"And what," he demanded, "is the meaning of this, if I may ask, gentlemen?"
The other whiteclad studied him briefly.
"Hanson?" he queried. "Captain Waldemar V.?"
"That is my name, sir. And why—?"
"Come with me," said the second spectre, and diddled his digit like my accoster.
I said, "Not so fast, kiddies. Last time I followed a flickering phalange I ended up in an alley behind a Martian joy-joint with a headful of ache and a walletful of nothing. In words of one syllable, what's this all about?"
My answer came not from the pair before us, but from the entrance behind them. Through this came two figures. The foremost was that of my long-time friend and shipmate, Lieutenant Lancelot Biggs; behind him was his uncle Prendergast, 1st Vice-president of the I.P.C. It was the older Biggs who spoke.
"It's all right, Sparks. These men are acting under company orders. They are medical officers assigned to give a physical examination to every man aboard the Saturn."
"Every man?" choked Cap Hanson. "Did you say every man, sir?"
I knew what he was thinking, and I felt a swift pang of compassion for the old boy. Hanson was one of the finest skippers who ever paced a quarterdeck. He had forgotten more space-lore than most men ever learn. But he wasn't as young as he used to be; not by about fifty odd years. Although Cap looked hale and hearty, his joints were beginning to stiffen like a mud-pie on Mercury, and sometimes, if you stood beside him in a quiet room, you could hear the dim clank and clatter of his arteries hardening. A physical examination might mean an end to his long career, exile from active service to the waffletail job he had long dreaded.