The downfall of Lancelot Biggs

By NELSON S. BOND
Come aboard the Saturn for fun and laughs with Lancelot Biggs—mastermind of the spaceways .
We were about three hours out of Long Island Spaceport, and I had just finished swapping farewell insults with Joe Marlowe, head bug-pounder at Lunar III, when the door of my radio turret slid open and in slithered—if round things can slither—Cap Hanson, skipper of our gallant space-going scow, the Saturn .
The Old Man's eyes were as wide as a lady bowler's beam, and his face, which boasts a pale mauve hue even under normal circumstances, was now a ripe, explosive fuchsia. He jammed a pudgy forefinger against his lips.
Shh! he shhed.
He squeezed in and closed the door behind him, shot a nervous glance about the room, then wheezed throatily, Is there anybody here, Sparks?
Nobody, I told him, but us amperes. Why all the Desperate Desmond stuff, Skipper? Got an old corpus delicti you want hid? You might try the air-lock—
He snapped back to normal with a profane bang.
Don't be a damned fool, Donovan! I ain't murdered any members of my crew yet. Though if I ever do, I've got a good notion who to start with. I got reason to be cautions. I just learned something—Listen! He hunched forward and shoved his lips so close to my ear that I could almost hear his whiskers sprouting. You know that Captain Cooper which come aboard at Long Island?
The Quarantine officer, you mean?
Quarantine officer your eye! The skipper's voice was triumphant. He ain't no more a Q.O. than I'm the Queen of Sheba! He's an inspector from the S.S.C.B.
An inspector! I gasped. From the Space Safety Control Board! Why—why, that means—