"I'll try to make it clear," he persisted. "This is how it works—"
Then I got a break. The bug started chattering; I moved to the control board and said, "So solly, folks. Me makee talk-talk on phonee. Goombye!"
They left, wrapped around each other like a pound of melted chocolates, and I switched in to hear the finger of Joe Marlowe buzzing me from Lunar Station III. Marlowe was in fine form. He greeted me with a "Haloj, nupaso!" which means, "Hi, pickle-puss!"
I called him something untranslatable, and then he got down to business. "How's that dilapidated old crate of yours perking along, pal?" he asked.
"Fine," I told him. "We've got genius at the helm, romance on the bridge, and a cargo of Venusian pineapples in the hold. Which reminds me, how's your girl friend?"
"Comets to you, sailor!" he snapped back. "This is serious. I wanted to warn you, you'd better make a good trip. There's a prize dangling on it."
"Come again?"
"Word just leaked through from the central office. The Government has decided to turn its freight express transport over to the company whose next normal Venus-Earth run is made in the shortest time. It's a blind test, and nobody is supposed to know anything about it. The Saturn was clocked when it pulled out of Sun City, and its time will be checked against that of other competing liners—"
I got little cold duck-bumps on the forehead. When I brushed them they were wet. This was a tough break for the Corporation. The Saturn is the oldest space-lugger still doing active duty on the interplanetary runs. She was built way back there before the turn of the century. Lacking many modern improvements, she is a ten-day freighter. One of our new luggers could make the same trip in six or seven; it was rumored that the Slipstream, pride of the Cosmos Company fleet, could make it in five!