I passed the order on to Biggs; then went back to the radio room. Joe Marlowe was calling me from Lunar Three. And what he had to say drove all other thoughts from my mind. His message came right from Corporation headquarters.
"Please report," it said, "exact amount and probable value of cargo. Must have immediate reply."
I shot through an O.K. and passed the message up to the skipper. Then, my curiosity aroused, I contacted Joe on our private conversation band and asked him how come and why. He answered cautiously.
"Stock market taking nosedive in New York, Bert," he told me. "Corp. bonds fading. Need this cargo badly."
Boy, there was bad news! It was a private message, but I figured the Old Man ought to know it. So when he came in I passed it along. He stared at me.
"Hell's bells, Sparks! Then in that case, I can't send this!"
"This" was the message he had intended to relay: It said, succinctly, "Cargo ruined. Value zero."
"If you do," I told him, "we'll all be studying the want ads as soon as we hit port. Stock markets are screwy. This can't be a bad panic, or a fifty thousand buck cargo wouldn't be that important. But if the Corporation's under suspicion, and they learn the Saturn's cargo is worthless—"
"What will we do then?"
"Stall," I suggested. "Maybe by the time we get in, the situation will be cleared up."