The ordeal of Lancelot Biggs

By NELSON S. BOND
In spite of peace pacts, Earth ships were being attacked on Themis. Could Biggs answer that one?
Well, like it says in the old adage, Things equal to the same thing gather no moss.
When the Corporation that under-pays us snatched the Saturn off the freight shuttle and turned it into a trouble-shooter for special assignments, we thought we were getting a break. Huh! We were. Break is just another word for bust. The result of our alleged promotion was that for a fractional increase in salary we worked twice as hard at jobs ten times nastier than any we had ever tackled before.
Like for instance the night Cap Hanson and I—I'm Bert Donovan, bug-pounder of the Saturn —were at the home of Lt. and Mrs. Lancelot Biggs. Biggs is, of course, the First Mate of our void-mangling jalopy. A year ago he married the skipper's daughter, Diane.
We were sitting around, chatting about this and that and the other inconsequential truffle, trying to look calmer than we actually felt, when the telephone jangled. Bet it's a wrong number! I said—and picked it up.
I was right. It was a Wrong Number named Cheeverly, Assignment Clerk at Long Island Spaceport. He said, Salujo , Sparks. Is Captain Hanson there?
Present, I said, but not accountable for. Listen, Dracula, how about calling back tomorrow or next month?
He snapped, This is official business, Donovan! Put him on before I report you!
So I handed the receiver to the Old Man, and for the next few minutes Diane and Lanse and I eavesdropped upon one of those unintelligible half conversations between Hanson and the drip at the other end of the wire.
Yeah? said the Old Man. Yeah, this is Hanson.... Eh? Eh, what's that?... But Cheeverly, I.... What?... But I'm on furlough, man! The staff and crew of the Saturn were granted a three week vaca.... Oh! Oh, I see! Emergency, eh? Well, if we have to. But can't you find some other ship to.... Mmm-hmmm! I understand. Yes. Yes. Very well. I'll get in touch with my men immediately....