So that was that. You don't argue with the I. P. S. The next day found the Pegasus loaded to the gunwales with all sorts of equipment. Cameras, spectroscopes, interferometers, gadgets and junk, the very names of most of which were just so much Sanskrit to me. That's where Johnny Larkin came in. He was not only our First Mate; he was our technological expert.
But the Corporation also had the almighty viscera to fill one freight hold with cargo! "Concentrate of zymase," said the lading superintendent. "For deposit at Mars Central on the return trip. Get a receipt from the Medical Officer, Captain."
"What's his name?" demanded the skipper gloomily. "Saint Peter? Oh, hello, son. Sorry I couldn't get you out of this mess. Where's Lorraine?"
"That's all right," said Larkin. "Maybe everything will be all right. She's home. She wanted to come along but I wouldn't let her. Space is no place for a woman."
Bowman growled, "This is a hell of a honeymoon for you, boy! An' for her, too. Well, we might as well lift gravs. Sparks, get clearance from the port."
I said, "Aye, sir!" and did. At 19.03 on the nose we blasted hell-for-Thursday out of Long Island Port, for'rd tubes pointed at a mysterious new dot in the heavens that had already killed more men than a Central American rebellion.
That was at 19.03. At 22.00 sharp, Slops boomed the gong for the late watch mess. And at 22.07, the door of the mess hall opened and in walked—Lorraine Larkin, nee Bowman!
Cap Bowman had a mouthful of tomato juice when he laid eyes on her. Two seconds later, his mouth was open in a roar and the tablecloth had a mouthful of tomato juice.