Mr. Biggs goes to town

By NELSON S. BOND
When Lancelot Biggs started in the soap-making business on this asteroid, he got strange results!
One thing is certain. When bigger and better shirts are made, the officials of the Corporation which underpays us will stuff 'em.
We were squatting in a cradle on Earth, waiting for flight orders, when the control turret door swung open and in marched two owl-eyed zombies dressed in frowns and white mess jackets. One of these looked at us, then at a slip of paper. He said, Donovan, Herbert J.?
Present, I said, but not accountable for. Otherwise known as 'Sparks.' What's the matter, Satyr? Who found out what about me?
Come, ordered the stranger curtly, with me! And he jerked a thumb in the general direction of the doorway.
Cap Hanson—he's the skipper of our space-shuttling freighter, the Saturn —bridled like a mick at an Orangeman's Ball. If there's one thing he cannot tolerate, it is hearing anyone else issue orders on his bridge. His brows congealed into fur-line cumulus clouds.
And what, he demanded, is the meaning of this, if I may ask, gentlemen?
The other whiteclad studied him briefly.
Hanson? he queried. Captain Waldemar V.?
That is my name, sir. And why—?
Come with me, said the second spectre, and diddled his digit like my accoster.