The genius of Lancelot Biggs

By Nelson S. Bond
Lancelot Biggs was an unpredictable quantity, but nobody aboard the Saturn thought he'd ever turn traitor!
Wait! As Thaxton went into his trance, Lancelot Biggs' hoarse whisper held the captain and his men back.
I should have suspected something screwy the minute Cap Hanson started talking sweety-pie. Usually you could use his voice for a nutmeg grater. But you know me, old Drizzle-brain Donovan. If they ever write a story of my life—only why should they?—they'll title it, Gullible's Travels.
Anyhow, about an hour after we'd lifted gravs from Long Island Spaceport, the skipper smooched into my control-turret, beaming like a nova in the Coalsack. He plumped himself into the only comfortable chair and asked:
Well, Sparks, my lad, how you doin'?
If you mean, I retorted, was I drunk last night, the answer is 'no.' I am so dry I am parched, and besides, the barkeep at the Wranglers' Club wouldn't give me any credit.
He told me, commented the skipper, he used your last check to vulcanize an old gum boot.
Be that as it may, I said with quiet dignity, I am not one of those space-hounds who gets three sheets in the ether every time he hits port—
An' speakin' of sheets, interrupted the Old Man, we got more passengers aboard the Saturn this trip than we got bunks to flop 'em in. So—
I got it then. I squawked, Hey, take it easy! What is this—a hotel?
—so, continued the skipper imperturbably, I'm allotin' your quarters to a special passenger. A guy by the name of—