It was the suddenness of his words which trapped the Old Man. He nodded and said reassuringly, "Of course, my boy. And you will. Why, these days a bum ticker doesn't mean anything. Lots of men have 'em and perk right along—"
Then he stopped, crimsoning, as he realized what he had said. Biggs stared at him open-mouthed, then turned to me. I avoided his eyes. I couldn't help it. Biggs said, "Bum ticker, Dad?"
Hanson said miserably, "I'm sorry, boy. I meant to break it gentler than that, but it sort of slipped out."
"You mean—" said Biggs dazedly—"I didn't pass the physical examination? It—it showed my heart was bad?"
I nodded. "That's right, Lanse."
"But—but it can't be! I feel perfect. I—" His eyes darkened with a new fear. "I'll be grounded!" he cried.
Hanson said, "I'm sorry, son. But you'll still work for the Corporation, of course. And you'll have lots of time at home with Diane. It—it's even better than battin' around in space—"
But he wasn't kidding a soul. Least of all Lancelot Biggs who, for a moment, turned his back to us. When he again faced us there was a curious moisture in his eyes. Which, considering the fact that in the rarified atmosphere of Iris we were all wearing lightweight bulgers, could not have come from blowing dust.
He said in a low voice, "Well—get that message off, Sparks. I'll run on along about my errand. For if I'm not very much mistaken, we'll have visitors within the next few hours. As soon as Steichner's radiomen break down your code."
And he disappeared toward the city, a lean and lanky, somehow strangely forlorn looking Biggs....