He shook his head. "Sparks, we ain't got a chance of beatin' the Slipstream to Earth. Not the chance of a snowman on Mercury. I'm perfectly satisfied to let Mr. Biggs do the worryin', an' if the Corporation's thickheaded enough to want to blame anybody for our failure, I'm content to let him have that honor, too!"
He grinned again.
"Maybe after this," he said, "Biggs won't be quite so damn cocky. An' maybe Diane won't think he's the hotshot he lets on to be!"
Which was absolutely all the skipper would say. I wasted words for five more minutes, then went to find Lancelot Biggs....
He wasn't on the bridge. He wasn't in the secondary control cabin or in the mess hall or in the holds. Nor in the engine room. I found him, finally, in the ship's library, sprawled full-length on a divan, holding a book in one hand and waving the other arm in the air, keeping time to the poem he was reading aloud.
When I entered he looked up and said, "Hello there, Sparks! You're just in time to hear something lovely. This space-epic of the Venusian poet-laureate, Hyor Kandru. It's called Alas, Infinity! Listen—"
He read,
"... comes then the quietude of endless void. The heart seeks out and, breathless, listens to Magnificent monotonies of space...."
Monotony your eye! There are times when I'd trade all my bug-pounding hours for a nice, quiet, padded cell out somewhere beyond Pluto. I said, "Listen, Mr. Biggs—"