now 26-0. Just one point different from that licking they had given the U.S.S.A. boys last year. And as we listened glumly they kicked the extra point.

And that was about all. For three plays after the next kickoff a gun boomed, the crowd screamed, and the announcer howled, "--and there's the end of the game, folks! The Rocketeers win a great ball game, 27-0. You have been listening to this program through the courtesy of Hornswimble's Robot Corporation, makers of the world-famous 'Silent Servants.' Why be lonely? A Robot in the home is a constant companion--"

Chief Garrity squealed his tight-fisted glee. His palm waved simultaneously beneath the noses of three sorrowful Wranglers--including me. "Pay up!" he demanded. "Pay up, ye benighted rascals--!"

And Cap Hanson was one big grin on legs. He said to Biggs triumphantly, "Well, Biggs, I hope you've learned a lesson today! Two hundred and fifty credits, if you please. I'm minded to be kind with you. I'll not accept your space claim, my lad. But that third bet--" He beamed on Diane. "_That_ one I'll hold you to! And now--"

Biggs moved. To the radio bank. As he moved, he spoke.

"Yes. And now," he said, "I think you should all hear _this_--"

He twisted the dial. There was a moment of howling; then came a voice, clear, crisp, enthusiastic, "--four minutes of playing time remaining, folks, and the Rocketeers have the ball. But it won't do them any good. Even if they _do_ score the result will be the same. They can't overcome that tremendous Wrangler lead, 33-6--"

* * * * *

Thunder and lightning; madness and confusion! The control room became as noisy as a well-populated tomb, and out of the terrible silence came the faint, thin voice of the skipper demanding, "What--what does this mean?"

Biggs boomed pleasantly, "It means, Captain, that you've lost your bets. You'll remember that all our wagers were based on the result of _this_ year's game--which you are now listening to.

"It is unfortunate that human memories are so brief. Otherwise some of you gentlemen might have recognized the astonishing similarity of the broadcast we've just listened to with that of last year's game! Which it was!"

Cap Hanson groaned, "Last year's game! But that's impossible! You couldn't--"

"_I_ couldn't," agreed Biggs pleasantly, "but my new invention could. You see, I discovered in the course of my experiments that uranium has some definite peculiarities. It, being highly radioactive itself, has the strange property of being able to delay, almost indefinitely, the passage of electrical impulses traveling through it.

"Thus, under certain circumstances--in this case, Sparks, the fact that it was activated in the ultra-short wave field--it can be used as a 'time-speech-trap' to recapture sound waves released into the ether long ago.

"When Earth's scientists have further investigated this phenomenon I predict some amazing results. Possibly in the near future we may be able to 'listen' once again to the voices of our ancestors 'way back in the Elizabethan Age, the Machine Age, or the American Business Age. But meanwhile--" He grinned amiably. "Meanwhile, you have just heard a broadcast of last year's Rocketeer-Wrangler football game. _This_ year's is just concluding!"

And so it was. With the Wranglers out in front by a score of 33-6. The outraged screams of Chief Engineer Garrity will haunt me all my days....

Afterward there were just four of us in the turret. Biggs, Diane, the skipper and me. The Old Man had the look of a St. Bernard who has lost his brandy cask. He said, "But, confound you, Biggs, you're not goin' to hold me to them bets, are you? When you knew all the time--"

Biggs grinned.

"You were magnanimous with me, Skipper. I'll be the same with you. Keep your money. And I'll settle for two landings. But the third bet--well, you know the old saying."

"I know," mourned the Captain, "plenty of 'em. What one do you mean?"

"'All's fair'," quoted Biggs softly, "'in love and--.' We'll skip the other part. Diane, honey--"

One thing about the skipper; he knew when he'd lost. He forced a grin to his lips--and, do you know, when he'd had a look at the light in Diane's eyes as she moved into the circle of Biggs' arms, that grin began to look almost natural. He gave me the high-sign, and we started to leave. But I had one more question. In the doorway I turned and asked, "Biggs, come clean! You didn't know that thing was going to work that way, did you?"

He frowned gently. "I didn't _know_. I suspected."

"But when," I insisted, "did you really find out for sure? Your memory's no better than mine. Certainly you didn't remember the events of last year's game?"

"Some of them," he said amusedly. "I caught on when I heard that episode about the awkward quarterback, the substitute, number 36. Remember?"

"Remember! You bet I do. The clumsy galoot who fumbled in the end zone and gave the Rocketeers a touchdown? He should have been drawn and quartered, the dope. But how did you remember _him_?"

Biggs smiled wanly.

"I just left the Academy last year, Sparks," he said. "And the football team. _I_ was number 36!"

Then he turned to Diane, and she turned to him, and--aw, hell! I know when I'm not wanted!