There was nothing to prevent him from hoping Biggs would stumble over his suitcases and bust his scrawny neck—but Biggs didn't do it. He was awkward enough to stumble, but lucky enough to fall on a cushion if he did!
I said gently, "What's he up to now, Captain?"
"What isn't he up to?" groaned the skipper. "First, he said he could handle the gravs when we broke out of Venus' clutch. So—"
"Oh!" I said, "He did that, did he?"
"Stop rubbin' your head an' feelin' sorry for yourself," said Hanson. "You got off lucky. Chief Garrity is nursin' two black eyes. One of the wipers has a busted arm. Everybody on the ship went floatin' off to the ceiling, same as you did."
"Anything else?" I asked.
"Everything else!" snorted Hanson. "While we were all scramblin' around in midair, Biggs made a grab for the hand-controls. He got the manual deflector by mistake. Todd has just finished shapin' the course revision. We're point-oh-seven degrees off course now; almost three hundred thousand miles! We've got to up revs and waste fuel to get back, or we'll report in to Earth a day late. And you know what that means!"
Sure, I knew what that meant. Cap on the carpet before the Board; the rest of us sitting around chewing our fingernails, wondering whether they'd yank the Saturn off the Venus run.
"Well, what are you going to do about him?" I asked.
"What can I do?"