I squawked, "Fires of Fomalhaut, Joe, it's not fair! The Saturn's the slowest can the Corporation owns! Why don't they let us run the Spica or the Antigone on a test flight?"
"It's a little matter of politics, friend," he returned wearily. "Politics—spelled g-r-a-f-t. Somebody's got a finger in the pie and wants the Cosmos Company to get the allotment. The Slipstream is leaving Sun City tonight. All you have to do is beat her into Long Island by about ten hours."
"Is that all?" I lamented. "You're sure they don't expect us to stop on the way in and load up with a half ton of diamond dust? Shooting meteors, Joe—"
He interrupted my etheric sobs with a hasty, "Somebody breaking in on our band, guy. Got to go now. Best of luck!" The sign-off dropped the needle, and I was staring at a killed connection.
So there we were, way out on the limb. The fastest freighter in space competing against us for the fattest prize since the Government lotteried off the Fort Knox hoardings. I worried two new wrinkles into my brow, then went below to find Cap Hanson. He heard my complaint with ominous calm. When I had finished he said, almost cheerfully, "Tough, ain't it?"
I stared at him. "Skipper, we've got to figure out a way to hobble home first! That Government contract carries at least three million credits a year. If we lose it for the Corporation, they'll tie the kit and kiboodle of us to stern firing jets!"
He just grinned ghoulishly and held out two hairy paws for my inspection. "You see them hands, Sparks?"
"I'm a radio operator," I told him, "not a manicurist."
"Them hands," he persisted, "is clean as a pipeline on Pluto. Take a look at the log. Mister Lancelot Biggs is writ down as the C.O. for this trip. Which relieves me of all an' sundry obligations."
I said, "But, Skipper, you've had the experience! In an emergency like this—"