F.O.B. Venus

by Nelson S. Bond

Then the skipper loosed his blast.

"Okay, Slops," he snarled. "We give up. Where'd you hide it?"

Slops looked puzzled.

"Hide what? I didn't hide nothin'. What is this, a game?"

"Sure," I chinned in. "It's called Sniff-the-Atmosphere. You play it by pressing your thumb and forefinger to your nostrils. Then you try to guess what died."

"Quiet, Sparks!" roared the skipper. Then, to the cook, "Well, Slops?"

Slops shrugged.

"I ain't done nothin'," he protested. "I ain't hid nothin', and I ain't smelled nothin'. Now I got a meal on the fire. Go 'way and leave me alone."

The skipper looked at me, and I stared back at him. Both of us realized the same thing at the same time. Slops wasn't lying. The smell wasn't as bad here as it had been updeck.

Hanson scratched his head. He said, suspiciously, "Sparks, are you sure you ain't been mixin' chemicals?"